My Aunt Elly apparently saves everything, and this Thanksgiving she festively decorated her bathroom wall with this fictional menu I wrote as a child. (Who does that? And who is Golda?) No date on it, but I’m guessing I was around 7? I’m hoping? God, what if I was 17?

Allow me to count down a few highlights — sort of a Take 5 without those annoying audio/visual elements, if you will…

5. Jinjre Ale as a featured “Bevrage” Was this like a ganja-fied version of ginger ale? Sidenote: I’m completely impressed with my affiliation with Pepsi products instead of Coke at such a tender age.

4. Get the full slab! It’s cheaper! I love how it was important enough to me that my fictional customers might want to take advantage of a great deal on BBQ, should one be offered. Six bucks for a full slab, wow. It certainly was the ’80s! And Golda’s Cafe certainly must have been adjacent to a truck stop on a central Indiana highway, even though we lived in Illinois.

3. Pizza Plate (5 squares) Continuing with the low-class theme, it’s clear that I was tailoring this dream menu to be as close to my childlike tastes as possible. The insistence on “squares” suggests that the greatest type of pizza I knew of at the time came frozen and developed into its most gourmet state via a magical microwave. Sadly (although I’m pretty fine with it), these are still my tastes. I’d eat lunch every day at Golda’s Cafe if I could. Is there one in midtown?

2. “Five Hidden Cherries!” OMG so fun!!! But who exactly was doing the hiding? I’m almost certain it would have been me. Or maybe this “Golda,” but something tells me she wouldn’t have had very clean hands. Plus she never wore her hairnet. You just know it.

1. Becks Thanks to Barnacle Bill Barrett, probably the only name-brand beer I knew of besides Heineken. And there’s no way I was spelling that.

Really. So many of the photographic documentation of my summer has taken place at the Jersey Sub Shop, which is obviously located in New Buffalo, Michigan. The cookies are decorated by a crackhead, there are random Shreks and cows out front, and worst of all, the sandwiches aren’t even that great. So why is such a large percentage of my digipic options to throw on DR JSS-related? No clue, but I find it hilarious. So here are some more. The JSS is totally my “beat” for the summer. I’m such a journalist.

JERSEY SUB SHOP UPDATES, AUGUST 2007

Once a valiant standing figure, here is where Shrek sits, crumpled up, today.

The cookies have received a major facelift from last month, but still don’t look like anything anyone would ever choose to eat. (They don’t know what they’re missing!)

Contrary to what you’d expect from the lawn outside, the JSS is not actually a dairy. It’s just very supportive of the lactose community. Also, my friend and fellow Show Choir alum Kristers makes her DR debut, in just about the most flattering shot imaginable.

Um, Starbucks? Maybe I HAVEN’T.

You better not pull this crap with the sugar.

—

Happy 29th, James! Remember this? (A beyond-awful DR digital short)

“Still rolling, still rolling.”
“Still rolling!”
“Are we still rolling?”

We are. Miss you.

A few weeks ago, my sister and I ate at The Cheesecake Factory in Chicago. We stood in their nasty waiting area (the walls resemble intestinal tracts) for half an hour on a Sunday night. We’re insane.

Anyway, between us, we ordered three staggeringly large (because they all are) menu items. The first was the spinach/artichoke/but mostly cheese dip. It was yummy in the way that a deviled egg is satisfying a few hours before the main Thanksgiving meal. Yes, you want the egg — but were steaming slices of carved meat and stuffing to be plunked down in front of you, you’d toss it over your shoulder without even looking.

Such was the scene at TCF, as round 2 (Cajun Chicken Littles, with garlic mashed, veggies (gross) and two dipping sauces) swooped in for the kill on our massive table that should have seated at least six.

I call this shot… “Abandoned Chip.”

You want it.

Damnit, Annie! There’s so much freakin’ dip left! Looking at it now makes me crazy.

Have you ever done this?

The new Crocodile Lounge on 14th Street (a spinoff of Williamsburg’s Alligator Lounge) serves a crappy personal pizza with every beer ordered.

No way.

Way.

Having been brought along by in-the-know pals, I sat there refusing to believe that I’d landed myself in such a perfect situation until I had proof of pizza. Maybe my friends had gotten lucky on a one-night-special. Or maybe, since it was after 2:30 am, the oven would have shut down. But no: minutes after ordering beers… we each got a pizza accompanied by a wicker basket of sprinklings.

