Next in our three-part series on the indulgent habits of the New York
foodie glutton: M.’s birthday lunch at Jean Georges. First thing we saw as we arrived? Chef himself. M. says he’s seen him every time he’s dined there over the past twenty-some years. How does the monsieur do it? He’s got about a dozen restaurants on the Isle of Manhattan alone, plus Tokyo and Vegas and god knows where else!
Assuming he has not had himself cloned, Michael Keaton-style, his dedication shows: the peekytoe crab salad and the foie gras brulee (both Jean Georges classics, M. told me); the mushroom risotto and the … um … whatever it was that M. had for his second course (see this is why I take pictures! even though they are obnoxious); the sweetbreads with pear and licorice and the salmon with exquisitely crisp black truffle crumbs – all were revelations, perfectly conceived, perfectly executed marriages of French and Japanese techniques and flavors.
For a minute there I thought we might actually have room for dinner … which was scheduled for just a few hours later (oops?).
But then we were inundated: Johnny Iuzzini’s poetic riffs on Carmel and Chocolate, creme caramel to make a wish on, a half-dozen exquisite mignardises, and my favorite, for pure spectacle’s sake: a marshmallow cart.
No, wait, I don’t think you heard me. A MARSHMALLOW CART. Where they cut your marshmallows to order.
You know me. Can’t resist a cart.
I’m the Molly Malone of fine dining.