Since purchasing Anthony
Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential, we've made the trip to his original
Les Halles outpost on Park and it was so good the first time, we went back last weekend. It's beauty is in the consistency: Alisa got mussels bathed in herbs and white wine twice and both times they were right on the mark. I got a steak (first hangar with a shallot sauce then flatiron with a made-to-order
bernaise...key, because it can be vile when
pre-made) both times that cut
like butter. And the fries, as he promises in the book, were sublime. It is a rather loud joint though and even the second time when we sat in an alcove, where the din is lessened, we were across from a table of two drunk tourist couples who's banter drove us insane. That brings up a serious pet peeve I promise not to dwell upon at length: People with loud or irritating voices at adjacent tables who can literally ruin a meal. I learned during that second trip to Les
Halles to soldier through it, enjoying my food and talking loudly to Alisa, in hopes of: a) being heard and b) sending a message to the next table that they were way too loud. I failed at the latter. Anyway. Enough said. Speaking of ways to mainline cholesterol, we made our second visit to
Pearl Oyster Bar on Cornelia Street in the Village. Even at $27 apiece (the market price that day), their lobster rolls were fantastic -- a whole lobster, it seemed like, big chunks of claw and tail slathered in mayo on a bun barely able to contain all the lovely meat -- and accompanied by a mound of shoestring fries (I think there's something to thinner fries tasting better, probably related to more surface area to be fried in oil). As if that weren't enough to put us on the
busroute to bypass, we split a caramel praline parfait (they put some caramel at the bottom as well so you don't eat the best part first, then find yourself left with lonely vanilla) and some steamers, which, even though I've
had clams many a time, I had never officially ordered them as "steamers." A small bucket of long necks (I learned that's to indicate an actual neck of sorts emerging from them -- reminiscent, in miniature and far less intimidating form, the humongous neck that makes up the bulk of a
geoduck clam, something I may never be brave enough to try) arrived with some warm salt and parsley water (Passover flashbacks) and drawn butter. Extras aside, the lobster rolls here are a dead-ringer for those at nearby
Mary's Fish Camp, where we went once. Is there any difference? Someday soon, perhaps, I'll have an answer.
like butter. And the fries, as he promises in the book, were sublime. It is a rather loud joint though and even the second time when we sat in an alcove, where the din is lessened, we were across from a table of two drunk tourist couples who's banter drove us insane. That brings up a serious pet peeve I promise not to dwell upon at length: People with loud or irritating voices at adjacent tables who can literally ruin a meal. I learned during that second trip to Les Halles to soldier through it, enjoying my food and talking loudly to Alisa, in hopes of: a) being heard and b) sending a message to the next table that they were way too loud. I failed at the latter. Anyway. Enough said. Speaking of ways to mainline cholesterol, we made our second visit to Pearl Oyster Bar on Cornelia Street in the Village. Even at $27 apiece (the market price that day), their lobster rolls were fantastic -- a whole lobster, it seemed like, big chunks of claw and tail slathered in mayo on a bun barely able to contain all the lovely meat -- and accompanied by a mound of shoestring fries (I think there's something to thinner fries tasting better, probably related to more surface area to be fried in oil). As if that weren't enough to put us on the busroute to bypass, we split a caramel praline parfait (they put some caramel at the bottom as well so you don't eat the best part first, then find yourself left with lonely vanilla) and some steamers, which, even though I've 
had clams many a time, I had never officially ordered them as "steamers." A small bucket of long necks (I learned that's to indicate an actual neck of sorts emerging from them -- reminiscent, in miniature and far less intimidating form, the humongous neck that makes up the bulk of a geoduck clam, something I may never be brave enough to try) arrived with some warm salt and parsley water (Passover flashbacks) and drawn butter. Extras aside, the lobster rolls here are a dead-ringer for those at nearby Mary's Fish Camp, where we went once. Is there any difference? Someday soon, perhaps, I'll have an answer.
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