NYC - Where "quaint" comes to die

A friend of mine in college had a theory about why everybody in NYC was so skinny – they couldn’t afford to eat. This also explained why everybody wore black – cuts down on cleaning costs. Anyway, while I’ve only had brief periods during which my lack of money led to weight loss, I certainly do agree that this city is too goddamn expensive. (And our rent is too damn high!) But sometimes you can stumble upon a surprisingly affordable evening of food and entertainment. My friend Kelly and I did just that last week – and in Soho no less.

Dinner in Soho is a dangerous thing. In Soho, you need to be prepared to spend some serious cash, or do a thorough search of your options. Let’s say you want a burger and fries. Well, in Soho, that burger will have come from a cow raised on a poetry-reading commune, and will have eaten only the finest, pesticide-free grass. And those potatoes? They will have been grown by Tibetan monks who serenade the spuds with throat chant every morning at sunrise. Needless to say, this kind of attention to nutritional detail comes at a very high price. We had been given a couple of suggestions for Italian places, but as it was yet another cold, dreary, rainy Spring day in New York, we really just wanted to run inside the first place that looked sufficiently hip, yet unpretentious (working on a level of 1 to Soho, of course). And so, we were seduced by the low key siren song of Hundred Acres.

It was just so hard to resist! From the rich, red velvet drape at the entrance, to the elegant marble slab of the bar, we were captivated by Hundred Acres’ upscale urban farm atmosphere! And no, we were in no way bothered by the inherent contradiction in that idea. We prepared ourselves to lay down the cash for an $18 burger or $20 plate of fried chicken (and that, of course, is before the wine. In Soho a single glass could easily cost more than your entire meal. Because restaurants in Soho are just that cool). But lo! As we sat down at the bar we were presented with a happy hour menu. Could it be! Could happy hour co-exist with cottage-chic? Yes! It could! We were now free to order small bites, pay normal dinner prices, and leave secure in the knowledge that our dark colored clothing would absorb any stains that may emerge as the result of eating at the bar. (Cause you know, we’re New Yorkers. We were wearing black.)

I have to say though, the food was good. We got steak skewers, papas bravas, and brussels sprouts with anchovies. The steak was meltingly tender, and very well spiced. The “papas bravas” were actually smashed, fried red potatoes, served with a chipotle aioli, and they ruled. Funny thing about aioli - I pretty much detest mayo, but I really enjoy aioli, its fancy ancestor. And yes, I’m aware that when most places say “chipotle aioli”, they really mean “mayo with some chipotle sauce mixed in”. But I can’t help it. I love it. I completely buy into the advertising. I, like the rest of my generation, am a slave to marketing. Anyway, the potatoes were lovely, and the Brussels sprouts added a really necessary bitter contrast to all this richness. True, my first bite did include a full anchovy, and that wasn’t exactly delightful, but that was a one time occurrence. Most of the anchovies had melted into the olive oil, and simply added a nice, astringent brine. All this, plus $6 wine! It was Soho slumming at its best.

Perhaps you’re wondering why we were braving the overpriced morass which is Soho in the first place. Kelly had found us a great deal for a chamber music concert – WQXR was broadcasting a festival of music entitled “Trout Week”. Each performance was about an hour long, there was commentary, free wine, and Kelly had a discount. What more could you ask for? Well, I could ask for no “Trout”s. I actually hate the “Trout”. And not in the way that I once hated Bach, as a kind of rebellious music-school thing (“I’m young and creative! I reject the standard musical cannon!”). I really do not like Schubert’s “Trout” Quintet. I also dislike the art song from which it derives. I guess you could say that I hate all things “Trout” (except for the smoked trout dip served at an Elsas holiday party. I loooooooove that stuff!) Luckily, the ensemble of the evening, Ethel, is not known for its “Trout” enthusiasm. There are many, many things to like about Ethel: their commitment to new works; their fierce passion when playing; their eclectic musical choices. And the fact that they provide some eye candy is not too bad either (I mean, we’re not talking about the Johnny Depp of chamber music, but there’s definitely some music-school level hotness on display here.*)

A few brief notes on some of the selections, because this post is already too long: Julia Wolfe's Early That Summer – apparently that summer was intensely emotional and minimalistic. Those are the kinds of things I look for in a season. Dohee Lee's HonBiBaekSan – So much gorgeousness. This meditative excerpt was a preview of the premiere the following Monday at Le Poisson Rouge (why oh why did I miss that!). Other pieces featured some very unique recorded tracks, and the high pitched, sustained squeaky notes that are almost a requisite for New Music. Those particular notes aside, it was truly a wonderful concert.

