I’m getting fat. New York does great salads – look, I ate a really good one on Friday for lunch.
But, and here’s the problem, they do even better burgers and pizzas and steaks and my body fat percentage is responding in kind.
Friday, I went to the Burger Joint at Le Parker Meridien hotel. Tucked behind a heavy red curtain in the lobby of the smart Central Park South hotel, the greasy spoon serves some of the best patties in town. I bundled myself up there in a cab after a long press day and received the kind of consolation only a mound of beef smeared in clarified butter and cooked on a griddle can offer.
And that would have been fine had it stopped there, but Saturday I pootled down to Amy’s Breads for my (nigh-on) daily dose of almond brioche, then headed up to the Upper East Side for a dinner party with a ton of Wall Street bankers (of whom my old uni mate, Ed and his wife Karen are two). They served up meatballs and pasta and brownies and cupcakes and lashings and lashings of Wall Street wine (ie stuff that isn’t Casillero del Diablo).
And then Sunday I went to Cafe Minerva, again, with Sheila for Eggs Benedict; then Gottino for pate and gorgonzola and red wine;
And my resolve to get fit? Yeah not so resolved. I’ve been to the gym in my apartment block’s basement once in the two weeks I’ve been here, for a 15 minute swim and steam.
Apart from gherkins, I’ve eaten practically no vegetables since I touched down on US soil. After two weeks of this, something has to give, my boyfriend flies out in less than two weeks. I want him to recognise me.