Peasant

On Friday night we had the chance to dine at Peasant, a wood burning Italian restaurant that's been a chef's favorite in New York for years now. I present my thoughts in the form of a vignette.

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We settle down, at a cramped table for two in full view of the open kitchen, wood fire burning satisfyingly. Two older gentlemen (TOG 1 and TOG 2) are to our right, sopping up the last bits of their ricotta spread with warm bread from the fire.

TOG 1: There are some big gays over at that table, no? (loudly)

We looked at our menus, to find everything in Italian (as I had been warned). The waitress shimmies over to explain. After a couple of iterations (I cannot remember menus in different languages, or long lists of specials) we order a razor clam appetizer, roasted baby pig, and pasta with bottarga.

TOG 2's roasted quail arrives. He begins sawing at it ineffectually.

TOG 1: Let me do it, let me do it. You can't do nothin'. He hacks manfully at the quail, tearing it asunder. Small pieces of quail now litter TOG 2's large (ceramic?) plate.

TOG 2: What you doin'? Stop. I can cut my own chicken.

TOG 1: That's how you do chicken (gesturing at the hacked quail). I used to cook da chickens, you know.

My girlfriend and I dive into the fresh razor clams, which taste of the sea, sopping up the sharp wine sauce with the fantastic bread. The wine is pleasing and fruity. If these people would just stop acting the fool, all would be well with the world.

TOG 1: I got 5 million dollars last night, you hear?

TOG 2: Five million? That'll change your life.

TOG 1: Eh, I'm only getting a hundred grand. It's an inheritance you see. And other people are getting more.

TOG 2: So why you tell me you gettin' five million for?

TOG 1: Just eat your chicken.

Main courses arrive. The roasted pig is rich, succulent. A crispy rind adorns the plate, which, though delicious, is very wintry, with buttery potatoes (not mentioned on the menu) only making things heavier. I prefer the pasta, the salt of the bottarga cutting through the butter and cream sauce. But aren't those shells a little too al dente, my girlfriend says? I nibble, and agree. It's not that they're too al dente. It's that they're uneven. This one is well cooked. That one isn't.

TOG 2: I wouldn't get this again. It's just a chicken. I had some diver scallops at Jake's (?) in Jersey, and they gave me three vegetables. I don't see no vegetables here.

TOG 1: Makes me sick. 25 bucks for a chicken.

We finish, and debate dessert. The wood baked peach tart with hazelnut ice cream (priced at an attractive, for Manhattan, $8) is extremely tempting. We decide to share one, and put in the order.

TOG 1, now working on a fruit plate: This here is a fig. You know figs?

TOG 2: Of course I know figs. They're like dates.

TOG 1: They're not dates. They're figs. Sure, they're both sweet, but that's where the similarity ends.

To Waitress: These figs are amazing. I usually have them in, you know, newtons. But here, they're not like dates at all.

Waitress: Er, yes, sir, these are fresh.

TOG 1: So are the dates I eat. Fresh!

The tart is brought to our table literally two minutes after we order. Alarm bells ring. When, precisely, was this thing wood baked? I taste. Parts of the crust are tasty, fresh tasting. Most of it tastes exactly of having sat on a counter all night, already baked and suffering (or maybe in the fridge?) Why can't they simply have prebaked the bottom, topped it freshly, and thrown it in the oven for a couple of minutes? Just to humor me? A terribly disappointing end to our meal. Sloppy, thrown together. Was it bad objectively? No. But it costs $8 at a famous, among people who matter, restaurant. In that context, what is only a pleasant mediocre suddenly becomes appalling.

TOG 1: I can't believe it. A hundred bucks for a chicken and some figs.

TOG 2: Jake's is a better deal. Three vegetables, you get (turning) At least the gays left.

TOG 1, to waitress, loudly: You make this night really, really special. So special.

Exit.