The first time I took my first-born son to dinner he was three weeks old and strapped to my chest in a Snugli. Frankly, I would have preferred to be out with just my wife after 21 days of sleepless nights and constant fretting, but since we couldn’t get a sitter and desperately needed a night out, he came with us. He slept through the meal.
         We later took him to restaurants in France and Italy, carrying him in an open straw basket, praying he wouldn’t wake up just as the sommelier was opening the wine. We found out quickly that Italians adore having babies and children in their restaurants, while the French love having dogs but abhor having children in the dining room.
         I recall one restaurateur in Alba., Italy, picking up my fifteen-month-old son and handing him to his wife, who was also the chef; she, in turn, plopped him down in the kitchen, where other women entertained and fed him while we dined blissfully for the next two hours, pretending to be unaware that our son had disappeared into the steamy, wonderful aromas of the kitchen. 
        After that, he rarely balked at going out to dinner with us. Nor did his brother, born four years later, when the two of them were actually old enough to sit at a restaurant table and behave in some civil fashion. I don’t know why, but American parents seem challenged by the idea of taking their kids to dinner—as opposed to a fast food joint of the kids’ choosing—while in Europe and Asia parents believe such activity is crucial to a child’s education, health and well being.  Well, maybe not the French so much.
      That said, here are some tips for taking (American) kids out to eat.

Favor Italian, Mexican or Chinese restaurants, because invariably the kids will find something crispy, fried, or with cheese on it. Wherever there are noodles there is a high probability the kids will eat them.

Don’t let them order. Just choose several items, especially those they are not familiar with, and have the waiter set them all on the table family-style. When they ask, “What’s that?” just say, “Try it.” If they say, “What if I hate it?” reply, “Then don’t try it.” I can guarantee their appetites and salivary glands will propel them to try something, maybe everything, as long as you don’t try to force them to. And they will like it and become more and more adventurous.

Tell the manager or waiter to get something to nibble on to the table immediately—bread and butter, Mexican chips, Chinese noodles. Kids’ blood sugar levels cause them to be cranky if not fed when hunger strikes.

Be prepared to order quickly for the same reason. Don’t dawdle, or let your wife declare, “Oh, everything looks sooooo good, I don’t know what to choose.” The one-minute-forty-five second rule should be enforced that everyone has to make a choice within that time frame. In most cases you can look up the menu on-line beforehand and know what to order as soon as you sit down.

Ask for a table near the rest rooms and one you can get up from easily. You know why.

Small children might be allowed small toys at the table, but stifle their mania for playing video games at the youngest possible age. Same with iPhones and Blackberries when they get older.

 See if you can get a female server.  I have found they tend to be much more patient, even maternal, when dealing with children.

Dessert should be a reward for good behavior. Carrots and sticks still work.

If you must take children to a fancy, deluxe restaurant, alert the manager and tell him you will be in and out in a civilized 90-minute span. Get the check when you order dessert.

The cut-off age you can expect kids to behave at a restaurant is twelve, after which teenagers are impossible to please because they can think of nothing more repellent to them than being seen eating out with their parents. 

It’s also when they start to concoct their own idiotic diet requirements and suddenly find everything you’d suggest from a menu abominable or inedible.  Wait till they’re eighteen—at least your daughter—then try to coax them out to a fine restaurant. 

If a kid has gone vegetarian, just check the restaurant’s menu on-line and tell the management, who can advise whether a dish has any animal or dairy products in it. In most restaurants it’s not a problem at all. But, if the kid has gone vegan (where did you go wrong?), there is no way in hell you will ever please him or her, so just forget about going out entirely.

