I went to the East Village to see Izumi for a ritual hair snipping this evening, and came back over Houston Street so that I could cheat on dinner by buying a smoky rotisserie chicken from Wholefoods. And a box of apricots. And a can of cold Limonata that I drank on the 2nd Avenue Subway platform, aka Hades.
I haven't been to Pulino's (red sign above) yet, which rattles me. If I were damned to eat out repetitively in New York I could shuttle happily between Keith McNally's other outposts of civilization: Balthazar, Schiller's, Minetta Tavern. I don't like Pastis much. But Balthazar is home. Breakfast at Balty's, sizzlin' shrimp at Schiller's, sinful steak at Minetta. After a glass of bubbly at Balty's in the early evening, of course. Minetta's bar scene is not to be tolerated. Next day: Breakfast at Balthazar, bib lettuce at Schiller's, back to Balty's for some crab claws (this would have to be well-funded damnation)...and so on. Maybe we could cut Minetta out altogether. Except for a-once-a-month steak and marrow bone fix. With cleansings inbetween of cold bivalves, frisee salads, plain tartines and bowls of coffee. Not together, mind.
For many months, I went through a phase of breakfast alone, and early, at Balthazar.This was in 2004 and 2005, I think. It seemed ascetic. As if ascetic could be that vast room and gorgeous lighting and sumptuous flowers. My bowl of latte, my tartine. My friendly waiter or maitre d'. It was home. It still is.
Time to go home.