Pigalle New York
Earlier this week, I sat in our office cafeteria with some of my work friends eating a bowl of cottage cheese. The conversation weaved around to writing and Ariel said to me, “You’ve been slacking on the blog lately lady, and frankly, I don’t appreciate it."
I then realized I had at least three blog posts waiting for me to take fingers to keyboard and write. I will begin my culinary tales with an adventure from last weekend.
My friend Ronnie and I were set to see a play last Friday night called The American Plan. Starring Mercedes Ruehl, the play had just gone into previews. Ronnie had the flu. After three days, e still could not get out of bed. Having suffered from that awful strain of sickness just a week before, I knew that he would never make it to the theater. My friend Heather and I started talking about it and I asked her if she would like to go instead.
Heather and I work together. She also lives relatively close to my house. So we decided to carpool together that Friday morning, leave work at 5:00pm, drive into Manhattan and have dinner before the show. We rushed out of the office at 5:15 pm. From the moment I touched the steering wheel, I cursed myself for leaving my driving gloves on the kitchen table.
“You can borrow mine,” Heather kindly offered. I looked at her unstained, white gloves, thought of my next task, and politely declined. You see, I didn’t have enough gas to make it into Manhattan from White Plains, so I had to stop.
We rushed into the city, arriving with only an hour to spare before curtain. About a block from the theater, there is a French bistro restaurant called Pigalle. Some of you, dear readers, may remember it from an earlier blog post of mine when my brother and I dined there pre-theater and I ordered a tomato soup that tasted exactly like my homemade sauce. Well, Heather and I braved the biting cold in search of Pigalle’s warm French food.
They set a basket of warm, crusty French bread before us with French butter. I ordered a mint tea to try to vanquish the chill that set in my bones and the two of us dove into the bread.
We decided to share a bowl of Moules Mariniére as an appetizer. They brought out a large soup bowl filled with mussels. Some of the succulent sea creatures sat inside their shells, just waiting for us to pluck them out. Others swam in a slightly spicy broth made of mostly of garlic slices, white wine and butter. We dove our dainty forks into the diminutive delights and sopped up their sauce with our crusty bread.
About half way through the bowl, we both paused to save room for our main course. Heather ordered a Provencal style roasted chicken. And we both confessed our love of crispy chicken skin.
With the frigid weather and the darkness of winter all affecting me, I craved something really hearty, warm and filling. So, I ordered the cassoulet. Essentially a French bean stew, cassoulet is a .deceptively decadent dish. French housewives made this dish with red wine, beans and assortment of meats to fend off the arctic cold in winter. As the French take even their simplest foods seriously, the traditional cassoulet meats consist of duck confit, French ham and sausage.
Sated, satisfied and starting to warm up, I asked the wait staff to wrap the remaining two thirds of my dinner to take home with me. This way, I had something yummy to look forward to for lunch the next day.
Heather and I briskly braved our way to the theater to enjoy a commanding performance by Mercedes Reuhl as an old Jewish war survivor taking her emotionally unstable daughter to the Catskills for a summer retreat. After the performance, I dropped Heather off at her car, and made my way home to bundle up under a series of blankets and drift off to sleep.
I then realized I had at least three blog posts waiting for me to take fingers to keyboard and write. I will begin my culinary tales with an adventure from last weekend.
My friend Ronnie and I were set to see a play last Friday night called The American Plan. Starring Mercedes Ruehl, the play had just gone into previews. Ronnie had the flu. After three days, e still could not get out of bed. Having suffered from that awful strain of sickness just a week before, I knew that he would never make it to the theater. My friend Heather and I started talking about it and I asked her if she would like to go instead.
Heather and I work together. She also lives relatively close to my house. So we decided to carpool together that Friday morning, leave work at 5:00pm, drive into Manhattan and have dinner before the show. We rushed out of the office at 5:15 pm. From the moment I touched the steering wheel, I cursed myself for leaving my driving gloves on the kitchen table.
“You can borrow mine,” Heather kindly offered. I looked at her unstained, white gloves, thought of my next task, and politely declined. You see, I didn’t have enough gas to make it into Manhattan from White Plains, so I had to stop.
We rushed into the city, arriving with only an hour to spare before curtain. About a block from the theater, there is a French bistro restaurant called Pigalle. Some of you, dear readers, may remember it from an earlier blog post of mine when my brother and I dined there pre-theater and I ordered a tomato soup that tasted exactly like my homemade sauce. Well, Heather and I braved the biting cold in search of Pigalle’s warm French food.
They set a basket of warm, crusty French bread before us with French butter. I ordered a mint tea to try to vanquish the chill that set in my bones and the two of us dove into the bread.
We decided to share a bowl of Moules Mariniére as an appetizer. They brought out a large soup bowl filled with mussels. Some of the succulent sea creatures sat inside their shells, just waiting for us to pluck them out. Others swam in a slightly spicy broth made of mostly of garlic slices, white wine and butter. We dove our dainty forks into the diminutive delights and sopped up their sauce with our crusty bread.
About half way through the bowl, we both paused to save room for our main course. Heather ordered a Provencal style roasted chicken. And we both confessed our love of crispy chicken skin.
With the frigid weather and the darkness of winter all affecting me, I craved something really hearty, warm and filling. So, I ordered the cassoulet. Essentially a French bean stew, cassoulet is a .deceptively decadent dish. French housewives made this dish with red wine, beans and assortment of meats to fend off the arctic cold in winter. As the French take even their simplest foods seriously, the traditional cassoulet meats consist of duck confit, French ham and sausage.
Sated, satisfied and starting to warm up, I asked the wait staff to wrap the remaining two thirds of my dinner to take home with me. This way, I had something yummy to look forward to for lunch the next day.
Heather and I briskly braved our way to the theater to enjoy a commanding performance by Mercedes Reuhl as an old Jewish war survivor taking her emotionally unstable daughter to the Catskills for a summer retreat. After the performance, I dropped Heather off at her car, and made my way home to bundle up under a series of blankets and drift off to sleep.
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