New York minutette

Until we were lounging next to the carefully apportioned wine at the Eater Awards party I never realized just how much my consort dreads the food events I drag him to because I feel bad about leaving him home to a martini and roast chicken with The Cat. (Why do I go? You never know . . . ) Before we got there I’d invested a good half-hour researching where we might forage afterward in that neighborhood; as he testily warned, “We’re going to need to eat and drink.” Usually it’s Night of the Locusts, with scrums at the bar and food tables and with din to beat your eardrums to deaf. But this was one of the very few mega-fetes run right. Although the place was packed, the 99% young crowd knew all about personal space — we could easily thread our way to the food, plus you didn’t have to scream to talk. And while we joked about the classy plastic wineglasses, they did seem to have a calming effect on partygoers, servers and busboys alike. When nothing is breakable, you have nothing to fear. Only one restaurant represented ran out of food, but even it had brought emergency backup chocolates. Two notes on the tastings: Those Pok Pok wings must come from chicken from another planet, one where the fowl have gyms. And I suspect the nation-famous Franklin Barbecue brisket out of Austin did not run out because it was probably the most cerebral BBQ I’ve ever encountered (and I’m old). The meat was amazingly tender, but as Bob said, the flavor was nuanced. You would never want to hoover it, just eat thoughtfully. And then go straight home, with no $150 wasted in a crapass restaurant that just happens to be near the party venue.