Last of the Summer Whine

After Mike and I enjoyed our own Babette's Feast in NYC, there came a week of saying goodbye to Long Island. This was a daughter-free week in which I got to suit myself, supposedly, though some of my time was spent getting the Wee Cottage ready for hand-over to the sole occupant, Mike. He would be staying behind for a couple of months. It seemed unfair to stick him with a dirty refrigerator and the strewn personal effects of two disorderly women. Not that Mike isn't looking forward to at least visiting our home back in Texas. There, he has some form of male compansionship in one of our dogs. The shih-tzu is not much of an ally, or even much of a dog, but he is all male.

During that last week on Long Island, I made myself drive to the end of the "North Fork" in order to rent a bike and see the scenery. The tip of Long Island makes a wishbone and the southern part gives you the Hamptons and the northern part gives you wineries and sea-side neighborhoods and much less congestion. Tho, as far as I could tell, just a converted garage in the area goes for a half-million.

Driving the 60 or so miles from Huntington to the to the bike rental shop was perhaps too easy. My GPS, "Agatha" as we like to call her because of her British accent, masterfully steered me to Greenport, a very pleasant little seaside village a few miles past the Sea View hotel. I thought as I passed this long, low establishment, hugging a terriffic view of the sea, that it would provide the best spot for a late lunch by the water. "The Sea View" I muttered over and over again, to fix the name in my memory. I knew I'd be back.

But first, some cycling! The bike shop was in the heart of Greenport and the lady behind the counter was assisted by the largest, most gigantic Great Dane I have ever seen (you'd need a team of landscapers to deal with that big boy's poop). She showed me the bike and implied that any fool would take the ferry to Shelter Island rather than riding to the tip of the North Fork. "There's a lot less congestion on the island", she said. And any fool could find the ferry, she assured me. "Just keeping going until you see a fat sign that says 'ferry'. There's only one."

I had never heard of Shelter Island but if you look at a map, it's the big blotch of land in between the North Fork and the South Fork. About 15 kilometers square, surrounded on three sides by smallish waterways, you'd think the Big Fat Ferry in the Small Village would be easy to find. But, my sense of direction now throughly eviscerated by Agatha the GPS, I had to ride around a few streets before I stumbled on all the signs of ferryness: a conspiciously marked lane and something vaguely like a large ticket booth for a toll road. And there was the ferry! Don't panic! The Great Dane Woman had said that it was a half-hour round trip at most. I stood the bike against the booth and fumbled with the machine long enough to find it didn't work.

The small ferry was still waiting. With peeling white paint and decking, it was big enough for a half-dozen cars and a few passengers. I rolled my bike on, wandering what the penalty was for passengers without tokens. The bored fare collector didn't even want to hear my apology! He grunted, gave me a slip of paper, then moved on. The crossing really was barely fifteen minutes, with passengers either staring out at the brilliantly green island rising from the water or yakking into their cell-phones. Once again, I thought on how much I loved northern light; how much I don't miss the skull-crushing blankness of a Texas afternoon.

We docked and I rolled my rental off, then spent ten minutes futzing with a way to anchor my purse to the handlebars. With the purse strapped down within an inch of its life, I looked around me and discovered that the town on the Island side of the ferry route, was comprised of a few streets of pretty, 19th century houses, on modestly sized lots. This house, a little large for the area, was situated on the village green and was pretty typical of the architecture.

I started off, grateful that the bike, unlike the one I'd had in Central Park a few weeks ago, at least had gears. And brakes. I really like brakes on a bike. The town, Shelter Island Heights, had a community feel, which I fear was just a consequence of the dainty architecture and the fact that some do-gooding busy-bodies won't let the properly well-off come in and knock everything down for sprawling estates. Good on them. They've even put up a historical marker noting the founder of the first European settlement, a sugar merchant from Barbados. Wiki says he paid James I for the rights to settle the island, and confirmed the sale with local Indians. No doubt, the Indians would have preferred to be actually paid, but Wiki says nothing more on that subject.

Once out of the village, the traffic was indeed muted and there were plenty of bike lanes and plenty of cyclists around. Judging from the map, I determined it would be an easy matter to cross the town, then get out to a little side road that would afford a view of the sea. From there, I would make my way around to the Atlantic side of the island, where I hoped to see some actual waves. I discovered that I had an image in my head of riding for a good while with the sea on one side at all times and with the wind at my back. As it happened, I had to be content with seeing the backsides of houses that faced the sea. Very infrequently, I glimpsed something vaguely blue. I blame all the new, swaggeringly big architecture eclipsing view of the sea, and on Agatha's damage to my internal direction finder, for the fact that after riding several hours, I found myself pretty much back where I started. I cleared a ridge and saw the ferry making its way across the sound. And the bike was due back at the shop in an hour. No matter. It had been very green and very quiet. I'd just have to find another place for long, seaside rides.

