How Mad Are These Men?

Since Zany returned to reclaim her slot as my alpha food truck maven, I’ve had to become a bit creative in finding new ways to engage with the other voracious appetites in my life. 

Take my college roommate Ford McKenzie, for example.  As you’ll recall, he’s the well-dressed social gadfly who has taken us along on all manner of food orgies.  We’ve gone dawging in Brooklyn and gorged ourselves on the annual gluttony of red meat at the manly Gowanus Beefsteak event. Ford was also the trendsetter that perfected the fine art – or mash up, if you will – of food truck lunches consumed in high-end hotel lobbies. 

Now, Zany is a purist, and believes that street food should be consumed as close to the aroma of asphalt as possible.  I know she and Ford will never agree on even basic food truck etiquette.  Frankly, I’m not even sure they should ever meet, at least not without a major security contingent present. 

So, I’ve needed to kick it up a notch to show Ford the love.  He’s had a little time on his hands, so while the rich folk are out of town, living it up in the Hamptons, we’ve been channeling our inner Don Draper, and hitting the classic New York watering holes.  We head out on the town for a variety of adventures on the last of the dog days of summer. We don’t smoke, and it’s too hot to wear Brooks Brothers suits, but we both favor brown spirits, and with that tall, dark and sophisticated thing he’s got going on, Ford does a pretty good impersonation of Don Draper – with fewer existential crises. I’m more likely to be mistaken for Pete Campbell. 

Speaking of dog days, our first stop is the Old Town Bar Restaurant on East 18^th Street.  I’m a little skeptical.  I haven’t patronized Old Town in about 20 years, and I fear that from the looks of the shabby chic neon sign, nothing has changed.  Perhaps nothing has been cleaned either.

I am pleasantly surprised.  Ford is at the bar, dressed in a crisp white button down and Rag & Bone jeans.  Depending on your point of view, Old Town might be considered a “dive” but, look closer.  It’s the epitome of Old New York, and first opened for business in 1892.  It’s kind of dark inside, but if you squint, you can spot the frosted glass light fixtures, the mahogany bar with marble top, and the classy black-and-white tiled floor. Even the urinals are historic.  The clientele has been “upgraded” since my last visit and it is now pure hipster. The beards and skinny jeans are a dead giveaway.  There are also booths – and when do you ever get that with new construction? We grab a booth and order a round of Manhattan cocktails, complete with a totally artificial red maraschino cherry.  They are smooth and stimulate the appetite, so we ask for a menu.  The Manhattan is potent … well, the second Manhattan is even more potent.  I’m not even sure what Ford orders.  It’s either chipped beef on toast, or beef stroganoff.  Or, maybe a Philly Cheese Steak sandwich? I have fond memories dining on hot dogs at Old Town in a past era, so I go for the tube steaks – and I make it a double platter with fries.

The dogs are so tasty, I order a third.  And, these puppies even have a pedigree.  The menu notes, “As seen on the Martha Stewart show.”  Who can resist Martha-approved hot dogs? We leave Old Town Bar, awash in rye, vermouth and nitrates, and I take note of two stiletto heals, dramatically strewn on the pavement on Park Avenue South.  There are a thousand stories in the naked city.

About a week later, we are looking for an appropriate venue to celebrate Ford’s birthday.  The birthday venue is important when you’re closing in on your late-thirties. I come up with the perfect solution.  The famed Four Seasons restaurant on 99 East 52^nd Street has lost its lease and will soon be closing its doors.  It’s a New York institution, it’s a bastion of male-hood and we simply must go.  Don would insist.  Parenthetically, when our gal Friday, “Peggy Olson” discovers that we’ve made the pilgrimage without her, she is reportedly in an awful snit.  But, you know how it is.  Sometimes guys need their space.  

