|
Like a pack of
wolves, the rich travel together, from one watering hole to
another. Not because they like each other so much as because
they can’t bear the idea that they might be missing something:
who showed up with whom and wearing what and who got doused with
water for coming too close.
Already the most
famous “unopened” restaurant in the city, still in “previews”
after four months, still doing a “soft opening” without a
working phone for reservations, The Waverly Inn could hardly be
more popular. Everyone in “that pack” has been there—and not
just once or twice, but frequently, and they’re determined to
make sure that everyone around them knows it. They make sure
their fellow diners know which room they prefer—the back one
with the fireplace—and why can’t they have the truffled mac-and-cheese
tonight and not only on Tuesday nights?
And is there any lettuce in the kitchen,
because that’s all they really want
tonight—apart from the sweet potato mash.
Oh, yes, the rich
are different. Air-kissing one moment, and dissing the next.
“He blew up like a tick on a deer,” she said, speaking of an old
beau who’s just passed by. “We’ve an open marriage,” he
confided. “She’s still getting her divorce.” And the
outfits—like a catwalk in Paris: Gaultier and Galliano.
Clothes as investment, signifiers of net
worth. Table-hopping and toasting to
each other—before muttering under their
breath. The hair: that
high-maintenance New York blonde. And
the accents—faux British and Locust lockjaw.
Perhaps it’s the
“unfinished” Edward Sorel murals along the walls. Sorel’s
satire of the Village, all the artists and writers, all those
bon vivants creating a salon of sorts in this series of
low-ceilinged, creaky-floored, gas-fireplaced rooms. And if
it’s not entirely a literary salon, well, at least it’s a salon
of the celebrated—at least by their own kind.
At times, it feels
as if Elaine’s or Swifty’s has moved downtown. Was this how 21
first felt, years ago—or the Stork, or El Mo? All those clubby
watering holes like the Cub Room in All About Eve. If
this was how it was, well then, no wonder the rich and
celebrated kept returning—for apart from the endless parade,
there’s also a great deal to love about the food. The biscuits,
for example, warm and dusted with sugar, with their own little
crock of sweet butter. And then comes the truffled fries, and
the slow-roasted caramelized carrots—reason
enough right there to return again the next
night. But there’s also a beet salad,
fresh from the greenmarket, and a rocket
salad, equally vibrant. And for
dessert a bananas Foster which might find
you licking the copper pot. There’s
something about this food which evokes the
very best of classic American cuisine—the
sort of food one might expect to find at a
Labor Day spent at the National in
Southampton or at the beginning of summer in
Newport. Food that might well have
been brought up north by the people who knew
how to cook it best down south. And the
attentive service has a kind of graciousness
often encountered at some of the
best-managed private clubs, both in the
country and city.
Who can resist? Food that makes
you feel good—as well as a feast for the eyes and ears. This is
New York dining at its most theatrical, an off-Broadway show
well worth the price of admission and the wait to get in. |
