Inhuman Swill

I can't believe neither Laura nor I had ever eaten at Peter Luger until last night. It was worth the wait, and the money, and it fully lived up to the hype.

Suffer from celiac disease? Know someone who does? Do you, they, or it have difficulty finding gluten-free treats to satisfy your, their, or its cravings?

Never fear. PatsyPie is here! Delicious cookies, biscotti, and brownies, without all the icky stuff that's bad for you, them, or it.

PatsyPie! Ask for it by name!

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NOTE:  Michael Libling did not strongarm me into posting this notice.

Wait, does blackmail count as strongarming?

Last night was the end of an era. It was by only the most fortuitous of chances that we were there for it.

Laura and I had taken curmudgeon to the incomparable Kabab Cafe before, to be entertained, charmed, and provoked by our friend Ali El Sayed's patter and transported by his food. With Laura and me moving soon, doing it again while Curmudgeon was in town was critical.

Turns out it was more critical than we knew. Ali told us, "I'm glad you are here tonight. Tomorrow I will be closed. I leave for 25 days in Egypt." He went on to explain that on his return, he will begin renovating Kabab Cafe—again. He will change the menu, begin serving breakfast in addition to lunch and dinner, and train chefs to take over for him. He will then take his menu over to his brother Moustafa's excellent nearby restaurant Mombar, where he will sometimes cook and sometimes help oversee operations of both restaurants. He will use his trip to Egypt to work out plans for the new venture.

The changes are exciting, since Ali finally won't be tied to his tiny kitchen. But it was also a poignant evening—the last night of the Kabab Cafe we've known all these years. There were only two other diners there when we arrived, but even with the pick of tables in the place, Ali suggested we sit in the niche near the door so he could talk to us over the counter of his kitchen. We drank too much Argentine Malbec while we enjoyed mixed appetizers of hummus, babaganouj, falafel, fried Swiss chard, apples, pears, and more; a more than appetizer portion of pumpkin dumplings in a spicy sauce; goat chops; beef short ribs; and an amazing dish of sand shark tail. I broke out a bottle of Balvenie Portwood 21yo I'd brought for us—Ali included—to enjoy along with dessert, which was a plate of selected Mediterranean pastries from the bakery down the street, together with yogurt and various fruits. I had thick coffee too.

And all the time, we talked food and travel and politics and sex and age with Ali, who is the most charming and flirtatious rogue on the planet. I forget exactly how the phrase "waxing one's camel" first came up—it was something to do with Ali's plan to spirit my wife away with him to Egypt—but it became the watchphrase of the evening. Well, that and "sharking," which Ali had been told that day means biting someone on the ass. (Urban Dictionary tells a somewhat different story.)

Later on, a young man named Alex dropped in for dinner, and after he had eaten Ali put him to work taping paper over the front windows. (Alex had never heard of sharking either.) When the windows were papered, Ali broke out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label, and he and Alex and I all drank a toast. The women wisely abstained.

And that was it. Godspeed, Ali, and long may your camel stay waxed.

We didn't originally mean it to be a substitute for our Valentine's Day jazz-and-wine date. It just worked out that way, since I was stuck in Dallas all day on the 14th trying to get home to New York. (And unable to post to LiveJournal from a Neptune Networks kiosk, because for some unfathomable reason they consider this LiveJournal page to contain adult content. Not all of LiveJournal, mind you. Just the posting page. But that adventure is another story.)

So on Monday night, Laura and I ended up doing two things we've always wanted to do, and got them both done at the same time: taking a cheese class from Artisanal, and taking a spirits class from Brandy Library. The two birds were killed with a single stone called "Scotch Whiskey & Whey" at the Artisanal Premium Cheese Center at Tenth Avenue and 37th Street.

The instructors were Jon Lundbom from Artisanal and Ethan Kelley from Brandy Library. They were both excellent, engaging teachers, and they had selected a set of six pairings of scotch and cheese for us each to sample at our little benches. For some of you, reading this list will make your eyes glaze over; for the rest of you, reading this list will make your eyes glaze over, if you know what I mean.

( Get glazed )

All the pairings were interesting at the very least, and it would not be hyperbole to call some of them revelatory. Looking over my notes, it seems that my favorite pairing was #5, though with the port finish that makes me feel uncomfortably close to a wine-and-cheese taster. #3 was a terrific pairing too.

Some of you know that Ardbeg Uigeadail is my very favorite scotch, so I was amused when Mr. Kelley warned everyone how violent the final pairing would be. According to my notes, when I went to record my impression of pairing #6, I couldn't even remember what the cheese tasted like. This may be because the Ardbeg was so powerful. It might also be because it was my sixth taste of whisky.

But we had a terrific time at the class, and we'd strongly urge you to save your pennies and try a class at either or both establishment. (And for our bourbon-drinking friends, we'll note that Artisanal has an "American Whiskey & Artisanal Cheese" class coming up at the end of May.)

