What better way to say farewell to New York than to say it with cheese. For my final fancy meal, I took a trip up to Picholine with a few dear friends in tow. I'd been eyeing the three-star resto for years, having had it on my shortlist of places where I wanted to trail back when I was heading into my externship. I never did make it into the kitchen, but the dining room was fine with me.
Better than fine actually: We started out with some ever-so-delightful (and very pink) French martinis at the bar (chef Terrance Brennan actually came out for a meet-and-greet—a really nice touch to what was becoming a very fine evening). But, most important, we ended with a flight of 9 cheeses—from mild and semi-hard to oozing and super stinky (yes!)—selected by the Maître Fromager. He'd been trundling his dairy cart around all night, making the anticipation build to a slow burn by the time we were ready for him.
WOW. Sure the apps and entrees were excellent. No complaints from any of the 4 corners of our table. But it really was all about the cheese. How could it be otherwise?
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