If I Iived in New York City I would weigh 300 pounds. Seriously. There are so many tasty places to eat, it would be tough to avoid. Sure, NYC has an absurd number of pricey restaurants, but many are affordable, making eating out even more difficult to resist. Plus there are so many little places to stop for gelato or to grab a slice.
A few weekends ago I hopped on the train with my two pregnant friends and headed to visit another friend who lives in Manhattan. It was a perfect weekend. The weather was beautiful, shoe shopping was productive, and the food was delicious and never ending. I even got to eat at Perilla, a restaurant owned by TV boyfriend and top chef Harold Dieterle.
We started Saturday morning with a quick, but luxurious breakfast. My friend Amy got out her fancy waffle maker and effortlessly whipped up four waffles in a matter of minutes. If Amy wrote a book about hostessing the subtitle would read: how to feed your friends into a pleasant coma. As a side note, if you are waffle obsessed, this is the machine for you. I have no idea what model it is or where it's from.
Fruit with breakfast was the only healthy thing I ate all weekend, unless you count the fruit in the pitcher of sangria that I drank that night.
We spent the morning shopping for shoes. I bought a pair of kick ass sandals and a dressier pair of shoes that I don't need, and have nothing to wear with.
It was lunch time before we knew it, and the pregnant ladies were ravenous. We stopped at Delicatessen, an eatery that has nothing to do with your Jewish grandmother and everything to do with hipsters donning gear from 1987. If I knew neon pumps would come back in style I would have saved mine from 6th grade. I had the entire neon rainbow: lime green, hot pink, and turquoise.
Delicatessen is a place to see and be seen, and we ordered accordingly, sticking with safe items like fried appetizers, including a cheeseburger eggroll and risotto croquette oozing with parmesan and salty pancetta, and sandwiches. The mere existence of croquettes makes me glad I don't have a fry daddy at home. Roll anything
into a ball, fry it, and it will taste amazing.
After lunch we went back to Amy's apartment to relax. If my comments about neon, pregnant ladies, or weight management didn't drop enough hints about how old I am, when I tell you about our next activity you will surely be able to guess my age. We watched Dirty Dancing. As in, "
I know you weren't the one who got Penny in trouble." And let me tell you that Patrick Swayze was way hotter than I remembered.
That night we ate at Perilla, where Top Chef fans and neighborhood residents bump tastebuds. The food was a solid B+ overall, but two plates stood out: a side dish of faro with parmesan and artichokes and an appetizer of grilled calamari with crispy watercress drizzled with a lime chili vinaigrette. I think it was dishes like these that ensured Harold won the $100K and culinary tour of the French Alps (furnished by Evian).
On Sunday, before heading back to DC, we stopped at Freemans, for brunch. Freemans, is worthy of a second visit, if only to try the chipped beef (pictured above). I had poached eggs on sourdough toast with a roasted tomato. Simple and delicious. The End.
