Virtual Gourmet

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THIS WEEK
DINING OUT IN LONDON,
Part One
By John A. Curtas

NEW YORK CORNER
LE RIVAGE
By John Mariani

THE MAGDALENE LAUNDRIES
CHAPTER 56
By John Mariani

NOTES FROM THE WINE CELLAR
RED ZINFANDEL
By Geoff Kalish

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DINING OUT IN LONDON
Part One

By John A. Curtas

Veeraswamy

London has long been a world capital as much as a British one, with gustatory delights available from every

far flung corner of the globe culled from their far-flung former colonies. Since the Seventies two generations of ambitious chefs have succeeded in creating a gastronomic identity for the city, one based on the bounty of local ingredients and the melting pot of cultures visible on every corner.

But our recent trip there wasn't about gastronomic adventures, fusion food or hidden gems. We came to sight-see, shop and nosh in the toniest part of town, Mayfair, and to see how the British upper crust breaks their bread. For this I got some good-natured ribbing from London food scribe/pen-pal Marina O'Loughlin, who thinks about Mayfair the way I do the Las Vegas Strip (lots of money, little imagination), and who implored me to explore the more cutting-edge culinary corners of the "new" London. Maybe next time.

We did take her advice for our first meal of the trip, however, heading straight from Heathrow to Shepherd Market for a cozy, jet-lagged dinner at Noble Rot, a British spin on Parisian bistronomy, combining a laid-back vibe with serious cooking aimed at a knowledgeable clientele eager to se

e what the chef is up to (right). Fighting through the London fog of our sleep-deprived brains, we were warmed by an extraordinary bread basket, snow-capped gougères hidden under drifts of Parmesan, rib-sticking boudin noir with pickled quince, and a wedge of Cornish brill (Dover sole's heftier cousin) napped in a soothing cream sauce speckled with smoked caviar (left).

    Desserts were suitably British (straight-from-the-oven apple cake), Italian-inspired buttermilk panna cotta and French perfected chocolate chou bun cream puff stuffed with brandied prune and hazelnut sauce. The service was as warm as that apple cake. In keeping with the name, the wine list was an oenophile's dream––compelling by-the-glass selections; page after page of producers both famous and obscure and prices for every budget. Appetizers: 15£-25£; main courses: 29-104.
    After that English-French gastropub, we sought to hearken back to the days of the British Raj, at an eye- and palate-popping Indian lunch at the granddaddy of them all,  Veeraswamy––a bastion of sub-continent cooking since 1926. From its colorful, elegant rooms overlooking tony Regent Street, the kitchen presents the sort of fare that does not exist on our side of the pond. Here, the food is as vivid as the hues of the room, enveloping your palate with sensations both delicate and intense. No mean feat that.

You begin with papadum crisps so light they practically float off the table. With them are three chutneys of varying fruitiness and heat, each a bracing sense-awakener that tunes you into the flavors and spicing ahead. We then tucked into exotica like Baghare Baingan (stewed eggplant curry), Grandma's Spicy Egg Roast (served on a disc of rice flour noodles known as “string hoppers”), and beetroot croquettes with Stilton and green chili (left)–– each dish a revelation in spice and complexity.
    This striking dissimilarity continued through the main courses. Butter chicken (murgh makhani) of astonishing amplitude (above); halibut in a Malabar coconut curry that respected the fish; and paneer tikka (roasted cubes of fresh cheese) that made you miss meat not at all.
    Libations are as upscale as the surroundings, and wines are well-matched to the cuisine (this food creates thirst). The trouble with dining at Veeraswamy is that it spoils you for a level of extravagance, ingenuity, and sumptuousness in Indian restaurants rarely duplicated in the west. She may be pushing 100, but from our window seat, basking in the glow of those warm, intricate seasonings on a cold, drizzly day, the old girl is plenty of life yet.
Appetizers: 15£ -25£; main courses: 29£-104£.

       If there is one chef who embodies Britain's gastronomic revolution, it would have to be the molecularly-obsessed Heston Blumenthal, whose Fat Duck in Bray has been among the most famous restaurants in the country for most of this century. Not having the time or inclination to trek out of town for oddities like "bacon and egg ice cream," we instead parked ourselves at a large round table at Dinner by Heston Blumenthal in the posh Mandarin Oriental Hotel to sample his avant-garde spin on traditional British fare.

