Virtual Gourmet

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THIS WEEK
WHEN CELEBS GO OUT TO DINE:
THE SERENA WILLIAMS FIASCO
By John Mariani

NEW YORK CORNER
MAISON CLOSE
By John Mariani

THE MAGDALENE LAUNDRIES
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
By John Mariani

NOTES FROM THE WINE CELLAR
END OF SUMMER WINES
By Geoff Kalish

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When Celebs Go Out to Dine: Serena Williams Says She Was Refused a Table in Paris, But the Restaurant Says It Was Fully Booked.

Sirio Maccioni and the Ladies Who Lunched at Le Cirque

Ah, the drama of being a celebrity! Just this week Serena Williams and her daughters arrived at the Peninsula Hotel in Paris and, she told the press, she was refused a table at its Michelin-starred rooftop restaurant, which she insisted was “empty.” That is what the French would call a huge faux pas, and of course, the incident became a scandale international.

Immediately the hotel management issued an apology, insisting that the rooftop restaurant (below)—The Peninsula has five —during the Olympics was fully booked. “When she came, there were only two tables available and they had been reserved by clients of the hotel,” Peninsula employee Maxine Mannevy, who was not working when Williams visited the rooftop restaurant told Variety, “My colleague didn’t recognize her and feels terrible, but he told her what he would have told any other client, which is to wait downstairs in the bar for a table to become available. That was absolutely nothing personal.”

         The response seems disingenuous simply because, without being pushy, à la “Do you know who I am?” Serena might have mentioned her name and gotten somewhere. Had that been the case, I’m pretty sure management would have given her a table ASAP.
         In restaurant lingo it’s called “build a table” if necessary when a celeb shows up.
       “Some restaurants market themselves to bring in celebrities,” says August Ceradini (below), owner of mid-town Manhattan’s glamorous Cucina 8 1/2. “Remember the scene in the movie Goodfellas at the Copacabana when they bring in another table when a big shot shows up? That was true and many restaurants still have tables in the back for that reason.”

I’ve seen it myself on occasion, once at the posh (now closed) Le Cirque, where tables were spaced so that another could be put in place on a moment’s notice, as when a fashion designer arrived with model Elle MacPherson on his arm. When someone complained about a table being too close to another, owner Sirio Maccioni would ask, “I’m sorry, madame, but would you rather sit this close or this far from Sophia Loren?” as she swept into the room.
“It’s a headache in general,” says Ceradini. “Especially if they bring an entourage, Madonna will arrive with body guards and demand that they don’t want anyone sitting next to them.”

There is nothing new about the treatment celebs get at restaurants, even if they don’t make a reservation. As Truman Capote depicted in his notorious story “La Cȏte Basque, 1964,” New York’s society ladies claimed their table whenever they wished to dine there; to be just a regular person risked being sent to “Siberia,” a term for an out-of-the-way, least desirable table, a term coined in the 1930s, when a society woman named Peggy Hopkins Joyce entered the class-conscious El Morocco nightclub in New York and found herself being led to less than an “A” table. “Where are you taking me?” she asked the maître d’hôtel, “Siberia?” At The Colony that section was called by the management the “doghouse.”

At New York’s ‘21’ Club (now closed) famous actors like Humphrey Bogart, Marilyn Monroe (below) and Orson Welles had bronze plaques above the tables they always sat at, and Sirio Maccioni, newly appointed maître d’ at The Colony, told the story of how Cary Grant, Frank Sinatra with Mia Farrow, and Aristotle Onassis were all coming in at one o’clock expecting the same table. Grant and Sinatra readily understood Maccioni’s dilemma and happily sat elsewhere. Onassis never knew.
Many celebs, on the other hand, call in advance and request a table deliberately out of the way where they will less likely be disturbed—especially if they had to go through a gamut of paparazzi at the entrance, which is standard procedure in Hollywood and Rome but not as much in New York or Paris. Sometimes they book a separate rear room.
The problem is that often a restaurant reservationist will receive a demand for a table for six people for a very prominent celebrity, then, upon arrival, five people show up and say, “Sorry, Mr. Stallone was unable to join us tonight.”

         Of course, when you’re full, you’re full. Some years ago, in a modest but well-regarded restaurant named Salerno’s in the small village of Tuckahoe, New York, the owner, George Salerno, got a call saying Frank Sinatra was going to be there with six people in 20 minutes after doing a show in a suburban theater. George answered, “We’d love to accommodate Mr. Sinatra, but we are fully booked all night.”
         The guy on the other end of the line, sounding a bit more brusque than before, said, “You don’t understand. I’m talkin’ about Frank Sinatra, the singer.”
         Salerno sighed and said, “Yeah, I knew who he is, but what am I supposed to do, throw one of my regular customers out? Forget about it. Maybe he can eat at the bar,” and hung up. Sinatra never showed.