     At a time when so many restaurants are either outlandishly decked out or barely decorated at all, Hancock Street comes as a refreshing lull of a place where a sense of Old New York intimacy is key to its considerable charms.
     The city has few such places left that evoke a less frantic “scene” in which concept takes precedence over hospitality and cooking. The Waverly Inn, Landmark Tavern, Pete’s Tavern, P. J. Clarke’s and One If By Land, Two If By Sea are all still open, and Hancock Street is most certainly one of the best, both in terms of creature comfort and in comfort foods.
      You might expect that from Mercer Street Hospitality, headed by John McDonald, which also runs the affable Lure Fishbar, Bistrot Leo, Butterfly Soho and Bowery Meat Company. And the experience of chef Ryan Schmidtberger (below), formerly of Lure Fishbar and The River Café, assures a modern take on American cuisine. They even have a “Prime Rib Night” on Saturday, which sells out with local residents.
       On a cold winter’s night Hancock Street (named after a long-gone street in the West Village) provides a neighborly respite. It’s not a big place, so it’s rather cozy, with an expanse of polished wood walls, velvet curtains, a beautifully lighted bar, white tablecloths and thin stemware. There’s also a vividly colored mural that reflects, mirror-like, the dining room itself. Soft lighting throughout is crafted to provide warmth. The only off-note one night was some loud piped-in music that I asked to be turned down. (As in all the restaurants in the world that have background music, it should stay there.)

Photo: Evan Sung

     Even the outside shed, in contrast to so many barebones, jerry-rigged eyesores around town, is beautifully lighted and set with greenery, with a glowing old-fashioned street lamp. It almost makes you think an Irish police officer in a long, brass-buttoned coat will come down the block whistling “Sidewalks of New York.”

     What I found remarkable about Schmidtberger’s menu is that he is showing off a talent for balancing, redeeming and refining classic dishes you might find at any number of restaurants in New York with his own bright new ideas. He does so with a panache that makes his seemingly simple tartares the best in the city—perfect temperature, subtly seasoned and textured, accompanied by just one or two other ingredients.
      Thus, yellowfin tuna with sesame, truffle-yuzu sauce and scallions comes on crispy potato hash browns ($21), while steak with its own deep flavor is impeccably chopped into a tartare with a Coloratura anchovy vinaigrette, spicy tofu sauce, crispy wontons and celery leaves ($23). Schmidtberger uses nothing less than Scottish salmon as a palette for crispy potato, capers, cucumbers and sesame soy ginger sauce ($18). If you’re up for it, you can go all-in with a service of Osetra caviar with sour cream and onion potato chips and crème fraȋche (four to eight ounces at $165 to $295).
         Before I go further, I must beg you to  order the biscuits (right; photo Dan Krieger) at Hancock Street, for, while they are far from traditional Southern-style, they seem to take the best of that idea wedded to a Parker House roll. (It reminds me of the rich, yeasty Cajun buns Paul Prudhomme used to serve at K-Paul’s in New Orleans.)
     Everyone in town has pastas on the menus, and so does Schmidtberger, but,  again, while not particularly true to any Italian region, his are expressive of his desire to please. The flower-like campanelle and Italian sausage are sautéed with cherry tomatoes, burrata, shaved fennel and chili flakes for real bite ($29), and whole wheat, rippled-edged malfadine (below; photo: Dan Krieger) with a rich duck bolognese contains shiitake mushrooms and rosemary Manchego cheese ($31), both  in portions worth sharing.
      I shied away from an item called “Adult Kid’s Pasta” ($27), but Schmidtberger urged me to try it, and the description is happily apt. For, although it’s basically shell macaroni with butter and cheese, the cheese is first-rate, two years aged Parmigiano-Reggiano, and the butter is cultured in-house. It is marvelously rich, wholly satisfying and will bring out the child in anyone no matter what age.
     A grilled Mediterranean branzino ($39) is competently rendered, with grilled artichoke hearts, preserved lemon vinaigrette and a lovely tangy remoulade, while a roasted Amish chicken with Brussels sprouts, onion and truffle ($36) is very generous, with crisp skin and a deeply flavorful reduction. You can get steak frites all over town, and Hancock Street’s ($58), made with grilled sirloin, comes with tarragon-dusted fries, chives and a mildly hot pepper sauce. The slightly smoked double pork chop ($46) is fashioned to be brought home for lunch, receiving its flavors from butternut puree and a grain mustard jus.
     Crispy veal schnitzel with dill potatoes and lemon caper butter ($46) is as close as you’ll come to any outside of Vienna. And the Schmidtberger Burger (below; photo Dan Krieger),  with pickle, onion, lettuce, white cheddar, yellow mustard, ketchup, mayo on a sesame brioche with terrific fries ($28), is just shy of gilding the lily at a time when too many chefs just load things on top of the meat and bun without any sense of excess.