Here’s the backstory.  I’ve only been to the Four Season’s once, and it was with Ford, back when we were callow fellows. We met at the bar for drinks and then talked our way into the “pool room” for dinner without reservations.  That’s a full dining room with an Esther Williams-worthy swimming pool located at the center. I am horribly underdressed and have to borrow one of the Four Season’s all-purpose loaner blue blazers.  Ford, who is always dressed correctly, is appalled.  I mean, my blazer is borrowed!  In fact, the only thing I remember about the dinner is the shimmering swimming pool and the fact that Ford, as usual, was critical of my sartorial skills.

Now let’s flash forward to the present day. I duck out of work at a reasonable hour and secure a place at the Four Seasons Bar. The place is almost empty.  I’m wearing a blue blazer – which I own.  Ford arrives shortly after, wearing a classier blue blazer (because “anything you can do, I can do better"), a pale blue herringbone button down and white slacks.  He has nothing to say about my ensemble, which really doesn’t signal approval but only means I haven’t made any egregious fashion errors. 

I’m feeling a bit nostalgic.  The closure of the Four Seasons will be the end of an era, and judging by the décor, that era was the late 1960s.  The Four Seasons is a cavernous architectural cathedral, celebrating winter, spring, summer and fall. Mr. Vivaldi would be mesmerized. There are shimmering, jewel-like, scalloped curtains that quiver with the movements of the air conditioning.  Icicles descend from the ceiling, and the high-end booze is contained in a floral-shaped sculpture at the center of the bar. 

More to the point, the Manhattan cocktails are supersized.  I watch with a bizarre, fatalistic fascination as the bartender mixes our rye and vermouth in something resembling a large jug.  How did Don and Roger do it? 

The bar is occupied by a collection of regulars, and one guy who decided to wear a golf shirt, inviting Ford’s scorn.  We figure most folks are frolicking in the Hamptons and we’re the only one’s left in the city. “It’s loser week,” says Ford, referring to those of us who have no housing on the East End. 

The plus-sized Manhattan cocktails (yes, that’s plural) serve to put Ford in a festive, birthday mood, and we round out the menu with an order of pig in a blanket.  What can I say? We’re classy guys.

We decide to skip dinner at the pool room and head downtown for the best fried chicken in New York.

Eventually, we end up at the Bibbi Wine Bar in the East Village enjoying the bartender David’s signature wine cocktail dubbed, “Where’s Pat.”  It turns out, Pat is sitting next to us at the bar.  The cocktail is a better version of Pat, than Pat.

Just before Labor Day, we embark on a dizzying elevator ride to another New York institution – SixtyFive, the new and improved cocktail lounge at the Rainbow Room at Rockefeller Center.  Due to corporate raiding, 30 Rock is now known as “The Comcast Building,” which is not nearly as romantic.

Ford arrives nattily dressed for the end of the summer season in a red and blue striped seersucker blazer, Rag & Bone jeans and his signature Gucci loafers.  How do people keep those shoes clean in New York City?

We cue up in the lobby where the matron rejects the guy in front of us because he is wearing a t-shirt.  There is a dress code after all. 

We are whisked by elevator to the 65^th floor, where the new lounge is a stunning study in silver, and the drinks are an exercise in economic development.  Cocktails average about $25 dollars a glass, so you might consider refinancing your mortgage.  Most of the staff, and clientele is as breathtaking as the sweeping views of the Big Apple.

Ford orders a Manhattan, which is a little skimpy compared to the swimming pool-style cocktails at the Four Seasons.  I decide that the Rainbow Room just screams for a Champagne Cocktail.  And, it’s cheaper than the Manhattan, too.  Truthfully, I think my Champagne Cocktail is a better match for Ford’s seersucker blazer than his Manhattan.

Before heading downtown for a bowl of tasty and overpriced pasta, Ford and I stop to admire the view.  (Note to future tourists:  the view of Central is best observed from the men’s room, and SURPRISE!  There is no washroom attendant!)

I’m inclined to want to take a moment to smell the roses and admire the view, but Ford – in classic A.D.D. fashion – takes a quick glance and is already heading for the elevator.  New Yorkers are so jaded. I guess he’s already composing his next Coca-Cola jingle.

