Fine Dining

For a guy who apparently makes a profession out of eating, and eating well, he can't weigh more than a buck seventy-five.

"I'll have lunch here. Then, maybe go to Nobu. Or Union Square. Excellent tuna burger. You said you wanted a burger?"

I did. Gramercy Tavern's legendary (or at least to me) hamburger had proven to in fact be a legend, so I was just sipping a pint of beer at the Tavern bar and figuring out my next step.

He finishes his quail, and the bartender brings the salmon over.

"Peter Luger's," he says, like he's naming Peter the Rock. "I've been all over the world. Best burger you'll find."

Last time I was there, I ate a steak the size of my head, I tell him. Best meal I ever had.

"I've been going there twenty years. Thirty. It's the best. Go to Union Square. Take the 6 to Canal Street. Transfer to the...J, M, whatever. Get off at Myrtle, walk down. You're there."

Despite the fact that I just left Brooklyn, it's sorely tempting.

"The best. Forget about it. No wine list to speak of, though. Here, pass me the Marcassin." This last bit to the bartender, who manages to be there, but not there, during our conversation, as the best bartenders do. The bottle is handed to him, shown to me. "Marcassin. The best. Here, you'll pay--" as he checks the immediately proffered wine list "--two hundred bucks. You can only buy it by the case, at auction. That's cheaper than the auction price. You should try it."

Bit out of today's lunch budget, I tell him.

"In the old days, I'd have one for lunch. Not any more. But in the old days."

A glass or a bottle?

He chuckles. "Oh, a bottle." He thinks about that for a bit, then goes back to his salmon and his glass of water, and I go back to my beer.