The Girl Who Ate Everything

[If you haven't read part one, you should do that before reading this entry. THAT'S AN ORDER!]

SWEET!

And then we found the holy grail. I mean, we found gelato. WOOHOO!

Yom yom

Here!

I followed Morten's lead into K2, the gelateria on the left side of the first photo. The one on the right was equally crowded despite not being a gelateria that made their gelato in-house. Then again, I didn't really notice until Morten pointed out the obvious signs to me: obvious sign #1 was the giant cone display in front of K2 that read, "ARTIGIANALE"; obvious sign #2 was the nearly grammatically correct, handwritten sign in the window that said "HERE GELATO [sunburst]HOME MADE[/sunburst]" (Damn, can I make that into a t-shirt? The only problem being that it hardly makes any sense?)

"Morten, there isn't any coffee coming out of the pot! And it's been on the stove forever..."

I sat on the porch munching on something breakfast-like, paying mild much attention to what was happening on the other side of the door. Kåre had called for Morten. Something was awry.

"Ah, you probably forgot to put the water in. Many pots have been destroyed that way."

Curiosity got the best of me. I lifted myself from the uncomfortable green plastic patio chair to check out the carnage on the stove top. As soon as I crossed the kitchen's threshold an invisible, acrid-smelling demon clouded my lungs. And my pores. And my eye sockets. And any vacancies in my skull, of which there are many.

"Jesus, it smells like burning," I remarked while putting on one of my many looks of crazed disgust. Actually, it smelled a lot worse than that, but my vocabulary isn't colorful enough to appropriately describe the horrors of burnt coffee.

Kåre had accidentally melted off the espresso pot's handle. And its little plastic knobbly thing. And maybe some of its inner organs. Aw.

He broked it

The damage was done. Mr. Espresso Pot would espresso no more. There were two problems with this sudden death in the kitchen appliance family:

1. The weegies had no source of morning caffeine.
2. We had to get a new espresso pot for the apartment.

While Morten spent the day in the apartment getting ready to go back home (he planned to go to Milan that night since that's where his plan was leaving from the next morning), Kåre and I went on a espresso pot/gelato hunting adventure in the city center.

[Update (11/9/07): We won! Sweet ass! Thanks for your help!]

[Update (11/7/07): Mom's Best Recipes was cheating! By 900-something votes! We're winning now. :) Thanks for your support]

No bunnies were harmed in the making of this image

Serious Eats (my awesome employer) got nominated for a Best Food Blog Award! Sweet ass!

But wait...the winner so far is Mom's Best Recipes. And no offense to that blogger, but SE kicks a little more ass. Or at least covers more categories of food.

Serious Eats is awesome. And I'm not just saying that because they pay my bills. We ought to win. Nothing like a little healthy competition, right? RIGHT? (pounds fists on table)

Vote for us now! You can do it once a day. And you should or else something bad might happen to a cute little bunny.

(Okay, nothing bad will happen. But whatever. Thanks for your help!)

WARNING, THIS IS WHERE I SOUND WHINY: Having to recount my final days in Bologna is pretty depressing. [Cue sad face.]

Right now I'm staring at my photos as I tend to do when having to recall things that happened ages ago (this is why I take so many photos; my memory fails without it) and all I see is the end. Emptiness. Departure. Loneliness. Blah blah other-emo-state etc.

Of course, I'm being overdramatic. I've been at home for over a month (some of you think I'm still in Italy; sorry to confuse you) and life is quite fine. Somewhat. But it was especially nice in Bologna. I'm so eager to go on another vacation that in the past few days I've tossed at least five cities to Kathy as places for us to visit (and eat around until we explode) the next chance we get a vacation. We don't hate NYC—we just want to get out of here for a while.

And yes, I know I was just out of here. I don't know why I have this desire to go somewhere else. Laziness is one of my most defining characteristics, not adventurous...ness. Maybe I'm going crazy and I don't even know it. It happens, right? Right after graduation there's a period where one is allowed to melt down and question the rest of her life...

