Jay McInerney Trying To Unwrite 'Bright Lights, Big City' With Every New Column
The wine list was fairly impressive, with some treasures like Melville's Vioginier and INOX Chardonnay alongside the usual suspects. I had very nice Cheverny by the glass which was listed as a Vioginier, though it was, like most Loire whites, a Sauvignon blanc. I liked my tempura-style Prince Edward Island mussels. Anne found her oysters bland. I was pleasantly surprised to find coq au vin on the menu—very retro and perfect winter comfort food—and it was a nice version, served on mashed potatoes, if somewhat lacking in bacon.
Just out of curiosity, when one becomes a parody of oneself does it happen immediately, or is it a gradual process that occurs so slowly that one fails to notice until it's too late, at which point one neither cares nor remembers what having even the vaguest affiliation with anything remotely good or worthy felt like in the first place? Also, what wine goes with intolerable self-smugness?