So that was our night in Soho! We somehow found a way to sensibly enjoy dinner and live music in one of the most expensive parts of one of the most expensive cities in the world. And what did we do with our unexpected plenty? Blew it all at the bar after the show. Priorities, people. Priorities.

*Music-school level hotness explained: When you’re in music school your social circle becomes surprisingly small. The schedule is so overwhelming, and you tend to find prospective dates only in theory class, in the Music Library, or at the pub across the street on Dollar Burger Night. This is not to say that your standards slip. They just become....different. When everyone is pasty and white from spending too much time in a practice room, the hottest pasty white man wins. That, my friends, is music school level hotness.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that all New York Food Bloggers must eventually write about Sripraphai.

In the wisdom of age I have come to appreciate the BYOB restaurant. Gone are the days when I would complain about the inconvenience of places without liquor licenses. Now, I embrace the freedom they bring. The option of buying my own cheap, rotgut wine by the bottle is infinitely better than paying $7 for a class of Concha y Toro. Of course, this is usually only available on East 6th street or in the outer boroughs. But oh, how I love the outer boroughs. I spent seven delicious years in Queens, and I miss it still. By and large the food is fresh, authentic, and fairly-priced. And since I am fully prepared to sacrifice ambience for these aforementioned qualities, the outer boroughs really are my culinary shangri la. Let's take a walk down memory lane, shall we?

After I graduated from college I lived in a ramshackle apartment in Queens with wall-to-wall pink carpeting, gleaming white walls, windows that didn't fully shut, and a boiler that ran industrial strength even in August. This apartment was also located in the Bermuda Triangle of Queens : within shouting distance of the elevated 7 train, the LIRR, Queens Boulevard, and the flight path of LaGuardia airport. Every day at 6am it sounded like a plane was landing in my bedroom. It was difficult to watch TV or talk on the phone because the boiler kept the apartment at a steady 110 degrees, and this made it necessary to keep a window open at all times. This, of course, allowed us to hear the 7 train in all its clanky, non-oiled glory every five minutes. And this is to say nothing of the overbearing landlord with his religious icons, and the crazy drunk irishman that lived downstairs. It was a unique time, and while I mainly gritted my teeth and focused on the cheap rent, my eccentric boss continually insisted that I would look back on these as the best years of my life. She was certainly right in one respect – I had some damn good meals.

It has been commonly accepted for some time that Sripraphai serves perhaps the best Thai food in all of New York City. I'm not sure that my friends and I knew that when we started frequenting this small restaurant in Woodside. Back in the day it looked like a down and out diner. The food was dirt cheap, and you pretty much ordered by picture. I'm fairly certain it was BYOB, but we were obsessed with the Thai Iced Tea, so that hardly mattered. I do remember that the green curry was almost lethal, and that the joint wasn't open on Wednesdays. I now live very, very far away from Queens. Yes, I'm technically still in the same city, but if you calculate the time it takes me get to Sripraphai I might as well live in Jersey (not that there's anything wrong with that). A trip to Sripraphai is now a major event. I was lucky enough to experience such a momentous occasion recently with my friend Laura.

