2003-12-09 - 8:30 p.m. nyc whirlwind, take 1 Apparently, I arrived in NYC in the midst of their first real cold snap of the winter. Oh, yes, lucky me. Of course, my bragging about the impeccable weather I always encounter when traveling quite likely entitled me to this comeuppance. At least I packed a suitable selection of merino wool and vintage cashmere sweaters (which I wore layered upon each other.) Upon arrival, I left my bags at my hotel's front desk, then headed out down Fifth Avenue to take in the Holiday decorations. Saks' windows were mostly too busy for my liking, but their end-cap windows had lovely, over-the-top super glam settings that I snapped photos of. The truly amazing windows were at Bergdorf's or Henry Bendel (whichever one is closest to Barney's). The beautiful dream of the swans window was amazing -- I took a whole series of photos of that one. A gorgeously ornamented antique mirror dominates that window -- it came in handy after the 20-mile-per-hour winds picked up my 2+ feet of curls and swirled them all around me, as though they were creating their own mini whirlwind. I quickly tied the curls into a boring but manageable knot on the back of my head, secured in place by my ever-present black hair tie. Unfortunately, my red-eye flight had gotten me in town far too early to sample the wares inside. This is probably a good thing. After staring at those enchanting windows for 10 minutes, I was feeling compelled to buy some crazily extravagant girlie dress. I headed down 59th to Lexington and Bloomingdale's. I'd never actually been in there before. I had hoped that their pretty art noveau sign and exterior might mean a Galleries lafayette (Paris) experience might await inside. This was not the case, alas. However, I did come away with a very cute apple green cable knit crewneck cashmere sweater that was on sale, and a pretty pink and black tweedy swingy skirt. Somehow, these were the only clothes I bought in my whirlwind trip, despite purchasing work clothes being a #1 agenda item. So many things I looked at or tried on just weren't quite right. Much more wandering about and shopping, including a foray to Barney's, then on to Fauchon for tea (earl grey with flowers and a sandwich (foie gras), and purchasing some madeleines, then finally getting checked into my hotel room at the Dylan, and thus resting my by now tired feet. Unfortunately, the hotel was on a par with the really horrible hotel I stayed at in Florence -- the one in which we were given the room right behind the espresso bar and were kept awake all night by the drunken guests, then awakened from our slumber on the squished together rock hard twin beds at the crack of dawn by the caffeine addicted. The lobby looked promising enough, but that was the only boutique aspect of the hotel. No one offered to help me with my bags, which, in retrospect, I take as a sign of things to come. I let myself into my room and started exploring the amenities. The advertised robe and slippers were absent. The electrical outlets on the desk didn't work. The TV didn't get comedy central or MTV. AND the "heater" aggressively blew cold air. I searched every surface for 10 minutes trying to find the also advertised "individual climate control." After my fingers had entered their very very cold pre-blue stage, I phoned the front desk to inform them of this problem. They seemed irritated at me for bringing it up, but, half an hour or so later, an engineer arrived. He tinkered around with it, never apologizing for the inconvenience, or admitting there had been a problem with the heater. As he was out the door, he said "did you want it a little hot or a lot hot?" "I don't know. Somewhat hot. Not cold like it was before. 70 degrees." "OK." he said, and left. It appears he set it on "sweltering". Despite the 11-foot ceilings, and heat-losing windows that should've helped keep the room at a liveable temperature, the room got so hot by bedtime that I slept with only a sheet on the bed, and still was hot and sweaty. It was basically the equivalent of sleeping inside a dry sauna. But, given the alternative of freezing both inside and outside for two days, I kept my mouth shut. Besides, after the first day, one phone stopped working completely, while the other would no longer call the front desk or any of the other pre-programmed numbers. I fled the hotel via Grand Central Station as soon as my fingers had thawed out. Destination: SOHO. Much aimless wandering and window shopping ensued, as did a brief meetup w/a friend. When our plans were pre-empted by a string of phone calls, I went ahead and sat down at Savoy for dinner anyway. This turned out to be an excellent decision on my part. Savoy is a tiny 2-story restaurant on Prince at Crosby. Some Slow Food folks had recommended it to me some time ago, but it took me 'till now to try it out. I can see now why the Slow Food Guide to NYC Restaurants (which I bought and partially consumed before this trip, even though my visit's short duration precluded much serious eating) rates it so highly. I arrived at the same time as a massive group which meant I had to wait to talk with the host. I eventually was able to get across my need for only 1 very small table and my complete lack of reservations. I was allowed to sit at a little round table in the downstairs bar (rather than going upstairs to a romantic, fireplace-lit dining room). The bartender refused to accept the idea no one was meeting me for dinner and set two places; I had to have my waiter remove the extra unnecessary place setting. I ordered an unfamiliar glass of Italian wine and the charcuterie plate to start. It featured a serrano or parma ham (I didn't take notes since my notebook had been left at home, in anticipation of a chatty dinner w/a friend) their own house cured sopressata, which was good, and their house cured mortadella which was amazing. These treats were accompanied by house made condiments (pickles and a gorgeous and tasty scarlet colored mustard made with figs), and a tiny taste of a house-made pork rillette, and little toasted bread slices. They had also brought me a bread basket with three presumably house-made breads) but it was mostly neglected due to the extreme temptations provided by the charcuterie. My entree decision was easy to make -- as soon as my affable waiter started to say that the night's special entree was venison, I knew I wanted it since venison is one of my all-time favorite treats. I was pleased he didn't ask me how I wanted it cooked. That small detail, on the heels of the impressive starter, gave me a certain level of certainty it was going to be marvelous, as well as instilling my faith in the chef and the restaurant. The venison came out with dark edges and the requisite/desired non-bloody but still vibrant red-pink middle, surrounded by a light sauce of its own drippings, on a bed of roasted brussel sprouts and roasted chestnuts (for that perfect winter touch), and a big fluffy bed of pureed and whipped parsnips that looked exactly like a mound of mashed potatoes but had all the rich earthy taste you'd want from parsnips. I savored the bites of this meal, forkful by forkful, gazing at the people walking by and the dark night sky. Oh yes, this is my idea of heaven. Nothing on the dessert menu tempted me though, so it was back out into the cold dark night, and back to the hotel. any comments? 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