Packing in some meat in the Meat Packing district

Another J has also jetted in today to join the party and after a spot of shopping (well it seems almost rude not to) she is meeting DD and I in the Hudson bar for a pre-show cocktail before leaping into a yellow cab and heading for the meat packing district.

The Hudson is certainly a happening place (though DD will vouch that it stays happening and banging way later than a jetlagged person should have to endure!) and we enjoy a cocktail under the “toddlers let loose with a box of wax crayons and a gallon of Sunny Delight” ceiling.

Our trusty concierge has suggested Florent for us tonight; I mentioned something about the meat packing district and something authentic and a 24 hour French roadside caff often hailed as a New York institution is recommended. And he is so right, it’s just what we needed, some uncomplicated yet hearty French bistro food in a real, totally unpretentious New York establishment.

The signs are made out of those white letters you might have seen on a board outside the local Odeon proclaiming the latest Hollywood blockbuster and the tables are Formica. One wall is draped incongruously in silver foil strands possibly left over from a party or just to hide the less than perfect walls, and the lights are dim enough (hence the alarming 70's style sepia photos) not to alarm a wee small hours of the morning reveller who has stopped by for a restorative tureen of onion soup crowned with a Gruyère topped crouton.

I start with a little pork liver pâté with green peppercorns, I had hoped for the duck mousse pâté but they’d run out. I normally like my pâté less coarse and more of a parfait but the pork liver pâté had a feisty taste.

Then we all realised that being in the meat packing district we really should have steak frites – a grilled New York sirloin with all the trimmings even though the mac & cheese, chicken and salmon looked pretty good also.

And for a dessert a few spoons of a mousse au chocolat to complete our fine French bistro fare, we could be in a little starkly light and plastic flower adorned café that litter the French countryside but no we’re in New York. A meat-packing fork for Florent, I feel they may feel it would be deemed pompous to have any more.

Obviously a world away from Café Gray last night but that’s what I like about dining out in New York, the multitude of choices and one can't always fine dine - well not always!