© 2015 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

A Trio of Food Truck Titans Tackle the Mac (and Cheese) Truck

It had to happen sooner or later.  The stars align, the traffic patterns converge, and I find myself food trucking on a stunning spring day with my BFF Amanda and my college roommate Ford McKenzie.  It’s almost as good as the first time the Super Friends teamed up – but less spandex.  Here’s what transpired. 

It started like any other ordinary, ho-hum day.  I am leaving an appointment at the dermatologist (I ask you, what could be more ordinary than that?) and I’m obsessively checking Facebook on my iPhone as I ride the elevator down to street level.  There I see the post that will forever change my day.  The Mac Truck has landed on 47^th below Park.

The Mac Truck is the primary purveyor of mac and cheese truck food in New York City. I’ve been tracking the Mac Truck for close to a year, but never, ever have I found myself in the right place at the right time.  This is simply unacceptable for a mac and cheese addict. 

Standing on Broadway, I immediately ping my BFF Amanda back at the office.   Is she free for lunch?   Her response makes me weep.  She is in back-to-back meetings until 2:30 pm.  Next I ping my college roommate Ford McKenzie.  Despite having spent way too much quality time with me in recent days, he is game for lunch and agrees to rendezvous on Park Avenue at 12:15 PM.  Success!  I can almost taste the cheddar!

What happens next can only be described as carbohydrate karma, or an embarrassment of high calorie riches.  Amanda’s noon appointment cancels, and she too, is available for lunch!  “OMG, power of intention!” she responds.

Double good mac and cheese and a double date for lunch!

“I’m suited up and I’m even wearing lipstick today,” she writes.

“You will look stunning in whatever hotel Ford chooses for lunch,” I write back. 

We convene in the lobby at noon. Amanda is wearing a fabulous charcoal suit by Chicos, turquois jewelry accessories by Stella & Dot and cosmetics by Bobbi Brown. And don’t forget the heels.  

“This is the perfect lunch,” she tells me as we steel away through the not-so-secret underground tunnels that connect Rockefeller Center.  “My three basic food groups are lasagna, cupcakes and mac and cheese!”

The hike to 47^th and Park is a little daunting, particularly for a gal in heels, but Amanda soldiers on with great pluckiness.   I have a moment of panic when we get to 47^th and I don’t see the Mac Truck.   Have I dragged this poor woman across town in heels for nothing?

We spot Ford on the corner.  He is decked out in Carhart for Opening Ceremony cotton pants, checked custom shirt from Maxwell’s of Hong Kong, Timberland for Opening Ceremony boat shoes, a contrasting check car coat by Hope, and Brooks Brothers underwear and socks.  (I didn’t fact check the last reference).  

I am wearing generic jeans, and a Charles Tyrwhitt slim cut sky blue gingham shirt, but this is never about my fashion choices.  

I introduce them, realizing that Superman and Batman have nothing on this team.  This team up is perhaps more momentous than when Holmes met Watson, or Mary met Rhoda.

“I’m wearing skinny clothes,” says Ford by way of introduction.  “They’re not really conducive to eating mac and cheese.”  One must pity the poor fashion-forward gentleman who buys his slacks one size too small.   

I sense a commotion on the other side of Park, and indeed there seems to be a street party in progress.   There, sandwiched between a line of food vehicles is the elusive canary yellow Mac Truck.   We join the communal lunch line.   A medley of R&B and gospel music is blasting from the speaker on the Mac Truck.

Overall, this food choice may be a little risky.   It’s very near the end of mac and cheese season.  Gorging on mac and cheese in late spring is a little like wearing white after Labor Day. 

Ford immediately reveals all my deep, dark secrets from college.  “We used to call him the Phantom,” he tells Amanda, “because we could never find him.” Amanda appears to file that fact for future reference and leverage.  