For many years a mediocre Italian restaurant on New York’s upper East Side named Elaine’s, run by the judgmental Elaine Kauffman, kept its celebrity clientele of authors like Gay Talese and Tom Wolfe and regular Woody Allen in the front room, with everyone else banished to the flanking room, whose walls were decorated with the authors’ book jackets.
One of New York’s most famous restaurants, Rao’s in Harlem since 1896, has for 80 years had every one of its 14 tables booked every night by regulars, who tell the owner Frank Pellegrino only if they’re not coming. One regular is a local parish priest who sells his table (for charity) each week to people dying to eat at Rao’s. Those few tables are the most coveted in town. As a result, if you visit Rao’s for a drink at the bar (since you’ll

never get a table) you might see everyone from the Mayor of New York to Martin Scorsese and Robert DeNiro. Of course, since opening much larger, more elegant branches of Rao’s in Miami and Los Angeles (one in Las Vegas closed), where reservations are easy to come by, the whole idea of exclusivity is moot outside of Harlem.
One would think that these people tip exorbitant amounts to the waitstaff, and every restaurateur can tell you what stars tip the least.
Then there was the late mobster John Gotti (right), who, before going to prison for life, would double the entire amount of the bill as a tip. He always got any table he wanted, back to the wall.

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NEW YORK CORNER

MAISON CLOSE

15 Watts Street
347-919-5063

By John Mariani

I’m quite sure that many people are as happy as I when another good French bistro opens, so I was delighted when Maison Close debuted in Soho a couple of years ago. The menus at such places never get old, no matter how traditional they are for the simple reason that there are so many dishes to love and wish the return for often.

The distinctions between a restaurant, a bistro and a brasserie have been blurred, for while haute cuisine French restaurants are expected to toe a certain line of elegance, posh and sophistication, bistros and brasseries replicate their styles based on models from the fin-de-siècle and 1920s, usually with art nouveau or art déco appointments that are always a joy to behold: bentwood wicker chairs, tufted banquettes, starched tablecloths, a little shaded lamp on the table, murals of Parisian life and a general atmosphere of the genuine bonhomie sometimes lacking in fine dining salons.
Maison Close is very much in the Belle Époque brasserie tradition in its size, use of light and polished parquet floors. French

blue and white predominate its color palette, and the bar glistens with a mirrored backsplash. A lovely young woman is at the host station. There is some music but not so noticeable as to be intrusive. Quick on its feet, the staff are well versed in the menu and specials and very eager to please throughout the evening.
Chef Geoffrey Lechantoux has a daunting résumé, having cooked at several of Alain Ducasse’s restaurant, including Louis XV in Monaco, Jules Verne and Plaza Athenée in Paris and Benoit in New York. What such experience brings to a chef is an appreciation for and commitment to the rigors of French cuisine, which does not demand fealty to a classic recipe but does not allow for extraneous embellishments or hyper-creativity. This, of course, requires access to the finest ingredients, which New

York markets can readily supply, from both land and sea, as evidenced from the oysters whose provenance is provided on the menu. There is also a plâteau de fruits de mer ($180) and a grander splurge with Alaskan King crab ($390).
I couldn’t be happier than to see frogs’ legs ($26) among the appetizers prepared en persillade after having been seared with garlic and parsley butter, with a dash of lemon juice as the spark. Escargots ($18 or $36), so often chewy and tasteless, are brought to savory tenderness à la bourguignonne by garlic and parsley butter, while a tartare of Angus beef ($28 or $43) is a generous, hand-cut round well-seasoned and served with espelette peppers. Torn between fresh foie gras ($46) with plums and chanterelles and a terrine ($36) with rhubarb and toasted brioche, I chose the latter as I likely would at a brasserie in Paris, simply because I find the fish irresistible. Maison Close’s is as good as I’ve had over there.

    Somehow French cooks never get gnocchi just right, and Lechantoux’s, though enhanced by morels, spinach in cream, veal jus ($34) were soft and mushy.
    No such problem with seared scallops (right) cooked to perfection with a fondue of leeks and jus Parmentier ($48). Poulet Basquaise ($43) was succulent, and enriched with red bell pepper sauce, sweet onions and rice pilaf. A whole chicken fit for four people ($108) was suffused with summer’s herbs in a marvelous creamy morel sauce. New York gets the best veal anywhere, and the grilled chop, nicely fatted, comes with roasted peas, baby carrots, pearl onion and jus ($85), a crystallization of what deceptively simple bourgeois cooking is all about in having ever element work in harmony.

