Arriving JFK
My first meal in New York was at my hotel, the rock’n'roll Paramount, which I’ve so named because of the music that hits you the moment you arrive. Philip Stark’s quirky details are everywhere: arty one-off pieces of lobby furniture, an optical-illusion set of stairs that conjures up Dali, and then the rooms. More on that later.
The delayed flight left me exhausted and ate up my appointment to do a profile of Chef Lynn Crawford, which was the whole point of my trip. She recently left Toronto to take over New York’s Four Seasons kitchen. I had another five days to catch up with her, or so I thought. More on that later.
Tired and hungry, I opted for convenience. It made perfect sense to try the hotel restaurant. There’s been a lot of talk about the general improvement of hotel food. Game on, I thought. I order a glass of wine and the salmon. Bring on the Omega-3s. I’m not dining, I’m fueling.
What a catastrophe. The glaze was so foul, I spit it out. I called over the waiter. His popping eyes and lifted brows say, “It can’t be.”
‘Taste it,” said I. “And get the chef to taste it. If he thinks it’ss good, his palate’s not.” [Tired + hungry = nasty.]
I ordered two fast appetizers and got the hell out, but returned for breakfast the next morning to give them another chance.
Maybe I’m too old to stay in a rock’n'roll hotel, but I think loud music doesn’t go with morning coffee … BECAUSE IT’S 8 O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING! [I am old.] I ploughed through half of a mediocre oversized breakfast and got the hell out, again. I don’t think I need to say that I didn’t go back, but I’ll say it again, for emphasis.
The hotel may have blown the food and ambience test, but the room was great. For headboards, Stark installs reproductions of Great Master works of art. Mine was Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring, which I loved, even though there was just half of her. There was no bathtub, which I didn’t love. [Who would have thought to ask?]
Other great details: high-thread-count linen, groovy furniture, space-age bathroom vanity, a window that opens entirely.
After dinner, I took a walk around Broadway and found myself in front of Music Box Theatre. Julianne Moore and Bill Nighy were appearing in David Hare’s The Vertical Hour. It turns out there’s a seat in the fourth row with my name on it. A lovely, redemptive end to the day.
