Greeley Street Park
First order of business: Greeley Street Park. We’d discovered this path of gourmet food stalls too late the previous summer, when we were already on our way back to
the train station after a day of gorging. It had been absolute torture to
discover this culinary Xanadu with full bellies, like Hansel and Gretel stumbling on the witch’s candy compound and not being able to take a bite. But
today, we came prepared…to eat freely at Greeley!
Cannibal: Pig's Head Cuban (pig's head, Vermont ham, pickles, gruyere)
Got head? Definitely a greasy handful, but the layers of
toasty bread, ham, head, and melted cheese sealed it all together in one
drippy, fatty, indulgent experience.
Red Hook Lobster
Company: “The Connecticut” Lobster Roll
(butter, scallion, lemon)
I considered “The
Tuscan” (lobster/ basil vinaigrette), but couldn’t have been happier with “The
Connecticut” - a quarter pound of lobster doused in citrus-soaked butter. Served
in the traditional, hot dog-esque bun, its usual white bread ways instantly
dissolved beneath the weighted luxury of lobster and melted butter, but that
was ok, Red Hook's Maine focus was the lobster, and they succeeded in getting the point across. Claw meat for one and all! Let the good times (lobster) roll!
Momofuko Milk Bar: Crack Pie
I ripped into the miniature,
cardboard package I’d purchased for $5.50 and wished they included a magnifying
glass so I could find my piece of pie. I was a little disappointed about the
size until I chomped a bite and all the air went out of the room as my mouth filled
with a balloon of butter and sugar. It coated the entire surface area of my
palate like a thick Vaseline of baked euphoria sealing in a million motes of
decadence. I tried to identify
the flavor, mumbling to myself, “It tastes like, like…”
“Pecan pie without the pecans!”, my mom blurted out. She was
right. Though, the filling was more solid than wiggly. There was a buttery chew
beneath its thin coat of caramelized armor that gave way to a rich, rounded denseness that tasted somewhat molasses-y. Its deceiving
simplicity had so many layers that I kept searching for answers as I devoured
it…just one more bite.
I had to admit that my itsy-bitsy portion was enough, but I was
considering going back for a second slice to take home. Because really,
when would I be able to get another? And it only made sense to buy two since they were so small…
And that was how they got you hooked. Crack pie, indeed.
Streets of SoHo
Jack’s wife Freda: Cantaloupe juice
A wise man named Pee Wee Herman once said, “If you love it
so much, then why don’t you marry it.”
But you can’t elope with a cantaloupe…
Let me start from the beginning. Summer in the City = back
of my neck feeling dirty and gritty. We were parched and sweaty, so this open-faced eatery shone like a beacon. I loved Jack’s Wife Freda immediately, not only for her
welcoming, intimate interior which felt like a classy, charming, and modern European aunt who openly swaddled you against her breast in a gigantic hug of tastefully upholstered booths and tiny tables, but for the
few seats outside that made for excellent people-watching while dining al
fresco.
After coming straight from
Greeley Street, we were only interested in drinks, but they welcomed us anyway. We glugged down water by the glassful
like thirsty horses at a trough, as the poor waiter repeatedly returned with
his pitcher to try and keep up with our emphatic gulping. Also, when we asked if it was ok to only order “drinks”, they probably thought we meant
cocktails, but our scorched, sandpaper tongues sought out the unique offering of cantaloupe
juice.
And well, I don’t want to over exaggerate here, but it might have been the best decision of my life!
I couldn’t believe how cantaloupe-y it was! I mean, I’ve bought
cantaloupes before and they were always hit or miss – some with barely any
flavor at all. But this juice, this nectar of the gods, this beautiful miracle fruit,
multiplied cantaloupe’s usual silky sweet nature by a gigafruit (yes,
gigifruit) as if they discovered some ultra-concentrated formula in a lab. But
the way it slipped softly over the tongue, I couldn’t imagine that they added anything artifical. It was just cantaloupe, on a pedestal, naturally. Its velvety afterglow washed
over the tongue in a cleansing wave. This was 16, portable
ounces of magnificence.
I was in love.
But you can't elope with a cantaloupe...
So I'd have to settle for our summer in Soho.
