Via Italia: Day One: New York City and Les Halles

I woke up with Briana in a cold apartment on Election Day, and an hour later I cast my ballot- a party-line vote- for Barack Obama.
Airports, I've noticed, are full of not-very-good televisions. There's always something wrong with the display or the cable feed cuts out or some other little error of technology serves to make them- if not unusuable- highly unusual. The monitor at the bar in the A concourse of Rochester is no different: the red-green tint was unbalanced and the candidates looked, well, bizarre. Obama appeared vaguely Indian. Romney- a bad sunburn. Eric Cantor appeared to be unaffected.
I almost didn't want to get on the plane. The media blackout in such a close race was almost- but not quite- unconscionable. Of course, trepidation was short-lived.
 Flying is one of my favorite experiences, second only to the light buzz of two glasses of champagne, the pleasant elasticity of a perfect steak or the heady rush of the post-prandial cigarette. The moment of acceleration- pushed back in the seat, doubting momentarily whether several tons of metal will be able to lift off- is one of the finest of life's little thrills.
And the view! The little commuter jet didn't fly high by any means, and the air was uncommonly clear. Looking down, one could see the interstate easily and almost imagine that, if followed, it would yield a view of Albany, two hundred miles distant. The finger lakes were laid out below- digits tearing into the landscape. South then, over the snow-capped Catskills, out to the majestic Hudson and south and south until, rearing from the lowlands like a sandcastle, the great bas-relief spires of wounded New York, glistening proudly in the evening sun. It was magnificent.
There's little to be said for the checking-ins and scurrying about that come with an off-airport hotel and early reservations in Manhattan, so I won't.
Let's talk Les Halles.
Brasserie Les Halles was, and remains, and in my mind always will be, Anthony Bourdain's restaurant. The house is dark and brooding, reminiscent of the great American bars that sprung up in Paris in the twenties. Efficient Bengali busboys change the butcher paper on the tables, French waiters in blue jeans and crisp red shirts slow carefully and with measured grace through the dining room and- glimpsing the kitchen- cooks at the height of dinner service move with the effortlessness of pure professionalism, soldiers in the fight against hunger.
The menu is rustic, not the haute-cuisine confections that immediately spring to mind at the mention of French cuisine. This brasserie knows what it is: a brasserie and grillade. And, of course, a bar.
In the end it was a skirt steak bearnaise, pommes frites with truffle oil, and the finest cocktail I've had the pleasure to taste. Called the "Les Halles," the house mix is composed of equal parts St. Germain, champagne brut and club soda. Light, sweet, aromatic. Delicious.
Then home again, home again quick as a flash to a martini in the hotel bar as election results rolled in and Obama's numbers crept higher and higher. At 11 pm, it was decided.
Barack Obama, president for four more years. Aaron Davis, asleep. A storm, on the way.
An adventure in the offing.