     I suspect the child in any adult will also love the chocolate mousse layer cake with candied violets and ginger ($15); the apple pumpkin cranberry crumble with salted caramel ice cream and a touch of thyme ($14), which is just about perfect for a blustery January night; and, as you might expect by now, a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies with dark chocolate ice cream and a sprinkling of sea salt ($14).

     So, if you are a New Yorker, you will find Hancock Street both a throwback and a beacon of good, old-fashioned taste with thoroughly contemporary flair. If you are an out-of-towner, Hancock Street will give you a gratifying sense of the way Greenwich Village can still be.

     Katie picked up the check—she put it on her expense account and reminded David to keep all his receipts—then they agreed to speak next whenever either had some news.  Her next stop that afternoon was with John Coleman, editor at Art Today, the magazine that broke the Vermeer story, beating out even the more established trade journal Art + Auction.
         His office was downtown, near Union Square, and, except for the mock-up pages on the wall for the next issue and the postcard-size copies of staff members’ favorite artwork, the single floor was devoid of decoration. Katie had known John Coleman since he’d been a general arts editor at The Village Voice, and he knew everyone in the New York art world, from gallery owners and curators to painters and sculptors and their agents.  Art Today came out monthly and, despite its subject, there was little money for glossy repros of the works of art they wrote about.
         “Good God, Katie,” said Coleman, his hands on his hips. “You still look like you just got out of high school.”
         “I skipped two grades,” she replied. “And you always look the same.”
         “Believe me, if this job paid more, I’d look different all the time, but I’m forced to choose a look, one that’s easy to find in the dark every morning.”
         That look was indeed always the same: black jeans, white button-down shirt, black blazer, black loafers and a black knit tie stuffed in a pocket, in case he needed to wear one. Coleman was about thirty-five, slender and maintained a constant three-day’s growth of beard beneath long, gray-streaked dark hair. He always looked as if morning had come way too early, whatever hour he crawled out of bed.
         “So, you said you’re working the Vermeer story for McClure’s—a story you know we broke, so don’t expect me to give away any proprietary secrets on this one. Plus, I’m sure McClure’s is probably paying you more money for your article than I see in a month.”
         Katie just smiled and said, “That’s my proprietary secret. So, at least tell me this out of noblesse oblige: If you’re going to break more news on this story, can you give me the leavings in the corral? You know, the stuff you don’t use?”
         Coleman shrugged. “That depends upon the leavings. You know, we’d like to keep ahead of this story now that we broke it.”
         “Fair enough. Just indulge my calling you and asking questions and keep me from wasting my time going down blind alleys.”
         “All right, that’s fair enough. I always speak to the press, as long as I get a quote and a plug for the magazine out of it. But you’ve gotta promise me in return than if you get some solid lead, you’ll at least alert me. Tit for tat, O.K.?”
         Coleman put out his hand and Katie shook it and said, “Deal. Now can I ask you some questions you may be able to answer?”
         “Shoot.”
         “Well, when you first got your tip . . .”
         “It wasn’t a tip. It was an announcement that the sale would take place.”
         “And you know the name of the person who made the announcement?”
         “Yes, but I can’t reveal that at this point.”
         “Man? Woman?”
         “Woman.”
         “Someone prominent in the art world?” asked Katie.
         “Well, I’d say someone who’s been trying to get some leverage in the art world.”
         “An agent acting for a collector?”
         “Probably more of a go-between. I don’t know if she even knows who the seller is.  All she told me was what was in our article. It wasn’t much, but it’s sure blown the doors off the establishment. You can’t imagine how many inquiries I’ve had to fend off.  Why, I even have Katie Cavuto of McClure’s in my office right now asking questions.”
