Fork It Over The Intrepid Adventures of a Professional Eater-Mantesh Unknown (books to read for 13 year olds .txt) 📖

a freestanding brick fireplace. This place is such a seventies period piece it should be in the Smithsonian. Dinner is pretty good, but everything I order turns out to be either sweet or creamy; sweet vinaigrette on salad greens, mint-and-garlic sauce on very good snapper filets, raspberry puree on the strawberry shortcake.

The Laundry, which has been around since 1980, qualifies as one of the Old Guard places to eat and be seen. This category is led by Bobby Van’s, in Bridgehampton, where Truman Capote went to drink and be seen. Also edging into the Old Guard division, although only around since 1989, is Karen Lee’s, which fulfills my expectations of what a neighborhood spot should be. Warm and inviting, dark and clubby, with an astonishingly large menu, it suffers only from the undue richness of its food. Worth the sacrifice is the meltingly tender Long Island duckling in blackberry sauce and the chocolate sorbet, richer than some hot fudge I’ve come across.

Also well established, yet remaining one of the hot spots, is Luongo’s Sapore de Mare, located in the practically nonexistent hamlet of Wainscott. The restaurant has been around for six seasons and has earned a solid reputation for good food and surly service. I order a house specialty, pasta with sausage, peas, tomatoes, parmesan, and heavy cream, after my waitress proudly informs me that customers 4 0

A L A N R I C H M A N

come from all over to have it. Although it tastes as though it’s from the Upper East Side, not Tuscany, it’s generous and satisfying, far better than I expect from such an unlikely combination of ingredients.

The house sparkling wine, Foss Marai Prosecco, is very good. So is the bread. So is the olive oil for dipping the bread. Service is just fine.

I wonder why everything is so pleasant, and then I notice Pino Luongo isn’t around. That has to be it.

“You know,” Big Al is saying a day later, “even in the old days we had a lot of good people out here: Andrew Mellon, Henry Ford, Jacqueline Onassis—she came in, had chicken and rice.” Sounds good, chicken and rice. At Big Al’s, everything sounds good, but I can’t get any of it. While Al’s pouring shots for his midday clientele, I poke my head into the kitchen. There’s a ten-burner Garland range in there, but nothing’s on it. Al would rather talk than cook.

“Jackson Pollock used to come in with his girlfriend when his wife was in France,” Al says. “He’d drink Old Grand-Dad on the rocks. I’ll tell you, that girl was stacked.”

Makes me think about pancakes, that story. Al says tomorrow, for sure, he’ll have a hamburger for me. I’ve been in a lot of restaurants where you can only eat what the cook wants you to eat, but this is different. You can only eat when the cook wants you to eat.

The Honest Diner is supposed to represent the fifties. It does. The food could not be more bland. I have the luncheon special: an open-faced pot-roast sandwich with mashed potatoes and gravy. On my table are salt, pepper, mustard, ketchup, A-1, and Tabasco. I’m tempted to use them all. Unfortunately, no condiment can save the coconut custard pie.

Nick & Toni’s in East Hampton has the same owners but a different chef. The place is practically whitewashed, it’s so simple in design.

I try two dishes, both made in a wood-burning pizza oven, and either one could qualify as the best food in the Hamptons. I must confess, however, that I walked in with Craig Claiborne, which is like walking into a casino with Frank Sinatra. Much attention is paid to us.

F O R K I T O V E R

4 1

The first dish is a smoked-salmon pizza with mild red onions, a layer of mascarpone cheese, and a sprinkling of capers. Maybe this is what people eat on Sunday mornings on the Upper West Side of Rome. The second is a whole striped bass scored and quickly cooked in that 600-degree heat, then brushed with rosemary-scented olive oil. The skin crackles, the flesh is soft and moist. We drink Coulée de Serrant, the finest and longest-lived Chenin Blanc in the world, priced at $26.

The same wine costs $65 at the American Hotel, in Sag Harbor, which is often praised for its stupendous wine list. After seeing the prices, I’m not impressed. Any restaurant can list wine. I prefer restaurants that want to sell wine. The classic French cooking, however, is excellent. I have a sumptuous quail terrine infused with dabs of foie gras and succulent game hen crowned with a shortbread pastry crust, the sort of chicken potpie Escoffier’s mother must have made.

The Maidstone Arms, in East Hampton, has much better wine prices, as well as wonderful luncheon specials. The prize is a 1961

Château Latour, priced at about one-half Manhattan prices. Were I celebrating a million-dollar advance on my novel or the sale of my record company, as everyone in East Hampton does sooner or later, this would be my splurge.

“Been married fifty-four years, I got a damn good wife,” Al is saying while my long-awaited hamburger cooks on his indoor grill.

“She comes in, checks on me, makes sure the place is clean, I’m not raising too much hell.”

Al is at his usual spot, the corner of the bar by the door. The burger is in back, unsupervised. I’m nervous. I don’t want it to burn. I know there will be no second chance.

Al finally returns to the kitchen, yells out, “You want a hard roll?” I holler acceptance.

“Good thing,” says one of the guys at the bar. “He’s going to give you a hard roll anyway.”

The burger is thick, lean, and fresh, nicely served on a poppy-seed kaiser roll. With or without cheese, with or without fries, it costs five 4 2

A L A N R I C H M A N

bucks. “What am I going to do,”