First of all: this scarf with this dress: yea or nay? I can’t decide. (Yeah, I made that headband by shortening the skirt of the dress, of course!)
Second of all:
The continued girlification of me continues to bewilder me. My shoes keep getting higher and higher. Very strange. When Jacob saw me in these (which, in truth, I bought mostly because my beloved beaten-up blues kill my feet and the blisters had suddenly [coinciding with walking past a shoe store I’d long wanted to explore, strange how things happen, isn’t it?] become TOO MUCH RIGHT NOW MUST! GET! THESE! OFF! MY! FEET!), he said “Thirteen years with someone and one day you realize they’re a girlie girl. Who knew!” And I took his arm and tottled (I think I mean “tottered,” but “tottled” is cool, no?) off to dinner, like the brainwashed patriarchy-participant a part of thinks wearing heels makes me.
Oh, but dinner! That’s what I came here to talk about.
This post is a companion piece to this little list of Lower East Side veganosity, FYI. Links to all the restaurants mentioned here are on that page.
As it turns out, an old pal of mine is now the Executive Chef at Counter, so Jacob and I braved the INSANE RIDICULOUS prices to give it a whirl again, and it’s still solidly lovely. The prices aren’t too much if everything really is organic, but $12 for a martini, no matter how much I needed one after walking 10 blocks in 4″ heels, no matter what magical organic vodka you’re putting in them, was not going to happen (I save all my $12 for baths, as you might recall.). My bestie Maresa is actually currently working there making desserts too, which all seem imaginative and well-executed. (I mean, Maresa is perfect and amazing, but [for now at least?] she’s just the executor of their recipes, so even if they sucked you can’t really blame her. But they don’t suck!)
Counter’s a weird place in ways that I discussed in the post referenced above, but it certainly is nice to have a 99% vegan stylish bistro to go to.
For three times the price, however, I’d still rather go to Kajitsu and have my mind continually blown off. We went last week and I officially declared my love to them by bringing the chef chocolates and beginning an email relationship with our favorite server, Jamie (he emailed me to send some links related to making sake, which we chatted about at dinner. How sweet is that, yo?). Also! My former intern, the amazing Ann, is now interning there.
OK this is getting too gossipy. Kajitsu was great, everyone should go, will post pictures soon.
Before leaving the city, we again braved not-ludicrous-if-everything-truly-is-organic-but-I-personally-have-my-doubts prices and went to Caravan of Dreams for brunch. Why? Because literally no other place was open and we both needed food for our (separate, sob sob) journeys. It was horrible, as we both knew it would be. I have had a singular experience at CoD several times now, where I ask the waiter if I should order what I’m about to order, and they straight up say no. It’s a good reminder to trust your servers, and to let them guide you to the good stuff. I asked the waitress what she thought about the oat pancakes, and she said, “You know…they’re just like pancakes. Except…” “Except not fluffy and not good?” I said. “Yep.” She said. I got some polenta thing which wasn’t awful. Jacob got your standard tofu scrambler burrito with the requisite squeezie-tube sauce drizzled over it. (Drizzling sauce over burritos seems sort of horrible to me. My god I have a lot of peeves.)
Don’t ever go to Caravan of Dreams, OK? Promise?
Instead, go to the newly reopened Teany, just a few streets away, and get a perfectly serviceable TLT sandwich. The Bluestockings counter woman I asked if it was open said it was and mentioned that it is no longer owned by Moby, but the menu and decor seem mostly unchanged, though there are more seats.
Proving my intense hypocrisy, Teany is the one place in the world where I order the ridiculously sugary, Earth Balance-laden desserts that are not usually, to put it kindly, to my taste. (To put it unkindly: are ruining the entire world in 50 different ways.) The same thing happens every time: I eat half my strawberry shortcake (which you can get in fucking January, cottony fraises and all) then take the rest home and eat it at midnight and marvel at how that fluffy Earth Balance frosting coats your tongue so horribly.
Mon petit ami, on the other hand, is purely happy, and also does the same thing every time: orders one dessert,
then decides to that two would really be better. (While I just mush around my cake.)