One of the appeals of the place, besides his reputation, the stylish setting and the promise of inventive cooking, was the flexibility of ordering either a tasting menu or à la carte, depending on your level of interest or peckishness. Another pleasant surprise was letting us choose the degree of intensive care service you desire: three cards are offered: you to choose from and place as a placard in the center of your table–– one asking for full explanations of how each dish emanates from the Blumenthal oeuvre; a middle option allows for asking the staff to simply identify your selection as it hits the table;

and a third requesting nothing but silence with every course. We put on our fanboy hat and asked for the Full Monty, and the staff indulged us with descriptions both pithy and informative, never taking more than a minute to describe the story behind every recipe.

The cards are necessary because the entire historical vernacular of British cookery informs this menu, providing inspiration for Blumenthal to put a modernist spin on ancient ideas. Thus do you get his famous "meatfruit" (c. 1500), a foie gras/liver parfait encased in what looks like half a mandarin orange, an unctuous play on disguising one foodstuff as another and a fad that was all the rage in the late middle ages. Blumenthal has kept this favorite on his menu for more than a decade.

The same could be said for "The Truffle," a ping-pong ball of melanosporum butter disguised as a tuber, which claims the same birthright (c. 1500) on the menu, and, like its camouflaged compatriot, is so rich it should come with a tax return.

Main courses were lighter: a caramelized, roasted cauliflower with shiitake dressing; sea bass with a green sauce (right) spiked with eucalyptus; and spiced squab (c. 1790), no doubt less gamey than the putrid "hung" fowl of the 19th Century but seasoned and sauced in a way King George III might recognize. We ended with a "Tipsy Cake," a sugar-crusted sweet brioche (c. 1858) and a platter of English cheeses at their peak.
    We left thinking that this kitchen, fourteen years on, hasn't lost its fastball. You certainly don't go to a Heston Blumenthal restaurant looking for bargains, but $1,000 US (for four)––about a third of that wine––a dinner this inventive and polished was a deal by American standards.
Appetizers: 15£ -25£; main courses: 29£-104£.; Set luncheon 65£.

If HB asks us to indulge his culinary flights of fancy, Saint Jacques (left),in the heart of St. James, just steps from the wine and spirits merchant Berry Bros. & Rudd, where they request nothing of its clientele other than a taste for well-rendered standards of la cuisine Française. Our meal tread no new ground, but a

Beaufort cheese soufflé (right), veal kidneys in mustard sauce, an onglet frites of uncommon mineral-rich depth, and textbook crème brûlée were just what we needed to fortify ourselves for an afternoon of sightseeing in freezing weather. In keeping with the theme of the trip, the service couldn't have been more cordial, even though we popped in without a reservation. Appetizers: 16£ -25£; main courses: 27£-95£.

Dorothy Parker once remarked that every time she heard an English accent, she felt like she had a papoose strapped to her back, and after rubbing shoulders with the landed gentry in these swanky joints for a week, we could see what she meant. Old School or new, there is much to recommend in gastronomic London these days. The seafood is nonpareil, chefs take great pride in their produce and the cooking palette has expanded into a cornucopia of choices. And as English

tastes have blossomed, the typical British reserve seems to have melted away. The place is now so friendly, sometimes you'll think you're in Italy.

A similar fate awaited us a few nights later at Scott's Mayfair (above). We arrived just as they opened (again without booking), asked nicely, and were seated promptly. Scott's is iconic for its seafood (since 1851), and we dove into a dozen of the freshest oysters imaginable (served with thumb-sized, chorizo-like sausage links), a shellfish bisque so vibrant it tasted like an entire crustacean condensed into every spoonful, flawless fillets of seared sea bass, and impeccable, pan-fried Dover sole meunière (right). Welsh rarebit (basically cheese toast with a higher education) made for an interesting intermezzo before the sweets, and piping hot madeleines and petit fours completed things. By the time we left, the restaurant was as full as we were.
Appetizers: 12.50£ -45£; main courses: 25£-120£.

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NEW YORK CORNER

LE RIVAGE
340 West 46th Street
212-765-7374

By John Mariani

Photos by Evan Sung

For decades, through thick and thin, there has never been a time when the streets around New York’s Theater District were not chockablock with restaurants of every stripe. But from the 1940s through the 1980s the most popular and best known were French bistros––Du Midi, Café des Sports, Brittany du Soir, Café de France, La Grillade, Frère Jacques, À la Fourchette, L’Escargot, Fleur de Lis, Le Chambertin, Chez Napoleon, Coq au Vin, Le Quercy, Les Pyrénées, René Pujol, Pierre au Tunnel and Tout Va Bien––all, except the last, now gone.

The dining rooms were of modest size, the décor predictable and menus very much the same, right down to offering tomato and grapefruit juice as an appetizer. Some were very good, some just went through the culinary motions. But a late comer––opening in 1985––named Le Rivage has been recently transformed and updated without diminishing the charms that have long made it a favorite in the Theater District, including a substantial French clientele who come for the same dishes they had at bistros back home.

