Report on the Big Day Out

Yesterday, the sun shone cold and bright, Rockefeller Center was buzzing with ice skaters and tourists in fuzzy hats; the holiday market at Bryant Park was awash in hot chocolate, doled out by the good people at Max Brenner; and Saks was selling off Kate Spade handbags at 40% off. Could life get any better than that? Why, yes, actually - DMR and I shared a wonderful lunch together at Le Bernardin.

The day started off inauspiciously. The flats I had bought during the Black Friday sales proved impractical for such cold weather and the black and grey argyle socks I planned to wear underneath turned out to have big pale diamonds in exactly the wrong places for sartorial sophistication. I had to borrow a pair of dress socks from the Kid Squid as a result, which threw out my whole ensemble. I couldn't figure out which scarf to wear and had to summon Sir for fashion advice - always a solution of last resort. My beautiful red gloves were found to have a hole where my index finger was supposed to go and the sole hat I was able to locate could only be worn after lunch, to avoid flattened and unattractive hair during the Grand Event. What with one thing or another, I was running fifteen minutes behind schedule by the time I got out the door and quite frazzled, to boot.

However, nothing can totally dull the anticipation of a Ripertian feast and we drove east on I-78 with equanimity and anticipation. Traffic was light as we sped towards our goal, reaching the Port Authority parking garage in an hour and a half flat. Sixty minutes' worth of wandering and window-shopping later, we presented ourselves at our culinary goal - chilly, optimistic, and not a little peckish.

The dining room was beautiful, as always, with tasteful and elegant holiday decorations where the huge vases of flowers are usually stationed. We were among the first to arrive, so the army of black-jacketed waiters were all standing at attention, ready to do our bidding. We sat down at our table and plopped our bags on a cunning little footstool thing discreetly provided by the management - one never puts one's purse on the floor or - horrors! - hangs it on the back of the chair at Le Bernardin! After menus were proffered, kirs ordered from the bar, and an amuse of salmon rillettes brought to the table, our lunch began in earnest.

Readers already know that I had previously studied the menu in some detail, so very little decision-making remained - although DMR and I did have to do some negotiating about who ordered what. Also, I needed to double-check that my choices were, indeed, gluten-free. Our wonderful waiter confirmed the wisdom of my selections and asked if I had an allergy. I truthfully told him no, since I didn't want to send an all-points bulletin to the kitchen requiring them to take extreme and unnecessary measures against cross-contamination. As it happened, apart from the crouton accompanying the rillettes (not needed, since a fork was also thoughtfully laid out);  bread rolls (warm and divine, oh well); and little almond and pistachio cakes served with the coffee (DMR ate them happily, so they didn't go to waste), gluten was easily avoided, as I had previously predicted.

Although Moleskine was along for the ride, I decided not to take notes during the meal - it seemed like a pretty tacky thing to do, quite honestly. Pictures, of course, were out of the question. This is what we ate, as near as I can remember it.

Starter

• DMR: barely grilled escolar, thick-sliced, rich and meaty, served atop a vibrantly orange rectangle of carrot/lime mousseline. A fresh miso sauce was drizzled around the plate during service. It was heaven. Did you know Eric was one of the first in the country to put escolar on his menu? It has been variously banned in countries such as Japan, Sweden and Italy for its toxic effects in large quantities, and the FDA itself has gone back and forth on this wonderful fish. Sustainable and delicious (though not kosher, sadly), I always rejoice to see it in restaurants. It is not a kind of tuna, as is popularly supposed, but snake mackerel of the family Gempylidae, as we all know.
• FA: grilled salt cod, flaky and tender, arranged down the middle of the plate with a fresh, finely shredded slaw of apples, hazelnuts and sea lettuce across the top. It was a little bit hard to distinguish between all the ingredients, arranged as they were, which I suppose was the whole point: each mouthful was an explosion of fresh, crunchy, pleasantly acidic, healthy-feeling flavours. A slightly peppery oil dressing was drizzled about at the last second, adding a welcome, subtle heat. 

Main Course

• DMR: turbot served atop the thinnest possible sliced turnips. We considered how the turnips had been cooked, and DMR related the tale of how, for Burns' Night one year, HSR attempted to mash turnip chunks with an electric handmixer, requiring the scrubbing and repainting of the kitchen walls the following spring. Eric's were perfectly identical tender disks with no hint of color - probably sliced on a mandoline, layered in a hotel pan with some sort of stock, covered and cooked slowly in the oven. They were the acme of turnip-dom and gave new meaning to the phrase 'just came in on the turnip truck,' which henceforward I will use to describe the heights of delicacy and refinement. The dish was accompanied by a rich and creamy wild mushroom and black truffle custard that had us weeping with joy. The whole was bathed in a spiced squab jus and sprinkled with perfectly chopped black truffle bits.
• FA: yellowtail, lightly seared on the outside, the inside set just beyond translucent, thinly sliced into geometrically accurate rectangles and laid atop a black truffle emulsion. The aroma wafting from the plate was heady beyond compare. A soupcon of risotto with spring vegetables provided a light counterpoint to the rich earthiness of the sauce. I wanted to pick my plate up to lick it clean but, deciding that would display poor breeding, instead used my [fish] knife and right index finger to scrape up every last drop.

Dessert

• DMR: piped squiggles of chestnut cream with perfect disks of thin chocolate and burnt orange meringue, sitting on a butter sable. There was a rum sauce and a tiny quenelle of rich raisin ice cream. It reminded DMR, who is a big fan of chestnuts, of the very best Mont Blanc. I tasted the cream and concurred but, due to DMR's clever strategy, was unable to share properly due to the lurking gluten.
• FA: a pyramid of pistachio mousse with a hidden center of roasted white chocolate cream. I don't know how they did it, but the white chocolate - instead of being over-sweet as it tends to be - was deep and rich and mysterious-tasting. Something to do with caramelizing the sugar before making the cream, perhaps. It was served with boozy cherries and a lemon sauce, with extra candied pistachio bits scattered about. For a nut-lover such as myself, it was the ne plus ultra of pistachio desserts. 

We didn't do anything wrong or gauche, insofar as we are aware, so that's a first. We also saw Chef himself, who came out of the kitchen (twice!) to schmooze with an elderly couple at a table some distance from ours. We absolutely did not recognize them - DMR theorized that the lady was his mother while I suspected rich investors. Whoever they were, Eric made a beeline towards their table when (we supposed) alerted to their presence by the staff. We walked past the couple to get to our coats, but restrained ourselves from asking whether they were famous and could we have their autographs, just in case. It was a treat to see Chef, resplendent as always, but nothing will ever match the time he spoke to me personally. I think it's a marvel that, with all his other responsibilities as a world-famous celebrity chef, he is still to be found in his kitchen during the week. It's one of the things that makes Le Bernardin really special.

Divine. Sublime. Heaven. After a short rest and two cups of coffee, we were sufficiently energized for a walk before tackling the traffic home. We were not too full and felt healthfully alert, discussing the meal at length as we strolled up 5th Ave. I couldn't help but take pity on all the poor souls who'd eaten their lunches at Red Lobster or Sbarro - fine institutions, no doubt, but sadly lacking in escolar, black truffles, and movie-star handsome Michelin-starred kitchen gods.

Next up: Sir makes an exciting decision and Le Bernardin once again proves its worth