NEW YORK CITY
After dining at Locanda Verde, I went for a long walk through the city. New York City gives you the urge to walk for hours. Sometimes I stop only after three hours, feeling satiated. I didn't want to go back to the hotel, I was expecting more from the city. So I went for a late dinner. Prosper and Martine Assouline had mentioned a place not in the guidebooks: Monkey Bar (60 East, 54th St.; (212) 308-2950). I strolled in and was lucky enough to get a table. I liked the restaurant, not for its gastronomic interest, but for its handsome atmospheres. Frédéric Malle told me that the last time he went there, the dining room - which usually rustles copiously - suddenly went silent. Madonna was walking in. That evening I kept silent, but she never came. I was happy sitting there, with my river salmon and my glass of Italian white. I needed nothing more… except maybe Truman Capote, de George Plimpton, an "oral biography," meaning a succession of personal accounts. Truly good reading. Leaving, I photographed the stairs then headed for bed.
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