Devouring a Small Country Inn

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 sommeliere-patissiere 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 `a la marinara; veal cordon bleu; fillet of grouper oursinade (with sea urchin roe); smoked shad-roe pate mousse; mussels `a 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.

Mimi Sheraton, 53, the New York Times's remorseless food critic, and Frank Prial, 48, who writes about wine for the paper, deduced that Otto's place would most likely be fairly near McPhee's home in Princeton, N.J. They sicced a stringer onto the story, says Prial. "He called politicians in the area, figuring they like to eat, too." Indeed. The gastronomic gumshoe tracked down a Pike County Republican bigwig who confirmed the team's suspicion that the bistro described in The New Yorker was the Red Fox Inn, in Milford, Pa. However, the legendary Otto had sold that hideaway last May and hoisted his toque over an old saloon in Shohola, Pa., that he rechristened The Bullhead. The inn is 90.5 miles from midtown Manhattan. The politician, it turned out, was president of the bank where the couple got their mortgage for the new place. The Times's Holmes and Watson dined there that night. Their reservation was in the name of McCarthy.

Alas, poor Otto! His convert was blown. Sheraton and Prial identified the reclusive Paul Bocuse of the Poconos as one "Allen Lieb." (Actually, he spells it Alan.) As for the dishes he served these wisepersons from the city, Sheraton's comments ranged from "passable" to "truly awful," with a small grating of praise for a delicate fish pate and a cake or two. Her summation: "Allen Lieb, sincere and well intentioned though he may be, has a long way to go both in developing his own palate for seasoning and combining ingredients, and mastering basic cooking techniques." Oof!

As for Lieb's published remark about Lutece's frozen turbot, that accusation stirred temblors in Manhattan stockpots. Lutece's Chef Andre Soltner indignantly produced fish market receipts to show one and all that his turbot was fresh. Lieb apologized, and the usually meticulous New Yorker, accused of publishing a canard, explained that to preserve Otto's anonymity, it had taken the exceptional step of allowing the author of the piece to do most of the checking on his own.

Sometimes one cannot see the forestiere for the trees. To be sure, the Liebs' Bullhead is not Alain Chapel's plaisanterie in Mionnay or Lasserre in Paris. Nonetheless, Alan-Otto, trained in European restaurants, and his Anna Rozmarja, who is known as Ronnie--they are both 40 years old--run a warm and welcoming restaurant that draws regular patrons from great distances. Alan's reach may exceed his grasp, and Ronnie does not always make a perfect gateau. But they are delighted by the Sheraton pan, hoping it will defuse their new fame. Says Ronnie, "We just don't have the energy or capacity to deal with crowds."

New Yorker Editor William Shawn, 71--who eats faithfully at the Algonquin --maintains: "I look at McPhee's profile as a beautifully written literary piece, constructed on facts but still a literary piece." He has "no regrets." Nor does John McPhee. "The only reaction I might have," he says, "would be to the shocks we caused, and wonder over the results."sb

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.