Although we became friends through work, I think that Laura and I truly bonded over our mutual respect and appreciation for food. We've gone into raptures over sticky rice and mango. We have unabashedly scandalized fellow patrons with our moans at a Malaysian restaurant (the chicken curry roti made us do it). Sripraphai might as well be our culinary temple. It had been a long time since I'd eaten here, and I was pleasantly surprised to see that it had expanded threefold. Gone are the florescent glares and formica countertops. Now its all bamboo and mood-lighting. The food, however, is still painfully good. Emphasis on the painful. We started with fried watercress salad. Moved on to fried pickled pork. Followed all of that with fried pork belly and “southern style curry” - with fried tofu. I'm not sure we completely knew what we were getting ourselves into. We were, however warned about the curry. “Too spicy,” the waiter said. “Not for Americans.” Clearly I took this as a sign that we absolutely must, no matter what, have this curry. I probably even asked for it extra hot. And it was spicy. It was the kind of spicy that makes you want to strip down naked and run down the street screaming “sweet baby jesus!” while dousing your flaming head with water. And yet it was soooooooo right. Especially with the pork belly. The fat of the pork was such a nice compliment to the heat. Next time I might go for meat in the curry (I don't know that tofu was really up to the challenge), but I would definitely order it again.

We accompanied this spread with mounds of coconut rice. And yet, we still managed to rally for a dessert of sticky rice and mango. In the interest of full disclosure – this sticky rice and mango was not as good as the dish we had in Elmhurst this past summer. I mean, it was good, but none of the staff looked ready to throw us out of the restaurant on the grounds of indecency. The overall meal, however, was superlative. And by the time we left, the crowd waiting to be seated overflowed onto the sidewalk (note to self, always arrive at Sripraphai by 6pm on a Saturday).

All in all it was a highly successful night. We had a great meal, and I was able to pick up some curry sauce at the specialty Thai Food shop across the street. And the bonus? An adorable shop cat that offered up kissed to the customers. You see, this is why I miss Queens. Oh Inwood, why?! Why can't you fulfill my culinary dreams? Why must I go to the outer boroughs for true satisfaction? (Inwood just leaned in and whispered, “What about my multiple subway lines, extensive parkland, and discount wine shop?” Well played, Inwood. Well played.)

Leave Your Labels at the Door

Apparently, the word “foodie” has become a bit controversial. I've heard people complain that it glorifies rank amateurs. But controversial? I truly had no idea. I assumed it simply implied a whimsical love of food. Yes, it has a saccharine ring to it, and is a bit unimaginative, but so what? Humans love to categorize, and they love to eat, so something along these lines was bound to emerge eventually. This week, however, I have been schooled. According to urbandictionary.com (an unimpeachable source), “Foodie” is “a dumbed-down term used by corporate marketing forces to infantilize and increase consumerism in an increasingly simple-minded American magazine reading audience.” The definition goes on to state: “The addition of the long "e" sound on the end of a common word is used to create the sensation of being part of a group in isolationist urban society, while also feminizing the term to subconsciously foster submission to ever-present market sources.” So, um, “foodie” is a tool of the patriarchy?

In other corners, “foodies” are declared to be harbingers of doom. Their obsession with odd meats, their idolatry of chefs, and their willingness to travel great distances for unusual fare are deemed equivalent to late Roman excess. That’s right folks – while Rome is burning, these heathens will be eating. And speaking of religion (or lack thereof), need I even mention the infamous list of transgressions which places Gluttony almost at the top?

Now that my eyes have been opened to the depravity that is “foodie-ism”, I will certainly never insult a dear friend by applying such a slur to his good name. So let’s just say that I have recently enjoyed some good meals with friends who, while not professional members of the food industry, embrace its offerings with an appropriate level of enthusiasm, and in a manner which pisses nobody off. Let’s start with the intercontinental brunch.

Some of you may be familiar with my good friend Daniel. He played a starring role in my Berlin dispatches this past fall. This kind soul is both an amazing cook and an amazing diner. While Ryan and I were in Berlin we were privileged to attend a dinner party he held featuring pumpkin potage, lamb, and lemon arugula risotto (this is serious stuff here, people. Dinner-party risotto is not for the faint of heart). Daniel also introduced us to some wonderful restaurants (Themroc, Kimchee Princess, Terrorist Döner Kebab....Oh the deliciousness!) Basically, Daniel facilitated some of our best culinary experiences in Germany. So when he wrote to tell us that he was coming to NYC, and particularly wanted to share a meal with us so that he could make an appearance on this blog, I was both excited and a little intimidated (did I mention that he’s a professional, published writer as well? Yeah, there’s no pressure here).

The parameters were as follows: a midday Sunday meal on the Upper East Side, as he would be coming from the Guggenheim. This naturally suggests brunch, right? But herein lies the dilemma – Brunch in Berlin is epic. There would be absolutely no way to compare to it, let alone top it. And to make matters worse, our chosen location, while definitely not a culinary wasteland, is not exactly known for its adventurous dining. I decided the only answer was to stick to a well-worn playbook: Sarabeth’s East.

Sarabeth’s not only has a reputation for outstanding brunch, it also has just enough variety to satisfy any particular culinary quirk. Yes, there would be a wait, but a wait for Sunday brunch is ubiquitous in NYC. And I'd like to think it was worth it. First of all, how can you argue with a place that serves homemade jam? And your choice of muffin, croissant, biscuit or bread with every egg dish? Of course, what really sold me was their Sweet Breakfast. Surprised? Don't be. Its a total misnomer. The Sweet Breakfast menu delivered the one of the best savory brunches I've ever had. I submit for your approval: The Crisp Potato Waffle with Chicken Apple Breakfast Sausage, Chunky Apple Sauce and Sour Cream. This also comes with warm organic maple syrup from Doefler's Farm. I don't know who Doefler is, and I only had a bit of his syrup, but it was damn good. But oh, the waffles. They mix the potato in with the batter, and it comes out light, fluffy, and – what can I say? - crisp. The sausage was just hearty enough for a sophisticated Sunday meal, as opposed to the greasy excess of a hangover brunch. The whole place had the vibe of a New England cafe. Oh, and lest I forget – the home fries! Daniel ordered a round for the table, and I heartily embraced his decision. You know how some home fries are just nasty, caky globs of useless carbs? These were the kind of home fries that all potatoes hope to grow up to be. Each morsel was perfectly browned, with a creamy interior. Add to that the sauteed onions and red and green peppers, and you've come pretty close to ultimate brunch satisfaction.

Ryan, Daniel and I followed up our multiple potato portions with a lovely jaunt through Central Park. There was just a bit of a chill in the air, making it perfect for a brisk walk. The park was austere, yet beautiful, and the company was superior. I can't deny it – I fell in love with Berlin. But a wonderful Sunday like this makes me realize that settling for New York City wouldn't be too bad.

The Fayetteville Holiday Meal Delivery Service

Like most couples, Ryan and I try to split our holidays – if we spend Thanksgiving with his people, we then spend Christmas with my people. But this year things were a little bit different. We had spent much of the fall on our grand European adventure, and Thanksgiving had been spent with other homeless American Opera singers who understood the crucial need for mass quantities of turkey the fourth Thursday of November. When we came back to NYC in early December it seemed a bit impractical to turn around and travel again for Christmas. So the result is, we had not seen Ryan's parents for quite a while. Over the winter we tried to plan a trip upstate, but, as usual, my chaotic work schedule prohibited it. However, Ryan's parents are intrepid travelers, so they decided that if we couldn't come to them, they would come to us; plans were made for an overnight visit on President's Day weekend.

Cue Andi's culinary delusions of grandeur: of course I would make a spectacular dinner on Saturday, filled with food that is both wholesome and just adventurous enough. Sunday would feature freshly made biscuits and assorted breakfast meats. Perhaps homemade jam and a decorative fruit tray? I was in complete denial of the fact that with my extreme work schedule (which included a full day of teaching on Saturday) all of this cooking would have to take place from 3pm to 4pm Wednesday afternoon in between jobs. So I was slightly relieved when Ryan told me that his parents were planning to bring food to us – namely a roast turkey with all the trimmings.

At first I was also confused- why would they bring a roast turkey on a 5 hour drive? Did they think our apartment was an episode of Man vs. Wild, and that they would have to forage for food and shelter for 48 hours? True, we use toilet paper as tissues and rarely have non-alcoholic beverages beyond water and milk, but hey – we could be a lot worse. But as the plan continued to take shape I realized their true intention - they wanted to have a holiday meal with us. And if President's Day was to be our holiday, then so be it. They wanted to spoil us – and Ryan and I were ready to be spoiled.

