Found via the always-amazing Kottke: the NYC Ramen Map.
[Photo Via: Joe Burgers Pdx]
The Wife and I stopped in to a charming new Belgian spot on the Upper East Side last weekend. They serve special little meringues. The Wife took a picture. Spot is worth dropping in on for a treat if you’re in that neighborhood.
Over at the New York Review of Books, Charles Simic gives us Spaghetti Lessons:
Italian restaurants produce not only epicures but also aspiring cooks. I bought cold cuts, cheeses, and olives for years in Italian groceries on Bleecker Street until one day I started cooking pasta, grilling sausages, and inviting friends over to my place on East 13th Street. In the 1950s and 1960s almost no one in literary circles knew how to cook, so these modest efforts of mine received extravagant praise. From then on, each time I tasted something in a restaurant, I’d wonder how it was made, what spices were used, and recollected other occasions when the same dish had come out differently. Now that I live in a village in New Hampshire, cooking Italian is a way of carrying on that comparative study. This may be a tautology, but a meal that does not cause an outpouring of memories is not a memorable meal. I don’t know how other poets imagine their muses, but mine is an Italian cookbook.
It is their unhurried air that makes most Italian restaurants congenial to everything from flirting to a rambling philosophical discussion. You linger over a glass of red wine and a plate of cheese at the meal’s end, alone or in the company of friends, while the place empties. Outside, there may be the lights of Manhattan or the tugboats in Portsmouth harbor. The waiter or the owner may bring a grappa eventually to remind you of the lateness of the hour, but he does not rush you. When you finally get up and leave, it’s out of consideration for him, but also out of genuine panic that you might be crazy enough to ask for another bowl of pasta or some of that grilled squid on a bed of white beans you enjoyed so much.
Down in the Texas there’s this soda called Big Red. Tastes like liquid gum. You can get it–and other regional sodas–at Tipsy Parson.
Holy Sweet Lord. Christina Tosi’s English Muffins and Pickled Strawberry Jam.
Went to Mission Chinese last Friday with a friend. Got there with the early birds when it opened and were seated right away. By the time we left an hour later the wait for a two-top was three hours. No, thank you.
But the food was fun–Kung Pao Pastrami?–and the killer dish was thrice cooked bacon. I’d go back for that alone. I’d just make sure to go early–and maybe lunch is doable, too.
[Photo Credit: Time Out]
How much is too much to spend on a pie? Is $35 bucks too much?
Yes, schmuck, it is. At least, the wife sure thinks so and she ragged on me all weekend for forking over that much for a salted caramel apple pie at Four and Twenty Blackbirds. We were out in Brooklyn on Saturday visiting cousins and I’ve always wanted to try this place so on our way back home I bought a whole pie.
Was it worth it? As a treat, yes. The pie is damn good. Dumb expensive but good. Not the best pie I’ve ever had but I’d rate it 8 out of 10 for sure. I got a slice of chocolate pecan pie for the wife who stopped busting my chops momentarily as she ate.