The Road to Mulberry Project

Before living in New York, I imagined that everyone who lived there (here) automatically knew What To Do and Where To Go. Shows like Sex & the City made glittery promises of a nightlife filled with men and martinis. The first year I lived here, I actually lived in Hoboken. So I blamed the derth of glamorous invites on New Jersey (our nation’s favorite domestic scapegoat). By the second year, however, I had moved to a cozy five-floor walkup in Hell’s Kitchen and impatiently waited for my transformation into some sort of celebutante It Girl society fixture. I watched a lot of television while I waited.

Many years later (last week), I finally got a taste of being hip and with it (phrases which those who are would never utter of course) when a benevolent friend invited me to sup at a speakeasy restaurant where she “knew the chef”. This was all imparted in a very cool, very nonchalant way. As expected, I ruined it by yelling, “Holy shit yeah, that’s so cool!!” and then trailing off into senseless gurgling. Luckily, said friend did not rescind her offer. And so it was, I got to dine (devour) a chef’s tasting menu at the underground Mulberry Project.

We were seated in the secret garden, next to a giant sneering anime girl painted on the picket fence. Our friendly waiter explained their bespoke cocktail experience: describe the flavors you like, let the experts behind the bar create a unique drink for you, have final approval. I was game. With the parameters “martini with a twist but not as alcoholey,” I ended up with a clean gin cocktail with hints of citrus, bitters and basil. Well met, sir bartender. My bubbly companions were equally well matched with champagne/St. Germain concoctions.

Soon, gorgeous plates started arriving at our table. Hot, crispy wonton sticks filled with mild Swiss cheese and paired with creamy guacamole. Lobster roll sliders made of fresh briny seameat and subtly sweet mayo stuffed into pillowy bite-sized brioche buns.

Just as we cleared those dishes, the second round appeared. Luscious tuna tartare with the taste of ceviche, served with tortilla chips. Perfectly al dente quinoa in a salad with crunchy croutons, feta squares and pleasantly bitter arugula.

Contemplating the soon-empty platters, we heaved satisfied sighs. On cue, the third course arrived. Double helpings of golden pan seared scallops, large and tender, with slightly caramelized crisp edges. Herbed miniature potatoes masqueraded as scallops, surprising us as our teeth sank into an unexpected texture. Bold green asparagus topped with a garlicky aioli provided a bright counterpoint, both in color and taste.

We leaned back in our chairs, our ravenous eating noticeably slower. That didn’t stop our friend, the chef, from sending out one last showstopper. Tender slices of salty pork tenderloin served with a fresh juicy salsa, a smooth creamy sauce and a pile of petal soft lettuce leaves.

After a puzzled moment, we realized this plate was interactive and busily assembled our warm lettuce wraps. The first bite released warm savory jus into my mouth, chased quickly by the tangy sauce and acidic salsa. We chewed in silence, eyes almost closed, enjoying the varying tastes and textures.

We made our way out quietly, lost in individual reverie. Between the garden and darkly gleaming bar, we stopped to thank the chef and study the framed pictures which lined the walls, depicting a high-class prostitute in various stages of committing murder. After years of waiting, my fabulous New York experience, as promised by film and tv, lived up to the hype.

Viva La Mama!

Greetings, Chan-fans! I have a treat to make up for my month-long disappearance: a visit from Mama Channypants.

So, my cute lil nugget of a mom dropped by last weekend. She started from Connecticut on a Chinatown bus which broke down about 1 hour away from the city, and called me to say that she might be a few hours late since they were waiting for a replacement bus to come pick them up. I could hear a siren in the background, and she explained that the highway patrol was trying to decide whether he was protecting them from oncoming traffic or giving the driver a ticket. The passengers all yelled in confused Chinese and rustled their bright red plastic bags full of chicken bones until he backed off. Smart man. In a fit of defiance, however, he warned them not to get off the bus or he’d be back to give them a ticket. Then he drove off.

