Boobs Night Out

While everyone else was celebrating fashion night out all over the city, I dragged The Boy and The West Side Beauty to the LES to see the Beach Fossils at The Bowery Ballroom. I drank Magic Hat beer, which smells like Fruity Pebbles, and watched the Sundelles and the Beach Fossils with a room full of people half my age. There was even a bit of semi-mosh pit action at the end where i distinguished myself by spilling my beer and bending down for my purse. Legitimately cool.

When we left the show to seek out food, the real show actually started. The LES was a carnival, from giant, stick-like scantily-clad transvestites being filmed reality-show style, to frat boys puking on the street, to waiflike models gliding through the crowds in a hunger-induced haze, it was a scene, man.

But nothing compared to our meal at Pulinos. Well, not the meal, exactly, which was just OK, although they do have Mother's Milk on tap, and that doesn't suck. First of all, the staff was POLITE and FRIENDLY. That just doesn't happen at cool places in New York. Second of all, when a couple of bone bags showed up inquiring about being seated immediately, and by bone bags i mean beautiful, leggy models, the hostess told them there were people in front of them and refused to be taken in by their cheekbones. Perhaps she knew they weren't really going to eat. I was smitten. Love you Pulinos hostess.

Anyway, we got seated in the middle of the room. Great vantage point for people watching. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a giant hat enter the room atop a scraggly woman wearing a military-inspired bolero jacket and a white tutu. Turns out, that was all she was wearing, which i realized when she turned around and the impression of her nipples was burned into my retinas. She had no problem posing for the many cameras that appeared to capture her nearly-naked 'fit. But endearingly, the staff at Pulinos told her to button up and keep her nips under wraps. They were not amused. But The Boy was, having had occasion to unexpectedly view strange boobs while swilling beer and eating pizza. Really, a perfect night for all.

A Magical Night In The City - Wizards, Waffles and Commerce

The Boy and I, along with The Bone Collector and the Future Texan, went out for a grown-up dinner last night in Greenwich Village, with drinks at 8th Street Wine Cellar followed by dinner at one of our new fave places, Commerce. Check out their yummy menu.

This being New York, the food and wine were only part of the draw. We saw a wizard on the way to the restaurant. I'm pretty sure it was Dumbledore. He wasn't dressed as elaborately as in the movies, but did have on a long robe and wizarding cap, with a chock of white beard blowing across his chest. He was pushing a cart which was probably another wizard in disguise. Probably.

Later we got hooted at by a car of unruly teens who obviously thought our hotness was too smoldering to go unrecognized. Or they were drunk. They seemed to be hooting at any passerby, really, now that I think of it. Anyway. . .

As we walked along 7th Avenue between drinks and dinner, we saw a glittering yellow light in the distance. The fabled Waffle Truck was in our midst. We were momentarily seduced by the fragrant sweet air that enveloped the block. The bacon waffle beckoned, and we promised to come back for dessert.

Alas, the dessert menu at Commerce leveled it's own seductive force. A Banana's Foster sundae with banana pudding and vanilla ice cream and a caramel sundae with chocolate brownie bits edged out our notions of waffles in that moment. The great ambiance, comfortable seats and steaming coffee and espresso put them over the line.

We walked wistfully past the Waffle Truck again on our way home, vowing that we would meet one another again some day. I've got the twitter feed. I won't need a wizard to find it.

Scenes From The East Village

With The Boy out of town, I took the opportunity to appreciate some girl time with The West Side Beauty and The Little Nolita Lady. Here are some shots of NYC life in the East Village.

Photos by Shanda Boyett. Copyright 2010.

Jammed Up

One of my favorite memories from growing up is the amazing breakfasts my dad would prepare on weekends and special occasions. Bacon and grits and pancakes, Oh My! Round eggs. Toast. Yummy biscuits. With jam.

Fast forward 20+ years later, and I still love me some breakfast. Unfortunately, The Boy doesn't do Kitchen, so if I want a comforting breakfast meal prepared for me, I've got to do what the rest of the New Yorkers do, and head out for brunch.

The West Side Beauty and I usually head down to Soho on Saturday mornings for a little Physique 57 action and post-workout celebrating at the neighborhood's vast array of restaurants.

I love the ritual of determining our location each week and the wonder of checking out a new menu and all the possibilities it represents foodwise. We've checked out Balthazar, The Cupping Room, Hundred Acres, Country Cafe, Jane, etc.

