I love you! So what am I so afraid of? Afraid that I might love you!

Via the food blog listing at A Guy in New York I hit upon an Awesome quarry-- a huge, gaping pit of Awesome ore ready to be mined by my unyoked attention all damn day long.

The Drones Club, posted by a one Cornelius Bear.

Apparently he (she?) doesn't post much. Probably too busy cranking out "I AM SERIOUSLY, LIKE, SUCH A GENIUS" buttons and sashes.

Well, Cornelius, if affection could be measured in wild-west hooker flare, this is me, lookin' at you, right now:

Mediocre Places I Love to Love, Part II (Deluxe Nasty Edition)

This one is not even defensible from a culinary point of view. This one's culinary point of view is a lot like that of a blind vole in a lead vault: it doesn't have one. But Academy Diner, on Lafayette and Fulton, In Fort Greene, Brooklyn, I will eat your stringy omelettes, your oaty sausages, and your steel-knives-of-acid orange juice gladly.

When one of your tiny, hyperagressive waitresses yells my order to the kitchen like a Visigoth farmgirl might scream "RUUUNNNNN!!!" at the approach of thousands of Hittite rapist-warriors, it NEVER. ceases. to scare me.

But maybe that's what I need to wake up.
That or a nightmare.

Citing "Irreconcilable Espresso Martini"

I'm a fan of beverages such as Red Bull and Rock Star. Diet Rock Star, an absurdly large can that looks like a Rocketman fuel pack, made me aggressive, moody and vocal in front of throngs of 11 year old girls at Diry Dancing 2: Havana Nights.

"GET YOUR MITTS OFF DIEGO LUNA, YOU TALENTLESS WHORE!"

I've also been known to sip a SPARKS energy-infused beer while walking down the street, because the can looks like a soda can, and the cops never notice.


But all those trashy aluminum bullets have been brushed aside by a new, sleeker, more sophisticated energy drink that kicks all their alls asses. The ESPRESSO MARTINI. Ingredients:

- Chilled espresso
- Vodka
- Tia Maria
- Splash Baileys
- Whatever stupid bougie garnish/rim job


Honestly, I had 2 of these last night and was like a Tasmanian Devil for 6 hours. I ended up, for the second time in a month, covering my face in a mud mask, and passing out while waiting for it to dry. When my boyfriend came home to this

except shot with a tranquilizer gun, he almost divorced me.

LOVE YOU BABE! LAST TIME, I PROMISE!

Beep Boop Bop Mee Moo Ma 5000

OK, the coffee machine is called the Krups "Home Cafe" Pod Brewing Machine KP1010. FINE. It's not that sassy a name. But it's a sassy cup of Joe, let me tell you.

Like Gevalia, but not terrifying

This amazing girl I work with -- one of those hypercapable people who seem to actually make things happen all the time, as opposed to those of us who's inner monologue usually involves unicorns and puppies -- hooked our office up with a not-yet-released prototype of a single-cup coffee machine. I don't know what it's called, it's named like a fancy European robot obviously.

Anyway, the coffee, even though it comes from these single little round discs, like tea bags, is delicious. But then again, my standards are pretty low. As long as it is blood-thinning, mind-shocking, and virtuosically laxative, I'm a happy puppy.

My friend Caroline knows a lot more about coffee than I do. And she's adorable.

Strap a Baby in Hemp Overalls to my Suze Orman power-les crew cut: I LOVE Park Slope!

OK, fine. More specifically, I love Al Di La.

"THANKS FOR THE TIP, ASSHOLE!!!" You might be saying right now, since this place is about as "underground" as giraffe titties on a diving board. But so what? Here's my two cents: Al Di La does, indeed, rock.

However. An open letter to Sideshow Roberto, the guy with the fro who must be the owner:

I think your tripe is better than Babbos. I think it's the best I've had in NYC. That said, your clever "Why don't you adjourn to our WINE BAR [and pound an unholy quantity of prosecco] whilst awaiting your table?" backfired. It didn't so much backfire for YOU, seeing as how once seated, we ordered enough food for several [two-mommied] families, racked up a huge bill, and were basically blacked out by the time the secondi came around; but it certainly backfired for ME, when I woke up on my floor at 4 a.m. with my alarm clock in my ribs, as bruised as my Unflappable Viking drinker's dignity.

FOILED! By a sissy little Italian place!

Ode to My Bougie Tendencies

I can't believe how fresh you are,
How vineg'ry and tart,
I'll withstand the long long lines
I'll withstand my evening farts.

To eat your lunchtime freshness
Is to munch a maiden's tits,
I'll suckle at your jug-like
Chicken Provencal with grits.

YOU know what you do to me.
You know who you are.
You know you rob me daily--
You're the Whole Foods Salad Bar.

You make me look all bougie
When you lure me to your palace
But I've fallen down your tempeh hole
Like a frightened little Alice:

The Queen of Hearts of Palm is angry
I ate her whole damn platter,
And this real convincing olive loaf
Swears that I'm Mad Fatter.

You know I need your 'agus,
You know I need your 'choke,
You know I need your rigid whites
And crave your creamy yolks!

My bloodstream hollers "protein!"
And, with open arms to boot, you
Clamor back, "TUSCAN BEANS!"
(And then I whisper, "toooot.")

My shrivelled leather mug says "water!"
Your apples yell back, "HERE!"
I think, "Yes, that's just the ticket
To compliment this coffee/beer."

You see? I don't-- you finish--
All my--sentences HAHAHAHAHA
You know just where I'm ticklish,
You love my lisp, my ratty bras,

I'm broke but never lonely,
With your fresh and herby treasures.
And SNAP I'll get all nasty
On your sister, Healthy Pleasures.

Mediocre Places I Love to Love, Part I

Ode to Kashmir, located at 40th and 8th, Manhattan.


No whispered secret accolades,
No cheering skyward pumping fist,
No teeming lines or pushy hordes,
No blurb from Chowhound or Gothamist,

But Kashmir, you call to me
From my lunchtime Rolodex.
I crave your soupy lunch buffet
despite its obvious Diahhrea Hex.

Prince Charming waiting 20 years
To save his sleeping beauty;
And after lunch, my love, I'll suffer
gladly 20 years of doody.

Your spices are uneven.
Your ingredients are canned.
Your staff comprises the whole front line
of Sargent Hygiene's Germtime Band.

And yet when (at 10:15)
We're sifting through the menus,
I plead "C'mon guys, it's like six bucks!
You can't beat that now can you???"

Kashmir, you are nasty.
I know it, so so hard.
But every bite just feels like home--
and a little bit like Ebola/SARS.