This afternoon NBC New York held their annual "Locals Only" promotion where some of the world's top chefs serve food to the masses from catering trucks. Last year's star was David Chang, with a picnic party in 90° weather on Houston Street. This year there were four stars, and with the wind chill it had to be ten degrees. Working shifts from 10 to 6 were Alain Ducasse, Paul Liebrandt, Daniel Boulud, and Michael White. I was lucky enough to sample the cooking of Monsieur Boulud.


Mr. Boulud couldn't have been more congenial. He greeted his guests with a warm smile and a platter of food. Dazzled by the hubbub I'll admit I was distracted, but I thought I heard him make a double entendre about shoving an enormous sausage into my mouth.

No, I thought. Couldn't be. Mr. Boulud has been a charcutier for decades now. He couldn't still enjoy those jokes.


The man definitely had a way with meat, though. My sausage was thick and juicy, full of gamy flavor and topped with lots of fresh mint.

My short-time companion Raoul ordered the Croque Monsieur. Hot and cheesy and crusty and sharp, it was definitely one of the best things either of us have ever tried.


As the crowd buzzed and the paparazzi snapped, Raoul and I dug into our desserts: raspberry-topped white chocolate mousse, or pane cotta, or goddamn iles flottantes for all I know. Delicious, but round spoons don't work with square corners.

I could have sworn I heard Mr. Boulud joke with another guy about sausage, this time actually using the word "fellatio." Doesn't seem possible, since the man positively bubbles with charmant, but his t-shirt says "Eat My Sausage," so what do I know?


We heard someone go off the menu and order a Croque Madame. "It's a Croque Monsieur without the fellatio jokes," announced Raoul.

This afternoon NBC held a lunchtime party promoting their "Locals Only" coverage. It was all very secretive: lunch would be served from a pushcart, like those wheeled stoves you see parked on every street corner in New York piled high with pink chicken. David Chang -- one of New York's very finest chefs, and the only one who can serve a meal for under $500 -- would man the grill. The top-secret location would be provided at the last minute, and guests were assigned a code word to gain access.


Reality turned out just as mysterious as I'd imagined. A velvet rope cordoned off a parking lot, with black-suited bouncers keeping the riffraff out. One attractive young woman took our orders -- chef's choice for me, vegetarian for Raoul -- which were forwarded to Chef Chang at the pushcart. An erstwhile maitre d' led us to seats at a picnic table.

Now, I've always been a picnic kind of guy, but in the past that's meant wilderness, not Soho intersections jammed with curious bystanders desperate to get in. When they discovered that a code word could gain them access, they ran through the dictionary. "Antelope?" one guessed. "Artichoke? Avocado?" Three strikes, you're out. Next!


I got lamb, both gamey and crusty (those are great in everything but a man), with sides of beets, greens, and white rice. Raoul got a vegetarian bun with noodle salad and something like rice fries. Diners descended like locusts on everything from foie gras to lobster, and there was nearly a fistfight over whether the duck was a confit or rillettes. ("Confit, you bastard!" I screamed.) Dessert was Chef Chang's legendary donut ice cream.


Despite my reservations, the sunny weather, the friendly crowd, and the spectacular food won me over. Sure, there wasn't a river, but there were taxis streaming by. There weren't any trees, but there were street signs and traffic lights. And there weren't any squirrels, but happily stuffed and sated I tossed toast points at the curious onlookers who scurried after them with delight.