         “Well, tell me this much,” said Katie. “Are you very sure the story is legit? Could it be just a well-founded rumor?  Did you check it out with another source?”
         “No. That’s just how we reported it: Simply that a reliable person in the art world said that soon an unknown Vermeer would be coming up for auction and that the seller wished to remain anonymous. That type of thing is what Art Today is built on, but it’s not every day, not even every century, when it involves an unknown Vermeer.”
         “But she did give you the name of the painting as The Chemist, right? And there’s no such painting by that name in the known Vermeer catalog, correct? So there’s no chance this could be the Vermeer stolen from the Gardner Museum in Boston?”
         Coleman took a moment then said, “That’s the premise we’re working on. It’s a painting new to the art world. It might have been in the late 17th century sale of Vermeer’s works, many of which are unaccounted for.  But the Gardner painting? I don’t see that happening. It’s too well known.”
         “But there’s a $5 million reward still on it.”
         “Hmm, I see you’ve been doing your homework, Cavuto.  But in that case, who would get the money? It’s still a stolen work and you can’t put that up for auction. It would belong to the Gardner museum.”
         “True,” said Katie. “But what if the announcement of an auction is just a fake? What if this anonymous seller just wants to stir up frantic interest and demand much more money from the Gardner than the measly $5 million. I hear the thing might soar past $100 million at auction. Plus a ten to fifteen percent commission for the auction house.”
         “But why not just approach the Gardner, without telling us—the media—that this is a new painting that’s going to auction?”
         “Hmm, I guess you’re right. Doesn’t make much sense.”
       Then Katie snapped her fingers and said, “But wait a minute. What if the seller is trying to build up such excitement about the sale that it leaps beyond current expectations? What if the buzz around the art industry was that the work could go as high as $120 million or more? Then, the seller—or the guys who stole it—could always yank it back from an auction and make a much better deal at a much higher price with the Gardner.”
         Coleman’s eyebrows rose halfway to his hairline. “God, I never thought of that. It’s damn risky, but it could unwind that way.  If the Gardner pays even an exorbitant price for it . . . I shudder to think how cheap they got it for originally . . .”
         “When was that?” asked Katie.
         Coleman reached for a folder on his desk and turned over a page.
       “Gardner acquired it in . . . 1892, and it was bought for her by Bernard Berenson (left).”
         “Who was that?”
         “Berenson was a famous—some say notorious—critic and dealer who was hired by America’s Gilded Age filthy rich to buy Old Masters by the truckload. And, since Vermeer was not so highly regarded at the time, who knows? The painting might have been part of a buy-two-Rembrandts-and- get-a-free-Vermeer bargain.”
         “So, you’re saying that, if Gardner paid next to nothing on a painting that could now bring over a hundred million, they’d probably pay a lot more than five million to get it back.”
         “That sounds about right,” said Coleman. “You may really have something there, Katie.  Just for that, I may want to work a little more closely with you than I said before.  If I had some booze in my drawer, I’d toast to us.”
         “Ah, John, I’m contracted at the hip for the moment to David Greco on this story, so let’s just leave our theories and propositions about the case between us.”
         “So this is now a . . . case?”
         “Slip of the tongue.”
         “Because, you know, Katie, even if all you say might be true, there’s nothing illegal about the Gardner paying a ransom.”
         “It’s extortion, isn’t it?”
         “Not if the injured party doesn’t report it as such.”
         “All the more reason for me to dig deeper and find out what’s gong on.”
 