The same element of essential goodness is in the desserts ($18) like Paris-Brest on which the crisp choux pastry complement the hazelnut praline mousseline with almonds, and île flottante ($18), a childhood favorite now coming back into eminence was a round of light meringue in creme anglaise with candied pistachios (left). Perhaps we shall also see a return to favor of crêpes Suzettes ($28), that fiery presentation of sugared Grand Marnier on a light-as-a-feather crêpe that tastes far better than it looks on the plate.
    Maison Close has a well-selected wine list—including a jeroboam of Barons de Rothschild Champagne—good number of grand format bottlings—that it is unfortunate that only a handful of bottles run $100 and a huge number over $200. Also, cocktails are as high as any restaurant’s in the city, including one at $52 called Mistinguett with nothing very special in it.
    Prices for some dishes are higher than at competitive brasseries around town, like Benoit where Lechantoux once worked. There, the foie gras terrine is only $27 and the sole à la meunière $75. At Balthazar a whole chicken costs only $85. At the newly re-opened Le Veau d’Or a 3-course prix fixe is $125.
     Maison Close is a festive place, handsome and romantic, with a refinement about the food that indicates the sincere effort put into it to avoid distractions from the essential goodness of the ingredients. The flame of French cooking is alive and very well done at Maison Close,.

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THE MAGDALENE LAUNDRIES
By John Mariani

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The next morning Katie went to see Alice Cuddahy, who said she was very happy Katie had come to visit.

“Alice, I’m afraid I have more bad news,” said Katie.

“Oh good Lord, what now?”

“Did you know Mother Frances Augusta?”

Alice Cuddahy frowned deeply and said that she had and understood she was in a Dublin hospital.

“She was,” said Katie, “but last night she was. . . murdered. Her bed was set on fire in the hospital and she died of severe burns.”

Alice Cuddahy was dumbstruck, putting her face in her hands, then said, “Ah, I thought it would happen, what with all the other Sisters killed. I thought it was only a matter o’ time.”

“Well, we think we have the murderer and we’re pretty sure she committed all four murders. Do you know the name Maureen Maloney?”

“Oh, dear God, not Maureen! Oh, dear God! I mighta’ expected it.”

“Why?” asked Katie.

“Do you remember my tellin’ you of the girl who set herself on fire? That girl was dear Maureen Maloney. So lovely and so kind to everyone. But Mother Augusta was always after her for every infraction of the rules. She called Maureen a pig—she was heavier than most of the girls—and Mother Augusta, who was a smoker, would sometimes flick lighted matches at her.”

“That’s horrible,” said Katie, shaking her head.

“But it was worse. One day poor Maureen had let one o’ the irons cool down while talking to the other girls. Mother Augusta walked over to her and picked up the iron. She spit on it and the spit didn’t sizzle on the iron the way it does when it’s hot and ready to use.”

Katie was wincing, thinking of what she might hear next.

“Then she took another iron that was red hot and held it right up to Maureen’s face and the poor girl flinched and the iron hit her on the cheek. Gave her a terrible burn, and Mother Augusta shouted, ‘Now look what you made me do!’”

“She didn’t try to help Maureen with the burn?”

“Aye, she took her by her arm and dragged her to the sink and put a cold towel on her cheek. Then she said to Maureen, ‘That iron’s not half as hot as the flames in hell where you’ll be goin’!’”

Katie was shaking. “How bad was the burn?”

“The poor girl’s skin came off. She was disfigured.”

“She never got medical treatment?”

“I don’t know, maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. But a few weeks later Mother Augusta was still screamin’ at Maureen, and”—Alice Cuddahy broke into tears—“and soon after, the poor girl doused herself with rubbin’ alcohol and threw a match on herself. She was horribly, horribly burned. Poor girl spent months in the hospital, but eventually they returned her to the Laundries. She was released because they felt it would show pity, but the real reason was that the Sisters considered her dangerous after she’d tried to kill herself. Maureen went to work at a hospital here.”

“She was in fact working at the hospital’s laundry,” said Katie. “She delivered the laundry on Mother Augusta’s floor, and we think she lit the sheets with the votive candles in the room.”

Alice Cuddahy tried to sniff back more tears and was now swaying back and forth. She was imagining Maureen’s agony when she first laid eyes on Mother Augusta in her hospital bed.