My mom shrugged (yes, I heard her) and hung up without saying goodbye. Normally, I’d still be speaking to empty air for another minute before noticing, but this time I needed to maximize every extra moment I got. See, I was panic-cleaning my apartment to prepare for the judgement-eyes. My mom is so good at cleaning that all the surfaces sparkle like in those bleach commercials. I knew I wouldn’t impress her, but I wanted to at least get the place up to a level that wouldn’t, you know, make her worried about what I was doing with my life. Anyhoo, I felt guilty about thinking of the bus breakdown as a minor deus ex machina in the very boring drama of my life, but I assuaged it slightly by using big words.

After another hour, I’d dusted everything I could think of, swept, done dishes and succeeded in coaxing sparkles out of two very small surfaces. The rest stayed stubbornly matte no matter how hard I scrubbed. It’s a mystery. The phone rang again, and again it was my mom. The replacement bus was nowhere to be found, the passengers had mostly fallen into naps of despair, yet she had somehow located a friend who just happened to be driving into the city along the same exact highway on which she was stranded (I have never met anybody else with the kind of amazing luck that both my parents exhibit on a regular basis). Meanwhile, the bus driver tried to stop her from exiting the bus because he had taken the patrolman’s instructions to stay very literally. I guess he didn’t expect her to bum rush him, jump into a getaway vehicle and immediate begin speeding towards Chinatown (allegedly). Laughing about her escapade, she informed me that we could meet in 40 minutes. Of course, she hung up before I could explain how the subway worked in Brooklyn on a Sunday.

After we met, the rest of the day was uneventful. We bought a ton of veggies, salmon and steak and went back to my place to cook. Dinner with my mom was undoubtedly the highlight of the day. She has this amazing recipe for salmon that blows people away. We just chatted, made fun of my dad, prank-called him (don’t worry, he’s a good sport), then hung up without saying goodbye (it IS fun being on the other side of that), and ate for hours. You want to know what came a close second to dinner though? When my mom looked around, nodded slowly, and said, “Not bad.” I think one of the surfaces that agreed to sparkle was in her line of sight. Yesss!

Foodie Freebie Freeeeakout! Bacon, Part One

Omg, you guys! I just got my first foodie freebie today, and it is perfect in every way. A package with thick slabs of slow hickory-smoked, peppery bacon. To be honest, I’m not sure the food vendor wanted to give me anything. He started looking desperate when I wouldn’t let him leave, tossed the meat in the opposite direction of his exit route and took off once I was distracted. I think that’s the same tactic campers use to escape bear attacks.

Whatever the reason, I was united with my lovely bacon (I literally got to bring home the bacon!). I whispered sweet nothings into its ear all the way home, about all the dishes we were going to experience together. I had planned on being virtuously veggie this week, but forget that. This is now Bacon Week.

Tonight I went back to a classic: potato, onion and bacon frittata. I used:

1/2 Spanish onion
1 potato (Idaho) (no, YOU da ho!)
4 thick slabs of artisanal bacon that a kindly stranger hands to you (ask no questions)
6 eggs
milk
salt
pepper

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Save 1/2 onion (to be featured in future Bacon Week recipe). Dice 1/2 onion and caramelize over med-high heat (in an oven-safe pan) with a tiny bit of oil, salt & pepper.

Slice up the potato however you like (I did lil strips this time). Toss potato into a roasting pan, mix in the caramelized onions and put a couple small pats of butter on top. Cover with foil and bake for 20-25 mins.

While that’s baking, cut the beautiful, luscious bacon into small pieces. Crisp on med heat in the same pan that had been used for the onions. Set bacon aside, but leave a little bit of grease in the pan (wipe the outside if any dripped to prevent flames creeping up).

Mix eggs with milk (no need to measure, just whisk some in and see if it looks fluffy enough for you). Toss in a bit of salt and pepper.

Take potato/onion roasting pan out. Take foil off (save the foil) and let cool for 10 mins. Turn oven down to 350 degrees.