Well. On that note, here's how I spent my last two days in Bologna.

Sammich

The "everything in the kitchen" risotto Kåre and I made night before did not truly include everything. Otherwise we wouldn't have had anything to fill our next morning's sandwiches with. The dregs left out of our risotto went into our "everything else in the kitchen" sandwiches filled with melted cheese of some sort, sliced tomatoes, and lettuce. Nothing exciting, but they did a decent job of filling our bellies.

Kåre and I hung out in the apartment before having to go to the train station where he would catch the bus to the airport. I suppose we passed the time by plopping our bums on the couch and watching more bad Italian TV. I felt like I waiting for some kind of predictable death.

Taken by tychenyt

I'm going to post this as the Photo of the Day on Serious Eats this afternoon, but this photo triggered a memory so clear, so significant, so full of tuna that I had to blog my thoughts here (as opposed to filling up Serious Eats with my nostalgic nonsense).

So. Tuna waffle. Is this something you only find in Taiwan? Other parts of Asia? I used to eat it every now and then from a restaurant next to my apartment on Dun Hua South Road, Section 2, called The Dollhouse or something along those lines. (It was a restaurant that also sold shitloads of dolls; don't ask me. It was kind of charming and odd at the same time to have all those beady eyes staring at you while you were digesting.) The waffle was freakin' delicious. Didn't exactly resemble the one pictured here—my version was unsliced and topped with a large even plop of smooth tuna salad without the extra salad or mayonnaise on the side—but it's the same possibly strange concept of waffle + tuna salad.

Am I alone in my tuna salad waffle reverie? I still remember cleaning off my plate (and this was when I was 12; my appetite doesn't seem to have changed in the past 10 years) and waddling out of the restaurant afterwards.

Also, if anyone has an opinion about New England Clam Chowder and has an SE account, comment on my Talk topic. So far the NECC proponents are winning. Woohoo!

I'm sorry about the lack of entries lately, but hope to have a new NYC-centric entry soon! Unfortunately I slacked off this weekend and did more TV show watching, music downloading and photo optimization than blogging. Soon, it will come.

[A note of sorts: This entry originally took place on October 13th. I'm slow.]

"WUUAAHAH, ALEX!!!"

I shouted something roughly resembling the above exclamation of crazed buggy-eyed surprise (I have no photographic evidence of the buggy eye, but trust me) when Alex finally appeared outside the Spring Street subway station where Tina and I had been waiting. The jarbled nature of my greeting was due to two factors: one, I was excited to see the Alex and two, I thought he may have been swallowed up by the dank belly of the NYC subway system. See, it took him an alarmingly long time to get downtown from the Upper East Side and I was afraid that something horrible had happened. Perhaps a train broke down, or a crazy person lunged at his hirsute face, or he had gone the wrong way and was currently roaming around the Bronx...

But he was fine. Or at least he appeared to have not endured much psychological damage.

The three of us proceeded to do what we do best. Or at least what we do best in the presence of each other: eat stuff.

Decisions, decisions

The closest place I wanted to eat at was Grandaisy Bakery, formerly Sullivan Street Bakery and as far as I can tell, almost the same. (The original may be better, but if you think I'm going to go to Hell's Kitchen just for some bread, hells no.)

Ah, it's a beaut

My favorite thing at Grandaisy/Sullivan Street Bakery—and beyond that, one of my favorite baked goods in the world, the wooorrlld—is the pizza bianca. A generous slab of the flat, elastic hole-filled bread encased in a thin, crackly, bubbled, golden crust seasoned with just the right amount of salt and olive oil with a hint of rosemary is carb heaven when fresh out of the oven.

[This entry originally took place on September 20th]

When my coworkers told me that the Red Hook Ball Fields would stop serving food for the year after September 21st (and possibly foreverrr), my first reaction was, "NOOOOOOO!!"

