24 in the Big Apple

I hardly know where to start, not least because my husband has morphed from relative sloth into avid gym-goer (yay, husband!) and was working out at 8:30 this morning whilst I slumbered away after post-drinks drinks at Otto last night. But I'll start from where I left you yesterday... We hopped the Q train to Brooklyn to meet my friend, Suzanne, at the Ft. Greene farmers market. Because, as it's probably abundantly obvious to you, I am incapable of not buying fresh food when I see it, I bought more tomatoes. I did manage to keep my wallet in check around the gargantuan boxes of fresh squash blossoms -just $5! in DC you can have about 4 for the same price- but I trembled while backing away from them. Suzanne bought so many tomatoes and plums that on the way to the Brooklyn Flea, we detoured to her house to drop them off. There we met her cute pugs, Izzy and Nando (I love that their namesakes are Ferdinand and Isabella) and sat a spell before heading back out.

As we approached the Flea, a huge asphalt lot covered with gourmet food trucks and stalls selling all manner of junk and awesomeness, my heart's pace picked up, and I could see T start to lick his lips in anticipation. You almost can't make that man happier than sticking him in a food trucked environ. After an initial tour -how would we ever decide where to start?!- T went in for an pupusa (horrible word; all words starting with pūp should restructure) combo from the Salvadoran folks (the one made with loroco (an edible, flowering vine) was off-the-hook good), Suzanne bought a cherry cola (the real thing) from the soda guys, I started sucking down an incredible coconut-cinnamon horchata, Suz went for steak tacos, I opted for a ludicrous looking grilled cheese from Milk Truck (all grilled cheeses and milkshakes; that's just awesome) that was aged Gruyere, caramelized onions and a fried egg on rye with a "please add some fresh tomatoes". To be fair, it was not THE.BEST. grilled cheese ever, but it was good!

Meanwhile, T went back for a second, courtesy of Porchetta; literally, the stand was named Porchetta and that's all you could get: porchetta on a roll. Not my speed, but he was enchanted. We then trolled the Flea, during which time we bought and devoured perhaps the best chocolate-glazed doughnut I've ever had (chocolate with a hint of caramel and how Dough makes a completely-devoid-of-grease doughnut is unknown but should win them a Nobel), and I found an awesome Fiestaware platter (original vintage) that I snapped up. We also bought the coolest Christmas gift for my parents, sister, and bro-in-law but I will not describe it in any way as they read Em-i-lis. Suffice it to say that they will be pleased.

To the R train to return to the city. T and I parted ways for a short while as he had the brilliant idea to buy a new suitcase because mine is 13 years old and losing bits and pieces each time I travel AND this was the only conceivable way we'd get all these purchases (85% food) home with us. I went to Fish's Eddy and ABC Carpet & Home (such a weird but awesome store) and on the way back to our hotel was sidelined by awesome samples at a juice bar. I was inspired to go in and purchase one which was a wildly fortuitous decision because inside I found JUMBO DAIFUKU which are one of my favorite treats, and since the little Japanese grocery in Bethesda closed, I have been unable to get these super-caloric bean curd-rice cake treats in DC. Have I mentioned that I love NY? The most unassuming to the most grandiose bodega here will have these mochi cakes. See them here with my other gems: stracchino, baked ricotta...

A nap, showers, and to the Village we headed, cancelling our Da Silvano reservation en route as I simply had to return to Bar Pitti (next door to Da S) instead. I love, love, love Bar Pitti. Cash only, a great deal of attitude, but such great food and people-watching. We got there early so we could sit outside. Platters of fettunta (grilled bread slicked with olive oil) and spinaci saltati (salted spinach but so much more)...how the Italians can handle spinach! And then fresh pappardelle with cinghiale (boar) for T and taglierini con tartufo estivo (summer truffles) for me. Heaven.

T had a tiramisu while I kept a peripheral gimlet eye trained on the couple at my 9:00. That guy had to be a don. I mean, it was unreal. Bald on top, remaining hair greased back confidently with "do not effing move" gel, a starched white, tuxedo pleated shirt untucked over his portly barrel chest and domed stomach, the requisite gold ring on his sausagey finger. He had a definite "I'm friendly BUT do not eff with me" air and was obviously a regular because the waiters were all over him like flies on high-maintenance honey. He was clearly in the no-carb camp because he kept ordering that the bread be replaced with large cubes of Parm; his thick fingers would dip the cheese in Bar Pitti's insanely good olive oil and then deliver the dripping chunks to his mouth. All the while his overly thin, overly Botoxed gal pal (seriously, only the top of her nose moved) quietly shared her half of the Diet Coke he'd meted out into their glasses, and smiled and shifted rather nervously in her chair. It was all rather delightful. And then down the sidewalk sauntered a dude in suit pants and vest but no shirt. His gut spilled over his belt, out under his vest; it was not a good look.

We headed up Greenwich towards Otto for some post-dinner drinks and soon passed a guy engaged in serious martial arts with his reflection in a store-front window.

I love New York.

With what energy, I know not, but we then rented the newest Star Trek and throughout I lusted over Chris Pine, what I know Zachary Quinto looks like when he's not Spock and Benedict Cumberbatch who always manages to be hot even though if you take him feature by feature he's really not.

That's only getting us to midnight so you're getting a bit gypped in the "24 in the big apple" thing but I'll resume later. Tom just brought me some insane(!) financiers for breakfast lunch so I'm gonna eat, pack and head to The Book of Mormon.