big apple bites

How I LOVE to plan! To schedule, to map, to make reservations is to have a destination, something to look forward to, something to imagine until you actually arrive or do. Or in my case, eat. I'm going to New York City with the boyfriend for the upcoming Memorial Day weekend and I have no true agenda to speak of except for the gastronomic one. Zagat and Citysearch and twixt the two, my mouth.

There are many things to do in the city like go to a museum, catch a Broadway show, visit the World Trade Center site, picnic in Central Park. All things which are simply distractions for the down time while one digests. For our four-day excursion, I have nothing on my To Do list except things or places at which to eat.

A rough draft:

Daniel's Bagel Corp. for bagels. That Sara Lee fluff you buy at the supermarket can suck my dick. There is nothing more satisfying in the morning than a fresh, chewy New York bagel with or without a schmear of cream cheese. I prefer mine with melted extra sharp cheddar cheese and thinly sliced tomato. It's an East Coast thing.

wd-50 for inventive nouveau cuisine. When you have friends who are chefs (pastry and savory) you are entrusted with the vicarious task of dining at edgy new restaurants and reporting back like a spy would. Though I do not have microfilm or a machine gun disguised as a hair clip, I do enjoy these missions on behalf of my friends, the ones who can truly appreciate good cooking but who are paid too poorly to enjoy it as often as they should.

Lupa for Italian. This restaurant is owned by Mario Batali and his crew. Fresh pasta has a bit of fight in it that makes it a delight to chew. Dried pasta is deceptively rigid when undercooked or merely an afterthought when overcooked. Italians know how to make pasta. They should be the only ones allowed to make Italian food. Case in point: I bought a pizzelle maker and made pizzelles this weekend. They turned out like crap with a snowflake pattern on it. I should not be allowed to call them pizzelles. I ate them all, um, out of shame.

Jacques Torres for real hot chocolate (very important stop). The Carnation instant hot chocolate packets can hang out next to my garbage can with the Sara Lee bagels. Real hot chocolate should be dark and rich, like hot fudge but not so gooey. Jacques Torres is reknowned for all things cocoa. I will go to his store and then I will move into his store.

Dim sum. Cantonese chefs move to SF or NY. They don't come to LA which means LA dim sum is inferior. LA dim sum is perfunctory and small. NY dim sum is brimming with succulence and skill. Ha gow and siu lung bao will be consumed.

Aki for sushi at the recommendation of a friend. Japanese with Jamaican influence. Reminds me of those crazy reggae kids in Harajuku except more yummy.

Peter Luger's for some goddamn steak. Why? Because steak should be aged and when requested rare be served bloody and fantastic. When you think about it, I agree it can seem disgusting that you would let meat rot on purpose so that the muscle fibers get so degraded that they become tender and delicious. But really, those decomposing muscle fibres are QUITE delicious.

Sugar Sweet Sunshine for cupcakes. Though Magnolia still turns out a good cupcake, the hype has died considerably since Sex and the City ended and the partners split. It's time to try a smaller bakery which is fighting to emerge from the shadow of the cupcake craze. I like vanilla cupcakes with vanilla buttercream. No wait, I like chocolate cupcakes with vanilla buttercream. Well, I also like chocolate cupcakes with chocolate buttercream. *sigh* I suppose they will just have to duke it out inside my stomach.

So, that's my plan thus far. Apparently it may rain but a few drops of dirty water will not dampen my spirits. Rain in NYC is still NYC with all the soggy treats it has to offer. My bags are packed, my camera is charged and I have a notebook for field observations, two maps, a plan and an appetite.

scaring the _____ out of me

I have been called many things, most with which I am ok; "anal retentive", "a lousy daughter", "whore-like", "largemouth bass" even. But of all the adjectives (or nouns, in my case) I think "creatively paranoid with borderline supernatural hearing" describes me best. That or "a really light sleeper."