Back on the mainland, I got into my car, determined now to drive the eight or so miles to the tip of the North Fork. I wouldn't gaze at the waves for awhile, then turn around, find the Sea View Hotel again, and have lunch there. That was the plan, anyway. I didn't turn on Agatha. How hard could it be? This is a long, very skinny island. You just keeping going in the direction you came in. If your tires get wet, you've gone too far.

As it turns out, I completely misunderstood the sun in the sky and drove for 45 minutes, thinking that surely my tires should be wet by any minute, only to finally get Agatha out and realize that I was in fact, almost back to the start of the Long Island Expressway. I was well off the North Fork and on to Long Island proper. I was so convinced of the correctness of my heading that when I saw another hotel, also called The Sea View, I determined that there had to be two Sea View hotels on the island. "How unimaginative," I thought. Certainly, it was beyond my imagining that I could have, again, gone the wrong direction in Yankeeland.

Clearly, I'm not safe to leave the house in any place but Texas.

This past weekend, we were supposed to go on an evening cruise around Manhattan, courtesy of the company that Mike is currently working for. But he forgot to RSVP them a few weeks before the cruise, an oversight that probably had something to do with the fact that the cruise was scheduled for the same day that we'd be putting our Jesse on the plane to go back to Texas. He didn't expect to be very happy that day, and doubted he'd be in the sort of lighthearted mood a party requires. So to take our minds off of the sudden lack in our lives, we booked a room in a nice hotel in Manhattan and reserved a table in a restaurant offering a six-course French meal, something Americans call a 'tasting menu' and which the French call 'dinner'.

Getting Jesse and her friend Holly onto the plane was not painless. I faithfully kept all of my confirmation numbers for all the flights I booked with Jet Blue this summer, hoping to make use of their express kiosk check-in service, but it didn't matter. The automated kiosks never recognize the numbers I give so, once again, I found myself wanting to kill something as I stood in the one-hour queue to get to the service desk. And then there was a half-hour queue in another line to get the visitor's pass I'd need to escort the girls to their gate, where they were due to get an 'unaccompanied minor service'. Jet Blue's staff didn't think to tell me that I was supposed to wait with the girls at the designated gate. Thinking that even these young ladies couldn't screw up walking to the gate not ten feet from their hulking selves (Jesse, anyway, is getting quite tall), I left them fifteen minutes before departure. Two minutes from departure, when I was solidly outside the security area, I got a panicky call from Jesse, saying that the attendant would not accept her and Holly onto the flight, not without me to sign the papers I'd never been told about. I knew that the security line was running at least 30 minutes at the time, so I indulged my own thoughts of panic while the attendant changed her mind and decided to let the girls through anyway. Panic over: now, what else can go wrong?

We navigated the subway to a station about six blocks from The Alex, where we were booked to stay. Emerging onto East 52nd street, we realized what a glorious day it was: low seventies with a pleasant breeze. Cheered, we walked to East 45th, mainly along 3rd Avenue, and were delighted to discover that there were plenty of modestly priced eateries and ethnic restaurants and diners.

We checked into the hotel. The concierge uttered those magic words: "free upgrade". Excited, we took the elevator to the 30th floor (Mike, er, "treated" me to a brief lecture on queueing theory, a subject I've had to be familiar with in my former life as a computer programmer but he seems excessively inspired by the subject). We stepped into our room and there it was:

Not only had we been upgraded from a single-room accomomdation to a two-room suite, we had a wonderful view of the Chrysler building, a true beauty. From another window we could see the East River, which I can never think of without remembering the penultimate scene in Rear Window, when the detective announces that the villain is going to take them on a tour of the river, to show off the various spots where he dumped various pieces of his dismembered wife.

And the hotel room was nice, too, even though the decor was all Swedish modern and 50 shades of taupe. I'm not complaining. In fact, it was almost a shame that the too-gorgeous weather was crying out for a long and slow stroll around as much of Manhattan as we had the energy to cover. We left the soooo comfortable room and gorgeous view and started with a lunch across the street at the appropriately named Comfort Diner. I had a hot pulled-pork sub on typically delicious, not-too-crusty local bread. Then I took Mike to see Grand Central station and the Rockefeller center and the Chrysler Building's interior, taking snaps all the way.