My College Roommate and My Perfectly Accessorized BFF Line up for Mac N' Cheese

We reach the truck window where we are greeted by Dom, a lively and wiry guy, who is scooping mac and cheese into plastic containers.   He wears a black T-shirt with the slogan, “You May Say I’m A Dreamer.”   Until then, I’d not realized that John Lennon was a mac and cheese fan.  The “small” serving of mac and cheese could feed a small army.   We can't even fathom ordering the large serving.  Ford makes a snide remark about the calorie content, which Dom summarily dismisses. 

Dom Dishes Mac N' Cheese

“I’m on the mac and cheese diet and I’m losing weight,” he retorts.    

Amanda orders the Classic Mac N’ Cheese with breadcrumbs, I choose the Bacon Mac N’ Cheese with Parmesan, and Ford orders the BBQ Pulled Pork Mac N’ Cheese and a side of Fried Mac Bites.   That’s right – basically Mac N’ Cheese croquettes.   As he is a connoisseur, Ford also orders an orange soda to go with his nearly orange lunch.  

Ford Orders BBQ Pulled Pork Mac N' Cheese

The question we now consider is where do we eat?   Ford suggests the Intercontinental Hotel, which is right around the corner.  We’ve dined there before, but he likes the cushy paisley sofas in the lobby and thinks they will be perfect for the inevitable food coma that will follow lunch.   As we approach, the door to the hotel opens automatically, as if to welcome well-dressed street food urchins with open arms.  

We settle down on the paisley sofa, lay out the carbolicious buffet and begin to sample.   Immediately, the toasted breadcrumbs scatter across the mahogany veneer tabletop.   Amanda notes that the Classic is just a touch bland, and we wonder if Dom was dancing so fast that he might have left out the salt.   The Bacon Mac N’ Cheese is loaded with smoky flavor, and the fried Mac Bites are just a ridiculously excessive indulgence.   Hands down, our favorite is the BBQ Pulled Pork Mac N’ Cheese, which has a perfect balance of sweet and smoky BBQ sauce and cheesy goodness.   I guess we are mac and cheese iconoclasts at heart.  

Amanda gives Ford career advice (because that's what she does, and quite well, thank you) and the two of them trade parenting tips and tribulations, while I nosh on the noodles. And, if there is any doubt by now that dining on street food in hotel lobbies is the next big thing, I note that there is a couple reclining on the sofa not far from us, chowing down on taco salad in Styrofoam clamshells and drinking Pepsi.  We truly are trendsetters.  

Dining on Street Food in Hotels is the Next Big Thing

The food coma is almost immediate.  Ford considers checking into the hotel for the afternoon or making a coffee run.  After all that cheese sauce, Amanda wants a palate cleanser, so we agree to stop at a frozen yogurt truck on the way back to the office.

“Sprinkles are essential,” Amanda notes as we begin to clean up our indoor picnic.  

“My figure can’t handle frozen yogurt after mac and cheese,” says Ford and he leaves us after we’ve deposited our trash in a can on 48^th Street.  

I treat Amanda to an awesome swirl of vanilla yogurt with rainbow sprinkles, and I can’t help but notice how beautifully her perfectly lacquered red nail sets off the multi-colored sprinkles.

Can you imagine that some people actually bother to go to the Four Seasons for lunch?   If only they knew what we know.  

©2014 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved  

Raining Katz and Dogz

It’s been so cold that food trucking has been prohibitive. So it’s been quite some time since my college roommate Ford McKenzie and I stepped out for a noontime bite to eat. 

Then, out of the blue, he suggests we grab lunch. I suspect he is secretly jealous of my BFF Amanda and the fan base she has built as a recurring guest star on “Culinary Types.”  Personally, I’m not choosy – the more scintillating sidekicks the bigger, as long as they’re entertaining.

Ford pings me that morning for lunch details. I suggest the new deli truck “Katz and Dogz” which I spot that morning parked on 55^th and Broadway.  It promises a Jewish deli on the streets of New York.  

“What hotels are in the area?” Ford asks. Please note, that it is now just assumed that when we get truck food we are going to a hotel lobby to dine.  I offer a few suggestions that Ford summarily dismisses as too small or not hip enough.  I should know better than to take on the fine dining aspect of the lunch adventure.