Once cooled enough, pour potato/onion yumminess back into the oven-safe pan that was used to cook the onion and bacon earlier (at this point, I could lick the pan and be happy, it has so much amazing flavor). Pour egg/milk mix on top. Sprinkle bacon everywhere (wow, I might just repeat that phrase everyday like a mantra). Cover with foil (aren’t you glad you saved that foil?) and bake for 30 mins.

Take out, remove foil and let it cool for 10-15 mins. Kill some time by taking pictures of everything and drafting a blog post. Oops, I mean. Kill some time by inviting me over for dinner!

Drool. Eat. Repeat.

A Day of Overindulgence

Oh dear. When I said I’d go out less, I guess I meant less days but somehow the same amount of actual out-ness. I managed to pack 15 hours of partying into Saturday this weekend. I swear I didn’t mean to.

It began with brunch and unlimited mimosas at 121 Fulton. Look at this gorgeous plate! I ordered the brunch sampler, which included a mini steak & egg (with the most adorable fried quail egg on top), bacon & hash, and baked eggs with tomatoes, spinach & bacon. Obviously, I had to toast my genius designer friend repeatedly over our delicious meal. Down the hatch, mon petit mimosa. Oh and there was a second reason for us to gulp down cocktails. We needed help to ignore the strange couple sitting next to us and making out noisily. At one point, I said loudly, “We are trying. To. Eat.” However, this statement seemed to turn them on because the kissing became even slurpier. Eeeeeeeww.

I took a break from the retoxing to meet another friend visiting from Londontown. We strolled along the Highline in the oddly springlike weather, sipped cappuccinos at a place so French that the service took forever (that’s how you know it’s authentic), and then played dress-up in the Anthropologie shop in Chelsea Market. Feeling virtuous (and super girly), we headed over to Basta Pasta for dinner.

It’s going to take me a while to wrap my brain around the amazing meal we had. When I do, I fully intend to do a complete write-up. For now, just feast your eyes on how gorgeous the plates are. Basta Pasta is an Italian restaurant with a strong Japanese influence. The food is comforting in that deep soul-satisfying way that pasta is, while the service and decor are so calm and clean that it felt like the world had come to a stop. In a good way. Dinner was a pocket of quiet enjoyment with some very good friends.

Well. Until we’d had a couple bottles of wine, that is. Then I think the staff gave up hope of maintaining a calm ambience in our presence. At the very end, they figured out how to quiet us down. This is a delightful slice of ricotta cheesecake getting sprinkled with freshly grated parmesan. We watched in awe as the waitress covered the plate in what looked like fluffy snow. It may sound odd, but it was an utterly delicious combination. The saltiness of the cheese offset the light crumbly sweetness of the cake perfectly.

Glowing from that amazing meal (and eagerly making plans for our next visit back), we traipsed across Union Square and ended up at Pierre Loti for a nightcap. Or five. One by one, the ladies made their escape. Laura, draped in shiny Marc Jacobs accessories galore, was off to a party in the exclusive Soho House. We fawned over her until she told us firmly that she could not bring us with her (pout). Then Rits said something about not wanting to be hungover while skiing the next day. Wimp!

It was up to me, Little Miss Hussy, and the Brit to keep the night going. Luckily, our friendly waiter was headed off duty and brought us along on his afterhours party crawl. At this point, the Brit threw in the towel. (To be fair, I think it was 5am in London-time at that point, so she was a trooper.) Not sure why this always happens when I go out with the Hussy, but we found ourselves dancing in the secret back room of a bar for a private party where bartenders were winning trips to Disney World (??). I know how surreal that last sentence sounds, but for once I am not hyperbolating (real word) for humor’s sake. We really were in a secret bartender party. I hope they don’t kill me for telling.

I’m realizing that it’s not realistic for me to stop going out. I mean, it’s just too damn fun and there’s always something amazing to be discovered in this great city. However, this week is most certainly devoted to eating veggies and cooking some homemade soup to recover. Cheers!