My second reaction after about a second or two of cursory thought was, "Well, I'm definitely too lazy to go." The idea of sleeping, of not expending energy, of not trying to catch a train or hauling my hefty ass around Brooklyn, of just lying in bed like a corpse and letting my brainmeats steep in brainmeat juices, was so nice. It was...beautiful.

But then I chatted with Kathy and found myself a fooding buddy (two actually, with her roommate Shann). Which meant there was energy expenditure in my future (besides consumption of lots of awesome food, but you know, when you're tired all you want is sleep). Dammit.

So that's how we ended up at the Red Hook Ball Fields. I mean, I took the train from NJ to NYC, then the subway to Kathy's place, then we took the F train to Smith-9th Streets, walked under the Gowanus Expressway as it peed dirty automobile-tainted liquids on our heads and meandered over to Red Hook Ball Fields. It's easy to get to from Manhattan, although the area can be a little sketchy at night.

WE'RE HERE

"OhmygodIwanteverything."

That's how I felt when I walked into the tent-covered food corner of the field and passed piles of grilled corn. ...And mountains of meat sizzling on a griddle, and pictures of tacos, and people carrying around plates loaded with meat and tacos, etc.

"Where should we start!?" exclaimed Kathy while wearing a grin on her face that said, "OhmygodIwanteverything."

Aw.

Yesterday I wrote a not very investigative report about fake butter with names featuring their butter-like natures on Serious Eats. Boing Boing linked to it, causing a bunch of other blogs to do the same, resulting in a very big traffic day for us. Yay!

I'm not impressed though. I mean, I'm not impressed by my post's lack of photos. There are more "I CAN'T BELIEVE IT'S NOT BUTTER!"-like products out there, but I'm having trouble finding photographic evidence. If anyone can get me photos of ICBINB imitators (the ones with the funny names, not the more numerous boring ones), I (and the Internet) would love you very much.

For instance, there's something called No Ifs Ands or Butter out there. ...Yeah, I know, OMG. Supposedly you can find it at Big Y or Lowes Food (or both or neither). If you live near one of these babies, keep your eyes open when perusing the fake butter aisle. THANK YOU!!

Better yet, if you live outside the US and see this stuff in your supermarket, I wanna hear about it. I'm quite fond of this British product.

Thanks for your help! I know there are a million better things you could be thinking about than fake butter with dumb names, but sometimes...you just want to let go. Let go with the hydrogenated vegetable oils. Let go.

[Ambling preamble: This entry originally took place on October 20th. Read part 1 first if you haven't already. But surely you did. Didn't you.

Lastly, HAPPY THANKSGIVING! I already burned my thumb while taking my pie crust out of the oven. Sweet!]

"This place would be kind of creepy to walk around at night."

Kathy, Shann and I moved westward to Steve's Authentic Key Lime Pies for dessert after just having stuffed ourselves with various combinations of corn, meat, and cheese. On our way we passed a couple of questionable looking fences that looked as though they had been through a shooting match, some with barbed wire for added protection, desolate streets littered with dead leaves that were charmingly quiet in the afternoon, maybe less charming without the reflection of the sun's light, a mishmash of buildings from "brand spanking new" to "how the hell is that one still standing?", and a question that may not be answered anytime soon.

And then it became somewhat...surreal. Perhaps the pies gave off waves of magic.

Pies!

We followed the signs to the pies. In this case, leftward.

Limes!

Another sign of pies (or lime curd-filled pies) graced path. So close, so close...

[Initially I hoped to write about stuff I ate a month ago. But the meals...oh, they keep piling on. Because I've procrastinated too much and have yet to stop consuming. So that I'm no longer a month behind, here's a recap of what I ate yesterday. I'll have to catch up on the other stuff later.]

Yesterday morning my brain sputtered into consciousness to the sound of my phone ringing. What? People don't call me on Saturday mornings.

