A brush with greatness at Daniel, the venerable Upper East Side institution marked by ostentatious floral arrangements, a fleet of servers, and, in my opinion, the best food (Daniel Boulud is a living legend) in all of my life.
Prix fixe, a few drinks and tip nets out at $360—that’s still-beating beef cheek terrine, to-die-for amuse bouche (asparagus cream, a bright clean scoop of lobster, parmesan crisps), succulent roasted squab, black truffle reduction, crispy rosemary, duo of quail, the little legs in the crispiest, cutest little interpretation of fried chicken, a warm chocolate soufflé, brownie, goat cheese ice cream and mango, warm, tableside Madelines dusted with confectioner’s sugar. Chamomile tea and coffee, and, in the warm glow of the elite, Clive Owen, without his wife, intently staring at my dinner companion (a boy) and then later me, far too long, mesmerizing us both.
It was the only time this year I’ve worn tinted lip-stain and had a manicure and even though we were out-aged, between us, by at least ten years, and walked off our meal in our dress shoes, and danced ironically in the beat-up bar next to my apartment clasping warm beers, it was an adult evening, and it was beautiful.
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2 comments:
I almost choked on my own tongue at the mere thought of Clive Owens gaze.
For shizzle.
Oh it was GLORIOUS!!!
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