I know I was only recently urging you to visit St. Andrews near Times Square, but now you will be as likely to find us lapping up knowledge at the feet (literally) of Ethan Kelley at Brandy Library. Possibly even at their upcoming calvados class! (Mmmm, calvados!)

Yesterday's Times had an interesting and often amusing article about how haggis in America has mutated into something rather tastier than one can gets in Scotland, thanks in part to the fact that FDA regulations and other factors prevent the use of much of the offal that traditionally gets used as ingredients.

The article was strange to see when Laura pointed it out to me, because just Tuesday night we had met Paul and Kim for dinner and scotch—lots of it—at what purports to be the only Scottish restaurant and pub in the city, St. Andrews on 44th Street near Times Square. We had a fabulous time, and the haggis was very tasty indeed. (Not that Laura and I are afraid of traditional haggis, which we have eaten in Scotland and more or less enjoyed.) So was the other delicious food, which for me and Paul both included an entree of fresh brook trout stuffed with crab meat and oatmeal, in a whisky-maple sauce. Dessert for Laura and me was the cranachan, which is essentially whisky and whipped cream with berries and oatmeal.

Take note that it was painfully easy to get a table on a Tuesday night.

But while it was the prospect of haggis that drew us all there, it was the amazing scotch selection that had us arrive early and stay late afterward. I mean, 200 whiskies? Please. The bar at St. Andrews is our new favorite place in the world.

I have a receipt from the bar for our pre-meal baccanalia, so I know exactly what we drank then between the four of us:

• Tomintoul 27yr (in honor of scottjanssens)
  
• Banff 23yr, Signatory Selection (x2)
  
• Bowmore Darkest
  
• Dalmore 1973, Gonzales Byass (one of only 3,000 bottles)
  
• Isle of Jura, Superstition

Some of those were tasting sizes rather than full drams. And I should mention our wonderful bartender Andrea, who helped steer us toward interesting and well-suited selections we might not have picked otherwise, and who steered us away from the flyte of the month owing to what she called the "dreadful" Welsh wisgi that was included.

With dinner, I had a dram of Inchmurrin 20yr, together with a bottle of a thick, creamy, fairly dark Scottish ale called Orkney Skullsplitter. Paul's dinner beer was Harviestoun Old Machine Oil, but the variety aged in whisky casks.

After dinner, Laura went home to care for the dog, but Paul, Kim, and I had another one at the bar with our favorite bartender (well, she only tasted a bit). Andrea steered us toward a brand-new bottle of a new Ardbeg called Airigh Nam Biest, which was smooth as silk and peaty and smoky like nobody's business. My all-time favorite scotch is Ardbeg Uigeadail, so getting to taste what she called "The Beast"—in fact, getting the first drams from a bottle she opened before our eyes—was a real treat.

Believe me, Laura and I plan to return to St. Andrews again and again, and to work our way through the list. What a find.

Possible good news for hungry New Yorkers, and for certain out-of-towners of our acquaintance. The late Second Ave. Deli may be making a comeback in Murray Hill. The New York Sun has the story.

That's not far from my office. Oh, I'm salivating!

(Via Laura. Thanks!)

Looks like Ali is in need of a new sous chef:

http://newyork.craigslist.org/que/ret/202719551.html

If you've been putting off that move to Gotham, now's your chance!

Medical emergency on the downtown 6 uptown this morning, messing up subway service roundly. I keep forgetting why I hate coming to work during rush hour.

Anyway, I had another lovely U.N. night last night in Astoria. Actually it started right after work in Murray Hill, where I went to Artisanal for mostly French cheeses and white wines with an out-of-town colleague and his wife. The best cheese we sampled was the Bleu de Basque from French Basque country. Yum. One wine from our flight had gone bad—full of sediment and tasting very thin—and our waitress promptly replaced it with a similar Spanish wine. Yum.

Later that evening, back home in Astoria, Laura and I walked over to an Irish pub called The Quays that we'd been meaning to try for some time. (Sadly, there was no live music, though I have it that Shane McGowan of the Pogues has appeared there in the past.) But when I say Irish pub, I mean Irish pub—I.R.A. ballads on the stereo and the whole nine yards. We might have had the only American accents in the place, and Laura was one of only three females. The third female, by the way, was a young pug named Lucky (yes, a dog) whose owner was feeding her Guinness from a plastic cup. The Guinness was four bucks a pint, and we had a great time. We'll have to come back when there's music.

Laura was hungry on the walk home, so we stopped at a place called Ukus, offering Balkan pie, for a late dinner. We each had a huge pizza-like slice of spinach pie, and the nice owners brought us each a mug of a cold, thick, sour, yogurty drink the name of which I can't now recall, on the house. They told us that this drink goes with the pie, and damn if it didn't. We watched American Inventor on the wide-screen televisions as we ate. I went home feeling happy and full, but poor Laura had a stomachache by the time we were greeting the dog again.

Sometimes I hate our neighborhood and sometimes I love it. This was one of the love-it nights.