I rolled over, grasped the phone and brought it within three inches of my squinted, horribly nearsighted eyes. The monochrome caller ID display read Alex Brey.

"AHH, AHH!" I frantically shouted in my head. Excitement and half-consciousness got the best of me, causing me to accidentally hang up as I fumbled with my phone.

"NO NO NO NO NO, JEBUS!" I internally shouted as I clumsily flipped my phone open. (As you can see, half-awake Robyn translates into a useless, mildly insane Robyn.) I punched some buttons to get him back. More internal shouting followed. "I'M AWAKE NOW, I'M AWAKE DAMMIT, YOU BETTER BE THERE."

And he was! And by "there" he was actually in New York City with his dad!! And for some crazy reason he requested my presence!!!

"I AM IN THE CITY NOW WITH MY AWESOME DAD, WANNA HANG?"

"YES, YES I DO!"

"WHERE SHOULD WE EAT FOR DINNER?"

"I DUNNO! HAVE YOU HAD KOREAN FOOD?"

"NO!"

"DO YOU LIKE SPICY THINGS?"

"...YES!"

"OKAY, WE ARE EATING KOREAN FOR DINNER!"

"YAY!"

That wasn't our conversation verbatim, but that's how I remember it. All in caps. All shouting.

And so after browsing the Frick Collection with Alex and his dad Pat (a great art museum by the way, and you must use the complimentary audio guide for the overly lavish descriptions of the artwork), we made out way to Cho Dang Gol in Koreatown for some tofu goodness.

Banchan + pancakey thing

The first time I went to Cho Dang Gol was with Adam Roberts for lunch. I expected dinner to be pretty much the same, but the dinner banchan was missing kimchi. Or rather, I only felt like it was missing kimchi because I had been expecting it. Maybe I shouldn't have. I'm not Korean so I can't really claim to know what should or should not appear in a dinner banchan selection.

...But I wanted me some (cabbage) kimchi...

[This dinner took place on November 24th. Yes, I wish I updated more often. No, I have no idea why I don't. I think I'm stuck in an alternate universe where a day has 20 hours instead of 24. If you want to jump around you can read about my Thanksgiving and my lunch at Shopsins.]

"Justin wants to go to Otto," said Kathy as we walked around midtown last Saturday.

"Ohh...okay," I half-heartedly replied. I like Otto, but I wasn't feeling "pizza" that night. In response to the piercing coldness, I was wearing a hat with ear flaps, a cashmere scarf with matching gloves and my heaviest coat. Otto didn't fit into the weather conditions. I didn't realize why at first, but then it hit me.

"Their pizza is so...flat. Flat food doesn't seem satisfying today, you know?" I envisioned the pizza in front of me. And then I envisioned devouring the entire thing. And still feeling hungry afterwards.

"Yeah, you're right!"

"I want a...a mountain of something. Like tofu stew." [Insert drooling sound effect.]

"Oh, Justin had that earlier this week..."

We hm-ed. We mulled. About non-flat food establishments.

I mentioned Blue Ribbon Bakery as a "reach" restaurant. Why a reach? I love it, but it's a smidge out of my (and probably most students') price range for a casual dinner. While walking to the 51st Street subway station, we relayed the suggestion to Kathy's friends—Justin, Steph, Marie and Shann—and crossed our fingers.

Initial response: "Justin still wants to go to Otto."

Second response about a minute later: "Okay, let's go to Blue Ribbon!"

Bread basket #1

And that's how we got this awesome bread basket of white, something off-white (probably not the real name of the bread) and something peppery and perhaps slightly cheesy. The best of the bunch was the simple white—pillowy soft guts protected by a thin, crispy golden crust that shattered/exploded when crushed by my jaw. Those crusts are hard to find. When you find it, you have to hold onto it for dear life. Marry it, maybe. ...Or just eat it. Yes, that works too. Except then you run out of bread and want more.