Sunday, March 01, 2015
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
The Old Days
Callaghan, O'Connell, Pérez, Castellano, Murphy, Gómez, Boyle, Quiñones -- seems like everybody who grew up in this neighborhood was either Irish or Latino. No Goldbergs. No Changs. No Washingtons. But, then again, there weren't any Changs, Washingtons, or Pérezes where I grew up either.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
A Perfect Meal
We had the perfect dinner last night, at the Bistro Central Parc, a low-key French restaurant in the Western Addition. We could hear each other, for one thing, and the waitstaff was perfect. Mussels in a garlicky marniere to begin, alongside perfect French Fries served in a paper cone so you can easily dunk them into the mussels sauce; followed by red pepper soup, osso buco over curried garbanzos and a creme caramel with espresso. A few glasses of a cordon bleu that fit with each course, and each course perfectly timed, perfectly served and elegantly delicious.
Plotnik does not consider French food to be superior by its very nature, and Italian is clearly his and Ducknik's soul food; still, what the French touch the French perfect. A French version of osso buco has got to be better than, say, an Italian version of duck confit.
An old woman was sitting by herself in the corner, slowly devouring half a roasted chicken, reading the newspaper, alone on a Saturday night and enjoying every minute. It looked like her personal table. The whole place reeked of friendliness and deliciousness. It felt like France.
And Ducknik pulled a Mushnik and found us a parking place half a block away.