Actually, I may not be quite over the fact that I dished out $13 on an avocado toast that would probably approximate to the under $2 range when made at home, but let’s just go with Bob and imagine that every little thing is going to be alright.
This was the only title deemed appropriate considering the beastiality of the consumption.
Think about the amount of f*cks given, multiplied by a rainy Saturday, and add in deli mustard. Now, throw in a warm, hefty helping of salty, melt-in-your-mouth pastrami, and shove it in rye bread. According to my nonexistent math skills, the answer comes out to: Katz Deli.
Yes, another one. Because the only thing to do on weekends is mindlessly food crawl until the cash runs out and you need a walking break until the next coffee pit stop.
That so called “list” you hear about from time to time are my never-ending scribbles of restaurants, bars, holes in the walls, (even books, music, etc.) I take note of to revisit in more detail. Last month, Dudley’s came off the list.
Note: this is not an edible post (for a change). Recently, Warby Parker (the reason I now wave to the right people and read street signs) launched a few different collections for the current and upcoming seasons. With new styles in both the sunglasses and eyeglasses departments, this $95 investment is probably the only one your face will need until…further notice/your mascara runs out.
Just wanted you to meet the Honey Mule from Bardot. Next time you’re at this Miami lounge and decide to resort to your lame calling (vodka soda, or anything of that nature), go for a little splurge and order this instead. It’s their version of a moscow mule, with a nice touch of honey, and unfortunately is served in a glass cup instead of a copper one.
Just because this East Village speakeasy mixology mecca has somewhat of a secretive vibe (located behind Crif Dogs, no visible name outside, must phone in via the red phone in the telephone booth kind of thing), that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t share details! Hello…the point of the Leopard. The last time I attempted to grab a drink at Please Don’t Tell, the wait was three hours.
So, among my list of never-ending meals to inhale before I find a more sustainable hobby, was Barbuto. I have heard nothing but gospel-like praise about Jonathan Waxman, his chicken dish and his epic Italian fare. And though I don’t gravitate towards eating the bird, I did consume an epic fellow fish, and some pasta mooching of course.