The Out and About Chronicles

I was good and didn’t go out tonight. Hooray for publicizing my intentions so that I’ll publicly shame myself if I fail. Now that I have the time, I can share what I’ve been up to. Yes, that’s right. I made the decision to not go out as much so that I could get home and blog about the times that I was out. It’s all so meta and ironic that my head has already exploded. Twice. (That’s actually how Asians stay so young looking. We regenerate our heads like lizards do with their tails. Pearl Cream is just a hoax we sell to white people.)

Less than two weeks into my new dream job at Fabby Fab Fab, we had a company post-holiday party. Mainly, it was for the team that had been there the previous 7 months, when they experienced something like 700% growth since launching in June 2011. The co-founders wanted to give them a celebration during a time when they wouldn’t be under the gun the next day. In fact, they wanted to make sure everyone would be able to relax and enjoy the party so much that they made the next morning a mandatory Come In Late day.

That kind of thoughtfulness is exactly why I love Fab. I guess you wouldn’t really start something that’s based around making people smile unless you have that mindset. I can’t say enough how fortunate I feel to have joined such an amazing team. And to get to know everyone on such a fun night! We scarfed down delicious wine and hors d’oeuvres at Market Table, detoured for cocktails at 10 Downing, then sang karaoke at some place called Boho or Bobo (?). I’ll admit it was hard to keep track of names, either places or people, after a few of the delish lavender fizzes you see in the picture above. It was the perfect way to be welcomed onto such an awesome team!

Last Friday was also intensely fun. I knew I’d be up to no good when the Princeton Madam commanded me to attend Muy Thai boxing with her. I can never resist a night she plans and boy, did she deliver! To set the tone for a primal evening, we had dinner at Meskerem, an Ethiopian restaurant. They set down a gigantic platter filled with food, tossed fluffy folds of bread in front of each of us, and provided no silverware. We just dug right in with our bare hands. It was my first time, and I loved it!

After we were uncomfortably full, I waddled after the group. Now, when I heard we were watching boxing, I imagined some dark basement filled with shadowy figures placing bets on vicious killers who would fight to the death. Instead, we ended up in an enormous rec center on the ground floor of a Catholic cathedral in midtown Manhattan. I bought beer from a lady who looked and sounded like a soccer mom. It would’ve been disappointing, but the multiple rounds of intense kickboxers, free-flowing beer (thank you, soccer mom) (and… Jesus, I guess?), and fun dance music during breaks really kept things lively. Who knew? I might do it again soon.

Oops, I mean, I won’t do it again soon. Because I’m supposed to be going out less. Sigh. Now you know why it’s hard to say no.

Cinco de Thanksgimme Success!

For the past five years, I’ve hosted a pre-Thanksgiving potluck to catch up with good friends before the holiday madness takes over. It’s called Thanksgimme because guests walk in the door with food, I yell “Thanks… gimmeee!!” and gobble it all up as they look horrified. I wonder why they keep coming every year. Maybe because I entice them with homemade marionette video invites. Say hola to Señor Turkey!

Yesterday was the fifth annual Thanksgimme (which is why I didn’t post on Sat as usual). I called it Cinco de Thanksgimme and designed a menu around classic Mexican flavors: bacon & salsa cowboy beans, baked red rice and (suuuper proud of this) Jalisco-style braised goat. Success! Everything came out muy delicioso, especially the goat, which was fall-apart tender and just the right amount of yummy fattiness to melt on the tongue.

Friends came with a taco station (including an incredible avocado cream sauce that I ate by the spoonfuls), chili blanco, jalapeño mac & cheese, homemade guacamole and salsa to die for, and loads of wine. It’s clear they know the way to my heart! For dessert, we feasted on a Junior’s cheesecake, a chocolate pie and donuts from the amazing Peter Pan bakery. Technically, none of those desserts fit the Mexican theme, but I didn’t hear any complaints.

Feliz Thanksgimme to all!

Deja Whoo!

