Tag Archives: living in new york is neat

NYC Pillow Fight 2009!

Posted by plumpdumpling on April 8, 2009 – 10:47 am
Filed under living in new york is neat
Tagged as ,

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!

Posted by plumpdumpling on March 10, 2009 – 2:34 pm
Filed under it's fun to be fat, living in new york is neat
Tagged as ,

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

Posted by plumpdumpling on February 20, 2009 – 1:58 pm
Filed under bigtime celebrity, funner times on the bus, jobby jobby job job, living in new york is neat, narcissism
Tagged as , , , ,

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

here

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

Posted by plumpdumpling on February 17, 2009 – 10:56 am
Filed under it's fun to be fat, living in new york is neat, restaurant ramblings
Tagged as , ,

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

Posted by plumpdumpling on January 26, 2009 – 3:33 pm
Filed under all of my friends are prettier than i am, living in new york is neat, par-tay
Tagged as , , ,

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.