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John Meyer

~ Memoirist, Novelist and Songwriter

John Meyer

Category Archives: Food and Wine

Bistro Owner’s Death prompts Reminiscence

26 Sunday Aug 2012

Posted by meyerwire in Food and Wine, Miscellaneous, Wine Experiences

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Bistro, Golden Calf, Home, Manhattan, New York, Robert Treboux, Thursday, Wine color

2012_la_veau_d%27or_12345.jpg

He died last Thursday, Robert Treboux, the owner of a classic NY restaurant: It’s called Le Veau d’Or, the Golden Calf -one of Manhattan’s first Bistro’s. It was not a Destination Dining spot, you went there for dependably excellent cooking, when you didn’t need to dress up or be part of a Trendy crowd. Steve Gordon and I went in there one night, and sat down beside a tiny lady in her eighties at the adjoining table.  “Hi,” I said to her, being friendly, “we’re your in-flight companions for this meal.”   “Oh, isn’t this just the most wonderful place?” she replied. “I always have such good food here.” “What did you have tonight?” I inquired. “Let’s see,” she said, “I had the veal ragout, with those wonderful little carrot batons -no, wait -it seems to me maybe I had the sole meuniere with the garlic mashed potatoes.    I was thinking of the kidneys in red wine, but you know, organ meats aren’t good for you -too much cholesterol.” She paused a moment, considering. “Sometimes I have the bass en croute, but I don’t think I had it tonight, because I’m in the mood for a red wine…” The waiter approached: “Alors, Madame, “he said to her, “are you ready to order?”

red wine glass.

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Mini-drama @ Citarella’s

16 Sunday Oct 2011

Posted by meyerwire in Food and Wine, Wine Experiences

≈ 1 Comment

Citarella

I’m in the queue at Citarella, inching towards the register, my shopping basket filled with a tuna steak (Sushi-grade), a pint of broccoli rabe, three Bartlett pears and a Lindt chocolate bar. Total cost will be somewhere around fifty-five dollars. I’m part of the affluent, Upper West Side consumer scene, idly wondering whether to do the tuna w/Teriyaki sauce or au poivre. In front of me, a thirty-something mom and her daughter, perhaps six years old. The little girl gives a sudden coo of excitement. “Mommy, look!” She bends down and plucks a dime from the floor, rising proudly to display her discovery in the palm of her hand.  “Oh, Tiffany, aren’t you observant! Good for you!” says Mommy, showering the child with Positive Re-enforcement. But then she says: “Somebody must have lost it. It belongs to someone. We’ll give it to the lady at the register.” Well, the kid’s face drops a mile and she starts blinking rapidly. “But Mommy, I found it…” “Yes, honey, but we don’t keep other people’s things. It’s not honest.” The child looks sadly at the floor, not wanting to accept this verdict. I feel a tide of fury rise within me. Of all the unjust, unfair, pain-in-the-ass, Politically Correct-Montessori Method bullshit! I tap her on the shoulder and she turns. To my chagrin I see she is a striking red-head in a cashmere sweater. “Didn’t you ever hear of Finders Keepers?” I ask her. The kid looks up at me hopefully. Has she found an ally? Can mommy’s decision possibly be reversed? The mommy gives me the tightest of smiles. The look in her eye is close to murderous. She’s obviously restraining herself from lashing out violently in a very unfriendly response. Her eyes,  I notice, are tastefully made up, just a hint of pencil and a subtle brush of violet shadow. A flash fantasy drops into my head: this is the beginning of the hottest romance I’ll ever know in my life. Yes, here, with this hostile lady. Oh sure, we’ll argue all the way through checkout (at adjoining registers) about the morality of how to dispose of the kid’s found coin, taking the heated, unfriendly (but hot) clash all the way outside and into the street, during which I’ll learn that the kid’s father is no longer around (killed in a car crash) and that she’s a Broadway performer in need of an original song for her cabaret act and then (jump-cut) I see us in bed, she’s riding me, my hips are thrusting upwards, her eyes are closed in ecstasy, her thrilling, low voice a sensual moan and I’m about to lose control…Except, Oops, the line’s moving forward. I’m hurtled out of my dream, I’m back in Citarella’s, and her turn’s been called (“Next–“). She’s pulling Tiffany along but she throws a parting shot at me over her shoulder, and it’s nasty: “When I want your opinion on how to raise my child, I’ll let you know.”

Oh well. Such is the life of a dreamer-fantasist.

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