A view of the Hudson, twenty-floor floors above the streets, and so little commotion on Canal and in all directions, one could mistake Manhattan for Parsippany. It is 6:30 A.M., and I am sandwiched between Soho and Tribeca, which accounts for the quiet.
Last night the raucous The Dutch did not disappoint. It never does. Take refinement and apply the concept to delicious American food and stay focused and you’re off to the races. Bone dry, ice cold Plymouth, just two oz, prepared by a dish with black bangs and served with five pitted, green olives. “Barrio” tripe cooked with beer and served with avocado, a good and small portion, so savory and spicy that the corn bread, buttered, had to happen with what was left of the sauce. The main dish of smoked ricotta and tomatoes and “soft” herbs (what are “soft” herbs as opposed to “hard” herbs?) was so good I wanted to take the plate home with me. I never order dessert, but we were sent by the kitchen an icebox peanut butter pie and roasted peaches with peach pit ice cream, and I wept. Well, of course not. The tab came to $80 per person with drinks, tax, and tip.
Today it’s an interview with the chef from The Dutch and lunch at Lupa. Then back on the plane to a town that has really great baked goods: Bread & pizza. It’s a town in love with yeast, too: Plenty of beer!
Either you’re on the plane or off the plane.