“I can’t bring myself to feel pity for Mother Augusta,” she said, “or any of’the other Sisters. No one deserves to be murdered like those women were, but do you see, Katie, it seems like it was bound to happen one day. And if it was Maureen who committed all those terrible things, I’m sure she was acting like a kind of vigilante on behalf o’ all of us.””

Alice Cuddahy stopped swaying and asked, “So the police have found Maureen?”

Katie could hardly get the words out. “Yes, Alice, they did. Maureen killed herself by throwing herself in front of a train at Sydney Parade.”

Katie hadn’t the strength to tell Alice Cuddahy that Maureen Maloney had actually put her head on the tracks and was decapitated. It would be in the papers soon enough.

* * *

Alan Dobell was on the phone the next day.

“I read about what happened,” he said. “Pretty grisly ending to the story, Katie.”

Katie knew that her editor meant it would make a very good story for the magazine.

“So, is that it?” he asked, sounding every bit as if he hoped it was. “I guess there are some loose ends for you to tie up before you come back? I think time is of the essence here, though, Katie. This is going to make all the international papers, so we’ve got to go beyond the basic story. I know you’ve already done a lot of interviews for background and color.”

“Yeah, of course,” said Katie, “but I don’t think this is the end of the story. I mean, no one’s expecting any more Sisters to be murdered—although you never know with copycat killers—but remember, Alan, I came over here to do an in-depth piece on the Magdalene Laundries. Much as I hate to admit it, the murders only intensify the story.”

“I know what you’re saying, but I okayed this assignment as a crime story, with the Laundries as background. Sounds to me like you’ve got all that. And this guy Max Finger sounds like a terrific character.”

“Alan, what do I have to do to convince you there’s a bigger story here? Like you said, the papers will cover the murders and, unless some other editor assigns a reporter to go further with the story, it’ll be old news within a week. I’m begging you to let me dig deeper. I still don’t know what happened to those women and children in the unmarked graves.”

Dobell was silent, gathering his thoughts, knowing Katie’s prowess as an investigative reporter, but he just couldn’t see giving her an open-ended license to snoop around Ireland for several more weeks.

“Tell you what, Katie: You tie up the loose ends on the murders, get me color and provide background, and I’ll give you the space to do a bang-up job”—he remembered how Katie’s story on Al Capone was so good that it ran in two parts in successive issues of McClure’s—“but this has got to be a fresh story, not something hung onto a story about the Laundries that won’t appear for six months from now. I’d like to get this into the February issue, if we can. Then we can take another look and see if there’s enough interest for you to do the Laundries story you want. I’ll send you back to Ireland if necessary. Promise.”

Katie knew that, ultimately, Dobell would decide what he thought best for the magazine and his tentative offer to allow Katie to return to Ireland would be based on how fast she could turn out a first-rate murder story. Katie wanted to hedge her bets, so she said, “All right, Alan, I see your point. Give me a few more days for me and David to sort things out around here and I’ll even file what I’ve already got.”

“Fair enough,” said Alan. “Hey, how’s David doing over there?”

Katie was not sure what Dobell meant but was pretty sure he wanted to know if David had delivered enough to the case so that he didn’t need to stay in Dublin any longer.

“David’s doing great,” she answered. “I couldn’t have gotten anywhere near as close as he did to the police and Max Finger.”

“Love the fact that he’s Jewish,” said Dobell, who was himself a Jew. “It’s such a great angle, that he can cut through all that Catholic resistance.” (He wanted to say “bullshit” but knew Katie took her Catholicism seriously.)

Katie agreed, said Max was invaluable and, after a few more minutes of nailing down details of the way the story should go, Dobell wished her luck, saying, “Try to keep the expenses down, Katie. The publisher’s on my back again.”

Katie hung up the phone and lay back on her bed in the hotel. She felt she was in danger of losing her original focus and that the crime story was forcing her away from the one she really wanted to do. All these sad women, the women who had their babies taken away, the street prostitutes, the rebellious teenagers, all of them imprisoned, and, like the sheets and clothes they scrubbed each day, their own souls were being bleached out of them, even as they were told they would be going to hell.

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NOTES FROM THE WINE CELLAR

END OF SUMMER WINES
By Geoff Kalish

As summertime begins to wind down, with the livin’ still easy and the weather usually remaining quite warm, many US consumers gravitate to fruity white wines with at least a touch of acidity in their finish. Not surprisingly, these wines mate particularly well with much of the fare popular in the season, like branzino, striped bass, calamari and shrimp as well as pasta primavera and grilled chicken and even char-broiled tuna and pork. However, there are a number of “mass market” boring clunkers out there with flavors too light to match the fare and best saved for pre-meal sipping, or some so oaky that they overwhelm even the heartiest food preparations. So, from a number of recent tastings, the following are some recommendations for some flavorful, sensibly-priced bottles that enhance even simply grilled fare.

