Archive for the ‘Drink’ Category
After a long day in Hell, this pie went to visit Magda and Tamas. Kerry, Mike, Eileen, Michele, Satan, Harth and David were there. We spoke about the Palio, the church that displayed head of St Catherine and Italian and Hungarian pastry forms — all while eating salami. Then we toasted this first pie of the New York season.
After pie, Mike gave us an excellent tai chi demonstration. You should have seen it! It’s really quite hard to do, but he made it look as easy as sitting in a chair.
Bogyi and his hands joined us a little later. He had the eleventh slice. And Tamas had the last, extra slice after we all left.
Or so it was reported.
A couple nights before Thursday night, I got a message with the subject line “Thin Slices–I may have overdone it.” Caught up in the excitement of being on the pie list, my correspondent now worried she had been too magnanimous. She included a list of the chosen. It seemed like a good party to me.
When the pie arrived most everyone had gathered and was snacking in the secret back room.
We immediately started bad-mouthing climate change, last winter’s general shittiness, and a certain Russian family. Poles and Hungarians have much to say about cherries and a bit to say about Russians, and there were two-and-a-half Poles and one-and-a-half Hungarians in the room. Also two Canadians and a Turk. Say no more. Say no more. The remainder of us were just as biased against anything that might keep us from having fatter slices of pie. In that we all agreed.
I spent quite a bit of breath apologizing for the poor cherry harvest, for only bringing one pie. Canadians most of all don’t understand scarcity. And yet when the pie was distributed, there was still a bit left in the pie plate. It was a miracle—or I had initially miscounted. I’m going with miracle.
Someone brought the perfect wine for the occasion. Toasting happened. Pictures were taken. A little birdy tweeted.
After the first round of pie, we had a tour of the front. Garbage walruses, singing mussels, faux foam, and a painting under a swimming pool. Broken things. Things that were things. Things that were not things. Nothing that was like anything else. “This is What Sculpture Looks Like.”
The fat slice of pie waited for us to return. Return we did for more wine and pie scraps. First slivers, then fork pecks. Finally just crumbs. This is what fun looks like.
Things happened on Saturday night. Things like Blake and Lucy showing up with arms full of cheese, shell-shocked from the heat wave and seeing a certain artist’s installation on Park Avenue. Things like Blake pitting all the cherries while everyone cheered him on. Things like this awesome t-shirt Kanishka and Juli gave me. Things like Magda’s expertly assembled “appetizing” of salmon tartar on cucumber with creme fraiche.
Once the pie was in the oven, we sat for a cold dinner of brandade de morue, cucumber and lemon salad, deviled eggs, duck prosciutto, a farro salad, um, and other things.
After the pie had cooled enough, it came to table. Tamas scooped dollops of sour cream ice cream on each plate to accompany it. Then the hush every hostess hopes for.
That’s when things got questionable. Something about Tuscan Pie. Something about Muslims introducing certain animals to Southern India. Something about Hollywood, a certain circular museum and a rather large drill hall. Something about Walt Disney — I don’t quite remember what. Plastic surgery might have been mentioned. Perhaps it was last year’s homemade sour cherry liquor talking. Spouses began assigning fictional heritages to their mates. Texas was mentioned quite a bit. I should stop there.
Let’s just say the cheese was not eaten that evening. And that some people selflessly had seconds of pie and ice cream.
As far as I know everyone got home safely. My next door neighbor, Ruth got the remaining sliver of pie the next morning.
Sometimes easy is just easy. And this is easy. You should smell this: Smashed sour cherry pits gathered from making 20 pies. Put them into 2 large glass jars. Fill one with Everclear; the other with Wild Turkey 101. Open the jars a couple weeks later and take a whiff.
If bitter almonds and cherries were angels they would smell like this. Um, drunken, boozy angels that is.