Ford and I rendezvous at 55^th Street and Broadway shortly after noon. While I have assumed that Katz and Dogz is affiliated with the famous Katz Deli of New York, Ford informs me that this is not the case at all and the K&D team is actually Brooklyn-based. “So much for truth in advertising,” Ford remarks.

Ford is dressed urban urbane. He’s wearing a black leather jacket from Botticelli, black mid-1960s Ivy League style pants, JM Weston penny loafers, a white button down shirt from Maxwell’s of Hong Kong, Bulgari stainless steel watch, and socks and underwear from Target (Or so I’m told.  I know. TMI.).  As I aim to snap a photo he says, “Don’t make me look fat.”  

Now to the food.  Katz and Dogz promises a dining experience that will rock your world.  

We queue up to place our order.  I notice that one member of the K&D team is slicing pastrami paper-thin using one of those circular meat grinders.  If not for the automobile fumes, it would really feel like a deli. Ford orders the Pastrami Paradise on Rye with Mustard and a side of macaroni salad. I order the Rueben Orgasm with Russian dressing on Rye (which sounds way too racy for lunch) with a side of potato salad.  

Ford has come prepared for a covert dining operation.  This is the first time we’ve lunched on the west side and he’s a little uncertain of the landscape.  Will we get easy access to lobby dining, or will west side hotel security be more stringent?  So, all of the food gets concealed in a canvas bag allowing us stealth entry to the hotel of our choice.  

Ford offers two options for our street food, indoor picnic.

“The Novotel in Times Square has a view,” he adds with a glint in his eye. 

“Sold!” I reply.  I’m a sucker for a good vista.  

“I had a feeling,” Ford says and we are on our way.

The Novotel on 52^nd just off of Broadway has recently been remodeled, and is promoting itself as a Four Star hotel.  It sounds like just the right spot for a pastrami lunch.  We enter on the street level undetected.  There is just a bellman’s desk and whole bunch of luggage cluttering the immediate area.  I try to look inconspicuous but I’m wondering if the bellman can detect a hint of pastrami as we breeze past.  

The lobby is actually on the 5^th floor, proof that lobbies are no longer at street level and you can’t count on anything anymore. No underachiever, the lobby bar is called “Supernova.”  

It is a stunning, high tech environment dotted with computers and tables that simulate the effect of ocean waves. Very scenic and somewhat overstimulating.  Note how the computerized water pools around the lunch sack.

I notice that there’s even a soundtrack. We are on Broadway after all. The ambiance is punctuated with a peppy selection of show tunes, jazz and reggae.  

Ford removes the pastrami and corned beef contraband from the lunch sacks. The pastrami is sublime – silky, and perfectly spiced without a hint of grease.   Within moments, it has vanished.  

I’m really not sure how to assess or describe the orgasmic qualities of a Reuben Sandwich. I probably need to spend more time in Times Square.  However, I can tell you that it is quite tasty, and the Swiss cheese and sauerkraut adds a nutty, piquant touch to the Dagwood-sized sandwich.  

The side salads are less than impressive, but the massive sandwiches overshadow any disappointment there. It looks like a lot of food, but within minutes, we seem to have inhaled it all. We’re growing boys, I guess. 

With our ocean wave tabletop cleared of all food, the only thing we haven’t done is checked out the view from the wrap-around outdoor balcony. 

If the Reuben is orgasmic, the view from the Novotel is indeed thrilling, offering a sweeping view of the best of the Great White Way.  

As Ford and I part ways, I return to work defying gravity and humming the theme from “Rocky.”

Late that night, I am scanning the news headlines online and come across a classic David and Goliath smack down. That afternoon, perhaps as we were gorging ourselves on pastrami and corned beef, Katz’s Delicatessen slapped the Katz and Dogz food truck with a lawsuit, claiming the food truck is making money off the deli’s brand without permission.  

I forward the NY Post article to Ford.   He responds with his typical brand of understatement. “Legal or not, it was mighty good pastrami.”

©2014 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved