And While You're at It...

Why not enjoy a leisurely breakfast in bed today?

And While You're at It...

Why not enjoy a leisurely breakfast in bed today?

As Time Goes By

There comes a time, particularly for a New Yorker, when one wants and needs a respite from the never-ending onslaught of trendier-than-thou eateries. Deliver us, o Lord, from fusion and microbiology; from self-righteously sustainable this and smugly, locally sourced that; from DJ's and bouncers; and, most especially, from diners taking pictures of their food.

There comes a time when one longs for a grown up meal, served in hushed but welcoming environs, by efficient yet impersonal, professional waiters who don't tell you their names; surrounded by well-dressed, well-mannered adults who most likely have never heard of Facebook or Twitter, much less ever broadcast their dining habits on them.

There comes a time when one yearns to see dishes on a menu which, in 2011 New York, would read like hieroglyphics to most diners if they came across them. Céleri rémoulade. Tripe à la mode de Caen. Floating Island!

Praise be -- this utopia actually exists.

Le Veau d'Or, discreetly tucked away just off the corner of East 60th St. and Lexington Avenue, first opened its doors in 1937; it was already a veteran when, in 1950, the legendary style bible of its day, Flair magazine, included it in their round up of the best Gotham had to offer.

September 1950 issue of Flair, with accompanying article

In a roundabout way, it is one of the last links to the legendary Henri Soulé, whose Le Pavillon restaurant in New York, opened in 1941, stood for years as the standard-bearer in excellence of cuisine, luxury of appointments, impressiveness of patrons, and glacial impenetrability to mere mortals.

Henri Soulé outside of Le Pavillon, 1962

Le Veau d'Or's owner, Robert Treboux, worked for five years under Soulé at Le Pavillon. This glittering establishment eventually spawned a host of equally-vaunted off-shoots: chief among them, La Grenouille, Le Périgord, La Caravelle, and the sole Soulé-owned and sanctioned sibling, La Côte Basque.

William and Barbara "Babe" Paley leaving La Côte Basque, circa 1970

Only La Grenouille and Le Périgord still survive, the former in a buzzy, eye-popping, refurbished, relatively new space. The food, service and room are all fabulous, but the operation seems too frenzied and self-important to indulge in any nostalgia. The latter, by contrast, is still clinging to life in what seems to be an excruciatingly prolonged last act, complete with dust, cobwebs and corpses (a withered, charred carcass which supposedly once was Duckling a l'Orange).

Le Veau d'Or, which Treboux has owned since 1985, was never as expensive or important as those Soulé-inspired temples to haute cuisine; but today, it has all the deliciously faded glamour that La Grenouille has carefully polished and renovated away, and the brisk warmth and energy that completely elude Le Périgord.

Yes, we used the word "energy" to describe the feel of Le Veau d'Or, which would no doubt shock the hipster foodies who, in the wake of Anthony (Kitchen Confidential) Bourdain's televised recommendation, scurried over to 129 E. 60th, only to be left completely baffled by the unhurried pace, sedate clientele, and straightforward, sometimes severe food.

The energy, muted yet still crackling under the surface, is supplied by the proprietor, Monsieur Treboux, who keeps a watchful eye, every night, on the proceedings. He resembles no one so much as a French version of Sam the Eagle from The Muppet Show: tall, dignified, imposing, bald, stone-jawed. Now in the middle of his eighth decade, Monsieur Treboux is alternately grouchy and courtly, but always, always keenly aware of what is happening in his restaurant. His daughter, Catherine, is now also a daily and nightly fixture, acting as hostess, and a charming, ebullient one at that; it's as if they have an act, these two -- Catherine supplying the fizzy yin to her father's gimlet-eyed yang.

Robert Treboux at Le Veau d'Or

The menu is an old-fashioned table d'hôte, with the price of the entree also including an appetizer and dessert. The coq au vin is absolutely superb, one of the best we've ever had -- it is, truly, a dish we dream about. The kitchen also turns out commendable rognons de veau Dijonnaise (veal kidneys in mustard sauce), and although we haven't personally tried them, the moules marinière (mussels in white wine and cream) were ordered by a young lady at a neighboring table when we last ate there, and she did everything but hold the bowl to her lips and slurp down the last remnants of the broth.

Not surprisingly, given the structure and pricing of the menu, appetizers and desserts are given somewhat less attention. There's a fine cold artichoke, and a very good, surprisingly light rendition of soupe à l'oignon gratinée. The pâté is nicely gamey, but served ice cold. Escargot are passable, but not entirely deserving of the $8 surcharge -- yet when we do break down and order them, we can't help but polish off the pools of the delicious garlic butter with our bread. The desserts are all ready-made and straight from the refrigerator or freezer, yet somehow appealing in their defiant anti-trendiness. Peach Melba is a scoop of store-bought vanilla ice cream topped with raspberry sauce, canned peaches and slivered almonds -- and it was delicious. Similarly, that Floating Island (œufs à la neige, if you want to be properly French) is served suspiciously quickly after one's order is placed, but it's not merely a culinary relic, it's a surprisingly tasty one.

During their glory years, the restaurant's atmosphere truly was charged with palpable excitement: the New York Times' venerable food critic, Craig Claiborne, declared it the one restaurant in town he couldn't live without; in 1962, the Times informed their readers that "In the minds of many Frenchmen and francophiles, Le Veau d'Or is the best French restaurant in town..."; and in 1968, Le Veau d'Or was one of only seven restaurants the Times deemed worthy of four stars.

Craig Claiborne

Today, the mood is obviously much less frenetic, and the kitchen perhaps touched less frequently by magic, but if you close your eyes, you can still see the ghosts of a glittering, bygone Gotham seated along the red banquettes, drinking cold martinis and good bottles of Bordeaux. A gruffly efficient, tuxedoed, grey-haired waiter still attends to tables of Park Avenue socialites, French expats, and regulars of all stripes.

As you may have already guessed, we're crazy about Le Veau d'Or, chiefly for its ambiance and our desire to keep a disappearing epoch in Manhattan history alive. The food? Choose wisely, and you can have a superb meal. Choose poorly, and if you're of the correct mindset (i.e., one that would bring you to SSUWAT, where time stands still in 1962, in the first place), you'll still have a good time.

After all, Jackie, Oleg, and Orson all ate here. So did Princess Grace and Bobby Short. Truman Capote passed out once in a booth. And one of the most devastatingly elegant men we know also loved and frequented Le Veau d'Or: our own Mr. Toby Worthington. We were delighted to learn, by sheer coincidence, of Mr. Worthington's affection for Le Veau d'Or, but not necessarily surprised; our tastes converge with Mr. Worthington's in so many areas of importance. And, upon receiving a spectacularly stylish photograph of him "back in the day," leaving Le Veau d'Or with an equally-chic luncheon partner, we felt compelled to re-enact the scene, as it were.

Timeless style: Toby Worthington and friend, 1970's (top); SSUWAT's TJB, February 2011 (bottom)

Le Veau d'Or will likely only continue for as long as Monsieur Treboux is willing and able to preside over each dinner seating -- and then, as he says, "Après moi le déluge." So one evening, if you're eager to sit at the grown ups' table, visit him at Le Veau d'Or. We'll probably be there, too, happy that it's still with us, and sad that once it's gone, a little bit of the Manhattan we never knew, but love so well, dies with it.

As Time Goes By

There comes a time, particularly for a New Yorker, when one wants and needs a respite from the never-ending onslaught of trendier-than-thou eateries. Deliver us, o Lord, from fusion and microbiology; from self-righteously sustainable this and smugly, locally sourced that; from DJ's and bouncers; and, most especially, from diners taking pictures of their food.

There comes a time when one longs for a grown up meal, served in hushed but welcoming environs, by efficient yet impersonal, professional waiters who don't tell you their names; surrounded by well-dressed, well-mannered adults who most likely have never heard of Facebook or Twitter, much less ever broadcast their dining habits on them.

There comes a time when one yearns to see dishes on a menu which, in 2011 New York, would read like hieroglyphics to most diners if they came across them. Céleri rémoulade. Tripe à la mode de Caen. Floating Island!

Praise be -- this utopia actually exists.

Le Veau d'Or, discreetly tucked away just off the corner of East 60th St. and Lexington Avenue, first opened its doors in 1937; it was already a veteran when, in 1950, the legendary style bible of its day, Flair magazine, included it in their round up of the best Gotham had to offer.

September 1950 issue of Flair, with accompanying article

In a roundabout way, it is one of the last links to the legendary Henri Soulé, whose Le Pavillon restaurant in New York, opened in 1941, stood for years as the standard-bearer in excellence of cuisine, luxury of appointments, impressiveness of patrons, and glacial impenetrability to mere mortals.

Henri Soulé outside of Le Pavillon, 1962

Le Veau d'Or's owner, Robert Treboux, worked for five years under Soulé at Le Pavillon. This glittering establishment eventually spawned a host of equally-vaunted off-shoots: chief among them, La Grenouille, Le Périgord, La Caravelle, and the sole Soulé-owned and sanctioned sibling, La Côte Basque.

William and Barbara "Babe" Paley leaving La Côte Basque, circa 1970

Only La Grenouille and Le Périgord still survive, the former in a buzzy, eye-popping, refurbished, relatively new space. The food, service and room are all fabulous, but the operation seems too frenzied and self-important to indulge in any nostalgia. The latter, by contrast, is still clinging to life in what seems to be an excruciatingly prolonged last act, complete with dust, cobwebs and corpses (a withered, charred carcass which supposedly once was Duckling a l'Orange).

Le Veau d'Or, which Treboux has owned since 1985, was never as expensive or important as those Soulé-inspired temples to haute cuisine; but today, it has all the deliciously faded glamour that La Grenouille has carefully polished and renovated away, and the brisk warmth and energy that completely elude Le Périgord.

Yes, we used the word "energy" to describe the feel of Le Veau d'Or, which would no doubt shock the hipster foodies who, in the wake of Anthony (Kitchen Confidential) Bourdain's televised recommendation, scurried over to 129 E. 60th, only to be left completely baffled by the unhurried pace, sedate clientele, and straightforward, sometimes severe food.

The energy, muted yet still crackling under the surface, is supplied by the proprietor, Monsieur Treboux, who keeps a watchful eye, every night, on the proceedings. He resembles no one so much as a French version of Sam the Eagle from The Muppet Show: tall, dignified, imposing, bald, stone-jawed. Now in the middle of his eighth decade, Monsieur Treboux is alternately grouchy and courtly, but always, always keenly aware of what is happening in his restaurant. His daughter, Catherine, is now also a daily and nightly fixture, acting as hostess, and a charming, ebullient one at that; it's as if they have an act, these two -- Catherine supplying the fizzy yin to her father's gimlet-eyed yang.

Robert Treboux at Le Veau d'Or

The menu is an old-fashioned table d'hôte, with the price of the entree also including an appetizer and dessert. The coq au vin is absolutely superb, one of the best we've ever had -- it is, truly, a dish we dream about. The kitchen also turns out commendable rognons de veau Dijonnaise (veal kidneys in mustard sauce), and although we haven't personally tried them, the moules marinière (mussels in white wine and cream) were ordered by a young lady at a neighboring table when we last ate there, and she did everything but hold the bowl to her lips and slurp down the last remnants of the broth.

Not surprisingly, given the structure and pricing of the menu, appetizers and desserts are given somewhat less attention. There's a fine cold artichoke, and a very good, surprisingly light rendition of soupe à l'oignon gratinée. The pâté is nicely gamey, but served ice cold. Escargot are passable, but not entirely deserving of the $8 surcharge -- yet when we do break down and order them, we can't help but polish off the pools of the delicious garlic butter with our bread. The desserts are all ready-made and straight from the refrigerator or freezer, yet somehow appealing in their defiant anti-trendiness. Peach Melba is a scoop of store-bought vanilla ice cream topped with raspberry sauce, canned peaches and slivered almonds -- and it was delicious. Similarly, that Floating Island (œufs à la neige, if you want to be properly French) is served suspiciously quickly after one's order is placed, but it's not merely a culinary relic, it's a surprisingly tasty one.

During their glory years, the restaurant's atmosphere truly was charged with palpable excitement: the New York Times' venerable food critic, Craig Claiborne, declared it the one restaurant in town he couldn't live without; in 1962, the Times informed their readers that "In the minds of many Frenchmen and francophiles, Le Veau d'Or is the best French restaurant in town..."; and in 1968, Le Veau d'Or was one of only seven restaurants the Times deemed worthy of four stars.

Craig Claiborne

Today, the mood is obviously much less frenetic, and the kitchen perhaps touched less frequently by magic, but if you close your eyes, you can still see the ghosts of a glittering, bygone Gotham seated along the red banquettes, drinking cold martinis and good bottles of Bordeaux. A gruffly efficient, tuxedoed, grey-haired waiter still attends to tables of Park Avenue socialites, French expats, and regulars of all stripes.

As you may have already guessed, we're crazy about Le Veau d'Or, chiefly for its ambiance and our desire to keep a disappearing epoch in Manhattan history alive. The food? Choose wisely, and you can have a superb meal. Choose poorly, and if you're of the correct mindset (i.e., one that would bring you to SSUWAT, where time stands still in 1962, in the first place), you'll still have a good time.

After all, Jackie, Oleg, and Orson all ate here. So did Princess Grace and Bobby Short. Truman Capote passed out once in a booth. And one of the most devastatingly elegant men we know also loved and frequented Le Veau d'Or: our own Mr. Toby Worthington. We were delighted to learn, by sheer coincidence, of Mr. Worthington's affection for Le Veau d'Or, but not necessarily surprised; our tastes converge with Mr. Worthington's in so many areas of importance. And, upon receiving a spectacularly stylish photograph of him "back in the day," leaving Le Veau d'Or with an equally-chic luncheon partner, we felt compelled to re-enact the scene, as it were.

Timeless style: Toby Worthington and friend, 1970's (top); SSUWAT's TJB, February 2011 (bottom)

Le Veau d'Or will likely only continue for as long as Monsieur Treboux is willing and able to preside over each dinner seating -- and then, as he says, "Après moi le déluge." So one evening, if you're eager to sit at the grown ups' table, visit him at Le Veau d'Or. We'll probably be there, too, happy that it's still with us, and sad that once it's gone, a little bit of the Manhattan we never knew, but love so well, dies with it.

Gilding the Lily

For nearly thirty years, Lily Pons was the principal coloratura soprano at the Metropolitan Opera. Moreover, she transcended the rarified opera world to become a bona fide movie star, a radio fixture, a major concert draw, and an international symbol of glamour, charm and grace.


Born near the turn of the century in Draguignan, Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur, France, Pons first studied piano as a child. Her formal voice training didn't begin until 1925; remarkably, she made her professional debut in 1928 in the difficult title role of Léo Delibes' Lakmé. Pons continued to build her reputation and repertoire, appearing at various provincial opera houses throughout France.

At the beginning of her opera career in France, circa 1928

Pons successfully auditioned for the Metropolitan Opera in New York in 1930, at the urging of her mentor, Giovanni Zenatello, who, in the twilight of his stellar singing career, offered guidance to upcoming talent. As it happened, the Met had recently lost their resident coloratura, and in an operatic twist on the classic Ruby Keeler "You're goin' out a nobody, kid, and comin' back a star!" riff, the unknown Pons was quickly put into that spot, making an unprecedented Met debut in January 1931. She became, literally, a star overnight; the acclaim was extraordinary, though not without dissenters -- notably, the New York Times felt she showed more promise than actual talent. The most oft-heard criticism throughout her career was of Pons' supposedly "small" voice; although what it lacked in volume, her admirers felt it made up in delicacy and overall strength: she could hold a high "D" for one minute.

Just before leaving for Hollywood, 1935

Now firmly ensconced as the Met's new star coloratura, it was only a matter of time before Pons was courted by Hollywood. The operetta musical was at the apex of its brief popularity, making a superstar out of MGM's Jeanette MacDonald, while Pons' fellow Metropolitan soprano, Grace Moore, earned an Oscar nomination as Best Actress for Columbia's One Night of Love (1934). Pons signed with RKO, and made three moderately successful films: I Dream Too Much (1935), That Girl from Paris (1936) and Hitting a New High (1937).

With Henry Fonda in I Dream Too Much (1935)

Making music with Jack Oakie, Lucille Ball and Frank Jenks in That Girl from Paris (1936)

Hitting a New High (1937) with John Howard

Although movie critics generally praised Pons' "bird-like charm" and, predictably, her singing talents, the films were rightly assessed as mere diversions, and Pons turned her attentions back to the Met and, in 1944-45, an ambitious concert tour. Canceling her fall and winter season in New York, Pons traveled overseas with the USO, performing for the troops in such far-flung places as North Africa, Burma, the Middle East, and the Persian Gulf, often under grueling conditions. The tour continued through China, Belgium, France and Germany (in a performance delivered close to the front lines), then returned to America. Pons was accompanied on the tour by her second husband, the colorful conductor André Kostelanetz, with whom she shared a 20 year marriage -- and an even longer professional union. The secret to their deep-seated affection, even after divorce, perhaps can be found in a 1942 interview. "I love cra-zee hats," Madame Pons squealed, "and it is my luck that my husband is one of the few men who love cra-zee hats, too!"

Life with André: the bottom photo was taken at the Brazilian Pavillion of the 1939 World's Fair in New York.

In spite of what would total 300 performances on the Met stage, in some of the most famous roles in history, Pons seemed to have a refreshing lack of pomposity, as well as possessing a sly, Gallic sense of humor. In 1950, at benefit for the San Francisco Opera, Pons made a splashy appearance "in a sleazy, strapless, slit-skirted and low-cut black dress," doing a burlesque pantomime to a recording of "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend" by Carol Channing. "I forgot some of my routine," Pons gleefully recounted, "so I just added some extra bumps and grinds!"





Well into her own fifth decade, Pons reached a new level of fame in the 1950's, thanks to the new medium of television. True to her celebrity status, and her impish humor, the diva could be seen getting folksy with Tennessee Ernie Ford, trading jokes with Jimmy Durante, playing lookalikes with Imogene Coca, or warbling with Nat King Cole. She also, like nearly every other celebrity of the day, made a memorable appearance on What's My Line?

The dawn of the 1960's brought Pons' eventual fading from public view; with the fiery, publicity-driven Maria Callas dominating the headlines and gossip columns with her tempestuous private life, and thrilling listeners with her emotional, full-blooded approach to the coloratura, the charming, dainty Pons suddenly seemed quaintly old-fashioned. Her final performance at the Met was on December 14, 1960; after that, Pons made infrequent concert appearances until finally retiring. In one last burst of virtuosity, she emerged from that retirement to give one final concert on May 31, 1972, at New York's Philharmonic Hall. The event reunited Pons with André Kostelanetz, who conducted. The reception was rapturous, and Lily Pons enjoyed one final triumph. She died, on February 13, 1976, of pancreatic cancer in Dallas, Texas.


The overwhelming choice for our Mystery Guest was Marlene Dietrich, which no doubt would have made Lily Pons giggle with delight! And, in actuality, on more than one occasion, there was a very glancing resemblance.

We'll leave you, once more, with a recipe -- for Lily Pons' Pink Party Salad! Which is, basically, turkey salad dyed pink with pomegranate seeds. "It sounds frilly and feminine, but then, why do he-men in uniform fight for it?" trilled Madame Pons. Make it and find out for yourselves! As always, thanks for playing, darlings!

Lily Pons' Pink Party Salad

4 cups diced cooked turkey
2 cups chopped celery
Seeds from 2 large pomegranates
2 cups blanched shredded almonds
2 tablespoons cream
Mayonnaise
Salt to taste
Lettuce

Lightly toss turkey, celery, pomegranate seeds, and almonds together. Add cream, sufficient mayonnaise to moisten, and salt. Serve on lettuce leaves. Serves 12.

Gilding the Lily

For nearly thirty years, Lily Pons was the principal coloratura soprano at the Metropolitan Opera. Moreover, she transcended the rarified opera world to become a bona fide movie star, a radio fixture, a major concert draw, and an international symbol of glamour, charm and grace.


Born near the turn of the century in Draguignan, Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur, France, Pons first studied piano as a child. Her formal voice training didn't begin until 1925; remarkably, she made her professional debut in 1928 in the difficult title role of Léo Delibes' Lakmé. Pons continued to build her reputation and repertoire, appearing at various provincial opera houses throughout France.

At the beginning of her opera career in France, circa 1928

Pons successfully auditioned for the Metropolitan Opera in New York in 1930, at the urging of her mentor, Giovanni Zenatello, who, in the twilight of his stellar singing career, offered guidance to upcoming talent. As it happened, the Met had recently lost their resident coloratura, and in an operatic twist on the classic Ruby Keeler "You're goin' out a nobody, kid, and comin' back a star!" riff, the unknown Pons was quickly put into that spot, making an unprecedented Met debut in January 1931. She became, literally, a star overnight; the acclaim was extraordinary, though not without dissenters -- notably, the New York Times felt she showed more promise than actual talent. The most oft-heard criticism throughout her career was of Pons' supposedly "small" voice; although what it lacked in volume, her admirers felt it made up in delicacy and overall strength: she could hold a high "D" for one minute.

Just before leaving for Hollywood, 1935

Now firmly ensconced as the Met's new star coloratura, it was only a matter of time before Pons was courted by Hollywood. The operetta musical was at the apex of its brief popularity, making a superstar out of MGM's Jeanette MacDonald, while Pons' fellow Metropolitan soprano, Grace Moore, earned an Oscar nomination as Best Actress for Columbia's One Night of Love (1934). Pons signed with RKO, and made three moderately successful films: I Dream Too Much (1935), That Girl from Paris (1936) and Hitting a New High (1937).

With Henry Fonda in I Dream Too Much (1935)

Making music with Jack Oakie, Lucille Ball and Frank Jenks in That Girl from Paris (1936)

Hitting a New High (1937) with John Howard

Although movie critics generally praised Pons' "bird-like charm" and, predictably, her singing talents, the films were rightly assessed as mere diversions, and Pons turned her attentions back to the Met and, in 1944-45, an ambitious concert tour. Canceling her fall and winter season in New York, Pons traveled overseas with the USO, performing for the troops in such far-flung places as North Africa, Burma, the Middle East, and the Persian Gulf, often under grueling conditions. The tour continued through China, Belgium, France and Germany (in a performance delivered close to the front lines), then returned to America. Pons was accompanied on the tour by her second husband, the colorful conductor André Kostelanetz, with whom she shared a 20 year marriage -- and an even longer professional union. The secret to their deep-seated affection, even after divorce, perhaps can be found in a 1942 interview. "I love cra-zee hats," Madame Pons squealed, "and it is my luck that my husband is one of the few men who love cra-zee hats, too!"

Life with André: the bottom photo was taken at the Brazilian Pavillion of the 1939 World's Fair in New York.

In spite of what would total 300 performances on the Met stage, in some of the most famous roles in history, Pons seemed to have a refreshing lack of pomposity, as well as possessing a sly, Gallic sense of humor. In 1950, at benefit for the San Francisco Opera, Pons made a splashy appearance "in a sleazy, strapless, slit-skirted and low-cut black dress," doing a burlesque pantomime to a recording of "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend" by Carol Channing. "I forgot some of my routine," Pons gleefully recounted, "so I just added some extra bumps and grinds!"





Well into her own fifth decade, Pons reached a new level of fame in the 1950's, thanks to the new medium of television. True to her celebrity status, and her impish humor, the diva could be seen getting folksy with Tennessee Ernie Ford, trading jokes with Jimmy Durante, playing lookalikes with Imogene Coca, or warbling with Nat King Cole. She also, like nearly every other celebrity of the day, made a memorable appearance on What's My Line?

The dawn of the 1960's brought Pons' eventual fading from public view; with the fiery, publicity-driven Maria Callas dominating the headlines and gossip columns with her tempestuous private life, and thrilling listeners with her emotional, full-blooded approach to the coloratura, the charming, dainty Pons suddenly seemed quaintly old-fashioned. Her final performance at the Met was on December 14, 1960; after that, Pons made infrequent concert appearances until finally retiring. In one last burst of virtuosity, she emerged from that retirement to give one final concert on May 31, 1972, at New York's Philharmonic Hall. The event reunited Pons with André Kostelanetz, who conducted. The reception was rapturous, and Lily Pons enjoyed one final triumph. She died, on February 13, 1976, of pancreatic cancer in Dallas, Texas.


The overwhelming choice for our Mystery Guest was Marlene Dietrich, which no doubt would have made Lily Pons giggle with delight! And, in actuality, on more than one occasion, there was a very glancing resemblance.

We'll leave you, once more, with a recipe -- for Lily Pons' Pink Party Salad! Which is, basically, turkey salad dyed pink with pomegranate seeds. "It sounds frilly and feminine, but then, why do he-men in uniform fight for it?" trilled Madame Pons. Make it and find out for yourselves! As always, thanks for playing, darlings!

Lily Pons' Pink Party Salad

4 cups diced cooked turkey
2 cups chopped celery
Seeds from 2 large pomegranates
2 cups blanched shredded almonds
2 tablespoons cream
Mayonnaise
Salt to taste
Lettuce

Lightly toss turkey, celery, pomegranate seeds, and almonds together. Add cream, sufficient mayonnaise to moisten, and salt. Serve on lettuce leaves. Serves 12.