She was in the East Village in a baker’s window.
In more food-related news, I had dinner alone last night. I eat dinner alone sometimes in London and it’s as socially awkward here as there. I’m always in and out in about 30 minutes and feel slightly flushed all the way through as I fret about how much of a loser my fellow diners think me. (I see that it’s not my eating alone that makes me a loser but my thinking that people would think I’m a loser for eating alone that makes me a loser).
But social embarrassment aside, my diner a une was a success. Chilled noodles with spicy sesame vinaigrette at Wu Liang Ye as recommended in the NYP’s 100 Things to Do in New York Before You Die was, well, to-die for. Though not so much that I was able to finish the enormous platter of the slippery stuff they brought me. I ended up taking home most of it. Americans seem to be into that here: the takehome box, or doggy bag, while Brits are about as socially embarrassed about taking food home in their handbags as they are the eating alone thing. But listen up urban dwellers, it’s practical. I have lunch set for the week!
Tonight I bucked the trend and ate at Cafe Minerva in the West Village with my Brit-pat old uni mate Sheila. No social awkwardness there, though I did leave with yet another takehome box in my frostbitten mitts. I’m thinking noodle breakfast.