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FORKPLAY
December 5, 2016
Citymeals Power Lunch. The Crown. Meeting the Queen. Épicerie Boulud. Chaan Teng. Five Napkin Burger. Zarela's Thanksgiving. Marcus Samuelsson's Table.
Dear Friends and Family
Alas, I'm starting to be less amusing to myself -- forgetting to take my phone, or leaving my credit cards behind, or
putting my keys in my coat pocket and then wearing the other coat. It's good that Citymeals decided to honor me at the 30t
h Annual Power Lunch for Women and not wai
t for
a more auspicious moment. Less auspicious seems to be the direction I'm going in.
By the way, if you've been contemplating a gift to Citymeals, no
w is the perfect time to send it. So many New Yorkers have been in shock or attack mode that holiday donations have been slow. We cannot ever fail the vulnerable homebound neighbors who count on us. Click on Citymeals.org to give.
Exhausted and touche
d by the adulation -- paparazzi play, reading my response, getting home with the weighty sw
ag bag -- my niece Dana, visiting from Big Fork, Montana, and I decided to take it easy. I napped while she put together a little
supper of salads from Zabar's. Then we watched the first five segments of The Crown on her video setup. Of course, I could
have watched at home on my own big screen, but the truth is I'm a technological misfit. My
television is set up to stream everything but I haven't a clue how access Amazon or Netflix.
I hadn't set up a reviewing dinner for Tuesday evening, so we went to see Manchester by the Sea. Casey Affleck is remarkable, but it was too long, too painful for both of us. Since we were so close to Épicerie Boulud we decided to
buy dinner. I chose the Cobb. She picked a toss of greens with chicken and ham.
We added a hunk of Timberdoodle because I liked the name and the sheep's milk Brebis because she liked the austere look of it. That required pretzel epi bread and a whole wheat baguette. I wanted a royal supper, fit for The Crown binge. Even though she was watching the last segments for the fourth time, Dana wept.
***
My Queen
Immersion in the etiquette trauma of these '50s royals brought back memories of the long-ago afternoon I met the Queen. As a NY Post reporter, I'd been assigned to cover the Queen's visit to the Eisenhower White House in October 1957. If you're old enough, you will remember Dorothy Kilgallen from the New York Journal-American. She was my competition. We posed together. She was deeply annoyed to be paired with a nobody from the Post.
There was a reception for the press to meet the Queen before the state dinner. We were told to wear gloves. Did they teach us to curtsy? I don't think so. We lined up to shake hands with the Queen and at the exact moment my gloved hand touched her gloved hand and I bowed my head and said "Your Highness" or whatever they told us to say, the TV cameras clicked on, and at home in Detroit, my mother saw me meeting the Queen.
***
Chaan Teng: Can Tomatoes Be Immoral?
Not everything that makes you swoon and sigh is necessarily immoral. I've abandoned the chopsticks to  slide a spoonful of tomatoes into my mouth. What is this icy sweetness, this luscious shock? I check the menu hidden on my lap. Preserved plum in shards like granita. I must have another taste before passing the bowl along.
I need to pause before tackling the spooky dark green of the thousand-year-old egg. But it's surprisingly mellow, fanned out alongside the soft, almost trembling tofu, its creamy texture like a soy-tinged panna cotta. Gifts from Chef Pichet Ong in the kitchen. Don't come here if you plan to be offended by playful twists on the familiar.
When I think of Ong, I think sweet. I first became aware of him with his unique desserts at Spice Market. Now his peripatetic wanderings h
ave brought him to Chaan Teng as "creative consultant," turning out a unique mix of real and fanciful Chinese dishes. Unlike the drill at most new spots where tables are only available at 5:30 and 9 pm, here it's a cinch to book 7:30. Is that a whiff of snobbery in response to the address in this low-rent corner of Hell's Kitchen? Click here to read more. 698 Ninth Avenue at 48th Street. 212 235 1886.
***
Five Napkin Burger: It's the Sweet Potato Fries
My guy and I used to be big fans of Five Napkin Burger. Click here to read May I Have Another Four Napkins, Please. One day I wiped the burger grease from my hands with my third napkin and suddenly thought, why am I eating this sludge? So I was surprised last week when niece Dana suggested we meet at the Five Napkin Burge
r near her upper west side refuge. Just a few years ago she was a vegetarian. Happily fo
r our ultimate compatibility, she has come back to meat. But still. Five Napkins!
