Jeff Grossman
Jeff Grossman
I recall the taste of Sunday night's supper (beef short ribs over a baked potato); it was already kinda faint.
Monday lunch (ziti, meatballs, red sauce) was just barely detectable.
By Monday evening, I couldn't taste anything. I had my upstairs neighbor's homemade chicken soup with matzoh balls, for which I swoon, hoping for a Yiddish miracle. Bupkis.
On Tuesday I took Amtrak from NYC to Boston, approximately a four-hour ride. I brought along some leftover sandwiches from Monday because, well....
I am taking meds and, um, er, removing fluids of various colors and textures all day long. So, I thought I'd give the old beak a workout. Maggiano's is a chain of family Italian restaurants and a quick peruse of the menu showed that I could get a salad with blue cheese and raw onion, a plate of gnocchi with sausage, spinach with garlic, and I figured a glass of amaro would wrap up my Pungent Paisan dinner.
Well, zip, zip, zip and zip. I could not smell mold, pork fat, or either allium. I could feel various elements; the onion must have been quite wicked because I could sense waves of evaporating volatiles passing up my nose and a trickle of sharp acidity wending down my throat. But proprioceptive sensation isn't really very exciting and my attention wandered pretty quickly.
When I asked for a glass of amaro, my Pungent Paisan met the Coniglio Bianco. Not only did the waitress not know what I was talking about, but she fetched the bartender and he did not know what I was talking about. We went to the bar, where he showed me Aperol, what he called "Luxardo" (which I explained is the name of a maker, not a drink; he eventually produced a bottle of the Maraschino), and Carpano Antica. I took a glass of the vermouth and figured that was as close as I was going to get.
A couple minutes later, he shows up at my table and we chat for a few minutes about vermouth and amari and digestifs generally. He tells me that he is soon starting a cocktail program and rattles off the names of artisanal products he is getting (and now I may have set him on the trail of Vergano's "BB"). He plans to use these products in the cocktails -- mostly classics, e.g., Aviator, Negroni. He hopes to get the 'nip' size for many of them so that he can mix the drink and also give the patron the rest of the little bottle. I looked at him funny because it is usually the bartender who mixes the drink, not the patron, but he says he is from Europe and he is very comfortable with ordering a drink and receiving a personal-size bottle of whatever it is.
Anyway, he comped my drink.
Which I couldn't taste.
Monday lunch (ziti, meatballs, red sauce) was just barely detectable.
By Monday evening, I couldn't taste anything. I had my upstairs neighbor's homemade chicken soup with matzoh balls, for which I swoon, hoping for a Yiddish miracle. Bupkis.
On Tuesday I took Amtrak from NYC to Boston, approximately a four-hour ride. I brought along some leftover sandwiches from Monday because, well....
I am taking meds and, um, er, removing fluids of various colors and textures all day long. So, I thought I'd give the old beak a workout. Maggiano's is a chain of family Italian restaurants and a quick peruse of the menu showed that I could get a salad with blue cheese and raw onion, a plate of gnocchi with sausage, spinach with garlic, and I figured a glass of amaro would wrap up my Pungent Paisan dinner.
Well, zip, zip, zip and zip. I could not smell mold, pork fat, or either allium. I could feel various elements; the onion must have been quite wicked because I could sense waves of evaporating volatiles passing up my nose and a trickle of sharp acidity wending down my throat. But proprioceptive sensation isn't really very exciting and my attention wandered pretty quickly.
When I asked for a glass of amaro, my Pungent Paisan met the Coniglio Bianco. Not only did the waitress not know what I was talking about, but she fetched the bartender and he did not know what I was talking about. We went to the bar, where he showed me Aperol, what he called "Luxardo" (which I explained is the name of a maker, not a drink; he eventually produced a bottle of the Maraschino), and Carpano Antica. I took a glass of the vermouth and figured that was as close as I was going to get.
A couple minutes later, he shows up at my table and we chat for a few minutes about vermouth and amari and digestifs generally. He tells me that he is soon starting a cocktail program and rattles off the names of artisanal products he is getting (and now I may have set him on the trail of Vergano's "BB"). He plans to use these products in the cocktails -- mostly classics, e.g., Aviator, Negroni. He hopes to get the 'nip' size for many of them so that he can mix the drink and also give the patron the rest of the little bottle. I looked at him funny because it is usually the bartender who mixes the drink, not the patron, but he says he is from Europe and he is very comfortable with ordering a drink and receiving a personal-size bottle of whatever it is.
Anyway, he comped my drink.
Which I couldn't taste.