The quality of the pizza was exceedingly low. It tasted like something you’d buy at the concession stand of a high school gym or suburban ice rink, when you’re depressed that life has led you to this lame event and so you try to make things better with a pizza even you know is going to be truly awful.

The “crust” was maybe a few milimeters thin, a measurement which decreased with every second because the grease on top of it eventually just seeped right the F on through. When I picked up a “slice,” the triangular end automatically drooped at a 90-degree angle towards the floor, as if to say “Look, I’m not really pizza.”

This is not something anyone should eat. And yet, because it was right in front of me and available, I found the entire situation miraculous.

I wrote this article about last night’s Desperate Housewives. The only good part about this show or my story is that I quoted Madonna’s “Sorry” out of (and in order to reflect) sheer desperation.

I won’t do what y’all think I’m gonna do and just FREAK OUT about The Sopranos. Last night’s season premiere was absolutely amazing, but you can read about its plot points at literally any other domain on the grand old Internet. I’d like to comment at length on something most critics wouldn’t deign to mention, and that is how hilarious it is that Tony and Carmela have become obsessed with a local sushi restaurant! They ate there twice together in the same episode, and Tony even went once by himself. (Carm was totally jealous — she said it was because she thought the restaurant was “their place,'’ but I know better: she just wanted the food!)

This is just brilliant. Aside from being generally humorous (haha, look at the hardcore Italians eating raw fish instead of prosciutto) I think their sudden sushi habit is a self-aware nod to how long the show has been on hiatus. I don’t have facts or figures on this, but America at large was much less obsessed with sushi twenty months ago than it is now. I personally didn’t even have sushi on my radar in 2004. It’s not that I hated it, it’s just that it never occurred to me to really dedicate myself to the cause. Sushi seemed kind of trendy back then, even though I live in the city and as a serious eater, should have been all over it.

But even I’m a bad example because I’m so tragically hip. My parents, also serious eaters, still don’t eat sushi, and it’s not because they refuse — it’s just that there’s always so much other fabulous shit to eat. Those Chicago-style deep dish pizzas surround my parents, floating around in beautiful orbits before sweeping in for the kill. The Sopranos, too, had always eaten like royalty. They had no reason to migrate towards sushi. It just happened over time.

So the fact that Tony and Carmela have just discovered the little place called “Nori” in their ‘burb probably rings true for a lot of Americans. And the scenes were spot-on, complete with all-you-can-eat platters (”Keep ‘em coming,” said Tony, before “Can I get another sake?”) and sweet, impossibly trim waitresses who you just know go back to the kitchen and laugh with the rollmasters about how obnoxious all the fat Americans are. (To cap it off, Tony has actually gained a ton of weight — due in part, we’re to assume, from his recent sushi craze. SODIUM.)

One final note about The Sopranos — the new baby daughter Janice wishes was dead is named Domenica. This means “Sunday” in Italian, which I know because it is one of the four or so words I bothered learning in the little book Dee brought along when we went to Italy. I liked the sound of it, so I kept shouting it out at random places and times, along with “Prego!” and “Melanzane!” Hey, Meghan! DOMENICA! Hahaha.

Take a look at my new favorite meal of all time: the Sweet ‘n’ Savory French Toast at Southport Grocery in Chicago’s Lake View neighborhood. It’s french toast topped with gruyere cheese (whaaa?) and somewhat crispy ham with no fat on it, served with organic maple valley syrup on the side. The syrup came “from the grocery,” which in this place seems to be a very big deal. I was almost afraid to ask for a second little cup of it becuase I thought they might make me buy the whole $14 bottle.

You have no idea how good this breakfast is. It might not sound good to you just written out in words. It didn’t to me, on the menu. I would normally not order french toast in a restaurant, but my dining partner at SG a few weeks prior ordered it then. I sampled a bite so as not to be rude (and because I knew his generosity stemmed from his wanting a bite or more of my egg-laden bruschetta/crostini concoction, which was okay but not something to write in a shitty blog about. I don’t know why we didn’t just switch plates).

