I returned to the assembled and discovered the remnants of
a mixed experience. The burgers from various places were of
the thin pinkless kind though generally well reviewed; our
buddy Henry had been suckered into a pastrami on rye from
Katz's, which came lean lean and an ungenerous half pound
tops for $23. The dangers of going to a yuppie haven where
the people don't know how to eat. I opined that next year
we should go back to the open-air market in Williamsburg.
Other delicacies were reported as fair to middling.

After we struck out here, we struck out for the Brooklyn
Botanic Garden, three or four subway stops away, the better
to take advantage of the warm, sunny day and the roses and
camellias being in bloom. The flowers were a bit over, with
the next batch not yet ready, but still it was a pleasant
unchallenging stroll, after which Lilli decided not to
continue with the day's agenda, so we returned to the Hampton,
she for a nap and myself for a drink and a nap. She was
unrousable until almost 8, so we missed the traditional
outdoor dinner at L&B Spumoni Gardens, a shame more for the
socialization than for the food, which you had to grow up
with. Well, it's not bad pizza, but for me just about
anything on the inside menu would be preferable, and these
guys have been doing this every first Saturday in June for
a dozen years. The good part is that it's a tradition; the
bad part is that it's a tradition.

Anyhow, Sleeping Beauty woke up at 8, ravenous, the doubleplus
ungood Hampton breakfast and half a dry brisket sandwich not
having sufficed for the day, but Fraunces Tavern was half a
block away, so we went there for a nice quiet dinner.

We had the Ch. St. Michelle Cabernet, unexceptionable but 5x retail,
which I, needing substantial rehydration, supplemented with Harney
organic orange mango juice drink. The menu didn't mention that last
word. There's 10% juice. Didn't taste bad, just way sweet and way unconcentrated. At least the wine was neither.

I had a charcuterie plate with jamon Iberico, a double order
of morcilla, spicy chorizo, and domestic prosciutto. The place
used to claim Fermin products, and last time I came here they
were especially good. I am a little dubious about these current
offerings; though they were not generally bad, they were not so
excellent as before. The ham was decent but coarser than I recall;
still tasty, not ubersalty, andw ith the distinct flavor of oak.
The blood sausage had been warmed to a mush, so though the flavor
was slightly enhanced, the grease bled all over the butcher paper
and the palate. Spicy chorizo was not spicy at all and was the
most un-Ferminlike sausage I could imagine. And the USA-origin
prosciutto was lean, thus a travesty. This was partially made up
for by Trader Joe-quality marcona almonds, lots of them, a couple
blobs of decent quince paste, and smallish bunches of red and
green seedless grapes, the former okay, the latter terrible, and
Mr. Thompson was rolling in his grave. Also slices of yellow apple
of no flavor whatever, presumably to go with the morcilla but in
reality not going with anything.

Lilli had a 12-oz New York steak for $40, big city prices but not
absurd, which came with a massive blob, bigger than the steak by
50%, of excessively salted mashed potatoes, extraordinarly salty
broccolini (which I ate; actually decent), and beautifully turned
carrots, which she ate avidly. The meat was decent, not more, done a
couple shades over. Lilli thought it had been sous-vided and then flash-grilled; I thought maybe it had been cooked from frozen
partially cooked. Anyway, it wasn't salty, but also it wasn't juicy.

We left as they were closing our room up for the night, which
was fine, and it was about time for me to hit the hay in earnest,
but Lilli said, whoa there; her eagle eyes detected our friends
Charles, Howard. and Daniel the cop enjoying an after-dinner
drink at the bar across the hall; I would not have noticed them.
We chatted for a few minutes - it had been several years since we'd
seen Howie and several hours since we'd seen the other two.
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