         Founding chef Paul Denamiel (below) has also brought on a new Chef de Cuisine named David Cámara, born in Yucatan and a veteran of kitchens from Mexico to San Francisco to New York; Denamiel himself was born in New York and cooked at his family’s restaurant, Le Cafe Du Soir, as well as stints at Le Colony, a Côte D'Argent and Le Cirque.

         Those who remember but haven’t been to Le Rivage in a while will find it looks pretty much the same. It’s brighter, the brick walls have the same patina of age, there are strings of pin lights that provide further bonhomie, the tablecloths are of fine quality, lit by small green-shade lamps, and the bar looks appropriately well worn. Also better lighted now are the framed paintings of Provençal landscapes that look like they came from a Chinese art factory’s assembly line, a decorous distraction one cannot avoid seeing.

    Tom Greco is as affable a manager as I’ve met in a long time, and our French waiter lent further authenticity to the ambience.

         One telling sign at a bistro is the quality of the bread and butter, which at Le Rivage is generous and the baguette superb in its crust and the perfect texture.

         There is a $70 pre-theater prix fixe menu that offers three courses of just about everything on the regular menu, which is composed of both hot and cold starters that include piquillo peppers stuffed with goat’s cheese and almonds; filet mignon tartare with quail egg; and pâté de campagne with mustard and cornichons. There are also five salads.
         The second thing a good bistro must have is onion soup based on a hearty beef broth full of richly caramelized onions and a thick sopping of browned Gruyère, and Le Rivage’s is one of the best in the city. Brandade de morue (salt cod

whipped with olive oil and milk) on toast (above) with a vegetable escabeche was a delight to find on the menu, as well as a hearty portion of breaded frogs’ legs, rich with garlic and parsley.

         Gnocchi à la Parisienne (right), made with a pâte à choux. is actually an entrée course, but it’s ample for two as an appetizer. Le Rivage’s version more resembles Italian potato gnocchi in heft and texture but were nevertheless delicious, enriched by Comté cheese and black truffles.

         There is, of course, a steak frites, made with a New York strip oozing beurre maître d’hôtel butter, served with nonpareil duck fat fries, and––another classic one can’t easily find anymore––steak au poivre made with a large filet mignon spread with an aromatic green peppercorns sauce and served with buttery pomme puree, perfectly cooked haricot verts.

So, too, somewhere in the distant past canard à l’orange dropped from French menus in favor of rare duck breast alone, and to find it again at Le Rivage was reason to pounce. It was carefully roasted and tender, though I’d prefer a crispier skin, with a well-rendered orange sauce that was not overly sweet.
Yet again, trout almandine is a dish that needs to be brought back, especially since fresh trout is now better than ever in the market. Here it had a fine flakiness and a shower of brown buttered almonds with a little lemon, tiny white turnips and the sweet surprise of pomegranates and jasmine rice.

And then there is coq au vin, a dish that proves a chef’s mettle, and Camara makes a very juicy bird that has absorbed the wine and sweet juices that also invest the tomato and mushrooms on the plate.

I applaud Le Rivage offering a cheese plate, but, sadly, the four selections came straight from the refrigerator rather than served at room temperature.

Desserts toe a traditional line: Big fat profiteroles of puff pastry bursting with vanilla ice cream, toasted almonds and lavished with hot chocolate sauce; a marvelous version of ethereal île flottante drizzled with caramel swimming in crème anglaise; a deep chocolate molten cake; and, best of all, winter’s pear cooked in sweet red wine scented with cinnamon and other spices with big scoop of melting vanilla ice cream.

It was the end to an evening that seemed to demand a glass of Armagnac to fortify us for the freezing wind outside of Le Rivage, which, in its re-incarnation, is as much a refuge from the weather as it is from the trendier aspect of modern cuisine.

Le Rivage is open for lunch and dinner Tues.;Sun; Mon., dinner only

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THE MAGDALENE LAUNDRIES
By John Mariani

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

McCLURE’S

March 2007 Five Dollars

THE MAGDALENE LAUNDRIES

How the Catholic Church Enslaved Young Women to Save Their Souls

By Katie Cavuto

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    Back in New York, Katie put the new material into the nearly finished story. It was long and would need to be published over two issues, but Alan Dobell knew it would be a blockbuster. He did have Katie call the officials at the Archdiocese in New York, and she received a standard response of how many of the events in her story were in the past and that the modern Catholic Church was working as quickly as possible to root out the corruption within.