Whoa. I spent the rest of that morning jealously salivating over — or shall I say savoring — the memory of that bite. I couldn’t even focus on conversation, much less my own meal, after getting a taste of this miracle. I think the jealousy overcame me to the point where I was downright nasty to the person who had had the good fortune of ordering it for himself. There’s no way of being sure, because I don’t really remember. I was out of my mind. That bite had been with me throughout the past three weeks, lifting me up during sour times, gently calling me back to the Midwest for another round. I made it, Sweet ‘n’ Savory French Toast! I came back to you. Are we in love? Is the feeling mutual? Call or write.
*

I often get a very tense feeling when a meal I know I’m going to enjoy more than anything else that day is about to be served to me. It’s almost like I don’t want to receive it. I want to have ordered it, to have waited for it, to have it be on its way, but I don’t actulally want it set down because at that point, it’s practically gone. The food’s there, but the suspense, thrill, and yearning have all vanished by that point. The plate in front of me is just a given. It, too, will go away, and all too quickly. There’s something profoundly sad in that.

I felt this great depression while eating for the second time at Southport Grocery. I wanted to take each bite of the Sweet ‘n’ Savory French Toast, but I also didn’t want to because then whatever little percentage of it that I managed to load onto the fork would be gone forever. I mean, I could come back, but not, like, for the next meal. They’d think I was weird. I’d have to wait at least a few days. Maybe one day. I don’t know. It’s too much to think about.

I always envision a huge, looming, color-coded pie chart when I’m eating one of my favorite things. Like I said above, the moment right before it’s placed in front of me is the happiest moment. At that point, the pie chart is not a chart at all but just a benign, bunny-yellow circle: a big, smiling, hungry face with one of those wagging tongues that looks like it’s about to slurp up something delicious. With each bite, not only do portions of the smiley face get taken over by a different, gloomier color (midnight blue… perhaps thundercloud gray), but the smile slowly but surely turns into a frown. At the meal’s pausing point, usually somewhere right in the middle (also called the “breather,” “timeout,” or “period of solemn reflection”), I imagine the face having a completely horizontal line for a smile. It’s not a grimace — not yet — but there is no joy left. It’s the “look what you’ve done to me” face a sullen teenager might shoot at the parent who never gave him any attention. I almost consider not eating any more so as not to produce the inevitable downwards-drooping smile line. All of this makes it significantly difficult for me to find joy in the eating process.

And then I do anyway!

You know, if I hadn’t taken Tylenol P.M. nearly three hours ago, I would be totally up for creating graphics of the meal-progression pie charts, thundercloud gray and all, but as it is I’m starting to drool and didn’t even notice, and would be surprised if I even stay awake long enough to run upstairs, wait 10 mintues for dial-up to work, and get this posted. Right now I sound like a raving lunatic, so maybe falling asleep for once would not be a bad thing.

I’m off to Italy tomorrow for a week because my family - despite having no Italian blood or really any connection to the country - is completely obsessed with it. I am completely obsessed with the food there, so it totally works out.

Dee says I always pick the best thing on the menu, and she’s right. I do that all the time here in America. It’s very important to me and the character trait in which I take the most pride. But I get nervous about doing it in Italy because I have no idea what anything says. Except I do know the word for “eggplant.”

I could be like my father and revel in my cluelessness by asking the waiter if we could have “zucchini alfredo” as an appetizer. He meant eggplant parmesan. Somehow. The best part about this is that the waiter actually picked up on his twice-removed translation (Italian to English, English to Bill Barrett) and said “Ah! Melanzane! Si, si!” (See? I know it.) Bill’s method might get me some laughs, but I prefer to have at least some idea of what’s going on during those crucial pre-vino moments, because we all know it’s downhill from there.

Meghan’s spotty understanding of the language helps, but we only have time to go through half the menu items at most before order time. When the moment of truth comes, I choose something random, then have these mini anxiety attacks as we pass the menus back to the server because I have no idea if I ordered the best thing. I know. Life sucks. It’s not easy being me.

Hmm. The laundromat downstairs says “7AM - 9PM” on the door. It’s 8:40, and the place is all boarded up. With all the clothes I need to pack (presumably) inside. Maybe life does suck. Shit.

This Friday, I took yet another step towards Becoming a Real New Yorker: I enjoyed dinner for two in a quaint, packed little restaurant that smells deliciously exclusive from the street. I know all about that street part. I don’t dine out often, so much of the time I spend walking around my neighborhood involves glaring jealously at the people in the piping hot, cute, and TINY restaurants before ducking into Burritoville for some mediocre takeout.

But, oh! Ms. Meghan Barrett decided to make a whirlwind trip into the city to see that Gates thing in Central Park (don’t ask me anything about them, as I don’t really “get” them but also don’t really care), and her presence seemed a fabulous excuse to try our hands at Village-Dining Snobbery (VDS) for a few hours.

VDS is a tricky little bastard. Get hooked and you’ll crave it every night, but disregard it completely and you’re missing out on a huge part of Village lifestyle. You see, you’re supposed to envy the diners you see in the window. They need you there to be walking by so they can feel superior, and they will gladly do the same for you at times that are convenient for them. Neither the outsider nor insider is allowed to blatantly stare, but passersby are strongly encouraged to evoke a slight sense of jealously.

A small “Too bad I’m outside” or “That place looks really cool” head tilt works best. A darting “I wish I was in there eating that trendy food with those really stylish people sitting right by the window trying to see if I notice them” glance can also work, although some variation on the former action is more subtle, and the diners in the second example don’t really deserve your attention. It’s a subtle balance - this system of Village-Dining Snobbery - but, with everyone’s help, it manages to maintain equilibrium.

Friday, it was my turn to switch teams, shake up that balance. After an extensive research session at work, the snobttoria of choice became Da Andrea on Hudson St.

This is not an expensive place. It’s not even a beautiful place. The staff seems perpetually annoyed, but I’m guessing that’s because they keep trying to silently will the restaurant to expand beyond a width of 2.5 body lenghts. But the perks are obvious: great-tasting food, hot location, and originality. Kind of.

We entered the restaurant to find that the two-square-foot “waiting area” was already jam-packed with two whole people. So we had to duck behind the curtain separating the door/street (and all the dirty outsiders) and the glamorous interior that housed The Chosen. My sister labeled this curtain “really annoying.”

I stared nervously. Meghan’s eyes grew wide with hunger and an impatient longing to become Chosen. She was disappointed in me. I wasn’t Manhattan Savvy enough for her. She didn’t drive a painful 90 minutes just to stand in some shitty blue-curtained enclave. Come ON! Deep breath, Annie. Embrace your inherent VDS. You can do this.

After seven excruciating minutes of bumping into the interior standers and being crunched by the door as people came and went, we finally muscled our way into plain sight. Then it happened. A glistening two-top beckoned from a distance. (Okay, from five feet away. I could have pulled the chair out with my Amazonian boot.) I’m not sure if it was because we were so tall and lovely or because the people “ahead” of us actually didn’t want to sit down, but the heavily accented big swinging dick of a host plucked us from the doorway of perpetual burden and waltzed us down the aisle. Did I say big swinging dick? I meant knight in shining armor… for we had been Chosen.

I should have been overcome with joy/self-righteousness/achievement of VDS but instead I just felt dirty. I glanced out the window at the freezing pedestrians who were possibly headed to Burritoville or (gasp!) something even worse and wondered if the transition from outside with dignity to inside with false entitlement had been worth it. Then the menus arrived, we ordered wine, and I flicked my tallest finger to the cold, harsh streets. F-you, streets! I had been Chosen. I’d never go back.

Wishful thinking. I went back the next day. I ate BSP and Ben’s Pizza for my two meals and bought cans of corn “niblets” on sale at Gristedes. They taste even better if you pour on more salt.

Even so, my foray into false entitlement proved quite fruitful. Even when those three huge scoops of peach, strawberry, and chocolate homemade gelato merged rather uncomforably in my wincing stomach and I wanted to cry, I could still gaze around and feel genuinely better than everyone else. It really was quite lovely. DR strongly endorses VDS and encourages you to give it a try if you’re in the area. And if you’re lucky, some nerd with a digital camera will be there with you to catch you in all your VDS glory.

Chicago fans: Anyone watch The Amazing Race? Tonight’s series finale featured the Water Tower and (Dad, brace yourself…) a Gino’s East deep dish pizza-eating challenge! I suddenly miss the Midwest.

