Bobby Fisher

Category: OutOnTheTown

Chef Roy Choi & Anthony Bourdain

Stepped out last night with Chef Roy Choi and Anthony Bourdain, to eat and talk book. Eddie Huang buried us deep in his “House of Bao”, constructed of cilantro and crushed peanuts, Taiwanese red sugar… and Berkshire Pork Belly. Sweet Bao fries dipped in hot soy milk…the epilogue. I left in the rain heading West on 14th and 3rd. Grooved on that block in 85′ catty corner to Disco Donut. Spent many a wee morning there after a healthy night out doing that thing that comes before Y. Nothing better to make a ball of alcohol and other ‘stuff’ feel closer to undead than stale crullers with an ‘Anthora‘ cup of Jo,…paired with a nonsensical soliloquy from John the ex- FBI man. Nina Hagen at The Palladium = 2 glazed and an egg cream. The Cult at The Ritz = a cinnamon twist with a vanilla milkshake. The Pogues at Danceteria = fried egg on a bagel with american cheese…and so on. That was then this is now. Strange times. Tony left me with some advice ‘don’t vote for Mitt, he has embarrassingly small feet. You ever seen his feet?..they’re Barbie feet’. Shit, I wouldn’t vote for Mitt even if he had Ken feet!

The Party

Stepped out last evening with Chef Roy Choi (Kogi food truck, Chego, A-Frame, Beechwood) to attend a book launching party mid-town.

I met Roy while on assignment for Food & Wine magazine back in August. We ate our way from Waikiki to the North shore and back. The Pulitzer prize winning food critic Jonathan Gold was riding shotgun. The conversations were eclectic, ranging from post punk guitarist extraordinaire Keith Levene  to the stamina one needed for a 5 hr tasting menu. Who creates the best bacon in the world to Calvin Codozar Broadus jr.’s trial in the 90’s. How to boil the perfect egg to why Koreans open liquor stores in the most crime ridden volatile areas of LA? Roy’s last words before I left Oahu were ‘lets hang some time’. A man of his word….we have hung. This was my experience.

Although I never witnessed ‘the book’ being launched I did see a few female flagellants launching leather whips across the asses of smiling foodies. The vodka-avocado-cayenne pepper-mint infused-quail egg beverage tasted like soup in cocktail form. I hadn’t eaten, so soup interbred with 80 proof alcohol was hitting the spot. Still hungry I sucked the brains from langoustine heads straight  from the hands of Chef Paul Bartolotta. His right hand is missing a pinky and I’m positive I didn’t swallow it. I left his makeshift crustacean bar and spotted Mary-Louise Parker alone, gobbling bruschetta like she hadn’t eaten in a week . Perhaps staying in character she huffed a fatty before arriving? Wish I had.  I said hello to Daniel Boulud…and something along the lines of ‘Hey man I photographed you for GQ at your Vegas brasserie a couple years back’. He stared quizzically for a second, almost ready to reply, but turned to a leather whip with bright red lipstick instead…can’t say I blame him. Eric Ripert’s smile flashed by in a sea of nameless faces as I headed for the elevators. Snubbed by top chefs all night I said goodbye to Roy and his giant arms (great for whipping lemon meringue and pretty good for whipping ass!) and stepped out into the misty midnight  zigzagging home from 42nd and fifth to my tenement in Little Italy.