FROM FRANCE

2022 Les Genets Domaine des Chaintres Chenin Blanc ($30)

While many wines made from Chenin Blanc grapes are often too sweet and lack enough acidity to enhance the flavor of other than hors d’oeuvres, this wine from the Saumur region of France’s Loire Valley shows just the right combination of tropical fruit and citrus to ideally mate with grilled chicken and pork.

2017 FE Trimbach Pinot Gris Réserve ($28). From the 13^th generation of this Alsatian family comes this often overlooked varietal, that shows a combination of ripe fruit flavors of apricots, peaches and pineapple balanced by a burst of lemony acidity in its finish. It marries harmoniously with rich grilled seafare like Arctic char and steelhead trout as well as Asian-spiced salmon. In addition, it enhances the flavor of soft cheeses like brie and Camembert.

2021 Albert Bichot Saint Véran ($33)

On a par with bottles from Burgundy demanding much higher prices, this wine, made from Chardonnay grapes grown in the southernmost Burgundy towns of Saint-Veran and Saint-Amour, shows a bouquet and taste of ripe apples with hints of peach and notes of hazelnuts and lime in its crisp finish. It makes a great mate for grilled cod and sablefish as well as haddock and scallops.

FROM ITALY

2022 Pieropan Soave Classico ($23). Made primarily from Garganega grapes grown on hillside vineyards in the Veneto area (between Verona and Venice), this wine is a cut above typical mass-produced Soave. It has a bouquet and dry taste of honeydew melon and hints of peach with a long, citrusy finish. Enjoy it with appetizers like sushi and pâté as well as oysters, clams and mussels.

2023 La Carraia Orvieto Classico ($11). This bargain bottle of wine is made from a blend of Grechetto and Procanico, Malvasia and Verdelho grapes grown in Italy’s Umbria Region, located just south of Tuscany. It shows a bouquet and taste of ripe peaches and pears and a zesty finish, perfect to enjoy with pasta Primavera, grilled shrimp and calamari.

FROM NEW ZEALAND

2023 Whitehaven Sauvignon Blanc ($19). Showing an initial bouquet and flavors of gooseberry tempered by passion fruit, lemongrass and peach and a long, zesty finish, this wine from New Zealand’s South Island Marlborough region is ideal to mate with spicy barbecue fare, like “Buffalo” wings, ribs and skewers of spice-rubbed beef or lamb.

FROM CALIFORNIA

2022 Imagery Estate Winery Chardonnay ($15).

The addition of a small amount of Chenin Blanc to this Chardonnay makes it far more food friendly than some of the most highly touted “Cal Chards.” The wine shows a bouquet and flavors of crisp apples and pear with notes of apricot and honey in its long, vibrant finish. Perfect with lobster and king crab this wine also mates well with goat and truffled cheeses.

FROM THE HUDSON VALLEY

2023 Dr. Konstantin Frank Dry Riesling ($19). From grapes harvested from vines dating to the 1950s near lakes Keuka and Seneca, this wine has a bouquet and taste of ripe melon and apricots with a zesty finish that pairs well with sushi and grilled pork.

2023 Whitecliffe Vineyards Awosting White ($18). Made from a blend of Seyval Blanc and Vignoles grapes, this wine initially tastes sweet but has a long, memorable dry finish with notes of tangerine and lemon zest. Try it with appetizers like bruschetta toast coated with olive tapenade and Caesar salad, as well as garlicky seafood pasta and grilled swordfish.

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FOOD WRITING 101: DO NOT TRY TO IMITATE LEWIS CARROLL IN YOUR RESTAURANT REVIEWS

"It’s a TikTok-able idea. A chippie, one of the ironic-slash-nostalgic ones, boxing up chip butties with truffle mayo as opposed to the traditional ones, which, tragically and rather more ironically, are a dying breed. With a fridge to the left … which is a door! To a shrimp-sized seafood restaurant with teeny tables, low lights and loud tunes. Like a speakeasy, if a speakeasy were — let me get the lingo right — an experiential dual concept chip shop in Finnieston."—Chitra Ramaswamy, Sole Club, Glasgow," London Times (714/24)

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MARIANI'S VIRTUAL GOURMET NEWSLETTER is published weekly. Publisher: John Mariani. Editor: Walter Bagley. Contributing Writers: Christopher Mariani, Misha Mariani, John A. Curtas, Gerry Dawes, Geoff Kalish. Contributing Photographer: Galina Dargery. Technical Advisor: Gerry McLoughlin.