She was waiting inside when I arrived, having changed tables five times to get out of the draft near the door. She ordered the original burger on a salad with organic field greens, red onion curls, and Danish blue cheese dressing. I picked the merguez lamb and beef burger with harissa yogurt, caramelized onions, and roasted tomatoes.
But the minute the sweet potato fries arrived and her eyes opened wide as she reached for a fry, I understood. We were here for sweet potato fries. Agreed, they were reverential. My burger is infinitely less messy than remembered. I especially love the Moroccan-flavored lamb. I couldn't take my eyes off a woman across the aisle finishing off a tall chocolate sundae while her three companions chatted. That could be me, I thought. Glad Dana doesn't like sweets. 2315 Broadway on the SW corner of 84th Street. 212 333 4488.
***
Thanksgiving at Zarela's
Dinners at Zarela Martinez's aerie overlooking the East River are always special and not just for a mix of  classics and Mexican favorites. It's the eclectic company she collects. After her unusual apple tart and the pumpkin pie from Great Expectations, most of us sat in the usual Thanksgiving stupefaction. It was then that the breezy knave who had hogged all the turkey skin crisps, picked up a guitar. It seems he was not merely a too-handsome flirt; he was also Nilko Andreas, the celebrated Colombian/American classical guitarist and composer.
When he paused for a breath, a stocky guest, who had been focused on dinner and mostly silent, sat down  at the piano and played a long and thrillingly dramatic rendition of Mexico's national anthem. If I hung out at Carnegie Hall I might have recognized César Reyes, one of the leading performers of Latin American classical music in the United States. With the final chord he collapsed on the sofa, a victim of his own passion and Zarela's candied sweet potatoes.
Early arrivals got to taste the terrine Dana and I brought from Épicerie Boulud and
An Invitation from Marcus Samuelsson I was just trying to heat up the action when I bid $1,200. It was the weekend of Harlem EatUp! and Marcus Samuelsson had posted two auction packages on eBay to benefit Citymeals. I focused on a dinner for six at the chef's sizzling-hot Red Rooster. But no. It seemed bids could only move in $10 increments. By the time the au ction ended I had paid  just $900 and was still the winner. You'd think eBay would have a little more passion for charity.
I invited two couples to join me and Dana on a Monday. My contact at Red Rooster sent a menu. It offered cornbread madeleines. As much as I appreciated the tribute to Proust as well as Daniel Boulud's madeleins, I asked if we could have the house's velvety everyday cornbread slices instead. So glad I did. It's always a shock to see Marcus. I forget between sightings how strikingly handsome he is. He came by to welcome us and then escaped to the kitchen while beverage director Erik Tallada conducted a Scotch tasting. An excellent warm-up. Suddenly, a team of Black Lives Matter activists  filtered in, raising banners and reciting a litany of the recent shootings of unarmed black men that have fanned so much rage. At the end, they asked everyone if to agree. Dozens of fists (mostly white) fanned the air. It was definitely sobering. And then the cornbread kicked in. The thick cake-like slices with sweet tomato jam and honey butter were a big hit. Everyone ate the beef heart kitfo tartare with berbere spiced yogurt with fried n'jera as if they didn't mind. But it was the red kuri squash salad with quinoa and pumpkin that quickly disappeared. I finished my OL'Man's shrimp and grits but some of my pals were saving themselves for the Fried Yardbird. The waiter set the rashly rich macaroni and  cheese next to me and I rationed it out -- a spoonful for Ellen, a spoonful for me, a spoonful for Bob, a spoonful for me. A thigh and a fat leg of fried chicken in its spicy, crumbed wrap were more than most of us could put away. Half a dozen carry-home bags and another six swag bags arrived along with dessert. A sugared ball of doughnut filled with dulce de leche was my more-than-enough finale. A full house riot with live jazz had captured the bar, forcing us to slither through to the door. 310 Lenox Avenue between 125th and 126th Streets. 212 792 9001.
The photographs of Épicerie Boulud's bread, myself at the power lunch, a powerhouse of power lunchers (Bob Grimes, Carla Hall, moi, Rosanna Scotto, Sunny Anderson, Daniel Boulud, Beth Shaprio), Chaan Teng's walnut shrimp in lettuce wraps, Five Napkin Burger salad, guitarist, Nilko Andreas, Zarela's chiles en Nogada, Marcus Samuelsson at Red Rooster, and Black Lives Matter activists may not be used without permission from Gael Greene. Copyright 2016. All rights reserved.
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