In case you were wondering if there’s really a difference between a 2-Michelin-star and a 3-Michelin-star restaurant, there is. And in case you thought Kamran would never eat at a restaurant featured on the episode of “The Fashion Show” where the Real Housewives of New Jersey were made to look even more like prostitutes, you were wrong.
I added Daniel to my list of 5-star restaurants (or 5-donut, as it were) today.
My roommate, Jack, and I stopped at the local Wendy’s recently to pick up a snack before heading home. A man sitting at the table just inside the door greeted us as we entered, but after being preyed upon countless times during my formative years here in NYC, I’ve trained myself to ignore anyone who might possibly try to pry what little money I have out of my grubby little Ohio hands. Jack, on the other hand, despite having lived here almost his entire life, somehow missed out on those teachings and shockingly turned to see what the man wanted. FOOL!!
Immediately noting the man’s homeless appearance, Jack tried to escape what was to come by innocently saying, “Let me just get my food.” But the guy had obviously been around the block once or twice and said, “Oh, god bless you, sir. Thank you, sir.” How could Jack resist a guilt trip like that?
By going out the back door–that’s how. When we spotted the alternative exit, it was like you could actually see the weight lifted off of Jack’s shoulders. He would simply grab his food, slip out the other door, and feel like he was off the hook just by virtue of inconvenience. Surely no one–even god–would expect him to walk all the way to the front of the restaurant just to hand over his money.
But as luck would have it, the guy apparently watched us work our way through the ten-minute line and then met us at the ketchup stand, where Jack was busy filling little paper cups with the manifestation of all our sins. “Thank you, sir,” he repeated. “God bless you, sir.” So of course Jack had to give him a dollar.
And wouldn’t you know it, when he got home and unpacked his nuggets, nestled at the bottom was one shaped like a heart.
My friend Anthony took this photo of me outside of Dim Sum Go Go, where my co-workers past and present and I met for our monthly dinner club a couple of weeks ago:
Look how freakin’ excited I am about pork buns! And look how hard Meredith‘s pretending not to know me.
In case you generally hate reading about how surprised I was to find out I’m not completely grossed out by sardines but love furthering your Tom Colicchio fantasies, my latest donuts4dinner.com post is for you.
Yesterday, Dr. Boyfriend and I were walking around 2nd Ave. between 23rd and 34th Streets, delighting ourselves with the culinary wonders of the weekend street fair (warning: jankiest website ever), when we spotted a pickle vendor. Neither of us have sampled many of New York’s pickle offerings other than the full sour and the half-sour, so I suggested we try something new, but as we approached the tent, we were dismayed to see that they were only being sold by the pint.
We passed by pickleless then but found ourselves standing outside a bakery stationed directly behind the vendor later just as one of the sellers lobbed off the bottom half of a pickle and attempted to land the top half in a trashcan. He didn’t watch to make sure it actually landed in the garbage, though, so Kamran and I were the only ones to see it bounce off the rim and roll onto the sidewalk at our feet.
And thus, an addition to my abandoned food page was born.
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