                           *                         *                         *

         The caller, as usual, spoke in very short sentences.
         “Tell me what is happening with the media,” he said.
         “Everything is going according to plan,” said the person on the other end of the line. “The announcement in Art Today has sent the art world into a feeding frenzy, and it seems to get more coverage every day.”
         “You mean in the New York market?”
         “Oh, no. This thing is global. Everyone in the market is watching this very closely.”
         “Do you have a figure in mind?”
         “I believe the painting will sell well in excess of $100 million, perhaps much more. It will probably be the largest price ever paid for any work of art.”
         There was a pause, then, “I do not intend to pay that kind of money.”
         “Understood. So I’ll wait for your call. But what if I need to reach you?”
         But the caller had already hung up, with nothing but an annoying buzz left on the line.

     The mystique of the famous Burgundy wines from the Côte d’Ôr and Côte de Nuit like those of Domaine Romanée Conti, which can easily sell for $1000 a bottle, has unfortunately overshadowed the wonderful array of wines of the region, from Chablis in the north to Mâcon in the middle and Villefranche in the south. Among such wines, Beaujolais is probably both the most familiar yet the least valued; often wine lovers don’t even think of it as a Burgundy.

     Largely this impression is the result of the giddy fad, beginning in the 1970s, for Beaujolais Nouveau, the just-made, unfinished, unaged fruity wine of autumn released in the third week of November, heavily promoted by the late Georges Duboeuf, who produced oceans of the stuff for parties that began when the wines (already stocked away) reached the stores. It was all a great deal of fun, and, though the fad  for the Nouveau wines faded, cru Beaujolais from ten approved regions released many months, or even years, after vinification had trouble finding traction as a serious wine. It didn’t help that Beaujolais, like Chablis, were for a century the typical carafe wines served in Paris bistros.

     That has changed somewhat with the importation of more high quality Beaujolais, which, if you’re talking bang for the buck, offer better value than most in Burgundy. I suppose one indication that the crus’ reputation is improving is that some of them now go for prices above $50 a bottle (though that’s still a long ways from Romanée-Conti or $100 Pommards and $130 Gevry-Chambertins. The use of carbonic maceration of the Gamay grape gives these Beaujolais crus their liveliness and aromatic charms. The minimum alcohol is 9% and 10% will allow the label to read “Supérieur.”

     Unlike simple appellations that allow a label only to read Beaujolais or Beaujolais-Villages—all using the Gamay grape—the ten crus go by their regional names:    St-Amour, Juliénas, Chénas, Moulin-à-Vent, Fleurie, Chiroubles, Morgon, Régnié, Brouilly and Côte de Brouilly, each with its own appeal. It would take far more space than I have here to detail all the distinctions but Beaujolais 101 might simplify things like this:

Moulin-à-Vent is considered the heartiest, long-lived cru, though it does not have hard tannins. Morgon is also a sturdy red known for fine minerality as produced by the so-called “Gang of Four,” Jules Chauvet, Marcel Lapierre, Jean Follard and Guy Bréton; Fleurie, which takes its name from “flower,” is indeed favored for its floral bouquet, with producers Clos de Rolette and Domaine de Vissoux among the best of a wide range; the new girl on the block is Ann Sophie-Dubois, who’s gotten attention; Juliénas has a deepness and is regarded as a Beaujolais that ages particularly well; Côte de Brouilly and Brouilly are lighter in body but considered more elegant and complex, with Pierre Cotton on the Cote and Pierre Chermette in Brouilly at the top of many connoisseurs’ lists; St. Amour, made in the north of the appellation, is particularly favored for an intensity that will readily compare with far more expensive Burgundies from the Côte de Nuits; Chiroubles is a late-ripening region, but they show best after minimum aging; Régnié may not be among the best Beaujolais crus but it’s a good, solid, spicy example; Chenas has some minerality.

     I have been drinking the 2019 vintage (which had a cool spring then heat waves in summer that caused yields to be low) of Beaujolais crus with just about everything. Certainly Morgon or St. Amour with red meats; Chiroubles with lighter meats and poultry; and Brouilly with salmon or trout. Here are some I’ve imbibed with great pleasure these past months.

2019 Couvent des Thorins ($29)—Made from Gamay from three vineyards, it’s got an earthy taste of the terroir and the summer’s heat gave it body while the fruit emerges like black cherries.

2019 Château du Moulin-à-Vent ($45)—With 13% alcohol this might be considered a true middleweight with depth and strength in a velvet glove that makes it smooth and very satisfying with veal and pork chops. Its price is a bit daunting, but it reveals just how good Beaujolais can be.

2019 'Champ de Cour' ($69)—This was the most expensive Beaujolais I’ve had in a long time, with less than 3,000 bottles and 300 magnums made. Its hillside terroir is protected from harsh winds and the summer heat was ameliorated somewhat, giving this wine a real elegance for one from Moulin-à-Vent. It is ideal with the kind of game dishes you might otherwise serve a Chambertin with. 

2019 'Les Vérillats' ($59)—Made from just one vineyard, at a higher altitude and from soil with a high granite content, which gives it a delightful minerality that makes it excellent with hearty stews full of vegetables.

2009 Château du Moulin-à-Vent ($38)—It’s unlikely you’ll find this easily at a wine store but I wanted to report on it because it gives the lie to the myth that Beaujolais cannot age for long. This wine is 12 years old, made from the grapes of five vineyards, at 13.5% alcohol, which has helped its longevity. It is no museum piece, for it still had vibrancy and was very soft and velvety. I enjoyed it with some mild French cheeses.