Friday night at 8 p.m. is early bird hour at the new Monkey Bar.
Photo: Steven Richter
When the Road Food Warrior and I walked up to Graydon Carter’s reincarnation of Monkey Bar at the Elysée Hotel and found the front door locked “for a private party,” I thought, “Oh, no, here we are again, outcasts at Hogwarts" (as I have come to think of the Vanity Fair poobah’s salon at Waverly Inn). A sprite of a female finds us wandering in the hotel lobby and leads us the back way to the maître d’s desk. Peering into the saloon of legend that fronts the restaurant from the cloak room, I see, indeed, a long table set for a party.
Still wrapped in a carapace of hostile defense (after surrendering my stole with mink tails), I am also forced to shed my carapace. Well, they smiled at Waverly too before consigning us to a humbling 40-minute wait in bar room limbo. Granted, unlike the famously rejecting Waverly, Monkey Bar has a telephone number – a run-around of “this party does not answer” when I call five days in advance. Trying again the next day, I am shocked to actually get a human voice that offers to seat us at 6:30 or 10 p.m. Would I rather be put in my place by a joint that books anyone or by a club I wouldn’t want to crash if it would have me? No point in brooding, our friends want to go.
One of them knows somebody with access, so we’re in, the six of us, entitlement confirmed, in a cat bird corner booth at 8 p.m. Friday, gazing out at an almost empty room. Although I concede that Ron Perelman with Graydon Carter at one table and restaurateur Ken Aretsky at another goes a long way toward making a room seem less empty. And the old dame looks great. Too dark to read the menu if you forgot your pocket flashlight, but very glamorous and fun with a swath of zebra-striped carpet (a remnant from the defunct El Morocco?), leatherette booths to certify status for those of us who are never quite sure… and a great sweep of amusing murals with bold caricatures of literary, media and show biz New Yorkers from the 40s illuminated by a lineup of small monkey lamps with carefully aged shades. Not as brilliant as David Rockwell’s mauve and midnight purple velvet-cloaked look for Penny and Peter Glazier’s successful revival in l994. Still, Graydon’s Monkey is glamorous, and sexy, especially if you, like me, pick up a whiff of sado-masochism that suggests people like us need to establish loyalty and worthiness before the recession bottoms out and clubbier discrimination at the door no longer seems suicidal. Best follow the rules on the menu: “No photography. Silence your cell phones. No smoking, spitting or swearing.”
Tonight the six of us – torn between knowing we belong, feeling we should belong and hoping we don’t get tossed out when noticed – eagerly spread pecan butter on warm Parker House rolls as hefty and rawish as a new bride’s first shot at baking. If this is “Chasen’s chili,” as advertised on the menu – smartly served with ramekins of grated cheddar, minced onion, and corn muffin – I’d rather have good chili. And recent Waldorf salad revivals have all been better than this pitiful homage. Chinese chicken salad makes me long for my favorite at the Brooklyn Diner. And just a few blocks away, Rue 57 offers a more generous, more delicious meatloaf. Crushed peas with mint could be a sign the chef knows it’s spring, but smashing peas doesn’t exactly play up their freshness. And did they really need an Englishman in the kitchen to dish up such lumpen fish and chips?
Stick to the quite respectable beet salad with orange, goat cheese and walnuts or clams casino in the iron skillet. Three seared scallops are edible with a hit of bacon on creamed corn (Where does that come from in April? I’d like to know.) The roast chicken is safe enough and I am actually happy with the grilled hanger steak (rare, we said, and it is).
By the time our party focuses on dessert, the dining room is almost full. Spying Maureen Dowd at the next table inspires a mixed reaction. A tingle of thrill. If it’s Maureen Dowd, we must be in the right place. And also a homicidal itch: one of our pals hates her negative fix on men in power. “Stop me, I want to kill her,” he says, standing up. Happily for Maureen, he’s only off in search of the bathroom and then returns to confirm my view that Babe’s chocolate cake is rich in an unmelting old-fashioned way, but the cookie plate is a rip-off at $1 per very ordinary cookie. Actually, I’d feel cheated at any price.
“It’s a hangout kind of place and not to be taken too seriously,” a friend emails me. He’s comfortable with the prices – $8 to $19 for starters, entrees $13 (penne with pesto or scrambled eggs aux fines herbs) to $39 (rack of lamb or steak au poivre), $70 to $90 for a modest Bordeaux. As for the food, he and I agree, given all the unemployed kitchen talent floating around town, the food could be much better. Not that it needs to be. “I’ll come back anyway,” he says. I’ve got better fish to fry myself.
60 East 54th Street. 212 308 2950
About Gael Greene
Photo: Steven Richter
In her role as restaurant critic of New York Magazine (1968 to January 2002) Detroit-born Gael Greene helped change the way New Yorkers (and many Americans) think about food.
"Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Ice Cream But Were Too Fat To Ask," "The Mafia Guide to Dining Out." and " Nobody Knows the Truffles I've Seen" were early pieces. In more recent years her annual roundup of New York City's dining favorites, Ask Gael, was a gourmand's collectible for many years and she continues to write a weekly Ask Gael column for NYM. Earlier she worked at the New York Post.
As co-founder with James Beard and a continuing force behind Citymeals-on-Wheels as board chair, Ms. Greene has made a significant impact on the city of New York. Citymeals, the largest public/private partnership in the country, has raised $200 million in its twenty-six-year history to help feed the city's frail elderly shut-ins.
Ms. Greene's memoir, "Insatiable, Tales from a Life of Delicious Excess" was published April, 2006. Earlier non-fiction books include "Delicious Sex, A Gourmet Guide for Women and the Men Who Want to Love Them Better" and "BITE: A New York Restaurant Strategy." Her two novels Blue skies, No Candy" and "Doctor Love" were NY Times best sellers.
Gael Greene
Articles used with permission of Gael Greene, Copyright 2008. All rights reserved. Steven Richter's photographs may not be used without permission.
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for women who aren't kids
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Vanity of the Monkey
