Saturday Night Salon was a runaway, lightly qualified hit. I nailed every course both in their pacing, portions, and execution. (I did replace the Tomato Salad with a Tagliatelle with a Slow Cooked Pork Ragu, salmonella scare being the impetus.) Everyone was very full when the cheese was finished but none of us had the beached whale sensation that is the result of over-eating. The evening extended to early morning. The wines were spectacular especially the 1988 Grange I opened because I am a boy and therefore should not be allowed into my wine cellar after a couple of drinks. (ed. note – in addition to the breathalyzer for the cell phone, I am also trying to invent one that controls the lock on the wine cellar.) The only minor quibble – what must a gentleman do to get his guests to understand the meaning of cocktail attire?
Coffee with the Striking Brunette from New Jersey morphed into drinks on the roof of the Reef on Sunday. Yes, it remained platonic. Yes, she attempted to change my mind about the platonic nature of it. Yes, I continue to wear the best cologne ever – eau de unavailable – apparently it is like catnip for some women.
By the by, the Reef continues to be a far better restaurant than required, Corey, the Sunday evening bartender has one of the better IPods in the city; it was not quite summer but the living was easy. More on that subject later.