Two weekends ago I headed up to New York City with my husband to visit my cousin and his wife.
What a mundane little sentence to describe the 7000 stars that needed to align for us to get a weekend away. Many thanks to my parents and my husband’s parents for tag-team babysitting, and to my girlfriend for looking in on our three cats. Also big big thanks to the round of amoxicilliin that cleared up the horrific case of bronchitis that felled me four days before we left.
Friday we spent the afternoon at MeMe Antenna, one of Rick’s dealers. They’re an eclectic half music/modular store, half gift shop, located in the Williamsburg mini mall.
Also in this mall was a fantastic coffee shop called Verb Cafe, which contrary to this NY Mag write-up, is very much still open. (Unless after a Pittsburgher and a Bostonian visiting, has now been declared “over”.)
We had lunch at a not very memorable Polish restaurant and then headed back to Manhattan for pre-dinner drinks. Our first stop was a place called The Ginger Man, “[a] beer lover’s Paradise”, where I learned that Duvel is a fantastic cough suppressant.
We also had a drink at Les Halles, a little bit of a foodie Mecca. Dear Cousin, if you are reading this, they are supposed to have a kick-ass Bastille Day party there, so you can celebrate mon anniversaire chez Bourdain for me, OK?
I had a gin and tonic, not a nebuchadnezzar of champagne.
From the French brasserie, we went to a sports(?) bar called Van Diemen’s for pitchers, awesome pulled pork sliders and great hot wings. We met up with my cousin’s wife, and headed over to The Redhead in the East Village, which, hey, was featured on Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives, you Fieri fiends. I had the fried chicken. It was nearly as good as the fried chicken livers you can get at Meat and Potatoes. Nearly as good. I also had a serviceable sazerac. Quite tasty.
From dinner we headed to Jules Bistro, also in the East Village, to meet up with an old friend. Pro Tip for infrequent drinkers recuperating from bronchitis: do not end the evening with Prosecco and sit in an overly warm bar listening to a (I’m told “unusually”) mediocre ensemble. I found myself drifting off so we left to find a cab in the cold rain — no wait, sleet — no wait, shards of glass falling from the sky.
Needless to say I woke the next morning with a pretty horrific full-body hangover. Coughing had also returned; I blame the glass shard rain. The fantastic bagel my cousin had thoughtfully purchased for me while I stood in the shower for an hour didn’t sit well in my stomach and the coconut water didn’t make it past my nose. Decided that fresh air might help, so we hoofed it awhile through Midtown, and I took some nice pics of Rockefeller Plaza.
We had lunch at Burger Joint, a little divey grille tucked in the back of a very swanky hotel. I found out when we got home that this was recently featured on The Layover. Tasty burger. Did not fix my hangover.
After buying too many souvenirs for my children, grabbing a hot chocolate, and stopping by the apartment for a quick nap, we headed over to the West Village for the evening. We started at a speakeasy called Little Branch. I pretended that the ginger beer and crystallized ginger garnish in my Dark and Stormy would settle my stomach. It did not. I would have loved a Bramble, made with fresh muddled blackberries, or a fresh egg-white frothy Fizz of some kind, but I contented myself with admiring the long block ice in my one cocktail, and the stainless steel stirrer/spoon that my cousin gifted to me. No really, gifted, not lifted. They sell them there in packs of two.
For dinner we went to 10 Downing. I went with the prix fixe: my not so daring but very tasty choices were potato-leek soup, bacon wrapped fillet (basil mashed potatoes were good but green), and a lemon panna cotta. Probably one of the best desserts I’ve ever had, although the chocolate brioche my cousin ordered was damn fine, too.
We wandered around the West Village for a while – packed and primed for Saturday night. Hoped to catch a show at the Comedy Cellar, but they were sold out. Pretty sure I saw Artie Lange holding court on the sidewalk. (Shhh…I would have rather seen Louis Louis Louis Louis.) When the evening’s potential was greatest, I lamed out and went to bed at midnight. Sad. The rest of the kids finished their evening at Cask (where I got my hot chocolate earlier). If I hadn’t been so busy sleeping, I would have been jealous, because that place had a very cool, laid back atmosphere and a great bar. Their website breaks my “don’t ever play music on your website” rule, but I guess it’s OK because it’s The Heavy.
Sunday we lazed about watching the Food Network until we got hungry enough to leave the apartment and headed to The Smith. We ate well the entire weekend, but I think brunch here was my favorite meal. I ordered the special which was braised short rib hash on rye bread topped with poached eggs. Jesus Hocking Christ it was like the best, most savory homemade roasty-meat wonderfulness topped with globby, runny, chicken ovum perfectness. AND, as if that weren’t enough, we also ordered the vanilla bean French toast for the table, which was lovely and custardy and topped with freaking caramelized bananas. Food was so good I didn’t care that we were packed asses to elbows or that New York doesn’t sell booze until noon on Sunday. This brunch did not need mimosas. This brunch did not need Bloody Marys.
Yes we ate and drank our way through our vacation – that’s the best kind of vacation there is. Thanks to my cousin and his wife for picking such great places and letting us turn our brains off and just have fun. Full picture set is here.
