Empty, silent; hanging on, if at all, with delivery and takeout: the city’s restaurants, its nodes of gathering, eating, and talk. For those that are long gone, for those that may be gone for good, a roll call. Names, please.
There was a time when Lutèce was the best restaurant in the city, one of the best in the country. The mere speculation, quoted in a New Yorker article by John McPhee, that they used frozen turbot was enough to cause a journalistic and culinary scandal. We went there a few times for birthdays. Once we brought my mother-in-law (b. 1912) …
This article appears as “Remembrance of Meals Past” in the May 4, 2020, print edition of National Review.
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