Angus McIndoe's Good Med-American
I'm told Diane and Julie are scaling Kilimanjaro in August. When I'm asked, "Are you going?" no sounds like the wrong answer. Barb says you need like eight injections to go to Africa. Michelle says if I go, she'll go. Then Barb's telling me I should come with her to buy cheeses and aged balsamic vinegar in Brooklyn. "Do you need more shots to go to Brooklyn or to Africa do you suppose?" "You have a very bad attitude, Lane."
Down some steps to the restaurant Calle Nueve, we find the faint smell of drying paint and cigarettes in the front barroom. There is raw wood above the bar, a tiled floor in tans, marble-topped cocktail tables, a colorful wall of windowed murals echoed by Southwestern upholstery. An old cash register sits at the center of the back of the bar. The bartender says millions of dollars have passed through it. Michelle quizzes me: "What does NCR stand for?" I pass the test. Some girl talk: "You know the epidural doesn't work." "You know what the catheter's attached to..." I do not want to know.
Places are set at the bar for us, which seems like overkill since we've only ordered guacamole. A white bowl is brought with a big mound of just the best guacamole and a paucity of chips. But our friendly bartender offers to bring more. The three of us don't agree on much, but we can agree that this is some great guacamole, lush with some chunkiness and pockets of heat throughout. We ordered it "spicy" and it is. We like the tangy smoothness of our Cuervo rocks margaritas, but we don't like the volume of liquid, or rather, lack of it. We try a passion fruit variety also, which isn't so sweet. The lanky bartender looks like a guy from a soap opera, is nice as pie, and I feel awful, as presented with an old-fashioned imprinted check, I get confused and neglect to tip him. "Lane's such a girl."
"She's the daintiest."
Michelle teaches Barb how to eat a puffy flour tortilla chip like me. With a mincing motion, pinkie out and other hand cupped underneath so that no stray morsel can land on your Betsey Johnson. There's discussion of where to celebrate my next birthday. They very seriously and sincerely tell me, "We really don't think of you as that old." Great. The moment Barb leaves to use the facilities, Michelle and I talk about her. And as soon as she returns and Michelle departs, conversation immediately and seamlessly turns to news of Michelle. Thankfully I'm blessed with a capacious bladder.
At the Bottom Line, the American half-pipe team appears to be staffing the house. Their combined blood pressure is in the negative numbers. While waiting for Jill Sobule, we sing "Supermodel," but Barb interrupts with a Brooklyn Lager-induced revelation. "You should get pregnant and have a little girl that looks exactly like you so you could sing that together!" Fat chance of that happening now that I know the epidural doesn't work. During the show, Barb points an accusatory finger at me and says, "You are taking me with you next time you see this woman." She's still mad that I saw a Jill show like three years ago and neglected to tell her.
The blonde, moptopped, sweet-voiced gamine is thoroughly entertaining. During "Karen by Night," Michelle turns to me and says, "Not Africa. Ireland. And we'll buy motorcycles with the money we save, Ireland'll be like half the price." Oh, okay.
Jill makes the cabaret's owner tell the story that 28 years ago a record company exec predicted that despite the presence of Mick and Bette and Janis Ian, etc., in the opening night audience, the place would be a bust because you couldn't get a cab there.
Calle Nueve, 21 W. 9th St. (betw. 5th & 6th Aves.), 995-0600.
Angus McIndoe
As cc the kitten is to genetic-donor Rainbow, Angus McIndoe is to Joe Allen (the restaurants, not the men). Similar, yet not the same. Both are brick-walled theater district hangouts. At Joe Allen's, a white votive glows on your table; at Angus', you get two. Allen's has omelets, while at Angus' they have "Breakfast All Day," fried eggs and sausage with all the accouterments. Both have salads and burgers and fries.
But Angus is offering a slightly less expensive Mediterranean-accented bistro menu rather than a mostly American one, and a more casual atmosphere. At Angus McIndoe there's a regular menu plus a printed-daily menu of specials. Rattan French country chairs on black and white floor tiling, and the red-topped barstools are inviting. The second-floor balcony dining room is warmly lit. White paper-topped tables hold shiny salt and pepper shakers. A diner at the bar looks like he's comfy, and the service is super-nice.