We've drooled over the $16 bread basket at Balthazar (though never purchased it), we've stared breathless at the southern inspired morsels from Hundred Acres. But one thing we've noticed almost across the board, is that jam and toast are often missing.

That's right, fellow feasters. We've been to locations that were "out of jam" (Country Cafe) or "only serve jam on Sundays" (Jane). Wha?

At the other locations, toast (or the infamous Balthazar Bread Basket) are extra. They don't come with the meal. Really?

Now seriously, New York is supposed to be the center of civilized living. That means I'm paying $15 to $20 for eggs and breakfast meats. So I gotta tell you. There ain't nothing civilized about a breakfast without toast and jam (or biscuits and jam or croissants and jam).

I think we need to band together to make things right. Let's protest! Save the Jam! Support the Toast! Your breakfast will thank you.

The Case of the Stalker Pastry

I'm being stalked. By killer pastry. Not only is my block bordered by cupcake stores, but there are food trucks that seem to be following me around, tempting me with the promise of heaven. One truck sells cupcakes(!?!). The other sells waffles, including bacon waffles or waffles with nutella.

I know it's wrong, but I can't get them out of my head. No means no, ok, trucks?

Blow Hards

"I haven't taken a subway since January," pronounced the investment banker sitting at the table next to me.  I know exactly what he said because a) the tables were so close I could have jacked him off without leaning over, and b) he was speaking so loudly I would have had to stuff my ears with the generous cup of bread sticks not to hear him.  He apparently lived in the neighborhood around Blue Hill, the restaurant I dragged The Boy to for dinner. He'd just gotten back from Japan. He was going to Florida on Monday, but would be home for Easter. As a boy, he fell down while playing soccer. Annoying? Yes. Pretentious? Also yes. The Boy and I hovered in the corner next to them, praying for a hasty exit. The waitstaff was, sadly, on the side of the Loud Talker. They. Moved. At. The. Pace. Of. Snails.  Thankfully they didn't leave a glistening trail behind, although that might have been cool. 

Guilty Pleasure

The West Side Beauty met up with us Sunday night for an over the top dinner at Del Posto. This is one of Mario Batali's joints, and it was ah-mazing. The service was attentive, if a little overbearing. Our waiter hovered over us like Lord Voldemort surveying his chances for evil takeover, which was, frankly, a bit creepy. But the wine steward helped us pick a lovely red wine, and then made quite the show of opening it, and swishing a small amount in our three glasses to clear them of any impurities, I guess. The bulbs of the glasses were almost as big as my calves! You could almost stick your whole face in there.

Then came the food. We got the tasting menu which consisted of an appetizer, a couple of pastas, an entree and dessert.  They also piqued our pallets with a selection of small hors d'oeuvres- a shot of broth, fried cheese medallions and balls of mortadella bologna - as well as a basket of the most glorious breads. Along with butter was a spread of pork fat that took me back to my Granny and Big Daddy's house. Yum.

For our entrees we had a veritable Old McDonald's Farm reunion with pork (not The Boy, of course), duck and lamb. I had the duck, medium rare and just right.

Dessert was a challenge. I really wanted the dark chocolate thing, and I knew I didn't want the apple thing. But Daryl wanted the dark chocolate thing, so I ordered the pumpkin thing, with low expectations. Turns out, in my mind at least, I made the best choice. I ate every bite, and didn't share a crumb. It was one of the best desserts of all time.

Overall, Del Posto was an expensive, but pleasurable experience. Tomorrow, we'll start living la vida recession. 

Salty, Sweet and Surreal

 My sis, the Dainty Dug Dealer, made another surprise visit to New York to help me celebrate being old! 

So she, The Boy and I headed out to the West Village for a late night dinner at Perilla, the new hot spot opened awhile back by Top Chef winner Harold Dieterle. My view on the place was mixed. The service was pretty good. But my food and sis's food were both a little too salty. Dessert, ahh. Not that great.

The real main course didn't occur until after dinner. In one of those classic only-in-new-york situations, we happened by a maudlin art exhibit framed as a pet store. An automatronic rabbit preens in a mirror, chicken mcnuggets peck in a chicken coop, hot dogs wiggle under a heat lamp. It was surreal and lovely.