My modern day Mecca

Williams-Sonoma
121 E 59th St
New York, NY 10022
917-369-1131

Café Lalo
201 W 83rd St
New York, NY 10024
212-496-6031

All was not good for the good guys this past weekend. To everyone who I may have affected with my black mood and grumpy demeanor, I wholeheartedly apologise. If you have ever lived in DC – or indeed any urban metropolitan area, but DC more than most – you will soon realise that it is a very transient place; no sooner do you find good people then they are lost to you, moving on to bigger and better things in their lives. Among others, Sarah left last weekend for good, and Amanda – albeit temporarily, to Ghana of all places – and this was not helped by the fact that Jeff, himself gone for quite some time now, wrote me an email from Barcelona detailing his drinking and debauchery.

So, understandably or not, I was a little down this past weekend. But rather my point is that eating for me, and shopping for others, is an art worthy enough to rank with the other methods by which man chooses to escape reality. What better way, then, to lift my mood than to combine the two with a trip to Williams-Sonoma, that mecca for modern-day chef wannabes? To be fair, it was a fortuitous trip to say the least – I was supposed to meet Elisabeth and Jacob for dinner when Elisabeth called to say they would be running late, and I could not think of a better way to spend 45 minutes in Columbus Circle than to browse the aisles of what could possibly be my favourite chain store.

The thing about walking around Williams-Sonoma is that I am continually amazed at how much is being mass-produced these days that nobody should really need. I mean, a garlic press? It’s already been invented, and it’s called the blade of a knife. I also am continually amazed at how ridiculously expensive this place is. Nevertheless, walking around gleaming pots and pans and flowery placemats does something to me. I am enervated no end, and start to scheme for the numerous meals that I will make next. It is, for me at least, like a groundswell of ideas and inspiration. Cast-iron pans make me want to make saffron paella with squid and other assorted seafood; griddles make me want to make buttermilk pancakes with blueberries. Espresso machines – things of beauty they are – set me off on reveries of espresso and latte and afogato and coffee cakes. The knife display makes me want to touch myself. I have to continually remind myself to wipe that spastic little-boy grin from my face.

Needless to say, I was sufficiently cheered up by the time Elisabeth danced into the store. (If you know Elisabeth, you will know that this is no exaggeration – the woman is so graceful that she does not walk, but rather waltzes.) And then it was off, to dinner!

Dinner itself was perhaps nothing to write home about – we ate at a kosher café where the food was prepared under the supervision of one Rabbi Avrohom Marmorstein. No one in our party was Jewish, so the selection was a little strange; but the conversation was charming and the company enchanting, and I blissfully forgot the fact that my soup was quite unsatisfactory and that I could, perhaps, have done a better job myself of the flounder stuffed with spinach and feta in an orange buerre-blanc.

But then Elisabeth took us to Café Lalo, on the Upper West Side, a neon-lit monstrosity of a dessert place whose claim to fame lies in that Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, in You’ve Got Mail, meet each other there for the first time after a courtship of online correspondence. Café Lalo is a café in the strictest Parisian sense of the word, right down to the paper tablemats and the tables bunched up against each other so you have to comport your ass and other extremities skillfully as you maneuver through the masses of chattering people going on about something or other. The only thing it lacks is the al fresco dining balcony with all the chairs facing outward for optimal people-watching. The French are a voyeuristic people.

And even though it is no Pastiche*, the dessert is delightful, and Jacob got us a pot of Russian Caravan, a blend of tea that he promised was “so smoky it’s like drinking a cigar”. I rather liked it myself. I sat across from Elisabeth, and she looked beautiful and radiant as she sat silently with a faraway look in her eyes and the barest hint of a smile, listening to Jacob. And for thirty glorious minutes in the company of these two dear friends, I forgot that I had to get up for work the next day.

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*Pastiche is a dessert place in Providence, RI renowned for their fruit tarts - I swear there is opium in their vanilla custard - but the biggest mistake you can make there is getting the same thing twice. The true standout here, in my humble opinion, is the vanilla-bean cheesecake. I remember exactly where I was and who I was with the first time I tried this; and I'm sure they remember it too because I was moaning orgasmically and very audibly and in general attracting lots of dirty as well as amused looks. It is perhaps my favourite dessert place in the world and I will write about it someday.

***Footnote: Three weeks after this I went against everything that I stood for and bought myself a wholly unnecessary kitchen implement from Williams-Sonoma – a citrus fruit juicer. I know, it’s already been invented, and it’s called your right (or left) hand. But this thing is 18 inches of chrome and stainless steel magnificence, and has a very masculine beauty for a kitchen implement. I used it to squeeze a lemon for a dish I was making, and felt a rush of blood to my head. Two days later Clayton and I had freshly squeezed orange juice, and I felt very pleased with myself.