Last Friday was pretty miserable. It was raining and the skies were grey. This would normally be unpleasant but unremarkable, but New York City had experienced a petit mal seizure two days before, when an unusually forceful, early-morning downpour brought most of the citywide subway system to a halt. Would this overcast day bring similar travel woes? I hoped not, since I was headed out of town and didn’t want foul weather interfering with my plans. The events of 8/8/07—never forget!—resulted merely in arriving to work a few hours late, but even one hour’s delay cutting into a short weekend getaway would be unacceptable.
On the day of travel, I was looking forward to a leisurely lunch with my friend Vivek around noon, when I planned to leave the office, but a meeting materialized and he had to cancel. The weather being so offensive, I just stayed put at my desk until it was time to head to the train station, specifically, Penn Station, where one can catch the sorry-ass joke that is Amtrak. If you’re familiar with Amtrak, you will not be surprised in the least to know that my train was one hour behind schedule.
With an hour and a half to spare, I figured there would be time to go ahead with the previously scheduled lunch as a solo diner, and I rode the bus through the blustery rain about ten blocks up 8th Avenue. The area around 42nd Street and 8th Avenue may seem more appropriate for fulfilling desires originating south of the stomach, but I had a very satisfying experience that I have no shame in describing here. Within the Port Authority Bus Terminal, a destination with all the charm of a Turkmenistani prison, there has been since late last year a surprisingly good and thoroughly unpretentious place to eat—with waitstaff and cloth napkins!
Metro Marché, right across from the brand new, impressive New York Times building, is a convincing replica of a French brasserie, decorated with sunny, Provence-inspired yellows and deep, Burgundy reds. I entered from the 8th Avenue side, which holds a take-out area resembling any other midtown lunch spot where you can choose pre-made sandwiches from a refrigerated case or create a salad to your order. The real, sit-down restaurant is behind this area, and within minutes I was able to forget the aggravation of my late train, the sullen weather, the grime of the streets and the grumpy people stomping through them.
A friendly, young hostess seated me at a booth along a wall, facing outward for maximum people-watching potential. A few seats down, to my left, were some geeky Times writers talking about blogs—sorry, nothing juicy to report. A few tables away, a post-interview lunch seemed to be going well, as the candidate gradually let her hair down and sipped her wine with decreasing self-consciousness. To my right was a couple of middle-aged ladies who ordered the same things and chatted softly about work and family. My waitress served me a big glass of water and some rolls with a large thimble of soft butter mixed with chives. I ordered a $7 glass of Côtes du Rhône and scanned the menu, which contained no egregious misspellings or wayward diacritical marks. (It is a huge pet peeve to enter a restaurant and be assaulted with a misguided attempt at Olde Europe authenticity. If such carelessness is on the menu—sauce Bernaise, anyone?—and on the walls—Specialteés de la Maison—why should I expect the food to be any better?)
I ordered the crispy duck confit salad, which was a huge pile of frisée, strewn generously with bits of meltingly tender duck, roasted grape tomatoes, and perfectly blanched green beans. The salad was judiciously dressed with a black truffle vinaigrette. The unfortunate trend of wantonly tossing truffles or artificially flavored truffle oil on everything seems to have abated, and I was a little skeptical to see this choice. Here, however, the flavor was used modestly, as a complementary touch. All the flavors, from the intensely sugary tomatoes to the rich, luscious confit, blended into a completely satisfying meal. I didn't feel like having dessert, but a cheese plate would have been bliss; there was none on the menu.
The whole room exuded warmth and relaxation, but it could have just been that second glass of wine. Everyone looked content, in that unmistakable way of the European just emerging from a two-hour lunch and headed for a siesta. By the time I left, the rain had stopped and the whole world seemed rosier—even on 8th Avenue. And that's no mean feat!
Eventually, I caught my train, only to be stalled for about two hours at Old Saybrook, Connecticut, while the engine was replaced. (Oh yeah, the engine on the same train a week before had similarly failed. Seriously!) I can only attribute the fact that I didn't have a screaming meltdown to my calming, transporting lunch a few hours before in that most unlikely of locations, the bus station with a little slice of France inside.
625 8th Avenue at 41st Street
New York, New York
212.239.1010
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