One If By Land, Two If By Sea
17 Barrow Street
New York, NY 10014
212-228 0822
http://www.oneiffbyland.com/ニューヨークのグリニッジ・ヴィレッジでロマンチックなディナー．．．といったらこのレストランらしい。
６アヴェニューあたりの喧騒から離れたわき道にあるレストランの建物は、１８世紀末～１９世紀初頭の馬小屋だったらしい。しかも私が
ゴア・ヴィダルの小説を読んで以来ファンになった
Aaron Burrゆかりの建物だとか。レストランにもBurrと彼が決闘で殺した政敵の
Alexander Hamiltonの肖像が飾ってあった。
回転率向上のためと思われるが、予約は６時か９時のどちらにしますか、と聞かれたのには興ざめ。しかし、かなり予約の時間に遅れてしまった私たち夫婦にも、いかにも「ゲイ」といった感じのウェイター氏は優しかった。
料理はなかなかいけてる。クラシック・アメリカンとでもいうのだろうか。たっぷりのスモークサーモンのスターターにここの名物らしいパイ皮で包まれたビーフ・ウェリントン。ボリュームはかなりあるのでお腹をすかしていくことが肝要でしょう。あのままデザートまで食べてしまったのは無謀であった。
ソムリエに進められたカリフォルニア・ソノマ産のピノも美味。
初めはお隣さんが、「結婚記念日にニューヨークに来ました」みたいな老夫婦で微笑ましかったのだが、第二クールで登場したのがいかにも「不倫しています」という感じのおじさんとコムスメで妻と一緒にズッコケてしまった。しかもこの不倫おじさん、自信が無いのか、余裕が無いのか、浮気するのが初めてなのか、妙に舞いあがってしまっていて痛々しかった。
「これ、プレゼント．．．あ、でももし気に入らなかったら、交換してくれるって店の人が言っていた．．．どう？気に入ってくれた？もしいやだったら交換できるからね．．．ね？．．．」
などと延々と一人で喋りまくっている。
コムスメも．．．まぁなんというか、最近話題のエリカ様風で．．．笑わさせていただきました。
ありゃいい反面教師だったな。
レストランの名前が妙ですが、これは独立戦争時にボストン駐留英軍の動向を知らせに走ったPaul Revereの活躍に取材した、ロングフェローの詩からとったものです。ちょっと長いですが、以下に転載。
Paul Revere's Ride
Henry Wadsworth LongfellowListen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."
Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,---
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,---
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
ロングフェローのこの詩のおかげで有名になったPaul Revereさん。ところがRevereさんと同じくゲリラ活動をして英軍の動きを知らせていた相棒のWilliam Dawesさんの名前を知る人はほとんどいない。ということでそれを皮肉った詩が以下の通り。
The Midnight Ride of William Dawes
Helen F. Moore
I am a wandering, bitter shade,
Never of me was a hero made;
Poets have never sung my praise,
Nobody crowned my brow with bays;
And if you ask me the fatal cause,
I answer only, "My name was Dawes"
'Tis all very well for the children to hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere;
But why should my name be quite forgot,
Who rode as boldly and well, God wot?
Why should I ask? The reason is clear --
My name was Dawes and his Revere.
When the lights from the old North Church flashed out,
Paul Revere was waiting about,
But I was already on my way.
The shadows of night fell cold and gray
As I rode, with never a break or a pause;
But what was the use, when my name was Dawes!
History rings with his silvery name;
Closed to me are the portals of fame.
Had he been Dawes and I Revere,
No one had heard of him, I fear.
No one has heard of me because
He was Revere and I was Dawes.
