Notes From The Culinary Wasteland

grande blu di patate

This week’s playoff game occurred on the very day of our son Max’s 30th birthday, which complicated things for the old Couch Potato. I couldn’t very well opt out of the party for a sporting event that was a complete non-event for everyone else in the family – especially for Max’s mom, my beloved wife, for whom a football game is thought of as an opportunity to go through her closet.
Jill planned a beautiful day for Max. It’s a big birthday for both of them — she was, after all, as much a participant in the event thirty years ago as he was, having been in labor together for twenty-nine-hours.
You don’t forget a thing like that.
Max had mentioned a few weeks before that he was getting into classical music again (Max is a musician), so Jill scored three tickets to a concert at Merkin Hall on 67th Street – with members of the New York Philharmonic playing. I was the holder of the third ticket. The concert started at 3:00; kickoff was 4:30. And we were booked for a 6:30 dinner with Alison and Shannon joining us. Between the two events, I would miss most of the game. The obvious answer was TIVO, but I can’t get interested in a game that’s already over – even if I don’t know who won.
Over is over.
I started my negotiations early, casually mentioning that the Giants play-off game was starting at 4:30, but that it was okay, my son’s 30th birthday surely took precedence. I would be happy, I said, to miss the game.
Now Jill was guilty. Step one.
An hour later, Jill started calling Max. He had been up for something like 40 straight hours over the weekend, playing a gig on Friday night until around 2:00 A.M. and then deciding to just stay up until 4:30A.M. to start his Saturday deliveries. He’s drives a truck to support his music. Anyway, the truck wouldn’t start in the cold, he had to get a tow, etc. It turned into an all-night, all-day mess and now, on Sunday, his birthday, he was properly sleeping it off.
“All I’m getting is his answering machine,” said Jill, getting nervous. “I don’t think he’s going to make the concert. And you want to watch the game. I feel like an idiot.” “No, baby, I’ll go to the concert with you. You said we should hear more good music, so we’ll do it.”
“You’ll fall asleep.”
Well, she had me there. There something in classical music that stimulates an area in my cortex – the lower, lower cortex, actually – that I find very spiritually relaxing. I’m special that way.
“The game doesn’t start until 4:30,” I said. “Why don’t I first-act the concert and leave at intermission?”
“What about Max’s ticket?”
“Maybe he’ll show. You never know.”
Then Alison called about dinner.
“You know, Shannon will want to see the end of the game. Could we make Max’s birthday dinner later? Like 8:00?”
Perfect. We could. We did. We ate at Recipe, on Amsterdam Avenue and 82nd Street, a wonderful addition to our neighborhood. Recipe specializes in comfort food of a very high level – lots of wonderful stews and roasts with locally-grown braised root vegetables in the winter. Jill had the pumpkin gnocchi with root vegetables. The boys had the lamb chops with lentils, parsnips, Brussels sprouts, etc.
Alison went for the short ribs.
Jill enjoyed the concert as best she could. There was an empty chair to her right (Max’s), a snoring husband to her left and three unruly children behind her, one of whom was kicking the back of her chair all through the Mozart. She’s always had amazing concentration.

The Giants won big.
As a former cheesehead, I will not gloat.