Celebrity Sighting

Saturday night is amateur night, so no, I did not expect to see any famous people, even though I had been warned that the Bowery Hotel plays host to the creme de la creme. But there I was, tucked into a cozy booth at Gemma, waiting for my sister, and when I looked up I discovered Julianne Moore and Family three tables down.

Five minutes later, Max Fischer from Rushmore (a.k.a. Jason Schwartzman) sat one table next to Julianne. I wonder if celebrities give one another the obligatory wave that I give to fellow runners I see in rural places. Probably not.

We were well cared-for at Gemma, despite how busy they were. A call to a friend meant no wait for us, a coveted position for any Saturday night diner in New York. My sister's Coca-Cola and my bellini arrived gratis, as did dessert. Our arugula salad was crisp and fresh, topped with several thin shaves of parmesan cheese. A charcuterie platter was a bit of a disappointment--the meats tasted a little process-y and the cheeses (two of them) were too similar. They were good, yes, but I would have preferred more contrast. Instead, we were met with nearly identical semi-firm cheeses, about which not much was divulged.

But nevermind. Our pasta had been thickened with starchy cooking water and the sauce stuck perfectly to coiled noodles, the name of which escapes me. Spicy sausage in the dish was neither too fiery nor too tame. Our pizza was paper thin, crispy, blackened in the right places. It never betrayed the weight of its (admittedly light) toppings: tomato sauce, cheese, and fresh basil. Maybe our bing cherry clafouti could have used a few more cherries, but the custard was buttery enough to forgive the oversight.

The truly epic--and quite unexpected--turn of the evening came nearly at meal's end, when a familiar face appeared hovering over our corner table. It was my New Jersey-dwelling uncle, who just happened to be an hour from his home at the same restaurant as us, celebrating the 60th birthday of a friend. He and my aunt were the celebrity sighting that neither my sister nor I saw coming. I always say New York is the smallest city on earth.

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Gemma

335 Bowery

New York, NY 10003

212.505.9100

Lunch Of Champions

The perfect lunch is one shared with friends. 

Correction: the perfect lunch is one shared with friends who happen to be French and spend their free time buying goodies at the Brooklyn Fairway.  

I visited my friend in Williamsburg yesterday, where she put out the spread of the nascent year.  Two types of triple cream cheese, a toasted baguette, leftover French-cut and pan-seared chicken breast with white beans from Gemma, salami, and burrata with cherry tomatoes.

I do not know how French and Italian people eat these types of lunches without getting fat.  Maybe it's the cigarette smoking, or the non-American portion sizes.  Or maybe drinking a lot of wine with one's meals curbs the appetite.  

Regardless, I was able to convince myself that my cheese-and-animal fat lunch left me skinny as a black-beret-ed French model.  If possession is 9/10 of the law, I believe self-delusion is 9/10 of reality.  

Viva the health food of France!