My apartment is located near the freeway and thus, people getting on and off seem to flow steadily past the street I live on at all hours. I have grown accustomed to this constant zooming of automobiles past my bullet wounded window. Right now, it's also the first blush of spring and the birds, species unknown, have started chirping. Their symphony of annoyance commencing at around 3am every morning. Muffled and distant sounds to most people are like angry lawnmowers under my pillow to me. I used to wear ear plugs at night but finally after 5 years, these are the sounds I know. These sounds I can sleep through.

About an hour ago, I was awoken by the most impercetible rustling. I laid in my darkened room for a moment, registering the interruption, staring at the ceiling, the street lamp's glow sliced into faint orange stripes by the window blinds. It stopped. I began to doze. Then it started again and I bolted straight up in my bed, still in the dark, fumbling with my 3 blankets as I repositioned myself to locate the noise. What was that? I turned on the lamp on my nightstand. A tiny breeze shifting a rogue sheet of paper on my desk? The excess linens draped over the bedframe brushing against the straw mat? A serial killer sharpening his blade! Perhaps my own dementia! It was intermittent and with my ears now ringing with the fear of being killed in my most unflattering pajamas, I almost couldn't hear it anymore. For a few relieved moments, I thought it was coming from outside and I relaxed enough to almost turn out the light but NO, there it is again! I strategically turned my head back and forth like a satellite dish rotating in space. If there was a better global position, I was going to find it and zero in on this creepy sound. Focus, Katie! If it was a killer, he was taunting me. If it was a breeze, I couldn't feel it on my skin. I checked the sheets and they were nowhere near the mat.

It seemed to be coming from the closet. While this was very odd, the less logical and clearly more fantastical side of my brain got my slovenly body in the unsexy pajamas out of bed. I turned on another light and peered into the closet, my head tilted at a childish angle. I gasped as I spotted the culprit, the blood rushing to my head. I froze. There it was, an enormous cockroach, scurrying about awkwardly on the carpet next to a roll of tissue paper which I use for wrapping gifts. I was right about the noise. For a second, I was immobilized with disgust. I had to do something about it. Moving slowly, afraid of startling it and it darting into the shadowy crevices of my Louis Vuitton collection, I flicked on the closet light and backed away to retrieve my friend and trusted sidekick in the battle of extermination, the Dust Buster.

This was not your usual brown cockroach with oval body and demonic speed. This fucker was long and greyish green but luckily, not too savvy. As I aimed good ol' DB in its direction, whirring with dominance, the roach just sort of seemed relaxed, unaware of its impending demise. If he was any kind of roach, he was probably trying to figure out if the purses were fakes or not. One of them isn't. The Fendi and the Kate Spade I got from this Korean lady down on Venice beach, but, I mean, you couldn't really tell unless you looked at the stitch...DIE, DIE, DIE! Die so I can go back to sleep! The high-pitched motor wheeze, the gusts of air being circulated to create the suction, the victory of eradication! I was alive with adrenaline as I took the contraption to the guest bathroom and emptied its prey into the watery grave. It refused to surrender. Legs kicking frantically, dust and bits of string floating nearby, dude was almost able to crawl up the side of the toilet bowl. I flushed and it hung on. I added bleach and it freaked out. The cars zoomed past, the birds continued their early morning brouhaha, I took a photo with my new camera and two flushes later, mine enemy was sent back to the sea.

I turned DB off and set it down on the bathroom sink. A job well done, my friend. Now I could go back to bed and salvage what few hours I had left before rising again to do yoga and get ready for work. But since I was in the neighborhood, I figured I'd weigh myself to see if the ordeal had burned any calories. I couldn't possibly be any heavier after what I had just endured. (Side note: I have been carefully monitoring the fluctuation in my weight due to the inordinate number of homemade pizzelles and chocolate chip cookies that I inhaled on my birthday. Totally worth it though.) I stepped on my fancy scale and indeed I was 1 pound lighter than when I went to sleep. And to whom do I owe this unexpected vespertine slimming? That roach. It really scared the fat out of me.