Guilty Pleasures: The return to Hundred Acres

I’ve been thinking a lot about yogurt lately. And not the creamy, fatty Greek version that’s just crying out for a dollop of honey and fresh strawberries – or, to put it bluntly, the kind which I eat and enjoy. No, I’m talking about the chemical-laden runny nastiness which contains “fruit product” (or some such travesty), fake sugar, and no fat. You know, the kind of stuff I’m supposed to like. Because I’m a girl. And I aspire to nothing so much as inclusion in the group of slim, non-threatening, grey-sweatshirt-wearing girls who have found weight-loss bliss through the consumption of this food-like substance.

Another yogurt commercial is making the rounds these days: a thin woman agonizes over whether to have a piece of cheesecake (“cheesecake is bad….and I have to be good!!") She is rescued, however, by her equally thin co-worker who pops up and grabs a container of “cheesecake” flavored yogurt. This takes me back to the early years of college, when it was quite fashionable to assign moral worth to your food choices. Did you eat a calorie-rich lunch? Then you were bad. You could atone for that sin through extensive exercising, but would that really make you good person? No, goodness can probably only be achieved through a few days of monk-like asceticism, involving brown rice and steamed vegetables (of course, this was before the Atkins fad really took hold. I’m not sure rice is acceptable anymore).

Ladies, you know what I’m talking about. You’ve all been there, or roomed with somebody who has. But we grow out of it, right? We learn to happily indulge in our favorites, be they cheesecake, chocolate, or French fries. And then we go on to write visually bland blogs about our indulgences (one of these days I really will learn how put pictures up on here! But for now can’t you be satisfied with my witty links? I was so proud when I figured out how to do that). Actually, I am aware of the fact that I live in a dream world in which the women are relatively confident about their food choices. Somehow I just don’t think it works like that everywhere else. Take my second trip to Hundred Acres, for example.

My first visit was at an off hour, so the establishment was sparsely filled with an eclectic mix of regulars. This second trip was for the purpose of Sunday brunch, which is of course a bit of an event in NYC, though not nearly on the scale of brunch in Berlin. Maria, Erin and I were absurdly excited for this brunch. The menu contains things like ricotta fritters and Jesus meatballs – how can you refuse? The place was just as rustically urban as I remembered it. Perhaps in a nod to its “farm to table” sensibility, there were artful piles of fresh produce displayed throughout the dining room. The music sounded like it had been ripped from my favorite Pandora stations. Our suitably hip and hirsute waiter looked like he might start playing sensitive indie rock with whispered vocals at any moment. We immediately ordered a plate of ricotta fritters and got to work on some mimosas with freshly-squeezed orange juice.

Let me pause for a moment and talk about the fritters, because I could launch into a female body image rant at any moment, and it would really be a shame not to have this experience saved for all time in the electronic universe. You know you’re in for a treat when a menu item involves deep fried cheese. These fritters went beyond the basic thrill, however. First of all, they were remarkably light. Look, I’m not saying these were anything other than crispy balls of indulgent goodness. But sometimes a fritter takes a wrong turn in life, and ends up hooked on smack and squatting in Tompkins Square Park. And those fritters are not enjoyable. They are heavy with the weight of an uncaring world. These fritters had a creamy yet springy interior. The shell was golden and crisp. The dipping sauce was an apple cider syrup, which had just enough tang to balance the sugar. Naturally, raptures ensued. I hummed as I’ve rarely hummed before.

My entrée was equally spectacular. I took our rustic waiter’s advice and ordered the goat cheese thyme bread pudding with poached eggs and a warm spinach salad. Our waiter did not lead me astray. It was an impeccable dish. The savory bread pudding was a gorgeous mix of herbs, cream, and salt. The poached eggs and butter sauce could have pushed this dish right over the edge, but luckily the wilted spinach was there for me in my time of trial. The greens admirably matched the surrounding decadence. The humming increased.

As Maria, Erin and I attempted to find words to describe our sensory overload, I began to notice the tables around me. Perched at almost every one was a tall, thin, blond, soho-robot eating scrambled eggs and salad. I’m sure the scrambled eggs at Hundred Acres are great, although perhaps a bit pedestrian. But what really appalled me - abandoned on each plate was a golden piece of fresh cornbread. Look, I understand that New York is a hard city, and that society holds unrealistic expectations for female beauty and all of that, but really – how can you pass up fresh cornbread!?!?!? Isn’t there some kind of law against the willful indifference to excellent food? I suppose I shouldn’t jump to conclusions – maybe there was a corn-allergy conference meeting at the restaurant. Maybe the cornbread that day looked deceptively appetizing, but in fact truly sucked. These are possibilities. But that morning I just barely suppressed the desire to stand up on my chair with a sign that read “Carbs” while burning my bra and gorging on cornbread. I’m starting a movement here, people. And yes, that movement will involve lots of incredible food. Who’s with me? (FYI, the bra-burning is optional.)