When I got off the subway last night in Brooklyn, there was a Latino man in a velour Statue of Liberty costume singing along and dancing to the Spanish-language music on his headphones in the middle of the street.
Category Archives: living in new york is neat
New Jersey = Ohio
I learned this weekend that the difference between having a car and not having a car means having Cheesecake Factory or not having Cheesecake Factory. My car-owning friend Beth has been inviting me to ride to Jersey with her to go shopping for months now, but something has always stood in the way of me going. This weekend, though, the stars aligned, and she picked me up at 4 p.m. with the promise that she and her friend Sylvan would wear out my Sauconys.
I sort of expected the same kind of shopping experience I used to have in Ohio, when my best friend, Tracey, and I used to spend the day shopping at DEB, Claire’s, and Maurice’s. It was a major thing when a Hot Topic went in, though we were already past our wallet-chain-and-skater-jeans phase by the time that happened. (Okay, so maybe I was the only one of the two of us who went through that phase.)
But no! This mall had a Gucci store and a Louis Vuitton, and instead of shopping for silver holographic Converse flip-flops like Tracey and I used to do, Beth was shopping for a pair of Yves Saint Laurent stilettos. The food court had a Wendy’s, which there are only, like, two of in Manhattan, and everyone there looked like a cast member from “Jersey Shore”. What fun!
When we got hungry later in the evening, Beth mentioned that another mall nearby had a Cheesecake Factory. I was like, “Excuse me?” Because, um, I would’ve pretty much given up every other activity and risked my neck on the snow all of those times before had I known that was part of the deal. Our meal was delicious, of course, and hugely-portioned and super-cheap and everything else that restaurants in Manhattan aren’t, but it felt so wrong, because
everyone in the place looked like they could’ve been from Ohio. The only time I see people who look like they could be from Ohio here is when my friends and I go bowling at Port Authority and have to pass through Times Square, but I had to sit amongst these people and digest food while looking at them. You can imagine how hard that is.
No, I’m kidding, but it was weird. It’s like I can’t bear for things to feel too familiar.
Only in NYC
Tagged as living in new york is neat, living in new york sucks so hard
Only in NYC would I need my friend Beth to pick me up after work last Friday and drive me to my apartment with my new TV that should have been small enough to carry but would’ve taken up an entire subway car with all of its packaging. Only in NYC would I know approximately three people who own a car and would the one who drives an Alfa Romeo convertible agree to haul my new flatscreen around.
And only in NYC, after a second viewing of An Education (OMG, just as good the second time) with said Alfa-Romeo-convertible-driving friend, would I return to my boyfriend’s apartment to find a Christmas tree simply pushed out the front door into the hallway when its duty is done. And a full two weeks after Christmas, no less.

