Author Archive

Ivy League Gabbing in Brooklyn’s Restaurant Saul

Written by Matthew DeBord on February 29, 2000. Posted in Breaking News, Posts

A League of My Own A friend and I were eating at Restaurant Saul about two weeks ago–Saul is one of the relatively new restaurants that have established a bustling outer-borough way of epicureanism on Smith St. in Brooklyn’s Boerum Hill–and it wasn’t long after the food was all eaten (I’ll be getting to the
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Good Taste and Chianti

Written by Matthew DeBord on February 15, 2000. Posted in Breaking News, Posts

Good Taste And Chianti A couple of years ago, I threw a small party to celebrate moving into my old apartment on the Upper East Side. A really small party, only five people. A fabulous affair wasn’t my goal; what I wanted to do was introduce my place. I was seeking validation. Yes, I do,
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A Soho Girl’s Eatery

Written by Matthew DeBord on February 1, 2000. Posted in Breaking News, Posts

Soho Girls Prune 54 E. 1st St. (betw. 1st & 2nd Aves.), 677-6221 Back to the closet. It’s a hopeless campaign. She invariably leaves the house looking nearly the same. Black stretch pants; twinset; a shirt of some kind, snug; her cool boots; her sleek coat, her scarf; her hat. Her bag, one of half
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The Oxford Companions to Food & Wine (Plus a Dead Dog)

Written by Matthew DeBord on January 18, 2000. Posted in Breaking News, Posts

Eating by the Book My dog died the week before Christmas. He was a young dog, vigorous, cheerful, not the kind of dog you would expect to see felled, abruptly, just a few days past his fourth birthday. A Jack Russell terrier, and they don’t just die. They bounce and hop and scoot and yap
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Two Different Bartenders

Written by Matthew DeBord on January 5, 2000. Posted in Breaking News, Posts

Two Different Bartenders Just to be perfectly clear, I like bartenders. And not in the insipidly chummed-up way that you’re supposed to like bartenders. You know how it goes. Bartenders (and especially the male ones) are the demigods, the capos, the high men, of a lot of restaurants. They get to lean back and take
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Two Big Things in California Wine

Written by Matthew DeBord on December 28, 1999. Posted in Breaking News, Posts

Here’s how my big things go. California plantings, in the early days (the 1800s), were both romantic and practical. Immigrants and immigrant sons from Europe tried to grow what they had grown, or had seen grown, in the Old World. Pioneers, and fearing disaster, they stuck to the successful Old World varietals. As a result,
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Big Sunsets & Red Wines

Written by Matthew DeBord on December 7, 1999. Posted in Breaking News, Posts

But stick with me here a second. It’s not the celluloid image I’m talking about, it’s the personal picture. Film, within the larger context of California–and what I’m getting at here is the place–is a perversion. The movies (and television, too, I suppose), as they’re formulated in Hollywood, make no sense, not to my eye,
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Nasty Pudding

Written by Matthew DeBord on November 23, 1999. Posted in Breaking News, Posts

Nasty Pudding I had dinner with my ex the other night. Don’t get excited. I have dinner with my ex all the time. I like my ex. We’ve made the daunting transition from failed long-term relationship to promising long-term friendship, a first for me. Virtually every woman I’ve ever had anything to do with, current
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Cheap Bordeaux

Written by Matthew DeBord on November 9, 1999. Posted in Breaking News, Posts

That said, because of my middle-class, up-from-a-small-town, prisoner-of-the-suburbs, prepossessingly uncosmopolitan heritage, I’ve always courted the French. The French, those princes of sophistication, style and urban elan. Their food, their wine. Their movies. All through my 20s, I lapped at the hoary pool of flagrant Francophilia, sometimes quite literally. I lost my cherry to a girl
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Le Gans Bistro & Bar

Written by Matthew DeBord on October 26, 1999. Posted in Breaking News, Posts

Airplane Food "What’s that?" "737." "How about that one?" "DC-10." "Over there?" "Um…" "L-1011." It’s 1978 and my father and I are sitting in webbed lawn chairs in our backyard in suburban Chicago. We’re playing a little pre-dusk game of ours: identifying the airplanes that traverse the skies over our neighborhood, on one of O’Hare’s
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