So I’ve been in New York for three weeks now. This means that for every eight miles I’ve walked I’ve probably ingested three pounds of crispy pork belly. Good thing my new coat is a cape, or I would have had to start shopping for maternity wear. Best meals? Worst?
A sublime dinner—Berkshire piggy with fromage blanc spaetzle, guanciale and escarole—at Dan Barber’s Blue Hill followed Marco Canora’s genial, generous cooking at Hearth, courtesy of Carlisha. The pizzas at Otto were delicious (not to mention the creamy olive-oil ice cream), if somewhat hampered by the Cheesecake Factory corral-type atmosphere—Lupa, where I shared a late-night porky feast with Saxelby, was much mellower. Momofuku’s gets mixed reviews; it’s good, I think, but ultimately overrated (Jables and Freakock, whose Momofuku’s came back up after it went down, were nonplussed). Café Leon, on the under hand: totally underrated! They toss a mean salad. Boqueria: tasty but banal. Fatty Crab: fatty indeed, but no less delicious, who knew watermelon married crispy pork so well? Mexican and margaritas on Houston, empanadas on first, David’s Bagels on thirteenth, woo woo wee wee woo!
The best things I ate weren’t always in restaurants. When John and Judy came home from lunch at Peter Luger’s they had a doggie-bag steak that we ate cold in the wee hours, rending the flesh apart like…dogs, kinda. Ferris Bueller and I stank up one smart apt with the smells of Tennessee bacon swizzled with eggs. And I’ve munched a few ideal bagels on the subway.
MY GOD this is quite the list. No wonder that every time I reach my fifth-floor apartment door I can barely breathe. Or is there something else I should blame that on? Let’s save that one for our next discussion. Or never.
This needs to stop. I am hemorrhaging money.