It’s kind of neat, and it’s kind of awful.
New York Magazine’s Brooklyn Top 40
Tagged as living in new york is neat, music is my boyfriend
This weekend, instead of properly paying attention to me, Kamran combed YouTube for all of the songs listed in New York magazine’s Brooklyn Top 40, the top 40 songs coming out of Brooklyn and defining what it means to be indie right now. He made a playlist of them, which you can enjoy here:
I feel so close to all of these artists somehow. Both physically, because I live down the street from them, but also . . . not spiritually, because that’s lame, but somehow like spiritually, because this sound is so distinctly Brooklyn to me, and I feel so distinctly Brooklyn myself.
While we sat on Kamran’s loveseat, him reading cases for law school and me scanning blogs as we listened to the playlist for the second time, he looked over and said, “We should be doing this!” I said, “Oh, um, I don’t know if we could do this.” He said, “Well, not THIS. This is good.”
This is the song he was talking about:
We decided that when we need to feel better about ourselves and how easy making music is, we’ll listen to this:
I forget sometimes that I’m so freakin’ lucky to live in a city where this stuff is being made and is readily available to me. I saw Crystal Stilts open for Casiotone for the Painfully Alone, saw Amazing Baby open for Cold War Kids, saw MGMT play in an abandoned pool, saw The Dirty Projectors play on the Williamsburg waterfront. Remind me of this when I say I can’t be out at a show until 2 on a weeknight.
The Do-It-Yourself Public Restroom in Times Square
Tagged as good times at everyone else's expense, living in new york is neat, potty mouth, times square
Last night at 8 p.m., Kamran and I exited a movie theatre in Times Square, accompanied by our friends Jack, Beth, and Nik, Jack’s friend Chris, Jack’s friend Alex from Romania, and Alex’s Romanian girlfriend, Simina. We were walking down 42nd Street, trying to decide which is scarier: the flesh-sucking monsters we’d just seen in Zombieland or NYC tourists. Mid-conversation, out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone bent over with liquid spilling all over her legs and the ground. She was out in the street, facing traffic, with her back to the sidewalk we were on, and I just assumed she was vomiting. She had wavy, shoulder-length black hair and a black suit jacket on. Her bottom half was nude-colored, but I just assumed she was wearing peach leggings. I couldn’t imagine a middle-aged woman wearing leggings without a long shirt covering them, but that seemed much more likely than what was actually happening, which was that
IN THE STREET.
In Times Square. Which, if you’ve never seen it, is basically the center of the world. We’re talking thousands of people milling around a few blocks at all hours of the day and night, with enough lights on every building to make it seem as if the sun never sets. And mostly people who don’t live in NYC, which means a woman with her pants down in the street is about the most exciting thing they’ve ever seen. Traffic was stopped right in front of her, so people in cabs had their noses pressed to the glass not two feet away from her bare bits. The lights glared off the urine clinging to her flabby backside. People stopped and pointed her out to each other, and Kamran yelled for me to get my camera out.
But it was too late. She finished, pulled her pants up, and walked into the subway unashamed.
Blowin’ in the Wind
Tagged as living in new york is neat, stuff i like
My office building is built to be flexible so that it doesn’t topple over in the wind gusts that roar over the tip of the island in Battery Park. On bad days, the building groans as it sways back and forth, and I know to have my lunch delivered so as to not mess up my hair. On really bad days, the door in our 25th floor lobby won’t lock because the two walls around it are so far from where they’re supposed to be.
This fascinates me.
Even Your Dog Knows the Chrysler Building is Silver
Tagged as creepy boyfriend obsession, living in new york is neat, stuff i like
It’s funny to find myself nostalgic and grossly sentimental for the city I currently live in. I saw this ring from Henri Bendel in Time Out New York on the train the other morning and had a moment of heart palpitations.

I guess I have a special attachment to the Chrysler Building since dating Kamran, who goes to bed every night with it shining in his window, and since we took this photo in front of it two whole years ago. When I asked my brother-in-law to design a sticker for me and he sent a drawing with a skyline, I specifically asked if he could change one of the buildings to the Chrysler.
I don’t know if I love it enough to special order a $720 gold (gold?!) ring modeled after it, but it makes me sad to imagine not seeing it every day.
I’m interested–are there things in your city you feel this way about?
The Bus Stops for Obama
Tagged as funner times on the bus, living in new york is neat
My boyfriend lives right beside the United Nations building on the East River, so every time some unwanted politician blows into town, we feel the effects more than most New Yorkers. Yesterday morning, I walked out of his apartment building to find a tow truck pulling cars off the street, cops milling everywhere with especially cute and not-at-all-threatening dogs, the sidewalks lined with metal barriers, and 42nd Street blocked off to cars. Which meant that the bus I lazily use to take me the three stops to Grand Central wasn’t running.
Correspondingly, We’ve Never Been to a Drive-In Movie Together
Tagged as creepy boyfriend obsession, living in new york is neat
After a rooftop barbeque in Brooklyn on Saturday night, our friend Jeff offered to drop us off at Kamran’s apartment on his way home. As Kamran and I buckled ourselves in, we realized that in nearly three years of dating, it was the first time we’d ever been in a car together.
How totally New York City is that?
Harold and Maude and Bryant Park
Tagged as bryant park, living in new york is neat, there's a difference between films and movies
I saw Harold and Maude in Bryant Park on Monday night. And when I say I “saw” it, I mean it, because I heard exactly three lines in the movie:
1) “Sagging breasts and flabby buttocks.”
2) “Do you enjoy knives?”
3) “I love you.”
And actually, I didn’t even really hear the second line; Beth had to tell me what it said. See, I arrived at Bryant Park for this week’s installment of the Summer Film Festival a full hour and a half before the movie started, but when I met up with my co-worker Steve, he said the place had already been packed for a while. There was absolutely nowhere to sit in the grass, so Steve, Beth, Emily, Jeff, our new German intern Niko, and I ended up on the concrete stairs, miiiiiiiiiiiles away from the screen with our view partially blocked by the motorhome that the movie was being projected from.
I’ve never seen Harold and Maude, but even without being able to make out any of the dialogue, I thought I’d pieced the story together pretty well until I got back to Kamran’s apartment. It was then that he said, “Yeah, wasn’t it totally crazy how [that really important thing] happened?”, and I said, “Oh, I had no idea [that really important thing] happened.” And now the movie’s ruined for me. But not for you, because I save spoilers for the comments section. Love you!
From what I gathered, though, it’s a really lovely movie. Both because Harold is uber-hot in a pasty white boy way, and because Cat Stevens does the soundtrack. The audience was swooning all over the opening credits:
It felt sort of magical, I’ll admit, listening to Cat and watching Harold reject all of the college ladies who want him, surrounded by these giant buildings with the lights from Times Square reflecting off of them. The only problem I had was that there were homeless people there. I felt sort of weird for hating them, because I generally try pretty hard to keep my feelings toward the less fortunate in the neutral to hopeful range. And, like, the outdoors belong to these people, you know?, so it’s almost like I was watching my movie in their living room. But I pay my taxes and patronize summer film series sponsors, and therefore I deserve things like a decent seat away from the less hygienic, am I right?
Renegade Craft Fair 2009
Our friend Emily introduced my friend Beth and me to the Renegade Craft Fair last year, but I had absolutely no money at the time and bought only a $2.50 ice cream cone (which is what ice cream should cost) and an $8 plastic strawberry necklace (that broke on me after the second wear, but nevermind that).
This year, though, I brought stacks of cash with me and was ready to do all of my Christmas shopping like Emily does. But instead I bought only things for myself.

A pair of houndstooth button earrings for $5 from Cherry Red Boutique that I happen to be wearing today.

An Abe Lincoln pendant from traveling rhinos for $25 that I thought was pretty much the greatest thing at the fair and told the guy at the booth. He agreed and said he couldn’t believe it wasn’t the first thing sold.

A pair of silver hot dog earrings marked down from $12 to $7 also from traveling rhinos, because I’m always buying hot-dog-related items for Tracey and decided it was my turn.

And this amazing, amazing wallet from 31 Corn Lane that lists for $25 on their site but sold for $10 at the fair. It has a life-changing amount of pockets, and I’m sad I didn’t buy one for everyone I know.
Everything was so cheap, right? But that’s because I didn’t buy a $90 sterling silver deer necklace like Beth did or a $110 hat like Emily did. But the hats were pretty cute, right?

Beth Looking Very 1920s
We were walking around with these giant margaritas, and about halfway through them, Emily and I agreed that they must not be very strong, but by the time we finished them, we were able to talk each other into buying anything. I even bought something for Tracey that was more expensive than anything I bought for myself and everyone agreed didn’t even make sense. And then, of course, there was the mad dash to the restroom area, followed by the mad hunt to find a porta-potty that still had toilet paper:

The craft fair was about 100 times better this year than last, because it was in McCarren Park rather than in McCarren Park Pool. In the pool, all of the booths were lined up perfectly, and the sun was beating down on the concrete, and we were generally miserable. In the park, the booths were sort of willy-nilly, and we got to walk on grass, and everyone was generally delighted.
The One That Got Away
Tagged as bigtime celebrity, jobby jobby job job, living in new york is neat
I was reading in You Don’t Know Us But . . . this morning that the NBC drama “Kings” was canceled, which probably means nothing to anyone but me but means enough to me to make up for everyone else.
Did I tell you that I was asked to be in that show? Before I had even heard of it, I was called on a Friday afternoon by a casting director and asked to play the part of the mayor’s wife at a shooting in Brooklyn on the following Monday. At the time, I had just started working for the then-president of my company and was so concerned about looking diligent and not skipping work that I decided to politely decline the offer. Because I am an idiot who thinks it’s not cool to actively try to become an actress.
When the ads for the show started appearing all over New York City this spring,

