Octopus, veal, mussels, mousses and unwelcome fame
Next to blabbing of his amours, the most heinous offense a gentleman may commit is to divulge the name and whereabouts of that movable mecca, the small, inexpensive, discrete, family owned restaurant with a menu of rare enticements and threefork ambience. The temptation to tell can be strong. John McPhee, 48, author of the bestselling portrait of Alaska, Coming into the Country, and other books, not only is a gentleman but a gourmet and a cook; he is also a compulsive describer. He compromised. In the Feb. 19 New Yorker, McPhee devoted a 25,000-word profile to his favorite restaurant, its pseudonymous owner-chef "Otto" and his sommelière-pâtissière wife, Latvian-born "Anne who is not known as Anne."
No eat-and-tell bistro dropper, McPhee protected his sauces, revealing only that his special place is "more than five miles and less than a hundred from the triangle formed by La Grenouille, Lutece and Le Cygne," three of Manhattan's starriest caravansaries. He did not so much as hint where it might be. In New Jersey? Upstate New York? Pennsylvania? Connecticut? Staten Island? A mirage?
McPhee's piece was not so much a profile as a paean. At this "sort of farmhouse-inn that is neither farm nor inn," McPhee wrote, he had downed 20 to 30 of the best meals he had consumed anywhere, including France's most illustrious restaurants. The article, as if written by Brillat-Savarin and annotated by Asimov, recounted in minute and salivating detail Otto's preparation of dozens of dishes from his repertory of 600: coulibiac, the Russian hot fish pie; osso bucco; paella à la marinara; veal cordon bleu; fillet of grouper oursinade (with sea urchin roe); smoked shad-roe pâté mousse; mussels à la poulette (with a veloute sauce); octopus al amarillo; conch chowder; and numerous other marvels. McPhee also reported the chefs irreverent comments on several New York restaurants, including Lutece, which Otto accused of serving frozen turbot.
Hell hath no fury like a restaurant critic scorned. In the world of culinary journalism, the great Otto flap caused almost as much consternation as the 1926 disappearance of Agatha Christie did in London. None of the professional eaters-out knew who Otto might be or where. Reporters pumped other reporters, chefs, food authors, anyone who might draw a bead on the wayward cuisinier. McPhee was besieged by calls; so was The New Yorker, which did not, in fact, know Otto's identity. The Washington Post published several guesses—one was correct—but did not pursue the story.