Thick-cut sourdough is served up in a plastic basket. Michelle orders a Stella Artois but is so jealous of my warming ruby Shiraz she forsakes her pint for a Joe Allen-esque 1/4-liter carafe. Juicy, meaty clams come with a very vinegary mignonette, a wonderfully tongue-assaulting peppery garlic dip, highly horseradished cocktail sauce and generous hunks of lemon. Fresh oysters come with the same accompaniments, but two on the half-dozen plate are really too puny to have been served. A plate of pates, cheese and apple is served with crusty cranberry-pecan bread. The vegetable terrine of carrot, spinach and mushroom is fresh and creamy with unmuddled flavors. There are plenty of shards of buttery Stilton and a "mousse Basquaise" that is less good than bland liverwurst. Neither pate makes a good match with the busy, sweet bread, but both are fine with the table's sourdough.
Duck spring rolls hold the skinniest cellophane noodles and strips of portobello within papery phyllo atop mixed greens with a hot-sweet peach chutney alongside. They're fingers of fun. A salad combines plentiful frisee, cherry tomatoes and lots of large crumbles of unsoggy feta. It's topped with a mountain of scored avocado. Fries are hand-cut, double-fried, well-seasoned and soft.
The duck entree is tender in a smoky-sweet baked-on sauce. A dollop of pineapple-peach chutney sits alongside with drifts of beautiful-looking yellow polenta that is unfortunately nowhere-tasting and grainy. I drop my knife twice; both times it is replaced immediately and both times the waiter makes fun of me mercilessly.
For me, this is exactly the kind of place I like to sit in for long stretches, but Barb can't wait to split. Of Joe Allen's she says with exasperation, "Why does everybody go there?" She likes Roy's. And Town. But I know Barb really well, so I ask for the dessert menu and, after perusing it, Barb decides we could stay a bit longer. Coffee charmingly served in a French presse is piping hot. Tart Tatin with a scoop of caramel-iced vanilla gelato is perfect; the soft-cooked browned apples just moisten their flaky crust. Stiff panna cotta comes in a pool of orange sauce with Grand Marnier and small squares of candied orange peel. A few firm, luscious raspberries adorn. A special of chocolate peanut-butter pie has an oatmeal cookie crust for crunch, ganache coating and a chocolate cream mousse layer holding up a rich, hefty peanut butter layer. White icing is whorled on top and milk-chocolate frosting decorates the plate; a sprinkling of sugared peanuts is kept company by a strawberry. It's an "I dare you to finish me" dessert. We make short work of it.
Entrees hover around $17, appetizers around $9 and the priciest desserts are $8. Like at Joe Allen, there's a blank space on the check to enter your tip for the maitre d'. I know nothing about propriety here, but at Joe Allen, I give 12-ish percent when I have a job, but not a reservation. Of course, if the maitre d' helps you out and you plan to return often and want to have good tables on those returns, you could be more generous.
Outside everyone's waiting for Matthew and Nathan to come out. The street is choked with stretch limos. The girls amuse themselves by walking down the street like me, "She's too sexy." "No one could be that sexy." Note to self: replace friends ASAP.
It's Fat Tuesday, so the barker at a bar on 8th Ave. bedecks us with beads. Within, four friends, being British and young, each tell me I'm "luvly" and would I like to go out sometime. A couple of them say I look like Patsy Kensit, but I don't know who that is. But the one that's my type, tall and pale and skinny, pulled me aside and said, "This might sound strange but I'm besotted with you." Ding ding ding ding ding, we have a winner. Michelle grills the bartenders, who assure her, "He's a really good guy." Walking out, Michelle's saying, "He was so gorgeous!" Let's not go overboard, he was handsome. Gorgeous is like the bartenders at the Houston's at 54th St. And they're even nice enough to shoot looks back at you.
The girls want to get apple martinis at Town, but I'm fading out. They look at me strangely. While I'm walking them back to their car, Michelle's telling us about the girl with the biggest butt. "I thought that was me." "No, Lane, people say you're 'shapely.'" A likely story; note to self: retain friends at all costs.
On a return pretheater visit with family to Angus McIndoe, Elizabeth Ashley's exultant rasp wafts over from a nearby table. Impossibly young chorines and Angus line the third-floor bar. A character actress whose face you know, but name you do not, dines with a boyish woman. The waiter brings menus, brings wine and then picks up my knife, saying, "Do you want me to just take this now?" But God is in my corner, when clearing the table the waiter drops not one but two utensils to my applause. He claims it's a conspiracy, that we distracted him and probably sent the silverware clattering ourselves.
On her way to the powder room, my aunt spies him dropping yet another fork. He makes her swear she won't tell me. I say I can't wait to tell my friends he dropped the silver. He says if I want to come back, I'd better keep my mouth shut.
Butterfingers, my lips are sealed.
Angus McIndoe, 258 W. 44th St. (betw. B'way & 8th Ave.), 221-9222.