Recently my sister and I went to Tavern On the Green in Central Park here in New York City.
If you’ve been to New York City, you probably know Tavern On the Green. The Tavern is supposed to be one of the greatest restaurants in this city. It is undoubtedly one of the most expensive. Sadly, it’s one of the most overrated, too.
I’ve found that to be the case with most of the tourist traps in New York – and since
I am a Confederate spy of the great state of Alabama, I’ll share some of what I’ve learned with y’all so you don’t get “taken” like other suckers in the Union. Stay away from places like Tavern On the Green.
Only tourists eat there.
If there are chartered buses outside the restaurant, that’s a pretty good indication that you’ve picked a loser.
Of course, you might like eating with a bunch of folks from North Dakota – but I would suggest if that is the case, you go to North Dakota because it’s cheaper. Tavern On the Green looks like, well, a tavern. It’s also in the park.
Now why, I ask, if a person comes to New York would he want to go see a bunch of trees?
Trees are what New York does worst.
Granted, I love trees, but when I start to miss them. I leave New York.
New Yorkers don’t like trees and they certainly don’t think eating in taverns is chic.
So Tavern On the Green has taken the liberty of “fixing up the trees and trying to make their old beer-hall of a tavern look uppity.
The first thing they did was drape about a hundred thousand Christmas lights all over every tree, shrub, and leaf in sight.
Those poor trees are perpetually festive and their branches sag from the weight of Edison’s invention.
Then they cut up the bushes to look like little taxi cabs and buildings as if New York didn’t have enough of this stuff.
One of the shrubs resembled Godzilla; it reminded me of a kudzu-covered tree near my house in Alabama that used to scare me at night.
I suppose this was meant to increase my appetite or at the very least convince me I was in a fancy place … instead I was on guard against the threat of a deranged gardener running around with a weed whacker.
My sister Marissa and I were lead into the “Crystal Room.” “Crystal” certainly didn’t apply to the five-and-dime glasses from which we drank our four-dollar soft drinks.
The Tavern has hung huge chandeliers from every rafter. This might be nice, if say, they matched.
Instead, the lights look like they came out of every sleazy hotel from here to Arkansas. Some of the crystal chandeliers are green. Some are pale yellow. Still others are red. It looks like the place was decorated by a Yankee. And Everybody knows the Yankees don’t know their china, crystal and silver.
Shoot. that’s one of the reasons they started the War of Northern Aggression so they could come steal our good dinnerware.
Perhaps the strangest decorating idea embraced by the Tavern are the life-size moose replicas that adorn the dining room. The last time I ate with a moose was at my junior prom dance — it was not an experience I wanted to repeat.
Marissa and I began to study the menu. Between the two of us we have collectively had 12 years of French and we still couldn’t quite figure out what we were ordering. Before I knew what I’d done, I had ordered “Le Boudin Nor avec Le Ris de Veau hors-d’oeuvre et La Lamproie a La Bordelaise: (pig’s gut sausage with thyroid glad appetizers and a stew of bloodsucking eel.)
Marissa, whose French is better than mine, ordered a Caesar salad. The service was rude. I’m quite sure the waiter was from Paris. He had on a nicer tuxedo than I.
I think he was waiting for me to say intelligent things about the wine.
I don’t usually say much about wine. Talking about liquor isn’t considered a polite conversation in Andalusia.
So saying things like “Boy. this Chateaux Blah Blah sure does have swell legs” or “The Pinot Noir has a forthright palate but recedes to an oaky undernote” is a bit foreign to me.
A few weeks ago I went to dinner with my boss, the Group Publisher of Harper’s Bazaar, Anne Fuchs. She asked what I
thought of the wine. I said it was a good month of Chateaux T Tour and that I thought it was, “bold, plump and amusing.”
Sadly I had just poured myself the table vinegar for her salad.
Later in the evening I sent my vichyssoise back to the kitchen because it was cold.
All told, it was not a banner night.
By the way, never put an entire artichoke leaf in your mouth. So forget the Tavern.
Another place tourists love to go in New York City is The Plaza Hotel. The Trumps own the Plaza. That should tell you something right there.
And if Donald, Marla and Ivanna aren’t enough to convince you to stay away the big gilded statue of William T. Sherman should
Sherman sits on his gold horse right outside The Plaza on Fifth Avenue.
But if you must go to the venerable old hotel, I suggest Sunday brunch.
They’ve got everything that will run, walk, swim, jump or flay laid out dead on their gargantuan buffet.
You’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven with all God’s other critters too.
So if you’re coming to New York, be careful not to eat any wooden nickels.