         Dobell was right, of course, about the first article becoming a major story when it appeared, titled, simply, “The Magdalene Laundries.” Nothing pleased him more than having other magazines, newspapers and media calling McClure’s offices for comments and asking Katie and David for interviews, which Dobell was very cautious about approving, in order to get maximum coverage.
         Some TV media sent reporters to various Diocese headquarters, others to those places listed in the Network book where priests would find sexual gratification. The tabloids played the story up with lurid photos and details. Cardinals and priests had microphones stuck in their faces coming and going, and Church officials trotted out the same lawyerly responses about how the article was actually a good thing in that it would force change within the Church’s way of handling problem priests.
         In Ireland the publication was somewhat more muted, the coverage dutiful rather than sensational, and the Dublin Garda was deluged with questions as to how they had handled such matters in the past and now in the future.
         David called Max Finger to see what was new.
         “Well, the shit certainly hit the fan here,” said Finger, “and I hope it helps me and good cops like Horan to dig deeper into what’s been goin’ on for so long. Far as I’m concerned, I’m back in the Garda’s good graces. They told me I’ve got full license to look at what I need to look at. We’re settin’ up a special unit.”
         “Anything new on a suspect?”
         “No, and I don’t suppose you can reveal anythin’ more about whoever gave you the book?”
         “Sorry, Max, no can do unless that person releases Katie from their agreement. And what about the guy who mugged us twice?”
         “All we know is that he’s another thug, but his lawyer’s been hintin’ that he might have been hired by someone close to the Church. He’s under indictment and will have to make a final plea. I think he’ll turn. I’ll let you know what happens.”
         The weekend went by and early Monday morning David’s phone rang at his home.
         “David, it’s Max. I hope you’re sittin’ down.”
         “Actually I’m lying down in bed. It’s five o’clock on the morning here, Max. What’s up?”
         “Well, I suspect the name Owen Dugan means something to you and Katie. He just turned himself in as the one who attacked Liddy and McInerney. He just walked into the Garda station and told the desk it was him who did it.”
         David snapped upright in bed and swung his feet to the floor.
         “This Dugan fella, he’s a taxidermist,” said Max, “which explains how he was so expert in slicin’ up the priests. And he said he was turnin’ himself in because Katie’s story had opened a Pandora’s Box, and since not even the Church could close it again, he wanted to be part of exposin’ as much as he knew about Liddy and how McInerney had kept the activities of all his pedophile priests quiet for decades.”
         “Did he bring in the book?”
         “Aye, that he did. Stole it from McInerney’s office after threatenin’ to kill him if he didn’t tell him where it was. That explains the nick on McInerney’s neck. Dugan also said he knew we had a copy, for which we have you and Katie to thank, David.”
         “So he’s willing to face the legal consequences?”
         “Dugan’s a very smart fellow. He knows damn well that he’ll be getting’ an enormous amount of world attention and come off as some kind of avengin’ angel. For all I know the Church might not bring any charges against him for their part. They’d have to admit too much. And since he didn’t actually murder anybody, he’s lookin’ at aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. He could get two to twenty years. But as you know very well, he won’t be getting anywhere close to the maximum. He may even come out of prison as a hero. ”
         David whistled. “This is one fucked up world, ain’t it, Max?”
         “Just as much here as over there, my friend.”

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The news about Dugan hit the world media within a day, but Katie knew it would make a particularly effective ending to the second installment of her article, which would be called “Suffer the Little Children,” appearing the following month. Alan Dobell was ecstatic, of course, and immediately started planning how to capitalize on Dugan’s confession, hoping that he would release Katie from their agreement not to expose him. That revelation would cause its own controversy in the media, resulting in editorials and TV commentary about the First Amendment and the wisdom of allowing a criminal to roam the streets because a reporter had promised not to reveal his identity. That would sell copies of McClure’s, too.
         The media tried to follow up with statements from both Liddy and McInerney, but by then the two priests had retained counsel and had been told not to say, or in McInerney’s case, to write, a word that could be used against them as inquiries about the Church’s involvement grew.
         The official Church response was that it pitied Mr. Dugan for what he said he’d suffered in his youth but that they would have no further comment, on advice of counsel. Clearly investigations would be launched and lawsuits filed on both sides of the Atlantic, as well as any country with pedophile priests listed in the Network book.
         The Network itself was a bigger story on its own—not one Katie had any current interest or stamina in tackling for the moment—but she received a congratulatory, “told-you-so” phone call from Richard Sipe. For their part, Sarah Garrison and Father Tom Draney were elated at what Katie had done and said that they’d had many inquiries from both the press and from men and women who were now willing to tell their stories of abuse at the hands of priests and nuns.