Much has been said and said and said and said and said and said and said and said and said about the closing of Florent, the landmark restaurant in the Meatpacking District. I won't launch into a history of the place (which seems even more unnecessary now that the place has already been reopened - practically unchanged - as R&L Restaurant), but I do feel compelled to cough up my favorite story from dining there.
It actually happened a few months ago, right when the rumors of Florent's closing were confirmed as truth. My friend Torrey and I heatedly began plotting as many meals there as we possibly could. In March, we went for a late lunch/brunch on a Saturday and sat at the counter. We both ordered entrees and decided to share an order of French Toast. I can't handle sweet breakfasts straight-up...but I will take a syrupy chaser to a savory meal.
After our orders came, we asked our waiter for the usual selections of condiments (ketchup, mayo, butter, pats of butter, sticks of butter, etc.). The waiter brought everything to us on a little side plate...and greasy culinary heaven awaited.
As I tore into my cheeseburger, Torrey grabbed the little tub of butter from the side dish and started prepping the French Toast, slathering each slice with creamy fatty goodness.
"Omigod...this butter is amazing. It's so creamy. It's going everywhere - I love it."
I looked over and was similarly taken aback by this miracle butter. It really had covered the toast with little effort.
"This shit is genius," Torrey continued. "What is it? Pre-melted or softened or something. It's amazing."
Halfway through my burger - ready to kick it up a notch with a fistful of fries - I started poking around the side plate for the as-requested mayonnaise.
I didn't see it...but I did see a huge pile of individually wrapped lil tiny pats of butter.
"What's wrong?" Torrey asked.
"Well, there's a lot more butter here...and apparently no mayo."
We both looked in unison at the empty "miracle" butter tub.
"Fuck. That wasn't butter."
"Did I really just smear mayo all over the French Toast?" Torrey asked.
"Looks like it."
We made eye contact and in a single feverish beat, we made the simultaneous decision:
"I'm still going to eat it."
And, with that, we did.
After housing a cheeseburger and fries, Torrey and I ate the French Toast...with Mayo.
We also drowned the bitch in maple syrup.