Wilfrid

Happy 40th birthday. I just got an email from them asking me to share a favorite memory and win a glass of "bubbly" on the house. My favorite memory has to be the August 4, 2009 review by Frank Bruni where he took a star away, simply because it followed my July 20 piece in the Pink Pig that shared many of Bruni's complaints -- not least the appalling duck confit. Cheers!

Oh dear.

A bunch of Rivette on Criterion right now, and he does like to make long films (he has a 13 hour one under his belt, but that's not on the Criterion list). Now watching the wonderful Pont Du Nord, another one of his glorious tours around Paris with a mystery subtext. Two women, complete strangers, hang out together. The touching thing is that the women are played by mother and daughter, Bulle and Pascale Ogier. Pascale died tragically young. It's convincing that they're strangers because Pascale looked like her father and nothing like her mother. (I first saw her in Ghost Dance and was astounded to discover she was Bulle's daughter.)

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Hinds took off their sweaters* at the outdoor Austin gig after the first three numbers. Brrrr. *Sorry, Ana took off her fitted white jacket with the white fur collar. Cisi and Paola took off their sweaters.

Personally I prefer shorter sets. I assume Beyonce is playing seated venues and who wants to sit down for a band like Hinds? (Or stand up for a 36 song set?)

I have more Paul Bowles than I remembered, including the bio. The Sheltering Sky is very good, but of course it's not Cervantes.

An early beer and "Hi, How Are You?" just came on. That's the first time I've heard them in a New York bar. Automated playlist I am told.

I read a short study of WH, and the plot(s) are unbelievably complex when looked at closely. I just finished squeezing the good bits out of Don Quixote. That took a couple of weeks because there are a lot. Just opened The Sheltering Sky. I recall the arc of the plot well enough, but don't remember it page by page.

Breaking news. Free Giant Goldfish Crackers and More Big Menu Changes

Ouch!

She was still...?

No, no, you're supposed to break it down.

The Frick renovation has pushed it just about to the top of NYC must-visits again. I don't think anyone here needs to be told about the collection. Just a couple of tips: 1. It is very busy. If that drives you crazy maybe give it at least a couple of months. 2. Get a timed ticket. Walk-ins are allowed but were being quoted an hour-plus wait. 3. Leave plenty of time. Opening the second floor as gallery space just about doubles the size of the place. Walking up those stairs for the first time is certainly exciting.

Oh I have been through that; needing to hide the non-stick pan so nobody would use it to brown chicken in sugar or overcook rice.

There are still lines for the newer, post-Kenny Essex Street space.

L'Amour Fou (1969) on Criterion, more than four hours of early nouvelle vague by Jacques Rivette. This is sloooow cinema and I am watching over several nights. I have been in love with Bulle Ogier forever (and she is still with us) and wow the clothes they wore in 1969. I note that the cast is unfussily diverse, something French cinema has not had a problem with.

To be clear, Kenny has passed away and his operation has moved around. I was talking about the original from a lot of years ago.

A belated mention of Brian James, founder member of The Damned, who died in March. The Damned and Sex Pistols were really the first two British punk bands with The Clash trailing slightly behind. I first saw The Damned in a relatively large venue, The Roundhouse, supporting The Troggs. My friends and I chatted with them in the bar afterwards, at least until one of my friends tried to push me into Sid Vicious who was standing nearby (not yet a Pistol but already notorious). I subsequently saw them many times in clubs. They were the first of that wave of bands to release an album, the first to release a single (both produced by Nick Lowe). The remastered video for the single captures the energy.

This led me on an inadvertent doom scroll that revealed Brian James of The Damned died on my birthday this year and Dave Allen of Gang of Four in April.

Whether you liked Shopsin's or not there was something remarkable about serving maybe 100 dishes from a kitchen the size of a child's wardrobe.

These shows (Sargent and Paris, Amy Sherald: American Sublime) were both in previews recently so I saw them a few days apart. I really recommend the experience. It's all about the portraits. Admittedly, the Sargent show begins with the very young artist working in a wide range of genres on his arrival in Paris. But the main parts of the show ("sumptuous" is a good word) feature his large scale, mostly commissioned portraits. (Almost every painting in the show was completed in his twenties.) The Sherald show is almost entirely portraits. Yes, there are some large canvases that locate the model in a landscape but mostly it's just you and the model. The model stands against a background of solid or gently dappled color. The clothes are interesting, some of the titles are funny, but it's really about the face, the eyes, the gaze. (Note, it's also worth watching the video about her practice in a side gallery; the references to old black and white family photos is revelatory.) Sargent works much harder at garments and backgrounds, but again, it comes down to that look. I think if I just post two images, the relationship between the shows becomes vivid.

I have a PhD and am therefore a hot date. Surely.

I am surprised I can't find a thread for Le Crocodile. I know I haven't been in a while but it's hard to believe my last visit was before we lost all that earlier content. Anyway, I do keep my eye on the menu and there was enough of interest to take me back. I was lucky to have the sommelier, Miles, as my server. We bonded when I referred to the "cod fritters" on the menu as buñuelos de bacalao and there followed a very conversational evening (I was dining solo). Three savory courses (because no cheese). A pig's head terrine that reminded me of one eaten years ago at Lupa; served on a warm plate so just starting to melt. Then the buñuelos or why don't we call them breaded brandade balls? Crisp, great filling, excellent aioli. The menu switches back and forth between duck breast and leg and I was lucky it was a leg night. It was dusted with herbs of which the anise stood out; served with baby beets and accented with slivers of rhubarb. I still find this to be such a good kitchen, even if it spends most of its time making roast chicken and fries for the guests. With the bacalau, a very pale orange wine, Schödl "Frühstückswein" -- a blast to pronounce and, as Miles pointed out, literally breakfast-wine. With the duck a Cab Franc. Instead of dessert, a revelatory glass of Domaine Tissot, a fragrant red from the Jura.

Distracted. All the "gothic" comments about Wuthering Heights reminded me of The Castle of Otranto, allegedly the first gothic novel. I know I first read a library edition so thought of picking up a cheap, used copy. Fortunately, I remembered that I own an anthology, Three Gothic Novels, and it's in there. A really quick read, barely 100 pages, and it confirmed my recollection that it's one of the most hilarious books I've ever read. Walpole was no fool; he was both creating a genre and reducing it to absurdity. I am not the first to see Monty Python roots here. "Villain!"