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In that issue, the magazine ran three retrospectives about the 1970s, starting with a column about the price of beef soaring so high that the Department of Consumer Affairs urged diners to cut out red meat one day a week, creating "Beefless Wednesday" as "a patriotic effort." The second story was about food prices "biting back" -- energy costs, distribution costs, labor costs and health costs were "making our favorite foods too expensive." The steep gas prices (a gallon of gas peaked at 90 cents in '79) had encouraged country-music songwriter Brent Burns to pen "Cheaper Crude or No More Food," suggesting a food embargo of the OPEC countries. The recording sold 200,000 copies.
The third story was the most shocking for its time: New York Times food writer Craig Claiborne and a friend racking up a $4,000 dinner tab for 31 dishes and 9 wines at a Paris restaurant in 1975. It was a stunt so outlandishly hedonistic that even the Vatican commented on Claiborne's indulgence.
I doubt that the Vatican would concern itself with my own recent affare dell'omelette, but here's a confession: Last Sunday at the two-month-old Bluestem in Westport, I spent $8.50 on an omelet that was stuffed only with cherry tomatoes and boursin cheese. After adding a $4 cinnamon roll and a $5 bowl of granola, I really did start feeling sinful. But when I did the arithmetic in my head, my breakfast (including coffee and tip) ended up costing less than most Sunday-morning buffets -- and its hipness quotient was definitely higher.
At Bluestem, husband-and-wife chefs Colby and Megan Garrelts seem to be pulling off their own stunt: operating a stylish, sexy magnet for the young and the restless and luring in the stuffier Mission Hills bourgeoisie.
The narrow restaurant, which seats just 43 customers (including five at the bar), was tidily packed with boldfaced names from The Independent on my first dinner outing to the restaurant, with friends Bob, Ben and perennial party girl Jennifer in tow. Jennifer, a chic fashion executive, is a convert to the Bluestem's glamour. "Don't you see?" she said conspiratorially. "It's not like we're in fucking Westport. This restaurant is something out of New York City."
Broadway, maybe -- every dish is as theatrically composed as a stage set, and the service is superbly attentive but glacially slow. "I liked the food a lot," a rich, well-traveled friend of mine said later. "But who in the hell has three hours to spend on dinner on a weeknight? It was like sitting through Les Miserables. Pleasant but not exactly snappy."
Bluestem's servers are professional enough, so I suspect a lot of the delay between courses comes from Colby Garrelts fussing over each dish in the tiny kitchen. But even a request for hot tea elicited a performance on our first night. Justin, the server, brought out a heavy glass tray with nine votive-sized indentations, each filled with a different loose tea, ranging from an earthy black tea to the aromatic blend of gunpowder green tea, lemon myrtle, rose hips, laurel, and jasmine that I finally settled on.
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