Text 17677, 101 rader
Skriven 2011-11-12 06:19:00 av MICHAEL LOO (1:123/140)
Ärende: trip 195
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My friend Jim was over from Rieti to lecture at Brandeis and
Boston Conservatory. As usual, he got to play the celebrity
for most of his time here, so I didn't get any of his time
until his day of departure, so we arranged to meet at the
Legal C Bar (misnomerly located in Terminal B) for snacks
before he headed off to Iowa on the next leg of his tour.
He looks none the less for wear, and the lymph node removal
a year ago seems to have done the trick for his prostate
cancer. Anyhow, he's back being his energetic self and
rushing all over the place to advocate for his kind of
late-20th-century music, electronics mixed with instruments
in a way that isn't so fashionable any more but that manages
to keep his career going.

He had the famous (but overthickened) chowder; for just a
couple bucks more, I had the raw sampler, consisting of
two smallish Wianno oysters (from the next bay over from
famous Cotuit, in a district of the appropriately-named
Osterville), two littlenecks, two cherrystones, and one
in between. The only difference between littlenecks and
cherrystones is that the former are way too small, and
the latter range from nice mouthful size to somewhat too
big (none of these today were too big). These were all
fresh and good, fairly priced if not given away. My Sam
Octoberfest was nice, and Jim pronounced his Bonterra
Pinot Grigio better than acceptable, despite his prejudice
against California (his cousins-in-law are among the most
famous of the Friuli Pinot Grigio producers).

I saw him off - patrons at Legal get a stamp to use the
first class line at American Airlines - and found a bench
to snooze a little before dinner with Nicholas, whom I
haven't seen in some months and who has just started up
with a dialysis regimen after many years of dithering.

The Silver Line was very slow and somewhat messed up, so
Nicholas, usually a late bird, was already at Otto's when I
arrived panting and puffing from the half mile jog from the
subway. I noted with some displeasure that he hadn't shaved
in several days. Later, upon rubbing my chin for some reason
I noted with some displeasure that I hadn't either.

Otto came out to chat; he looks prosperous.

We started with a roast squab (24 hours' notice), which was
rich and dark and good, but not quite so luscious as it has
been in the past. Went on to fried tofu stuffed with shrimp
paste, the tofu tender and excellent but the seafood hardly
in evidence, the dish's pallor almost made up for by the
delicious (and easy to make) soy-scallion-ginger dipping
sauce.

The piece de resistance was surf clams with yellow chives,
thin slices of clam meat tossed with a huge quantity of the
rare and overrated vegetable. Apparently there weren't
enough clams left in the house, so half of the protein was
similarly thin sliced giant sea scallops which were actually
even better - some of the best scallop meat I've tasted in
recent years.

A half order of special house noodles - thin wheat-egg pasta
tossed with soy, scallions, and beansprouts - rounded out
our meal and our bellies.

Nicholas opined that he was too full for another bite of
anything but ice cream, so we didn't escape the ritual visit
to Toscanini's, where Gus gave us special stuff on the house,
which amazed and envified the natives.

A sundae of Kenyan Kulfi ice cream (cardamom, saffron, and
nuts) with a topping of candied pineapple was intriguing:
the story is that one of the customers, an Indian whose
family had emigrated to Kenya, brought Gus his mother's
recipe, and Gus had turned it into an ice cream, one of four
kulfi/kuhlfee flavors in the rotating repertoire; it is said
to sell well, as well it might, as it's different and
somewhat luxurious. My treat was strawberry sorbet off the
menu with pomegranate red wine soup, also off the menu. The
sorbet was standard, but the sweet and peculiar and highly
antioxidative soup added a lot. 

As we hadn't spent anything on dessert, we had a few pennies
left to cede to the local merchantry; the representative
thereof being Cafe Pamplona, the smallest coffeehouse in
Cambridge and perhaps in the known universe, which Nicholas
had frequented almost 50 years ago and I had occasionally
visited 40 years ago. It was pretty much its same dim and
dingy self. He had an espresso, which was about the same as
half a century ago, and I had white peony tea, which you
didn't get back then, as it wasn't a big deal, despite any
hype and advertising that you may read. It was pleasantly
peachy and flowery, though as it steeped its flavor
approached that of ordinary tea. Because Gus's largesse was
deemed to owe itself to Nicholas's excellence, I picked up
the fare for our beverages. And I thought he'd suggested
this extra jaunt to bask in my charmingness for a few more
moments.

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