CUISINE VOYEUR

People who dine off celebrity feed among sharks

Moira Hodgson

THE FAIR AROUND

Whining and dining where the borscht belt becomes the Gucci belt; Freudian slips, diet tips at a book party hosted by shrinks; a Debrett's-eye view of Texas

One afternoon, after a matinee at City Center, Philip and I were in the mood for a cup of tea. It was raining, so I suggested the Sam-O-Var, which was close by.

“They’ve really done it up nicely for Christmas,” said Philip when we arrived. “All red and green. There’s even tinsel on the chandeliers!”

“They keep the decorations up all year round,” I told him. “I guess they want to keep the Christmas spirit.”

The place was empty. A woman in a Paul Stuart business suit greeted us. We checked our coats at her suggestion and followed her to the dining room. “Do you have a reservation?” she asked, before showing us to a table. “No,” answered Philip. “Actually we’d just like a cup of tea.”

“Oh no!” she said. “I’m sorry, sir, dinner is now being served.”

“But there’s no one here,” said Philip. “Couldn’t we sit in front and have a cup of tea?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said again.

We collected our coats and umbrellas and walked out into the rain. By that time the desire for tea had changed into a craving for a stiff drink, so we ended up at the bar of a hotel overlooking Central Park, where we drank margaritas.

When I told Cynthia about our ordeal, she was not surprised. ‘Wo one goes to the Sam-O-Var except at lunchtime.”

“Frankly, after yesterday’s episode I’m curious to know why anyone goes there at all,” said Philip.

“Why don’t we meet there for lunch?” suggested Cynthia. “I think you should experience it.”

Philip made a reservation in the name of Maxine Gorky. Nevertheless, we were kept standing in line behind a velvet cord in the vestibule for forty-five minutes. Cynthia said she was starving and ate a whole bowl of cheddar Goldfish at the bar as we waited. The line of people stretched all the way to the door. In front of us was a tanned, blond-haired woman in a white fun fur. Her name was Shirlee (the name hung from a chain around her neck). Her companion was wearing a suit of suspect fabric and a wide tie skewered by a harp-shaped stickpin. “Who’s that over there?” asked Shirlee.

“Nobody,” he replied.

“Hey! Isn’t that... ?”

“Nah. That isn’t anybody.”

“There’s nobody here,” Shirlee wailed. “And for this I sat for an hour in the Lincoln Tunnel.”

At last our table was ready. We followed the hostess all the way through the restaurant and were seated at the very back next to the kitchen.

“This is where very, very famous movie stars who do not want to be seen by anyone sit,” said Cynthia. “It’s actually a privilege to be seated here,” she added, without much conviction.

“Did you see anyone you recognized?” asked Philip.

“Not a soul,” said Cynthia.

“Just a coven of agents,” said John, looking around at the men drinking Perrier and going over papers. Two very tall tanned women in furs, accompanied by agents, proved upon closer inspection not to be women at all.

I was in the mood for champagne, but Philip pointed out that there were twenty vodka cocktails to choose from and sixteen imported vodkas. So I decided to have a Troika, which is vodka with rum and lemon. Cynthia ordered an Uncle Vanya—vodka with lemon juice and blackberry liqueur.

John started with a Moscow Mule, which is vodka with lime and ginger beer, but he didn’t like it and changed it at once for a Boyar Imperiale, which has Cherry Heering in it. “My grandmother’s favorite drink,” he remarked. “Without the vodka and on the rocks.”

“Have you noticed how people keep staring at us as if they have a question and then look away?” asked Philip, who was drinking a Pushkin— vodka, gin, and creme de cacao. “I think the menu has been translated by D. M. Thomas,” he remarked.

I ordered Cotelettes Pojarski, which were listed as “chopped beef and veal or salmon patties, special sauce.” They sounded interesting, but they turned out later to be just meatballs.

“Shrimp salad with Russian dressing!” exclaimed Cynthia.

“What’s wrong with that?” protested John. “It’s one of my favorites.”

We all ordered borscht to start and another round of drinks.

Cynthia said she could hardly eat a thing after all those Goldfish but she would try a little caviar. So she got blinis, Russian pancakes, with red caviar—for $17.50.

“How about a Gorky to go with the pancakes?” suggested John. “Vodka, Benedictine, and bitters.”

“No,” said Cynthia. “I’ll have a Sea Gull. I’d better stick to Chekhov and not mix.”

“Another of those drinks and you’ll be ready for the Three Sisters,” said Philip. He had already had two Pushkins and was drinking a green drink called an Ivan the Terrible, which he said lived up to its name.

John ordered Cotelettes Boyar to go with his Boyar cocktail, but they turned out to be meatballs too, in mushroom sauce.

The borscht came with a pastry on the side called pirojok, which was filled with the same sort of meatballs.

I felt quite faint, so I ordered a Bolshoi Punch.

The waiter, who was good-looking even though he wore a red blouse, made a big thing of rolling all the pancakes for Cynthia himself.

Philip’s Cotelette a la Kiev was like a breaded zeppelin. When the waiter plunged in his fork, butter spurted out and landed on Philip’s tie. We all got a good laugh out of that.

“I’m not sure what they look like, but Sam Cohn and Swifty Lazar clinch deals here every day,” said Cynthia, putting on her glasses and looking around the room.

“I guess it’s because the food is no distraction,” commented Philip.

Then he asked the waiter the Russian term for “steam table.” But unfortunately, since I would have liked to know myself, the waiter didn’t speak Russian and didn’t think any of the other waiters did either.

By the time lunch was over I had quite a headache. I don’t remember much about the dessert except that Philip had some fruity gelatin and I had something covered with chocolate and pistachio nuts. We all had Black Russians with our coffee. The one thing we didn’t order was tea.