The discussion of dinner must begin with the Fayetteville turkey. It is beyond good. They wrap the bird in butter-coated tin foil at the start of the day, and then hours later this yields up incredibly tender, juicy, flavorful meat. And the skin! Oh the skin. Decadent. Perfectly crisp. The Fayetteville turkey was accompanied by homemade, toothsome bread stuffing, roasted carrots, and green beans. Ryan made his signature sinful mashed potatoes (secret ingredient? Crack). Cranberry sauce was in effect. And, of course, gravy.

A note on gravy - I fear making it. As a child, my family's holiday meals never included gravy because no one felt confident enough to attempt it. There was a conviction in the household that good gravy was a result of careful alchemy – and we had not been made privy to this ancient knowledge. I worry that I inherited this genetic predisposition for inadequate gravy-making. I am in awe of anyone who has mastered the skill. Ryan's mother makes an amazingly velvety, perfect gravy. Of course, the succulent turkey easily stands on its own. But that gravy – it just takes the whole meal to a new dimension.

The gorging commenced. Perhaps my fourth serving was a bit excessive, but, after all, President's Day only comes around once a year. And there is a magic to the holiday meal. So much heart and spirit is put into the preparation, its as if you can taste the love expressed with each bite. The meal was rounded out with two types of homemade cookies (including my favorite, chocolate chip walnut). And that wasn't the end – there were two loaves of freshly made banana bread for the next morning. This may just be my new favorite holiday tradition.

I was a witness to strange food rituals

I suppose all cultures have their own peculiar culinary rituals. In some locales, jungle tribes pass homemade liquor to every guest at a fire-side gathering, with each member drinking from the same hollowed-out coconut. It is forbidden to skip your turn – you simply have to drink until you pass out. In other places, groups gather at yuletide to eat celebratory cake, not knowing which slice contains the sacred bean which will elevate the eater to royalty before casting him down as a human sacrifice. And speaking of sacrifice, I've certainly been the recipient of some wafers and wine which were intended to represent something a bit more....lifelike. But seeing as how I'm not a regular church goer, I would have to say that my food rituals are usually confined to the requisite Old-Fashioned cocktail served when dining with the Tuckers. Not to make light of this ritual. Nothing makes a dinner of pernil, polenta and beer-sauteed kale better than a perfectly mixed drink imbibed after the gorging. However, in my recent travels around our ever-surprising city I have had the privilege of witnessing not one, but two unusual food rituals. Let's just say I've been busy.

As my “bio” here explains, my hunger for food and drink is really only matched by my hunger for art. And my preference has always been to enjoy these items with friends. So when a particularly talented couple I know invited me to a night of dinner, poetry and scotch, of course I said yes. The evening had an official title – A Burns Supper, celebrating the life of Scottish poet Robert Burns. A college-aged friend of mine immediately knew the reference but I, alas, have lived in ignorance of The Burns Supper all these years. Luckily, the internet exists, so I was able to fill this gap in my education with (hopefully) accurate information. Robert Burns lived, loved and drank in Scotland during the late 1700's. He wrote a huge body of work, containing poems both sentimental and satirical. I believe along the way he also fathered about 17 children (and never married). After his untimely death at 37 his friends began a yearly gathering to celebrate his life and works. The dinner features what might as well be Scottish national dish, Haggis, and an almost absurd amount of whiskey. Poetry is read. Songs are sung. All rejoice in the memory of a debauched eighteenth century poet who, as I learned, had a crappy day job just like the rest of us.

Fast forward to New York City, 2011. As might be expected, a group of 30-something artists had eagerly assembled for this august event. The traditional aspects of the dinner were there – the presentation of the haggis. The poem to the haggis. The cutting of the haggis. Haggis played a really big part here (luckily, my friends made a delicious vegetarian haggis. I have eaten real haggis in Scotland. I am a very adventurous eater. I could not finish it. There were sheeps' stomachs involved. Vegetarian haggis is definitely the way to go.) Of course, some of the evening was a bit foggy, but I believe that the memory of Robert Burns was toasted, as were a great many other things. We toasted the lads. We toasted the lassies. And at the end of the night, we each presented a work written by or inspired by Robert Burns. As I said, the man was quite (artistically) prolific so we experienced everything from love poems to humorous ballads to dancing babies. Two people even decided to pictorially riff on the “colorful” titles of Burns' poems. Needless to say, this was the NC-17 part of the evening. All in all I left the party feeling very full, a bit tipsy, extremely well-cultured, and quite curious about food traditions.

And as luck would have it, only a week later I was fortunate enough to be exposed to another culinary cultural event. This time, the locale of origin was Canada, Newfoundland to be exact. At a multi-birthday party (I believe that there was a total of 7 people celebrating their respective birthdays? Apparently February is a really popular time to have babies). One of the attendees decided that he could give the birthday boys and girls no better present than an initiation to the Newfoundland club. Yes, that's right, he made all of them official Newfoundlanders. In order to do this the group had to be “screeched in”. The ritual involved the drinking of darkly terrifying rum (known as Screech), the kissing of a dead fish, and the reciting of a dirty limerick. While it may not have involved haggis, I can't help but think that Robert Burns would have approved. Alas, I was not able to be “screeched in” that evening, so I continue my urban roamings, hoping to find even more truly icky culinary traditions to adopt as my own. I open this discussion to you, readers – what bizarre food rituals have you partaken in? And how do you suggest we organize parties around them?

Brunches I have Bested

Before we explore that magical realm between breakfast and lunch, I think a shout-out is in order. And that shout-out goes to Singapore. Not only does this country have a fascinating cuisine and culture, but they also have one resident who, at the very least, viewed this blog (perhaps even read some of it!) So thank you, Singapore. I hope to someday explore your culinary delights. And thanks also to the lone Singapore resident who decided to find out just how hungry I am. Please do stop by again sometime. And now, on to the food.

Submitted for your approval: The Berlin Brunch. A buffet extravaganza ranging from sausage and eggs to spicy middle eastern vegetables to deep fried....stuff. And the requisite bucket of chicken wings. Since real Berliners don't sleep on Saturday nights, I guess the only activity they're fit for on Sundays is an all day eating orgy. This is why Berlin is my kind of town.

In my arrogance I thought that after Berlin I had seen all that brunch has to offer. That, however, was before brunch at the Petersons', which I experienced earlier this month. First sign that I was entering a whole new Brunch realm? Brunch was served at 6pm. Brilliant! Do you realize I could have comfortably slept until 5pm and still made it over there in time for the candy-coated goodness? Had the promise of a Petersons' Brunch been on the horizon I certainly would have made it through the all-night David Bowie tribute last weekend.

The crux of the Peterson Brunch is surely their perfect balance of sugar and salt. You have your basics like bacon and scrambled eggs (and- oh yes!- the bacon was cooked to order. Was that a bit of drool that fell on my keyboard? No matter. On with the story.) This protein staple was contrasted with silver dollar pancake sandwiches. Deep fried silver dollar pancake sandwiches. Deep fried silver dollar Pancake sandwiches filled with nutella. Do you see how much trouble I'm in here?

And that's not even the extent of it. There was deep fried challah french toast with powdered sugar. And carmelized bananas. But really, the pinnacle of the brunch for me was the brown-sugar glazed spicy italian sausage. I'm not sure I have the words to describe it. Its as if some divine being came down and elevated ground meat to a level never before known to man, and perhaps never to be experienced again. And as if all this weren't enough, there were homemade chipwiches for dessert.

True, this was quite a bit of food. I did, in fact, suffer from a carb coma for most of the night (and had to get my arteries cleaned out immediately upon waking up the next day). But ultimately that was a good, even necessary thing, because it made me insensible to the pain of the Petersons' youngest child bashing me in the face with a Thomas the Tank Engine Train. Instead, I rode a blissful sugar-fat wave, all while watching the elder Peterson child give an impromptu dance recital. Life is good. Brunch with the Petersons makes it even better.

Cupcakes, Thai food, and Friends – a love letter, if you will

Some have called me an over-booker. They say that it's unreasonable to fill one weekend with an out of town sleep-over, kiddie playtime, girls night, eleven-dy hours of work, and a late night David Bowie birthday concert tribute. I say, how am I to choose from all the amazing options offered by my talented and hilarious friends? Of course, as I sit here incubating a killer cold on my day off, I wonder about the wisdom of my choices. Not that I would choose differently, mind you. I'm just wondering whether I should admit my foolishness or not. I think you should be the judge.

