Big Macs

Once again, as predicted, I have missed the latest exciting installment of Top Chef: Texas. My understanding is that this week's casualty de cuisine was none other than Rick Bayless protege Chuy Valencia, about whose departure I have mixed feelings. On the one hand, I thought this guy was an egotistical ass - in stark contrast to his guru, whose class and self-effacement made his crowning as Top Chef Master an all-the-more impressive achievement. On the other hand, dinner at Frontera Grill is one of the reasons why I am always threatening to fly to Chicago the minute I receive sufficient air miles from the misers at Continental Airways (the other reason, of course, being a visit to Alinea or Next). Bravo's appalling website informs me that Chef Chuy no longer works the line at the Mexican meister's upmarket cantina, so I won't need to worry about the aufe'd one smirking at me while I enjoy Manitas de Cangrejo and Sopes Rancheros. And for that I say a big, 'Gracias, Senor.'

I was unable to take first-hand satisfaction from his being sent packing (for salmon stuffed with goats' cheese, gross) because yesterday morning I was preparing to speed my way east on I-78 for my annual lunch with DMR at Le Bernardin. And what a lunch it was! I will spare readers the salacious details except to report that the recent redesign of Eric's piscatorial pleasure palace has left me a bit nonplussed. Where before the airy dining room was decorated in tasteful shades of pink and peach (all right, I admit it, it was a bit girly) with huge paintings of fish-related subjects on every wall, diners are now tucked snugly into dark brown banquettes amidst wood panelling and mysterious lighting (controlled by a computer in California, if our server was to be believed). A single impressive seascape on the back wall provides the sole indication that the menu is heavily seafoodistical.

The ambience wasn't the only thing that has changed since last year's visit with Sir. The restaurant formerly served as a refuge for a wide variety of lunching ladies, visitors from out of town, and business types wheeling and dealing, but now appears to be the exclusive preserve of Masters of the Universe on Obscene Expense Accounts - and the male section of that population to boot. When we arrived, DMR and I saw only five other women in the whole place, seated singly at tables full of outrageously-accented hedge-fund managers: we're pretty sure at least two of these besuited damsels were tasked with note-taking. It was fascinating in a keep out the hoi polloi sort of way - the new design even cuts off the dining room's view of the bar, lest the movers and shakers be unnervingly treated to the unwanted sight of somebody coming in off the street for a *shudder* sandwich (albeit a $35 croque monsieur with smoked salmon and osetra) and a negroni.

Still, the set menu was divine as ever and we left feeling at peace with the world, confident that we'd successfully impersonated members of the 1% for a couple of hours. We had the added pleasure of speaking briefly with pastry perfectionist Michael Laiskonis: my dedication to full disclosure compels me to report that he's a bit shorter than he appears on TV, but with chiseled bone structure to die for.

All that is secondary, however, to my main observation of the day, which is that my favorite gluten-free tea-time treats of all time, macarons, are now to be found on every street corner in the city - even in shops that don't otherwise do patisserie, such as La Maison du Chocolat (to which I repaired for a box of truffles for Sir and two marrons glaces for me: now that I am privvy to the hard labour that is involved in the manufacture of these sugary little gems, I was unable to quibble with the extortionate price tag).

I might have been unsurprised by this sudden macaron mania had I previously been party to the intelligence contained within this week's edition of Time magazine, a photocopy of which I now happen to have in my possession. In a full-page expose on The Cupcake Coup, our breathless correspondent Josh Ozersky reports that paper cup-bedecked mini-cakes (which I have always maintained are stupid and pointless) are now out, whereas buttercream-filled French gateaux are these days most definitely la mode. He cites as evidence the inauguration of the world's first macaron truck (in Chicago, as luck would have it - there's now a third reason to hie to the Windy City as soon as is humanly possible) and the opening of Laduree in NYC. Apparently, Laduree macarons are now a must-have accessory for Those In the Know, rather like Louboutin heels and La Perla underwear.

While I can't claim to any great expertise on the unmentionables worn by the fashionistas of the Upper East side, I do know from macarons - and I am obliged to remind readers where the best ones are to be found. Last year I reported at length on my extensive taste-tests and concluded that - in all important respects - the three-inch beauties from Financier Patisserie at 48th St. and 6th Ave. are superior examples of the breed. This is why, on our way back to Port Authority, DMR and I whiled away a happy half-hour at a pavement table, enjoying the holiday lights and sipping rich hot chocolate with a gayly-striped green and white paper bag full of pistachio and hazelnut goodness close at hand.

There's a macaron sitting beside me even as I write this - batting its eyelashes alluringly and tempting me with its siren song. Have I digested sufficient calories from yesterday's lunch to merit a few chewy bites of marshmallowy goodness?

The answer has got to be a resounding yes. After all, a girl must be willing to make any sacrifice for fashion.