Even though I spent the better part of my first Pastis visit that week staring at Ralph Fiennes’s blue-shirted back, brunch remains an all-year summery affair here.
Few earthly delights come close to starting the day with tucking into a perfect egg dish (a simple eggs Florentine in one visit, and scrambled white egg in another, accompanied with a happy serving of fried potatoes and toasted disks of sourdough) accompanied by a café au lait, grapefruit juice and a copy of the Times on the side, while trying to think (or not to think) about the day ahead.
Then again, you’ll be hard-pressed to resist slinking back in that one-and-a-half hour between your last and next appointment, at 3 p.m., say, or 4.30 p.m., to have coffee or a quick glass of wine by the oh-so-sexy pewter bar, only to find yourself back at 10.30 for a supper of (very satisfying) croque monsieur, Champagne and more people-watching.
People, here, certainly seem to be the governing force, and at any time of the day you’ll see a throng that ranges from regulars who look their part to world-famous movie actors who wish they look less their part, and from giddy tourists with snap-happy lenses (taking pictures of every single globe light, newspaper rack and brass railing) to the international foodie set trying their damnedest to look blasé (been here done this, and ever so discreet when taking pictures of their food).
But this is, after all, McNallyLand, so if it is buzz you’re seeking, buzz is what you’ll get. For all the eye candy you’re getting, you’ll forgive the food if it’s bad, BUT—and here’s the interesting thing—it’s actually rather good. By good, I mean the onion soup hits all the right notes, the sautéed veal cutlet takes to lemon, capers and sage like a party girl to a Bellini, the skate with beurre noisette is pleasingly crisp, the croque monsieur is gratifying, and the voluptuous scallops Provencale garnished with roast tomatoes and persillade are rather a standout.
And occasionally—occasionally—you may be lucky, as I was, to have lost the one superstar in all that madding crowd (when he left his breakfast on the patio and disappeared in the direction of the Village) and to have found him again, a full hour later, all alone, walking along W. 12 St back towards Pastis, as my husband and I were heading back to our hotel. Fortified by my breakfast, and by all that seemed so accurate in my world at that moment, a sudden bout of courage made me stop him in his track, look him in the eye and say, You are who I think you are, yes? Ralph Fiennes returned my gaze, his eyes kind and politely searching, his voice so familiar to my admirer’s ears when he replied yes, I think I am who I think you think I am.
It isn’t without some irony that I look back on the moment when, after muttering some inanities, I took out my silly iPhone and asked the ultimate unthinkable: Would you allow me to take a picture with you? He could have refused, but he didn’t, and even if for a moment I thought I caught a flash of that trademark patrician anguish in his eyes—of the fripperies associated with fame, of the unbearable onslaught of clichés, who’s to know—it was soon done, snap snap, thank you Mr Fiennes. Best of luck with your next project.
While the moment—and the picture—remains among my all time NY highlights, somewhere at the back of my mind I’d like to think that the Pastis spell had something to do with it. After all, the best restaurants have about them that magical quality you find in the best movies: for a few minutes, or a few hours if you’re lucky, the world suddenly feels like a giant movie set, and apparently you’re in it.