Call me old-fashioned, but I always thought a birthday only came once, maybe twice, a year. Yet somehow I’ve been celebrating mine for a month straight and it shows no sign of abating. Last weekend, Lage and the Hussy took me out to dinner at my favorite Brooklyn French bistro for wine, steak and live music. When I tried to reach for the check, they beat me up. Dunno which was the gift, dinner or the abuse (ba-dum-choom!). It was a long weekend because Quirky was closed for Labor Day (I tried to tell people that we had the day off for my birthday but nobody believed me). I spent the day at my friends’ awesome potluck BBQ/picnic in Prospect Park and ran around blowing bubbles with their toddlers while the scents of grilled veggies, jerk turkey burgers, late summer grass and softball dirt swirled in the air around us. The Scientist was at the picnic and presented me with a beautiful hand-woven scarf that she’d brought back from Thailand. Beauty!

The next day, I returned to work thinking that the prolonged celebratory madness had come to an end, but people kept wishing me happy birthday as soon as I entered the office. Even the new interns, which was weird. How the heck did they even know my name yet?! Once I logged into work email, I found out there was an announcement that lunch was being brought in to celebrate my alleged birthday. By the end of the day, I just started wishing everybody else happy birthday, just to share the wealth. I think at this point, the phrase is just another way of saying howdy at Quirky HQ!

The next day after that, I was convinced it was over. I would return to a normal non-birthday routine, and no one, absolutely no one would celebrate, fête or proposition me in any way. Then the mailman delivered a package from one of my very bestest friends in the whole wide world! She had written me a lovely card in scrolly purply ink and sent a sparkly, silver charm to add to our BFF bracelets (we’re very grownup, you see). After work, I wandered into Sephora to dab makeup samples all over my face and they gave me a free birthday kit with eye shadow, eyeliner pencil and mascara. At least I think that was for my birthday. Maybe they just wanted me to stop scaring away all the paying customers.

I think my crazy birthday month is coming to an end. I still have a couple dinners and an intriguing nutella croissant offer to cash in, but I’m trying to pace myself. At this rate, I’ll still be recovering from this year’s birthday when it’s time to celebrate the next one. Whoo!

Chansvestite

I began my weekend visit to the Parents Chan by riding a series of commuter trains up to Connecticut with the Princeton Madam (not her real nickname… yet!), 2 bottles of red and a cheap corkscrew. Sadly for the commuters, the quiet reading car was the only one with room for us. Amidst the sombre library quiet of paperback pages turning, our styrofoam cups did a poor job of concealing what we were doing. After a while, we didn’t hear any pages turning. I’d like to think that meant we were saying (yelling?) some pretty interesting stuff. Or at least cursing in a fun enough way. Pros that we were, the Princeton Madam and I finished our first bottle of wine just before we had to switch trains. We congratulated ourselves as we deposited the bag with empty bottle into a recyclables bin on the platform. Remember those shape-sorting toys for babies? That bin had a glass bottles hole that was perfectly shaped for a wine bottle. I guess if any commuter train catered to winos, it would be the Connecticut commuter train! It wasn’t until we were comfortably ensconced in our seats on the new train that we realized we had thrown the cheap corkscrew away. It had been in the bag with the first bottle. Luckily, we were part of the MacGyver generation and not to be deterred by the mere lack of real tools. Using an ingenious combo of a ballpoint pen, a tube of lip balm and a plastic bag (don’t ask), we were able to open our second bottle for the rest of our ride up to family-land before we parted ways.

At first, my parents seemed like they would be a much better influence on me. I helped the mama water and sun her potted bamboo plants, picked fresh veggies from my aunt and uncle’s amazing terraced, hanging garden and relaxed by the pool. But I quickly found out where my partying genes came from. Out at dinner the first night, my parents pulled out a flask of Remy Martin X.O. and poured it into teacups while whistling innocently. I don’t think it fooled the waiters since the air above our table was wavy from alcohol fumes, but they knew better than to question the mama and the papa! They were a teensy bit better behaved the next night since we dined at home. They did, however, bust out a fancy pants bottle of wine (so fancy the bottle came in its own sleek silver canister) which they had saved for this weekend. One glass in, we got inspired to dress up in tradish garb for dinner because a family friend had just given me a cheongsam for my birthday. My mom almost stabbed me in the head while excitedly sticking chopsticks into my hair to “decorate” me. Whoa mama! (Come on, I had to say that.)

Partying wasn’t the only thing I inherited from these crazy cats though. At the end of the day, they are both astoundingly good cooks. For the joint birthday dinner (my daddy’s and mine), mommy-pants went all out. She sauteed green beans and pale eggplants freshly plucked from the hanging garden, made simple-but-scrumptious salted fry ups of shrimp and steak and tested a new chicken with seaweed dish. Feast your eyes on the pics below. My goodness, life is beautiful!

My Big Fat Fake Birthday

I’m a September baby, but you wouldn’t know it since I had my birthday party this past weekend. It all began when four of my august friends (see what I did there?) banded together to plan a group celebration at Le Lupanar. “It’ll be fun,” they gushed to each other. “We can take over the place and dance all night and…” “Ok-ok-ok, I’m in!!” I sighed like they had been begging me to join for ages (simply ages, dah-ling). Four pairs of eyes swiveled toward me in surprise and they struggled for a polite way to ask 1. who I was and 2. when my birthday was. I switched tactics. “Something something falls on Labor Day, and everybody’s always away that weekend, blah blah pity on me,” I said intelligently. They patted me on the head and told me I could be part of the August birthday party as a pity fifth. Score!

On the day of the party, my good friend Ctina treated me to an early birthday dinner at db townhouse because she knew how much I loved dining there during Restaurant Week. I revisited the Sea Scallops Benedict for the starter, I just had to. The salt-water tang of the scallops melded with the sharper savoriness of thin slices of chorizo sausage, which all got mellowed out by poached quail eggs laying on top. I broke their yolks with my fork and watched deep yellow rivulets slide along the smooth round surface of each scallop, pause at the edge, and then creep over and run thickly down its sides to pool upon the plate. An airy lobster foam completed the dish and melted like a dream in my mouth. I started thinking about how the foam was so light and the quail egg yolk so thick, that they were opposites, and I was simultaneously tasting the air and the earth. Or maybe that was just the wine talking! For my entree, I had seared medium rare tuna on a bed of couscous and tiny grasslike mushrooms. The waitress solemnly poured warm broth over the dish, bathing me and Ctina in a fragrant cloud of lemongrass and beets, light and vegetable sweet. When we somehow found room to attempt dessert, we sampled an Orange Blossom Panna Cotta (heavenly) and a Strawberry Shortcake Sundae (your childhood memories, one-upped by a master chef). True caffeine junkies that we were, we had several cups of coffee before heading out to the birthday party I’d muscled my way into.

Le Lupanar was amazingly fun! I worked for 5-1/2 years in book publishing before Black Wednesday hit, and the night was full of reunions with friends from all of the major houses. It was also a chance to mash all my groups together so that socializing could be easier (I love y’all but I’m lazy, yo). Alas, friendships were not to be forged since, as always, the night devolved into a series of dance-offs. Well. Not dance-offs in the sense that anyone actually knew how to dance. Hence the “off” part of that statement. There we were, publishing nerds in cocktail dresses or button-up shirts and khaki cargo shorts, pretending we knew how to crump. It was quite a sight. Meanwhile, at the bar beyond the dance floor battleground, one friend found a way around my No Shots policy by buying me many gin martinis (straight up with a twist, and I would prefer stirred not shaken, but trying telling that to an intimidating Manhattan bartender). Next time, I may just accept the shots. It would be less alcohol. In my gin-soaked haze, another friend appeared and presented me with a $2 bill upon which he penned a personalized haiku. Fitting, since we’re in the same writing group. Hours of “dancing” later (it feels more honest to include those quote marks), the best present of all arrived in the form of a car ride home. Whoo!

Gosh I wonder what’ll happen in two weeks when it actually is my birthday?

