So much sandwich. So little stomach space.
Yesterday after wandering around Chelsea galleries in the insanely beautiful sun bursting with scortching-ness (which I'll get to later), I went to Crosby Connection and snarfed down sandwiches with Patricia and Willam while sitting on the brick inlayed ground by the church on 2nd Ave and 10th Street. It was a good "sitting outside, possibly killing some ants in the process" kind of day.
I didn't try William's chicken cordon bleu ("grilled chicken breast, paired with virginia ham, topped with melted swiss cheese, honeymustard, romaine lettuce"), but it looked good and full of melty cheesy meaty goodness. He noted that the flavor wasn't consistent throughout the sandwich, describing it as something like having "plops of flavor", although I'm pretty sure that's not what he said because that sounds more like something I'd say. Damn, I need to carry a voice recorder around with me. I traded half of my sandwich for Patricia's chicken pesto ("grilled chicken w/sweet roasted peppers, red onion, sundried tomatoes, cilantro, basil virgin olive oil, balsamic vinegar"), which I ended up enjoying much more than my sandwich. Why? The chicken was moist and...well, chicken-y (to be honest, I ate it too quickly to remember exactly what it tasted like) and my sandwich was less so.
I ordered the Italian tuna ("our delicious tuna mix, no mayo, with basil, sweet roasted peppers, sundried tomatoes, virgin olive oil, balsamic vinegar") and while it wasn't bad, I think it really could've used some mayo for the sake of moistness and mouthfeel. I guess not putting in mayo makes this friendly to those who don't like mayo, but...come on, MAYO! Mayo, that oddly delicious emulsion of oil and eggs, makes for a delicious tuna sandwich, whether you like it or not. I remember when I was a weeny little kid growing up in times of desperate food need I'd dump a can of tuna in a bowl and moosh it with mayo, whose only use in our house was for tuna salad. Which means we didn't use it much. Um. Anyway. I'd eat the tuna salad with rice, because I'M CHINESE, EVERYTHING GOES WITH RICE, EVEN RICE GOES WITH RICE.
Back to to the sandwich. The fresh basil was a nice touch—it was very flavorful with basil-y goodness, which I won't describe because hopefully you know what basil tastes like. (Times like this I wonder why anyone reads this blog: ALERT, THE BASIL TASTES LIKE BASIL is not much of a revelation.) I also liked the sundried tomatoes. But overall, I needed more moisture. I don't need no hydrophobic sammich.
(If anyone is curious to know the thought processes of Robyn, it took me forever to figure out that the word I was looking for was "hydrophobic". For some reason I started with "humectant" and moved to "hydrophilic"...and perhaps some other words in between. Indeed, my brain is slower than the rate of my fat loss, which is pretty damn slow.)
Patricia and I checked out Black Hound Bakery across the street after our sandwich feast. Although I've been to Black Hound a few times, I never bought one of their adorable cakes. The $6.50 price tag seemed just a wee bit steep for me when I know there are places that I can buy chunks of cake for less than $5. However, we tried a free cake sample and it was...really freakin' good. Goddamn samples—they actually work. The sample of the bee cake was like smooth, un-heavy chocolate ganache-ish brownie stuff (just imagine it, if possible) with bits of nuts dispered throughout. Oooh.
I ended up getting the ebony and ivory cake after being informed that my original choice, the triple chocolate mousse cake, would melt into a sad puddle of triple chocolate goodness by the time I could lug the cake home. As I had already stared at the chocolate case for too long, I impulsively went for this cake since it had chocolate. I like chocolate. [nod] Unfortunately I was so full yesterday that I didn't get around to eating it. I plan to do something about that tonight.
Back to Chelsea! (Yeah, this entry is going chronologically downhill.) I've never been around that area before (the visit was necessitated by my photography class), at least not that far west, so I had to take a photo of the sign that said 11th Ave. THERE ARE 11 AVENUES. Whoaaa. As for why I haven't walked around there before, the answer is quite clear: lack of food. I guess when the streets are occupied by galleries, there's little room for food. And it's not like there's absolutely no food, it's just nothing like the East or West Village, which basically puke restaurants out like a case of bad food poisoning. I mean that in the best way possible though.
Without keeping my eye out for them, I just happened to pass two places that I had at some point in my life been interested in trying (although not interested enough to actually...go): The Half King and Wild Lily Tea Room. If anyone has any opinions about them, let me know.
...Damn, where is this entry going? Um. Uh.
My sandwich peed. Not literally, because as you know, sandwiches don't have bladders (if they do, it's best to put the sandwich down...and then kill it a lot before turning it into a research laboratory), but the egg yolk in my fried egg exploded and left an eye-searingly bright yellow puddle in its wake. I made the sandwich all out of Union Square Greenmarket provisions: sourdough baguette, mache, egg, and mild cheddar. [rubs belly] Despite that I have a tendency to eat crap and don't give much indication that I'm an activist for sustainable agriculture and farm fresh whatnot, I support those things and I LOVE farmer's markets. I just don't cook much; an egg doesn't count, really. I buy as much food as I can from the farmer's market instead of a grocery store. When people buy apples or bread from a supermarket, I think, "...WHAT, farmer's market, chock full of bread and apples, cannot form complete sentence, mrah!" I know going to farmer's market can be a time issue for many people (I used to go first thing in the morning because I couldn't fit it in at any other time) so it's not practical for everyone, but...breeeaad. (And produce.)
Yes, I really like bread. It might be my favorite food in the world. My main food source was bread for a few days, which is probably bad for my body, but there are worse things. ...Um, please tell me there are worse things. I'm unintentionally what a bunch of people called straightedge; for some reason, knowing that I fulfill a definition not because I'm trying to, but because I just naturally do kind of bothers me. I didn't explain that well, so if you have any idea what I'm talking about...kudos to you.
I ate other things worth mentioning, but this entry is already too long. Also, it's time for lunch, so I think I shall scurry up to Union Square as fast as I can to take some photos and hopefully get a sandwich.
(On a totally random note, read Running With Scissor's encounter with a homeless man in Chelsea.)