So where are these pictures? Well that's when the other thing happened, as in the 'what else can go wrong now'? We had our walk, made it back to the hotel. I had a delicious bath (the Wee Cottage has an ancient 50s American-style tub, meaning it's just big enough to drown a rubber duckie) and we headed out again for another quick walk to the East River. Then it was off in the taxi to the restaurant, the Fleur de Sel, which would exceed every expectation. Returning to the apartment after dinner, I wanted to take another photo of the now gloriously lit-up Chrysler building. But where's the camera? Mike kindly called the restaurant but it wasn't there. I tore the rooms apart, several times, but there was nothing for it. It was gone. I hate screwing up like that. Like my mother, I'm a little too inclined to declare Black Depression at the tiniest set-back, especially where money is concerned. As cameras go, this was a nice, but quite modest little Casio. But it was a Ken Rockwell recommendation and it suited me perfectly. In a somewhat gloomy mood, all I could do was plop on the bed and watch The Fugitive again. I was sure we'd fall asleep, but Mike had never seen it and it's pretty hard to be bored by one of the better Harrison Ford movies. We amazed ourselves by staying up way past out bedtimes.

The dinner at The Fleur de Sel had been unforgettable. My palette is hardly what you'd call educated, but I can appreciate when a dish has layers of flavors. And being a cook, I can sense the effort that goes into not only preparing food of this caliber but in finding and nurturing sources for the very finest of ingredients. I'd forgotten how the very best multi-course dinner, despite being multi-course, should still have the feeling of a symphony and should suggest a conductor behind it all, in this case the conductor being chef Cyril Renard (whom I'd never heard of and suspect is just another chef in a city of very talented chefs). The flavors, as they should have been at this level of play, were related to each other across the courses. Citrus was the theme, with a very light use of tomato flavors.

When we stepped into the restaurant, a tiny crack in the wall, we suspected we were in good hands. We arrived a little early, but the table was already waiting, a good clue to the restaurant's expectation that the table would not be turned. There would be no pressure. We could just sit back and enjoy. The menu at Fleur de Sel is appropriately small and the 'tasting menu' offered very limited choices indeed, but what choices! The first course was dubbed a 'liquid canape'. It was a chilled soup, served in a large shot glass, and was a flawless puree of liquids and tastes: cucumber, orange, a slight hint of tomato, and strawberry. And there was a hint of lightly toasted, but not burnt, garlic. I would never attempt to make something that had to be so perfect in each element. The soup was served with a sprightly rose from Provence.

The next course, paired with the same rose, was a lovely little lobster salad, again with bits of orange, and served with watercress and slivers of avocado, in a light, orangey vinaigrette. It was perfect, and perhaps a little old-fashioned, in that it reminded me of the days of nouvelle cuisine, a super-light kind of cooking. Perhaps, like bell-bottoms and those wretched hip-huggers that overly upholstered American girls are spilling out of these days, nouvelle cuisine is back?

We chatted a bit. We waited with bated breath for the next course and were duly gratified that the wait staff, unlike staff in snobby restaurants we'd been to before, did not prattle on about the chef's personality and preferences for this and that. The waitress seemed to be aware that for most people a meal like this is a rare event. She didn't fawn and she didn't condescend. It was all I could do to keep from leaving her my email address, in case she wanted to, you know, talk or read my blog.

Mike and I yakked and waited for more, thrilled to our bones. Mike gave up on queueing theory and moved on to the Russians. A duck croquette appeared, served with an Alsatian pinot blanc that I just loved. Although all the pairings had been great (at least to me) until now, this was the first one where the food and wine seemed to modulate each other. Instead of eagerly expecting the next course, I was a little sad to see this one pass so quickly.

The next course was a monkfish served with baby vegetables so perfect I didn't recognize them, so unused am I to a perfect baby vegetable. I finally came to realize that it was baby fennel with the monkfish, but fennel where the licorice flavor was quite muted (for which I was grateful). The sauce featured a re-appearance of orange and grapefruit. The fish, served with a Pouilly Fuisse that Mike wanted to go out and buy a case of, was followed by a lamb loin that was absolutely courageous, or it would be in Texas. The lamb was quite rare, as it should be when it's this flawless, and served with a Californian pinot noir that the protagonist in Sideways might have envied. This is a hard concept for some diners to get their heads around, but a truly great meal is not always a question of what you prefer. Sometimes food, especially meat of such a superb quality you can't even buy it privately, is a question of what is right. It would have been an offense to god and nature for the chef to have cooked that lamb any longer. As it was, the meat almost melted on the tongue. The dish was bathed in a citrus sabayon with pearl onions.

I really am going to become a vegetarian. One day.

I have prattled on too long about this meal, but it really was my own Babette's Feast (I can't believe it took me 20 years to finally see that movie; I can't believe my gall in telling you that you have to see it if you want to remain my friend). Yes, there was a cheese course next, with perfect American cheeses that reminded me of how cheese is really a local product and how it's better to have a great local cheese than one from far away, especiallly one that's sat on an airplane for who knows how long. The dessert, an orange-and-cream sorbet in my case and a chocolate and raspberry tart in Mike's case, was lovely, the equal of all before it. We left the restaurant in the highest of spirits. Maybe it was on the cab that followed that I left the camera.