Keep on Truckin’

It began when I was 15. I was walking along the side of the road with a friend, when a truck came tumbling around the corner towards us. Instead of flinching, my friend raised one arm and casually pulled twice, on nothing, in the air. The truck honked twice at us before flying by and showering us in grey road dust. “What was that?” I asked. She shrugged. “It’s just how you get trucks to honk.” That was all it took. For the last 2 years of high school, every chance I got, I used that move to get trucks to honk as they zoomed past me. There was something about the sudden appearance of a truck on the horizon, its equally sudden disappearance to destinations unknown and its brief acknowledgment of me standing on the side, watching it go by. The whirlwind of grit and gravel left in each truck’s wake gave me a taste of the open road long before I’d ever heard of Kerouac. It never lost its thrill.

With as little warning as the first time, trucks re-entered my life this summer in collaboration with another great love, food. Within my first week at my awesome new job, Co-Quirkers introduced me to the famous Calexico cart in SoHo and even taught me how to pronounce it (like the beginning of California and the end of Mexico). West Coast friends celebrated when they learned I finally tasted a “proper” burrito with perfectly al dente’d rice and beans, flavorful pull-apart pork, guac, cream, and the genius finishing touch of pickled red onions! The next week, I ventured further afield to the Bistro Truck for a daily special of lamb and steak served atop a bed of fragrant rice. It was heaven. The meats each had their unique textures. The lamb was tender and fell apart immediately on my tongue. The steak resisted my first bite with its beefy sinews but soon gave in and released a hot, rich broth as I chewed. The flavors were savory but so aromatic that it hinted at sweetness. I inhaled through my mouth as I ate to try to understand where the boundary between taste and smell lay but could not pinpoint where one ended and the other began.

Lest I lose myself in savory reveries, no summer is complete without the sacred ice cream truck. While the Ben & Jerry’s Truck did not play music, they did bring boxes of free Cookie Dough and Peanut Brittle when they visited the Quirky office! And on a mellow evening, the Van Leeuwen truck provided the perfect accompaniment to an after-work stroll in the form of ginger ice cream in a crunchy sugar cone (which is the only way to eat a scoop of ice cream, cups and wafer cones be damned!). Although Wafels & Dinges has ice cream on their menu and has become a weekly Thursday night destination, I have yet to try it. So far, their BBQ Pulled Pork and Bacon & Syrup waffles keep luring me away from the sweet stuff. Eyes on the prize!

Last weekend, the second Food Truck mashup at the Hell’s Kitchen Flea gave me the chance to try a few trucks who don’t frequent my neck of the woods. It also gave a great excuse for an impromptu Random House reunion with the ladies! We may have all found new career paths to pursue, but sound the alarm for a gourmet sidewalk picnic and we’ll make it top priority, gosh darn it. We divided to conquer on lines for the Rickshaw Dumpling Truck, Go Burger, and The Krave. Unfortch, the grills were broken for The Krave so we didn’t get to try any Korean BBQ. Then again, the Kobe Hot Dog, BLT Burger, Cheeseburger and skinny fries from Go Burger and the Pork & Chive, Thai Basil & Chicken, and Vegetarian Edamame dumplings from Rickshaw managed to make a pretty impressive spread on our slice of sidewalk. And it made all the other people still waiting in line jealous. Which is really what it was all about! The upside of The Krave being down was that it left room for dessert. Kelvin Slush beckoned like a cool, frosty mirage so we waited to try their wares. Even though 2 of their 3 machines were broken, we got to sample their Tangy Citrus slushie with a variety of mix-ins (by sample, I mean that everybody else got a slushie, and I put my mouth on it without permission. Bad, Shirley, bad.) like basil, mint and white peach. Once again, I didn’t leave enough space for Big Gay Ice Cream, but I am determined to have a Salty Pimp before he closes for the season. Mark my words!

Anyhoodle, I have a whole list of trucks left to try and the summer is slipping away. Which makes me verrry tempted to get tix to the 2010 Vendy Awards!! More to come soon. I can’t seem to stop eating. Oops!