product these days. But I couldn't tell you grape variety with any more
assurance than I could talk about stamp collecting or phrenology. And to
be truthful, I've always felt that I've survived enough dangerous
obsessions in my life; the knowledgeable appreciation of fine wine has
always seemed to me to hold potential for becoming yet another
consuming habit—an expensive one. When you know what it's like to
squat on a blanket on upper Broadway in the snow, selling off a
lifetime's accumulation of rare books, records and comic books for
drugs, the idea of spending next week's paycheck on a bottle of red
seems like, well, something that I probably shouldn't be doing.
So, even though I've been gushing here about Veritas and all things
Bryan, I'm really doing the place a disservice. The menu, the business,
the whole concept of Veritas is built around the wine—a formidable
cellar put together by two of the premium collector/connoisseurs in the
universe. It should be pointed out that Scott's food at Veritas is designed
to complement that wine. I can only imagine that it does. The fish dishes
are unusually hearty, drinkable with red for the most part, I believe
(don't trust me on this), and the meat and poultry dishes are constructed
and refined to match up nicely with the list. Some of the Asian
seasonings and ingredients of Early Bryan have been dispensed with in
order best to accomplish that mission.
As for me, I drink beer and vodka when I eat at Veritas, preferring to
spend my lucre on what I know to be good—namely the food. I know
that's a lot like going to Egypt and not bothering to look at the pyramids,
but hey, I'm just an old-time cookie with a chip on his shoulder and a
heart full of envy.
Problem is, Scott's an old-time cookie, too. After the kitchen closed (at
ten forty-five they were talking about getting the last orders in!), I took
him up to the Siberia Bar, down the subway steps, through the platform-
level bar and into the downstairs annex. I was hoping to get him drunk,
find something to dislike about the miserable bastard who's so much