The next morning, we finally got around to visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I'd heard that the museum was Really Big and that the wise visitor will focus on no more than a couple collections at a time. We decided to stick with the European Art wing and then the American Art wing. The decision was no sooner firmly and decisively made than it was dropped. We could not just walk past the classical and Egyptian antiquities section. No one could. Unless they lived here and could favor themselves with such sights whenever they liked. I ask you, how many ladies look this good without their heads?

And how's this for a bathtub? It's actually a sarcophagus but if you ask me, it's too good for dead people and would make a fine water feature.

After tooling around the Met for a few happy hours, we found a place to eat pizza (in New York, this is not hard. It's hard to do it only once a day). We collected our things from The Alex and headed home, for what is my last week in the Wee Cottage. Highs in the low 70s and that is music to this Texan's diminishing hearing.

Less Whining, More Pictures

Did I say less whining? I didn't mean it. I took the girls into NYC yesterday, our first order of business being a bike ride around Central Park. It should have only taken us an hour and a half to get there, but I managed to take us, after much indecision, naturally, to the wrong platform in Penn Station. So off we went in the wrong direction. Then, when we got to Central Park and managed to have our bike ride, I took us -- wait for it -- the right way across the park to get to the Natural History Museum. But somewhere in the park, in a place of great mystery called The Ramble, I lost my orientation and ended up bringing us, 20 minutes later, back to the wrong side of the park. This meant we had to cross the park twice (the width, not the length, thank goodness).

The bike ride was very pleasant, tho the rusty, brakeless wonders you can rent in Central Park perhaps made for more excitement than I would have liked.

Eventually, we arrived at the American Museum of Natural History and had a marvelous few hours at the Rose Center, where the planetarium is. I particularly liked hearing the booming voice of Maya Angelou as the mysteries of the Big Bang unfolded to a whirling of galaxies on the floor of the museum's theater. Holly seemed particularly impressed by the old-fashioned dioramas.






We ended up at the M&M's store on Times Square. I have no idea why girls like that place, but it's on Jesse's Must See list whenever girls visit. I just sat down, exhausted, in a corner and played games on my new I-phone while they toodled around the place. I reallly, really suck at Cube Runner.

But I love the I-Phone. Had I deployed it sooner, I might not have gone the wrong way across the park. It certainly guided me to the nearest Starbuck's, a vital function when I needed it. My dear and wonderful husband insisted I buy it when my old cell-phone decided that the cruel world was too much for it. Ordinarily, I resist going high-end, but that's a silly habit I'd like to get over. One day.

More Girls

The parade of girls continues. Last week, it was my niece followed by my daughter's oldest friend since daycare, Alexa. This week, we are visited by a rising soccer star, Holly. What can you say? The girls are full of secret smiles and sub-vocal giggles. I'd be paranoid about it, if I thought any of the giggles were about me. But girls at this age think about us crinklies only rarely. I do get some great hugs and galling wonderment that my hair isn't more gray.

Having Holly with us was a great excuse to take Mike as well as our new visitor to Port Jefferson. Port Jeff, which I've blogged about before, is about 35 minutes from the Wee Cottage and is a homey seaside town.

The day began with a visit to the Avalon Foundation's nature preserve, a 90 acre spread in Stony Brook. The preserve is a very informal garden of sorts, covering a hillside, offering many paths and the odd bridge or rough fence or sculpture. The main effort in the plantings has been in the removal of non-native species and returning some plots to wild plants. The effect is gorgeous. The park was dedicated to a local resident who died in his 30s about a decade ago. I hunted long and hard for the details of Paul Simons' death. He was an avid cyclist (there's a memorial ride for him every year), but I couldn't find any other information on him, either in local paper archives or in Wiki. If anyone knows anything . . .





We arrived at Port Jeff, going first to Danford's for lunch and drinks by the harbor. Danford's is probably my favorite dining place on Long Island, so far. We had a civilized glass of wine and a half-dozen local oysters (which seem sweeter to me than Gulf Oysters). Holly and Jesse were allowed to go roaming the town independently while we finished our drinks. We miss the baby we had, but there's a definite upside to this growing-up thing.






The people in Port Jeff walk around with lobsters on their heads. It's not natural. And it's the first place -- since the mid-70s, I think -- that I've seen a nun in full regalia, with the wimple and the surplice and all the rest of it. Sadly, I couldn't manage to subtly take a picture of the sister, which I wanted to do to prove to my doubting husband that it wasn't really a gay man in drag. Tho, with that wimple thingy obscuring the Adam's apple, how can you be sure?








The other cool thing about Port Jeff is all the British phone boxes around the town. They even have that authentic drunks-pee-in-it look to them. I completely endorse Bill Bryson's call to shoot whatever British apparatchik moved to retire these wonderful old phone boxes in Britain.













Girls collapso. After having been made to run up a hill in Port Jefferson.