Daily Blague

My friend, Diana Bradshaw, and I usually give each other lunch at home, on a rotating basis. It was my turn today, but there was no way that I could whip up anything smart at home, so I took us to the Café d'Alsace, where we both had croque monsieur. It was Diana's first. When we ordered, the waiter rather witlessly asked if we wanted to share one croque, and Diana was immediately concerned that there would be too much food on her plate. In the event, there was, but she took home the half sandwich that she couldn't eat, having delighted in the other. A gentle warm-up in the oven will bring what she took home right back to its creamy crunchiness.

And that would have been it for my day out. I came home and sat down to write. For one reason or another, writing did not go well. I wrote up a book so peremptorily that I was done in fewer than three paragraphs. I turned to another book, with better results. But when a friend reported a crisis, I insisted that she come for tea. I made a new batch of my ragù while we talked it over. By the time she left, I was in a thoroughly gregarious frame of mind.

So, even though I was "too sick" last night to go to Carnegie Hall to hear glorious Orpheus - featured tenor Ian Bostridge canceled due to illness, so I thought I might as well do the same - I dashed down to NoLITa for another reading at McNally Robinson Booksellers. Ms NOLA had dropped word of the event while I was struggling with one of my books, and almost anything, even braving the arctic cold, seemed preferable to struggling in front of the machine. It turned worth the trip to hear Olaf Olafsson talk about his new collection of stories, Valentines. I wished I'd looked as good as he does when I was his age - forty four.

Ordinarily, I'd have come straight home. Ms NOLA told me that she was going to "dash home" the minute the reading was over. But Kathleen complicated things a bit by insisting that I call her when the reading was over; perhaps we could get together for dinner. Okay - but where? Neither one of us knows NoLITa. In fact, we're aware of exactly three restaurants south of Fourteenth Street. I knew that Balthazar was not far from the bookshop, but there's always a crowd, and it's fairly grand for a routine weeknight dinner. Ms NOLA agreed to walk me there while she brainstormed about alternatives. Unfortunately, I obstinately walked us in the wrong direction, east instead of west, so that by the time we actually got to Balthazar I was perfectly happy with a forty-five minute wait, as long as I could stay warm.

I was exploiting Ms NOLA shamelessly. She was going to be the other half of my party of two until Kathleen arrived. But by the time Kathleen arrived - long after Ms NOLA and I had been seated; long before the duration of forty-five minutes - Ms NOLA had gently put the question of what I wanted her to do when Kathleen arrived. Exploitation was neither thinkable nor desirable. I asked the waiter to ask the maître d' if the table next to us, which was being cleared, could be held for a "friend" who would be joining us. When someone from the front of the house came to deal with my request, I updated my "friend" to my "wife." We were moved a few tables toward the center of the room, to a genuine table for four. Staff couldn't have been nicer.

I love Balthazar. The food is fine - the best steak-frites in New York -  but I could care less about that. I love the big, bustling room, because it's also the warmest busy restaurant that I've ever been to, warmer even than the Grand Colbert in Paris. French or not - and the waiters are wonderfully sérieux - it's Manhattan in its wildest dreams. Everyone, even the toughened regulars clustered at the bar, is faintly surprised that the scene is really happening.

The funniest thing was the view in the mirror. I was a pink and white head in a sea of tan and dark. There was no one in the room with remotely the same complexion. I still felt right at home.