I cringed every time I saw one. I blamed Kamran for everything, really, since when I told him that I’d turned the part down, he Google chatted to me, “Oh honey, you have all kinds of talent and all kinds of opportunities. And you’ve already done a FAMOUS TV show and a major motion picture, so you’ve already cemented your bragging rights, too. I wouldn’t sweat this one little fish.” So instead of calling the casting director right back like I felt I should to say, “Nevermind! I’ve cleared my schedule, and I’m ready for my close-up!”, I just went about my business of conference calls and spreadsheets. (And by that, I of course mean updating my blog and sniffing the Sharpies.)
I never actually watched the show, because naturally I wanted it to fail miserably. The worst possible situation would’ve been for me to not have appeared in it and for it to have become a huge hit. And since I never watched it, I have no idea what the mayor’s wife’s role actually was, but to this day, I swear in my mind that it was a major part with a huge amount of lines and extravagant costumes.
But now the show’s canceled. Just like the show I was actually in. Coincidence?
Warm-Weather Weekend
Tagged as all of my friends are prettier than i am, east village, living in new york is neat, par-tay
Last weekend felt like the greatest of the winter to spring transitionings ever. I’m not one for sunburns and sweat, but without the burden of twenty pounds of winter coat, walking outdoors suddenly seemed like a joy. After three months of holing up with Kamran in his apartment and dreading every social invitation, I realized that I don’t actually hate my friends. Incredible!
On Saturday night, I first met up with Jessica-the-German-intern and Erika-who-moved-from-Boston-specifically-to-work-for-my-company-a-month-before-they-laid-her-off for dinner at Cucina di Pesce, which we chose because it supposedly had outdoor seating and giant plates of delicious food for tiny prices. But no! My meal was four pieces of toasted raviolo for $2 each. And you know I’m a growing girl. But luckily, the fresh air made up for it, as did the intense debate about whether or not the craigslist killer is hot.
After that, I took the ladies to my favourite freaky sour frozen yogurt place (which is, just so you know, NOT PINKBERRY), where we loaded up on toppings so intense I’ll only be able to tell you about them when I review it in donuts4dinner.com. Look how yogurt-filled and glowing Jessica and I are:

Then we met up with our friend Sonya for her boyfriend, Adam’s, birthday party at ACE Bar, where she was busy wearing a romper, showing off her side tattoos, and basically making out with innocent drunk girls:

Despite the fact that ACE has skeeball, darts, pool, animal-shooting games, and frat boys, Jessica and I were sort of sticking to the vinyl seats and having about this much fun:

So we gathered our friend Beth, ditched the Asians, and went to an outdoor bar down the street for an all white girl party with frozen margaritas and lots of talk about how we should all move to Paris, the white girl dream capital of the world.
I’d planned to meet up with Sonya to continue the Adam-related festivities at Beauty Bar, but then Beth offered me a ride home in her Alfa Romeo, which is a convertible, and convertible trumps claustrophobic bar. So we drove through the streets, wind in our very short hair, lights blurring, people yelling at us from their balconies, “Nice car!”, us waving back:

And that was only the beginning.
I Didn’t See Sarah Jessica Parker and Hugh Grant Filming Their New Movie
Tagged as bigtime celebrity, columbus circle, living in new york is neat, there's a difference between films and movies
I forgot to tell you that a couple of weeks ago, I was picking Dr. Boyfriend up from law school, and after a stop at the Whole Foods in Columbus Circle for dinner at the hot bar, we exited the Time Warner Center to find a movie being filmed.
We obviously think celebrity is lame, but we couldn’t help trying to get a look at the actors to see what the fuss was all about. The whole sidewalk was roped off, stage lights were set up all around, and limos were pulled up to every curb. It turned out that Sarah Jessica Parker and Hugh Grant were filming some new movie called Did You Hear About the Morgans?. Greeeeeat title, huh?
Of course, Sarah Jessica and Hugh weren’t actually anywhere in sight. It was merely their stand-ins rehearsing the scene while they likely sat in their limos–Sarah Jessica calling home to Ohio, Hugh wondering how he was going to get past kissing Sarah Jessica’s horsey face without losing his lunch. But the crowd, of course, was still totally enthralled.
I doubt I’ll add their stand-ins to my list of famous people I’ve seen while living in NYC, but if Kamran keeps running into Keanu Reeves and Eliot Spitzer, I might get desperate for something to talk about.
I wanted to quote The Ting Tings here, but “Great DJ” doesn’t actually have any quotable lyrics whatsoever.
Tagged as living in new york is neat, music is my boyfriend, west village
I went to Le Royale Saturday night with some trepidation to celebrate my friend Sonya’s birthday. See, we like to go to Le Royale on Friday nights for Robot Rock, where we can be sure to hear 80s new wave and current indie music. However, Sonya had to go and be born on April 11th instead of April 10th, so we had to go to what Le Royale was calling Grand Buffet Saturday. Not appealing, right? Unless you’re into Ponderosa and cheap Chinese food, I guess. (Which you are.)
But it turned out to be the best night ever! The DJ, I later learned, was named Vikas Sapra, and he’s now my favourite DJ ever. I’m the sort of person who has a reeeeeeeeeeally great time when the DJ’s playing a song I like and an inversely more horrible time when he’s playing something I don’t like/know. It’s definitely one of my more intolerable personality traits and something I feel bad for subjecting my poor friends to, but there it is all the same, and not even two fistfuls of vodka can make it any better.
Luckily, this Sapra fellow is a master of mixes. One second he’s playing “Kids” by MGMT and I’m going crazy, the next he’s playing some shitty hip-hop song that makes me want to kill myself, but then he’s playing Bowie’s “Modern Love” and everything’s great again. And he only plays the best 30 seconds of each song, which sucks for the songs I love but is perfect for the times I’ve reached for my razorblade.
My friend Beth and I spent the night right in front of the DJ booth in order to have enough room to flail our arms wildly like white girls dancing do and to look approvingly at Vikas when he played Blur and Nirvana and not-so-approvingly when he played One Republic (who I originally called New Republic until I just had the foresight to Google their name to be sure). Now my weekend schedule will officially consist of karaoke on Fridays, Le Royale on Saturdays, and “Celebrity Apprentice” on Sundays.
NYC Pillow Fight 2009!
I celebrated World Pillow Fight Day on Saturday by attending the fight on Wall Street. You’ll note that I said I celebrated and not my loyal and faithful friends and I celebrated, because while I’m generally regarded as the flaky one of the group, I was the only one who actually showed up. Boo-yah and a thousand points for me.
I didn’t actually bring a pillow with me, because you know I wasn’t going to risk mussing my hair, but the train downtown was loaded with children with animal-shaped pillows, hipster girls with pillows in handmade cases, and middle-aged couples with pillows they’d seemingly owned their whole lives. This young German-speaking couple got on the train at Union Square and bumped into me without a word of apology, so I set about hating them in my mind and then set about laughing at them in my mind when they got all confused at City Hall when the 6 line terminated and they didn’t know which train to take to continue down to the Wall Street stop. Superiority!
When I got off the train by Trinity Church, masses of people had stopped on the sidewalks to see where all the pillow-carriers were going. The street I had planned to take to the intersection of Broad and Wall was barricaded by the police, so I tried another street, which was also barricaded, and then another street, which was also barricaded. I ended up stopped behind a construction project a good two blocks away from the action, cursing the NYPD for ruining anything remotely community-forming and hopeful, and taking lame pictures like this with my tiny zoom:

The sidewalk opposite me was open almost to Broad Street, so people were crowding in and trying to burst through the barricades, but the police kept pushing them back and yelling through their bullhorns. Everyone looked so dejected coming back toward my intersection, and I was already feeling sort of down about being alone, so I decided just to call it a day and spread the word about how lame the event turned out to be.
But just then, someone slapped someone else with a pillow right beside me. And then someone else slapped someone else. And then it was all-out war, with people streaming down the sidewalk to join in the impromptu fight.

Pillow innards filled the sky as cases ripped open against heads and shoulders, and I was so glad that absolutely no one had heeded the organizers’ rule against feathers:

The police tried to break things up, but the fighters’ will would not bend, and the cops finally settled for merely separating the crowd when cars and bulldozers came through:


Pillows were thrown at windshields, but it was all good-natured fun. My favourite part of the day was when a limo rolled up to the intersection, the throng obediently separated, and just before the car could pass through, a guy unexpectedly ran along the line of people and smacked every one of them with his pillow:

THAT, my friends, is the spirit of New York City.

Eating Crumbs Cupcakes Helped Me Fit Into This Dress, and They Can Help YOU, Too!
Tagged as it's fun to be fat, living in new york is neat
This past weekend, I brought home treats from the co-best cupcake shop in the world, Crumbs Bake Shop. (I say co-best, because while Magnolia cupcakes are widely regarded as the most intensely wonderful foodstuff to ever be whipped up in a bowl, Crumbs’ certainly have their own charm.) Kamran and I consumed each of the following by cutting them in half, because there was absolutely no way either of us could go on living without tasting all of them:

Kamran on this animation: “It’s like one good thing after another,
and you don’t know where it’s going or for how long.”
Yet today, two people have told me that I look thinner. Even though it’s obviously a total misperception, it’s excellent to hear, since I now have exactly ten days before I need to have lost all five inches to fit into this dress for my best friend, Tracey’s wedding:
Not this dress exactly, though, you know. Mine is black. And still a larger size, despite the five inches. But don’t you just love to watch her swing* around like that? What a great job, right? Put on a pretty dress, fake a smile, and dance around a little.
Which is exactly what I’ll be doing at Tracey’s wedding next week.
Kidding!
*If she doesn’t swing for you, right-click on her and press Play. You won’t regret it.
The Asshole at My Bus Stop is Helping Me Make Some Pocket Change
Tagged as bigtime celebrity, funner times on the bus, jobby jobby job job, living in new york is neat, narcissism
My best friend, Tracey, recommended a couple of weeks ago that I apply to write for Examiner.com as one of their restaurant reviewers. I was dismayed to find that they weren’t hiring any more food types, but they were looking for articles about public transportation, which I ride every day in the city where it’s most necessary.
I didn’t know if my stories about kneeing old men in the groin to make sure I get into a crowded train were what they were looking for, but I gave it a go, and they actually liked me. Here’s the article I posted today:
Every bus stop has its own special asshole, but I think mine should get a crown for his assholiness.
Whenever there’s someone running from the very end of the waiting line to be first at the bus’s door . . .
Whenever there’s someone racing to get a seat on the bench to ensure some old lady can’t . . .
Whenever there’s someone rushing from the bench to the edge of the sidewalk the second the bus comes into view . . .
It’s him.
I sort of feel sorry for him. He’s a nondescript man of a nondescript age in a city where being descript is the only way to not get lost in the throng. He cuts his hair not to be stylish but to be practical. He wears modern shoes but pairs them with pleated pants rolled up at the hem. He’s not thirty but not fifty, not attractive but not deformed.
It seems that his only goal in life is to get one of the single seats that lines the driver’s side of any bus. And it’s widely recognized that those single seats are where it’s at–you can let your love handles spill off the side without anyone complaining, and you don’t have to deal with anyone else’s love handles spilling all over you. I don’t hate him for liking that.
What I DO hate him for is being audible about his disgust for the rest of us during the ride. After living here for a few years, I’m used to crazy people talking to themselves about pills and Jesus and the white man keeping them down, but I’m not used to people groaning about
• how annoying being stopped at a red light is.
• how they wish the bus driver would hit pedestrians in the crosswalk.
• how disabled people shouldn’t be allowed on the bus because they take too long to board.
There’s more to life for me than sitting by myself, so being polite to those waiting for the bus with me is worth it even if it means missing out on a single seat. Sometimes my waiting gets rewarded, though, and I end up with a single seat, anyway. Like this morning, when I struggled on with a huge bag and was delighted to see that I could slide right into the second single seat back.
I didn’t notice, but the jerk behind me had his foot stuck way out into the aisle, so of course I accidentally stepped on it. I immediately turned around with a genuine, “I’m sorry!”, and who was it but The Guy. He said, “Oh, God,” in his most perturbed voice, so I said mockingly, “Oh, Jesus, sweet Lord, she stepped on my unfashionable shoes, and I simply don’t know how I’m going to make it through the day!”
I sort of expected him to pull my hair or flick my ear or something, but no such luck. He just sat quietly throughout the remainder of our time together and then checked out my rack when I got up at my stop.
I get paid based on my number of views, so if you want to keep me fed in this harsh economic climate, please view this article
and my very first article
here.
I really appreciate your support, and I really recommend that you become an Examiner for your city so that we can link to each other and take over the world.
Restaurant Review: Tom Colicchio’s craft
Tagged as it's fun to be fat, living in new york is neat, restaurant ramblings
Tom Colicchio is underrated. Yes, he’s the host of the best show in reality TV history. Yes, he’s a five-time James Beard Award winner. But after dining at his restaurant craft this past weekend, I’m pretty sure he’s actually better than anyone gives him credit for.
The first thing my boyfriend, Kamran, and I were struck by upon entering craft is that the hostesses and servers were actually nice. Like “good evening” and “how are you?” and “thank you for coming” nice with genuine smiles. Kamran theorized that once you get to a certain point in your money-spending, restaurants no longer have to pretend to be exclusive and desirable because they actually are. And we, of course, laughed self-satisfiedly every time someone peered longingly in the windows at us but obviously couldn’t come in.
Mwahahahaha.
No, I’m kidding.
The second thing we noticed is that the menu freaked me out. When Kamran and I first talked about Valentine’s Day dinner at craft, I remember being wowed and excited by every single dish on the tasting menu. But when it was actually put in front of me, it looked like this:

Two of the dishes were seafood (blech), and the course that says roasted and braised Wagyu beef on the online menu said Wagyu beef and Wagyu beef TONGUE on the actual menu. Not pleased. But we were there, and I wanted that Meyer lemon sundae.
As it turned out, of course, everything was great. I thought my first experience with scallops was surprisingly good, but these bay scallops were ten times better. They were the size of cocktail onions and had a thin little crust on one side from searing. The lime broth would have been delicious on any protein, but it was the micro herbs and onion slivers on top that really made the flavor of the scallops stand out.
When our server set down our second dishes and said, “This is a brebis blanche agnolotti with matignon,” I was like, I don’t know what a single one of those words mean. But after a little Googling, I think it roughly translates to ewe’s milk cheese in blanched ravioli with a topping of cooked diced carrot, celery, and onion. (One of you French types can correct me on that, if you please.) Basically, it was long, thin pasta stuffed with a ricotta-like cheese, drizzled in some herby sauce, and sprinkled with some tiny vegetable chunks. I wondered if the sous chefs in the back were constantly talking about how ridiculous it is to send out an entire giant plate with exactly three pieces of pasta on it. I’m sure they never say anything bad about the slices of lamb bacon resting on top, though. They looked like regular (perfectly-cooked) bacon, but they tasted distinctly lamb-y.
The next course was the sturgeon, which I was looking forward to least, but it was done perfectly. Tom’s always talking on “Top Chef” about how seasoning is the most important component of a dish, and I’ve kind of gotten sick of hearing how vital salt is, but the seasoning on the fish was what made it. One whole side of it had been encrusted with a layer of salt, and it tasted GREAT. The blood orange sauce was totally different than anything we’d ever tasted before, and there were two kinds of beets. What? Yes, two kinds of beets. In addition to the dark, earthy ones you always see, there was a lighter kind that looked like hunks of tomato (which I hate) but tasted sweet (which I love).
The guinea hen course was definitely my favourite and is the single best dish I’ve ever had. It was a breast sitting on end and wrapped in pancetta, with slivers of black truffle resting on top. Underneath were grits made with black truffle oil and Brussels sprouts leaves sprinkled about. As soon as our server set it down, I was like, “THESE ARE ALL OF MY FAVOURITE THINGS IN LIFE IN ONE DISH!!!” Poultry, salted cured meat, corn, and Brussels sprouts. If there had been a scoop of ice cream on top, I would’ve died right there. I was so overwhelmed by the first bite that I got chills for five minutes and almost cried. I’m so serious.
The Wagyu course should have come before the hen, because while it too was great, nothing was going to top those grits. Luckily, the tongue was a paper-thin slice laid out underneath the lentils and chard, so I didn’t have to worry about any of the texture issues I usually have with tongue. It was so delicate that it tore apart like tissue, and it tasted like a slow-simmered roast beef. The other piece of Wagyu was perfect in that one side of it was rare and buttery while the other side was crispy, as if Tom knew that Kamran and I like our steaks cooked opposite ways.
Our server told us that the first dessert course was more like an amuse-bouche than an actual dish, and Kamran said, “I’m not amused.” OH! Obvious food humor for the win! It was a tiny glass filled with layers of crushed coconut meringue cookies in the sweet red hibiscus syrup with a miniature dollop of Meyer lemon sorbet on top. Like size-of-your-fingertip miniature. The glasses themselves were so small that our spoons almost didn’t fit down into them. And despite the fact that I’ve had many a conversation about how pointless meringue is, the cookies were delicious and added the perfect texture.
The second dessert course wasn’t nearly as tasty but made up for it by being even more interesting. It was a huge smear of chocolate paste, a crunchy chocolate tart with a liquid chocolate top, and a spoonful of caramel ice cream. The paste looked exactly like icing, so it was a huge surprise to put a big, old glob of it in my mouth and find out that it’s not really sweet at all; it tasted like roasted, bitter fruit and had a grainy consistency. Which doesn’t sound appetizing, but it was, especially when we tempered it with the ice cream. We decided that it was pretty smart of Tom to give you course after course of easily-lovable dishes and then to throw this crazy thing at you at the end that would keep you talking for days.
Kamran admitted that before we visited craft, he sort of thought of Tom as a semi-decent chef who happened to be a celebrity but that after tasting his food, he’s a true believer. The interesting thing about a place like wd~50 is that your plate is filled with things you’ve never seen before, so they all taste new and exciting. But the more interesting thing about a place like craft is that all of the food on your plate is entirely recognizable, yet it’s exciting because it manages to taste better than it’s ever tasted before.
We also loved all of the little extras the staff provided, like the miniature gingerbread cookies and cream puffs they brought after our chocolate course. And all night, we kept seeing the hostesses handing something to each diner as they left, and we were dying to know what it was. I heard one hostess tell a woman it was “for tomorrow morning” and figured it was Tom’s special blend of coffee, but I swore it looked like a cupcake from far away. We couldn’t figure out where the hostesses were getting them, but halfway through our meal, we realized that what looked like a trashcan at their feet was actually a container full of the treats. We kept watching the contents of the container dwindle and kept worrying that they’d run out before we could leave, but Kamran was determined to have whatever it was. It seriously occupied our conversation for two straight hours. The thing we were really concerned about was the fact that we hadn’t checked our coats; most of the other diners had to wait for their outerwear and therefore had plenty of time at the hostess stand, so Kamran was really pressing me to figure out a way for us to lollygag with the hostesses despite already having our coats on. And then just as we were finishing up, the container disappeared. There were exactly two of the little bags leftover and laid out on the hostess stand, and there were two people heading for the door, so we thought all was lost. But then the container appeared from out of nowhere again, brimming with the treats. You can imagine our relief.
As soon as we stood up to put our coats on, the hostess placed two of the bags on her stand and waited patiently for us. They turned out to be muffins bursting with chocolate chips and drowning in a layer of huge-grained sugar. Breakfast the next day had me thinking about Tom for another twenty-four hours.
I’m sad that I was too self-conscious to take any pictures of the amazing food and the entire side of the restaurant that was made up of a weird convex wall covered in a sort of patchwork of similarly-colored brown leather slabs. But I did manage to capture this incredible photo of myself in Tom’s restroom, and that will be plenty to remember the experience by:

And speaking of restrooms, I should mention that the day after our dinner, Kamran told me that he needed to go to the bathroom but didn’t want to poo just to be able to hold our delicious meal inside himself for a little longer. That’s how good it was.
The Posts are a Lot More Fun to Write When I Can Actually Remember Everything That Happened
Tagged as all of my friends are prettier than i am, living in new york is neat, murray hill, par-tay
Saturday night began innocently enough, with five friends meeting for dinner at Mexico Lindo in the Murray Hill section of Manhattan to celebrate an impending birthday.

The friends, in order, are me (managing to look extra-crazed because I specifically tried to look normal), Sonya (in her authentic American Indian headdress), Jack (who is not as perverted as he appears), Beth (the birthday girl and owner of many granny sweaters), and Emily (who arrived twenty minutes late due to hair-straightening needs, which was generally deemed very worthwhile).
Not pictured: Bridgette, who stopped by for twenty minutes before returning to her GMAT studying and who DID sit beside me, lest you judge me uncool for having an empty seat next to me in the photo above.
Dinner, which was scheduled to last two hours to lead up to a showing of The Reader at the theatre across the street, actually lasted four hours due to extensive talk of how best to hide your tampon on your way to the public restroom at work (up the sleeve was eventually decided upon), whether it’s okay or not to pile trash on your friend when he falls asleep during karaoke (perfectly okay), and why Emily’s sister-in-law would buy her a shirt with a scoopneck that shows off ¾ of her boobs (because those things deserve to be enjoyed by all). The waitress brought out a giant bowl full of flambéed pears with a candle on top for Beth to blow out, but the pears were actually the dessert I ordered, because of course restaurants in New York City don’t give you anything complimentary on your birthday. Beth drank her coffee in silence as I licked every last flaming inch of the bowl myself.
After Sonya took it upon herself to explain what Two Girls One Cup is to me and we debated the feces’ similarity to chocolate softserve, the four of us girls piled into the back seat of a cab

and made Jack sit up front while we unabashedly discussed how you have to consciously remind yourself to look at the penises instead of the faces at Naked Boys Singing because you’re trained to be a good girl, and how totally hilarious it would be to hand over a tampon right out of your vagina when your friend asks to borrow one. “It’s only been in there an hour; it should be good as new!” Sonya said.
Having missed the movie, we got a private room at our favourite karaoke spot instead and spent the hours leading up until 3 a.m. enduring Sonya’s renditions of O-Town and the Spice Girls, Jack pretending like he was badass enough to know the lyrics to KISS’s Love Gun, and sadly realizing that only listening to male-fronted bands all my life means that I don’t actually know any songs in my vocal range as I really let Weezer down with my Say It Ain’t So.
Luckily, Emily and Sonya more than made up for it with some super-sexy Melissa-Etheridge-inspired lesbian dealings that would’ve been much sexier had they been in focus

and Beth–literally the whitest person I know–sang not one not two but THREE rap songs. One of which involved saying the word nigger over and over again, causing crowds of people to peek in the window into our room to see whose ass they should kick.

And all of this while we were completely sober.