I personally felt the contestants didn’t treat the Chicago-style pizza with the reverence it deserves. At one point, eating disorder spokesmodel Kendra (right, gagging), who was fighting off her gag reflex the whole time she was eating, declared, “This is disgusting.” No, Kendra. You are disgusting for saying such a wretched and unforgiveable thing. I wish that, as an added twist, Kendra’s cut of the million-dollar prize came in the form of a gift certificate only redeemable at Gino’s East. She’d probably turn it down.

I really need to start reading more.

I’m a very important, busy professional and I just don’t have time for this right now. But check out what I had for a verrrrrrry hungover brunch on Saturday:

OMG. I’ve seriously never had it so good. This was Eggs Benedict but with lox instead of Canadian bacon. That’s ingenius. Originally I planned on eating something in the form of one giant carb (don’t like to stray too far from the home base) like a waffle, pancakes, or five english muffins smothered in jam…

But on many brunch menus, potatoes come with certain egg-centered (eggcellent) meals and NOT the giant-carb meals. I don’t even really love chunky potatoes, but for some reason I find the brunch experience to be more fulfilling if my order comes with potatoes. I actually feel cool when I recieve my food. Can anyone else relate to this? Maybe I’m completely nuts. Actually, that’s certain. But do let me know about the potato thing.

The restaurant was great. It’s called Yaffa, in Tribeca. Or TriBeCa, if I wanted to be all New York about it. They played the “Hallelujah” song from The O.C. and I laughed at myself and told the GSFs, who proceeded to laugh at me and inform me that it’s actually a song in real life, too. Then I tried to go to the bathroom and couldn’t figure out how to open the door, so I gave up. I’m a real go-getter. I’d do really well in a career. You should definitely hire me.

This site is turning into a full-fledged NYC Guide to Shitty Food. Yesterday we hit the Shake Shack in Madison Square Park, coincidentally my favorite park in the city. You can see Wendy’s if you sit in the right spot.

There it is. Larry, get out of the way. Actually, the Shake Shack was his idea. I love him for his impressive knack for finding the worst food in the cutest spots.

True to my roots, I ordered the Chicago Dog. It said Vienna Beef, but it definitely wasn’t. It was a TOTALLY NARROW excuse for a hot dog. Posers.

Hey, look. It’s Paul Crocetti in the City! (And Kate! And Becks.)

In conclusion, I skipped my biweekly jog to create this entry.

Last night I went to something called the Boat Basin with Larry and Kate. Despite the lovely view of Dirty Jerz and the admittedly intriguing ancient Rome theme this place has going on, the Boat Basin kind of sucks. The people are pretty awful, not to mention the food blows. I had my most horrifying nachos experience yet last night - and if you know me, you know how seriously I take nachos and therefore how deeply offended and shaken up I must be.

I’m still in recovery so I won’t put myself through the agony of relaying the description.

I’ll just say this.

Wait for it…

Are you sure you want to keep reading?

Seriously, you can stop it you want…

OMG…

Ready?

LIQUID CHEESE.

I know.

I’m aware that a lot of people find liquid cheese yummy and sort of endearing in swimming-pool-concession-stand or baseball-game-vendor sort of way. That’s fine. I’m all for it. I eat so much crap like that that I am convinced there is this giant ball of food processing lodged somewhere inconvenient in my digestive tract. HOWEVER, when nachos are listed on the same page as a “chilled seafood salad” and a $16 platter of ribs, you better believe I’m not about to cough up $7.95 for chips and liquid cheese.

I calmly sent it back (don’t worry, I felt like a huge bitch doing so), pouted for awhile, and then proceeded to make up for the loss by drinking lots and lots of beer. At a different (read: downtown) bar, of course. Screw that place.

This afternoon I got caught in an outrageously windy downpour at the same time I got caught on the median thing on South Park (haha) Avenue between two really, really fast lanes of traffic. I couldn’t see anything and was conscious that I was still alive only by the rapid full-body splashes of dirty water from speeding cars. My flimsy umbrella busted out the wrong way and when I finally got it concave again I actually considered squatting down on the pavement because then at least I’d get to cover more of myself and generally be able to hide more from hell on earth.

Guess what I did instead? This is sick. Rather than holding the umbrella primarily over my head and perfectly-coiffed hair, I positioned it directly over my right shoulder, because gently encased in my non-waterproof straw bag was a spanking fresh foot-long Subway sandwich. It’s all about priorities.