Gael Greene Made Me Her Bitch
[...or, tried to anyway]
There's a lot you can look up about her. Let's just say she was the shiz. Made food and restaurant going a thing. Some say she was the original "Foodie". Flamboyant, outspoken, colorful. She was famous for going incognito* [that explains the hat] to New York City restaurants ... to get the real deal, not the celebrity treatment. "The Dorothy Parker of restaurant critics."
* On that incognito schtick. She was famous for wearing hats that covered her face so she wouldn't be recognized. And, even using credit cards under pseudonyms. When I think about, it I'm wondering if her wearing those hats wasn't in fact a tip-off. Like the maitre'd would say, "See, of all the patrons in the room ... there, the one trying to go incognito. That's Gael Greene!"
A real trip to read.
For me personally, a real trip too.
So how did little 'ol me get to hang with the likes of that famous Gael Greene? There's a backstory.
Like I said, I was a shiny new Ad Biggie in the making in NYC at J. Walter Thompson. New York Magazine ran a contest. It wasn't for the general reader circulation. A notice for the contest was tipped into comp copies distributed only to advertisers in the magazine.
For me personally, a real trip too.
So how did little 'ol me get to hang with the likes of that famous Gael Greene? There's a backstory.
Like I said, I was a shiny new Ad Biggie in the making in NYC at J. Walter Thompson. New York Magazine ran a contest. It wasn't for the general reader circulation. A notice for the contest was tipped into comp copies distributed only to advertisers in the magazine.
I decided to enter. The deal was that you had to 1. correctly decipher the scrambled letters of the names of ten of the magazine's top advertised restaurants, and 2. make it a creative entry. Judging was on both accuracy and creativity.
My wife and I figured out the names of the restaurants. Then we hopped into our trusty Citroen 2CV and drove around town one Saturday to collect matchbooks from each of those ten joints.
My wife and I figured out the names of the restaurants. Then we hopped into our trusty Citroen 2CV and drove around town one Saturday to collect matchbooks from each of those ten joints.
Now for the creative part. Using colorful construction paper I fashioned a small round columnar kiosk with the requisite roof and pasted the matchbook covers all around. Then I installed it in a box-shaped container which when you took off the top — Voilร ! — the four sides fell away flat to reveal the kiosk.
And, we won! Our prize: lunch with Gael Greene and the magazine's founding publisher George Hirsch at our choice of any one of the ten restaurants featured in the contest. We chose Cafe Chauveron; 139 East 53rd Street. At the time it was among a very small handful of luxury restaurants in the city. Top tier. Seated 100, staff of 52. Lux. Get it? The kind of place where if you just happen to glance at a waiter he'd be there at your side prontissimo.
Now the story.
Here we are all happy sitting there with Gael Greene and George Hirsh. Looking over the menu I see "Champignons". I say "Champignons", correctly I should add. I don't remember why I said that out loud; I think it might have been that I thought they were a particularly special thing. It wasn't a question; more an exclamation. Gael — Gael! — promptly takes me to school: "Those are Mushrooms." I did happen to know that. At the time it seemed to me that she took that as an opportunity to let me know where I stood in her midst; me, definitely looking up. I said nothing though. The current me would probably have made some exaggerated gesture and exclaim something like, "Well, how about that! Who would've guessed?" Some nerve on that one. Trying to one-up me, and I was her guest! That kind of behavior schtick went around in those days. Still does; but, I don't travel in snooty circles no more. It's the kind of behavior that in my book brands the perpetrator a champ asshole. [Sort of like I see through how the pols manipulate and pander to their voter bases.]
After a nice lunch — I don't remember if in fact I ordered that something with "Mushrooms" — there's dessert. Gael is having Mousse au Chocolat — that's Chocolate pudding, you should know. [See, there, how I did that bit with you? Now, who's my bitch?] After a few bites, she summons the waiter and asks, "Did you change the Chocolate?" He comes back from making an inquiry with the chef and reports that, yes, in fact they did change the Chocolate; something about how their usual choice was not available.
I said nothing. Just registered a very strong suspicion that the lady engineered the whole bit of drama ahead of time to impress us rubes. Can't say for sure. Just makes for a better story, don't you think? Again, I should have made some over-the-top reaction to how she had such an exquisitely finely tuned palate. And/or, sent the waiter back to the kitchen to ask if my pudding should be so thick and full of air? No. I was a gentleman in those days. Not like now with too many years of too much of other people's bullshit behind me.
And, we won! Our prize: lunch with Gael Greene and the magazine's founding publisher George Hirsch at our choice of any one of the ten restaurants featured in the contest. We chose Cafe Chauveron; 139 East 53rd Street. At the time it was among a very small handful of luxury restaurants in the city. Top tier. Seated 100, staff of 52. Lux. Get it? The kind of place where if you just happen to glance at a waiter he'd be there at your side prontissimo.
Now the story.
Here we are all happy sitting there with Gael Greene and George Hirsh. Looking over the menu I see "Champignons". I say "Champignons", correctly I should add. I don't remember why I said that out loud; I think it might have been that I thought they were a particularly special thing. It wasn't a question; more an exclamation. Gael — Gael! — promptly takes me to school: "Those are Mushrooms." I did happen to know that. At the time it seemed to me that she took that as an opportunity to let me know where I stood in her midst; me, definitely looking up. I said nothing though. The current me would probably have made some exaggerated gesture and exclaim something like, "Well, how about that! Who would've guessed?" Some nerve on that one. Trying to one-up me, and I was her guest! That kind of behavior schtick went around in those days. Still does; but, I don't travel in snooty circles no more. It's the kind of behavior that in my book brands the perpetrator a champ asshole. [Sort of like I see through how the pols manipulate and pander to their voter bases.]
After a nice lunch — I don't remember if in fact I ordered that something with "Mushrooms" — there's dessert. Gael is having Mousse au Chocolat — that's Chocolate pudding, you should know. [See, there, how I did that bit with you? Now, who's my bitch?] After a few bites, she summons the waiter and asks, "Did you change the Chocolate?" He comes back from making an inquiry with the chef and reports that, yes, in fact they did change the Chocolate; something about how their usual choice was not available.
I said nothing. Just registered a very strong suspicion that the lady engineered the whole bit of drama ahead of time to impress us rubes. Can't say for sure. Just makes for a better story, don't you think? Again, I should have made some over-the-top reaction to how she had such an exquisitely finely tuned palate. And/or, sent the waiter back to the kitchen to ask if my pudding should be so thick and full of air? No. I was a gentleman in those days. Not like now with too many years of too much of other people's bullshit behind me.
Looking back, she did add Mas Sabor to the lunch. Much remembered, Dear Ms. Greene.
So that's all folks ...
So that's all folks ...
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