Chapter 1 – The Little Apple
I went to visit New York City with my friend Billy while I was topping off my vacation with one last hurrah. To his wife, Billy used the excuse of wanting to celebrate my forty-second birthday, which was really for culinary and, most certainly, carnal pleasures.
We clandestinely met in a town in Northern Westchester and took the train into Grand Central Station. What a way to enter New York City—in the grandest fashion of all. Instantly, as we stepped onto the platform and into the main lobby the adrenaline began to flow while the expanse of the celestial ceiling evoked that “Big Apple” sensation.
We pondered the origins of that catchphrase, the “Big Apple.” According to The Society for New York City History, a French refugee woman named Evelyn Claudine de Saint-Evremond in Manhattan in the early 1800s ran a highly praised brothel, where not only lovemaking took place, but fine dining and gambling were the regular occasion. By all accounts Evelyn was beautiful, vivacious and well educated. Evelyn had been biblically referred to as “Eve,” which she found amusing, and she affectionately called the girls in her employ, “my irresistible apples.” So, as history goes, the “Big Apple” moniker, in part, has its thanks to Evelyn Claudine and her temple of love.
In actuality, the apple connotation to New York City was part of the street vernacular for numerous decades long after Eve had been gone, largely due to the ubiquitous apple-cart street vendors throughout the city.
[Paraphrasing Joe Zito, who worked with John Fitzgerald at the Telegraph: It wasn’t until the early 1930s when John “Jack” Fitzgerald had noticed the “Big Apple” reference in print. He wrote for The New York Morning Telegraph and had a column titled, “Around the Big Apple” in which he covered horse racing in New York State. Apparently, Jack heard the term, “The Big Apple,” from stable boys making the reference to New York because that’s where “the big money was at.”]
Once outside the station, we briskly walked up Park Avenue in the rain, but quickly decided on a cab ride. Our destination was Bloomingdale’s for a continental lunch at one of their restaurants where Billy knew the chef, a friendly Swiss fellow who offered wine and appetizers as compliments of the house.
Somehow food seems to taste better when someone else pays. So I have to say, the roasted vegetable with warm goat cheese and red wine vinaigrette appetizer was fairly enjoyable. For an entrée, I had one of the chef’s signature dishes: pan-seared veal scaloppini served over garlic-studded spinach and garnished with roasted potatoes and veal demi-glace. Overall, it was very tasty, but I had a hankering for steak and had been talked out of it. Billy had crab cakes served with mesclun salad and remoulade.
I know people rave about crab cakes and they are a popular item at many a restaurant. But how can you adulterate such beautiful meat as lump crab with excessive amounts of mayonnaise? Then add bread crumb-filler, pan fry it, and serve it with more mayonnaise—a remoulade of sorts? After all, remoulade is just a fancy, doctored-up mayonnaise.
It sort of reminds me of an Escoffier-styled salmon mousseline. My toes curl at the thought of all of the heavy cream used in the preparation of what God did not intend for such a beautiful fish. It seems a bit rich for my taste and maybe even for my cholesterol level. But, what do I really know? I’m just a pastry chef.
Our next stop on the culinary portion of our pleasure-seeking day was Payard Patisserie and Bistro. Billy was excited as a little boy in a candy store. His eyes and mouth opened wide when we entered Payard’s.
His level of enthusiasm for the culinary arts far surpasses any I’ve ever encountered. It’s a beauty unto itself. Although not at the level of a professional chef, Billy’s knowledge and excitement gives him the confidence home to create some outstanding fare at home.
While I sat at the bar and ordered a couple of double espressos, Billy selected some pastries from the counter. He brought back an opera torte for me and a chocolate mousse torte for him. Aesthetically, both desserts were well refined.
The opera torte, classically French, has multi-layers of chocolate sponge cake soaked with coffee syrup, chocolate gânache, coffee butter cream and this one was topped with a thin layer of chocolate and an almond nougatine garnish. The chocolate mousse torte was like an oval-shaped chocolate pillow. The inside was filled with layers of rich creamy mousse and a nutty chocolate meringue. As a finish on top of the torte, a chocolate ganache teardrop glistened with an incredible sheen. Both were excellent, but we mutually agreed that the chocolate mousse torte was the better. After the satisfying dessert we were off walking the theatre district. Current plays such as “The Producers,” “Our Town” and “The Graduate” elicited thoughts of Neil Simon’s “The Odd Couple.” It’s one of my favorite movies and simply being in a New York state of mind I bellowed out, “Felix,” in an attempt to sound like Oscar Madison.
Billy and I quickly laughed, yet strangely enough, I kept hearing Frank Sinatra singing “New York, New York” in my head and had the feeling that, in some bar along our path, Frank was crooning out of a jukebox. As we walked briskly past the theaters I began to desire some refreshments and some good entertainment.
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