One Singular Frenchman

Robert Treboux, owner of Le Veau d’Or, died last week. I didn’t know him at his best. He was elderly, but not that frail, when Dad and I started going there for Saturday lunch a few years ago. He and Dad liked to reminisce about the Manhattan of 50-60 years ago when Robert was a captain at Le Pavillon and Maude Chez Elle. He was very modest about his career—I didn’t realize he’d owned Le Clos Normand and La Rotisserie Française before Le Veau d’Or. He got frailer over these last couple of years, but he never failed to greet me at the door with a kiss and a sweeping bow as I joined Dad or Nina Miness at our table. And he had a few salty words on a lot of subjects...he threw the word "shit" around with panache. A highlight of my last couple of years was the James Beard Awards at Lincoln Center where Le Veau d’Or, Robert, and Catherine won an American Classic Award. I was two rows from the stage: up there, I saw Jacques Pépin, Gabrielle Hamilton, José Andres, and Kevin Zraly, the founder of the Windows on the World wine appreciation program whose acceptance speech was incredibly touching in remembrance of all the friends who died on 9/11.

And now we raise a glass to Robert. Here he is at Dad’s 81st birthday celebration. What an honor to have known him.

Extraordinary Foodoir

While I don't like the word "foodoir," memoir is my favorite thing to read and an author who can describe meals, foods, and the cooks they've known is someone we can all relate to. I have never known abandonment, abuse, hunger, poverty, war or the many other horrors that can bedevil the innocent. I have known love via my mom's warm-from-the-oven Vienna Dream Bars, sympathy via a plate of sandwiches friends walked up the driveway the day she died, the magic of Paris via a plate of steak tartare, and the comfort of a long, strong marriage from the feasts Chuck and I prepare at Thanksgiving and Christmas. I can't choose a favorite between Ruth Reichl's TENDER AT THE BONE and Nigel Slater's TOAST. While their childhoods were different from mine, the era, the mood, and the culture of the 1950s and 1960s are so familiar to me. They're both funny, loving, and frank about the times they hated their difficult parent. Written from the perspective of their adult success, their ability to describe taste and technique is unparalleled. Gabrielle Hamilton's BLOOD, BONES, AND BUTTER is beautifully written and won all kinds of awards, but have her over for dinner? Uh-uh. Ruth, whom I've met numerous times and couldn't like more, and Nigel, whom I'd love to know, are my dinner guests from heaven. If only Betty Crocker hadn't discontinued those Vienna Dream Bars!