Let's start with the Long Island sleep-over. I remember back in high school one of my teachers staunchly maintaining that, regardless of the bonds we had formed during our school years, none of us would be friends later in life. Well I have a wealth of childhood connections to prove him wrong. Take my friend Tovah. Our friendship has lasted so long that she now has a child the same age that we were when we met. There is something so special about spending time with these Tovah-hybrids, watching their ever-evolving personalities, and their riotous games that involve dressing up like pumpkins and running into things. True, you don't sleep so much around these adorable little munchkins, but that's a small price to pay for non-stop high-jinks and butternut squash soup. And incidentally, that soup is to die for. Velvety, creamy, with just the right amount of sweetness. The perfect antidote to a child-hangover.

The next day we seamlessly transitioned into girls night in Queens. My friends and I have often talked about the “friendship renaissance” that took place right around the time we all hit 30. I have no doubt that it will go down as the highlight of our respective decades. With ties spanning elementary school, middle school, high school, college, and post-collegiate sublet situations, we have formed a group that guarantees entertainment and new perspective at every gathering. The theme on Saturday was game night and take out. We were a bit foolish to believe that the game part would happen. With all eight of us there (the only one missing lives in LA, so we gave her a pass) we had far more important things to focus on: brilliant tales of bribery; family planning strategies (for example, who will volunteer to adopt me so that I can get EU citizenship?); helping each other cope with both the exhilarating and mournful changes that just seem to keep piling up as we age. Okay, there may have been a few moments when the conversation turned to sex and giggling, but we really spent most of our time solving the world's problems.

Of course, not even the problems of the world could keep us from food. While we weren't able to figure out a workable plan to obtain food from Sripraphai (arguably the best Thai food in NYC), we did find an acceptable replacement in Yum Yum, the new Thai place up the street from Girls Night Central. Oh the curry that was had. I personally prefer green curry that burns my face off, and while this failed to even singe my cheek, it did provide spicy, coconut-y satisfaction. And the tofu/mixed veggie option was top notch too. There was a variety of vegetables, instead of merely a lone piece of broccoli amid a sea of bamboo shoots. Add to this the crispy duck that I surreptitiously poached from Cory's plate, and I was golden. A true culinary highlight, however, were the homemade red velvet cupcakes. Oh Erin. You have found the cupcake corner of my heart. In contrast to my obsession with all things savory, I am strangely reluctant to indulge in the sweeter things in life. Give me a plate of cheese fries for dessert and I will be happy. I can easily pass up the ice cream course. But every now and then I am presented with a dessert that makes me rethink my strongly held allegiance to the savory offerings of this world. This was one of those occasions. The fluffiness of the cake! The perfectly proportioned frosting! I had planned on taking one bite before passing it on to a more sugary-inclined friend. Instead, I came out of a dessert swoon moments later with the cupcake wrapper pressed to my mouth and guilty look on my face.

Somewhere around the whiskey course we did in fact manage to play a few hands of Apples to Apples. And perhaps I should have regretted that a tiny bit as I made my way through the following work day that started at 10am and lasted until 10:30pm. But really, how could I be expected to leave? There are many things I most likely will never have in my life (wealth, fame, health insurance – if the Republicans have their way). But I have people in my life so continuously fascinating, who possess such tremendous hearts and wild spirits. The list extends far beyond the people I saw this weekend. I feel that I have somehow been lucky enough to be surrounded by an embarrassment of friendship riches. And if I'm to truly live up to what has been bestowed upon me by fate, or the cosmos, or whatever, I'm going to have to overbook. Or quit my job. But the former seems a bit more realistic. In fact, my only regret is that I couldn't extend the weekend even farther – I finally hit the wall at 1:30am, at the David Bowie Birthday Bash. True, I had seen a hilarious cover band, and some astonishingly semi-dressed drunk people, but I missed a performance by Maria – the hardest working woman in the David Bowie Tribute Band Universe. And also my favorite rock star. Since quitting my job is not an option, I'm clearly going to have to learn how to function on less sleep. It's really the only way.