I have one, just one more entry to write about Kåre's visit to New York City, and...it's not done yet. The problem with having a weekend chock full of delicious, inexpensive, fat and starch-laden fooding around Philadelphia is that there's less time to latch myself onto my computer. Which is probably a good thing.
For now, I'm just taking this little break to say that I don't mean to neglect you. That's my not-crazy way of saying, "OH MY GOD, I FEEL SO EMPTY AND MEANINGLESS WHEN I DON'T BOMBARD YOU WITH FOOD PORN."
It's also my way of bringing up random things that have been rotting in the back of my mind for ages, like Facebook. Every now and then I get friend requests from people I don't know. Half of the time, these people identify themselves as TGWAE readers, which is cool! Yes, I like you because you aren't appalled by me for whatever reason, and that's quite a feat. The other half of the time, these people don't say anything. Are they blog readers? Are they random people who know me through another random person? Do they even eat food? I don't know, but I don't ask, so I have this graveyard of requests that I don't mean to ignore, but I don't know what choice I have because I DUNNO WHO YOU ARE AND I CAN'T READ YOUR MIND, I'm sorry. If you fall into the latter camp you should virtually poke me to let me know.
My most recent review on Serious Eats is for Super Taste, one of those hole-in-the-wall hand-pulled noodle restaurants on Eldridge Street. I also got my mom (aka "Mama Lee") to translate the menu from Lan Zhou, which I reviewed before. It was only after Kathy found out how much the English menu sucked that I was like, "Wait, doesn't my mom know Chinese or something?" I keep forgetting about that.
While I vaguely have your attention, I may as well tell you about The Pizza of Death. Not that it was bad pizza; just too much of it eaten at a late hour resulting in Really Overinflated Balloon Stomach Syndrome. Or ROBSS. That's almost my nickname. We were made to be together.
Tristan and I walked to Vinnie's Pizzeria two nights ago around 10:30. As neither of us had eaten dinner—he worked late and I waited for him to come home—we were pretty famished (his words were probably more like, "OH MY GOD I'M STAAAARVING" as his calorie-starved body collapsed at my feet, his hands clawing at my meaty limbs), especially after walking 15-odd minutes in the brisk cold to the pizzeria. I overestimated the capacity of my gurgling, inactive stomach and ended up getting two slices of their "These Pizzas Have Way Too Much Stuff On Them" pizzas: eggplant parmigiana and ricotta, and tortellini.
- Not the slice I ate last night, but a much crappier photo from before. It looks like the tortellinis are bubbling out of a vat of tomato sauce, maybe.
I picked up the tortellini slice and guessed that it weighed about as much as I did when I popped out of my mother's womb. Oh god. Why did I get pizza topped with tortellini? Why did I get cheese-stuffed carbs on top of cheese-topped carbs?
It tasted good. Like ricotta cheese-filled pasta dumplings on uber-thin, somewhat crispy flatbread topped with some cheese and tomato sauce. The eggplant parm slice was also tasty, thin slices of breaded eggplant interspersed with light ricotta plops. But when I got 75% of the way through each slice, I realized how disgustingly full I was. And despite inching closer to triggering my gag reflex, I kept on eating. Until it hurt. While Tristan had finished both of his vegan slices with room for more, I stared at my two pizza crust-nubs while going, "Nnngggmuhghgng meruhh uhgn." I would've given my pizza remains to Tristan but they weren't vegan-friendly.
I can eat a whole pizza from Otto and half a pie from Lombardi's—maybe even more than that—but few things have pummeled my stomach quite as hard as those two slices of pizza. The time of day (or night, rather) may have had something to do with it as well. While I spent the rest of the night burping pizza fumes and wondering when my stomach would feel less like that of a pregnant whale, the next morning I felt famished. And I'm rarely hungry in the morning—sometimes I don't even get hungry until after noon. Why would I feel super hungry after a filling late night dinner? Was my stomach stretched? Or did my body just really want a vitamin?
In conclusion, one slice of Vinnie's Pizza = good! Two = not good. Also, despite consistently subjecting my body to the pain of over-stuffing, I keep doing it. I also keep burning my mouth on hot soup even though I know burninating liquid + delicate oral cavity skin = DESTRUCTION AND DESPAIR.
I figure everyone has some kind of dumb thing they can't stop doing. ...Right?