Wednesday, February 15, 2012

The joys of cornbread-induced poverty

And now, a word from our sponsors (my bank account):
"HELP ME, I'M DYING!!!"

Enough from him. He's just being a little dramatic after being slightly overworked on the weekend, having sponsored me to attend multiple fine dining establishments, a hilariously fun gay bar (note to self: never go to a gay bar and expect to leave feeling at all good about yourself. Those places are full of ridiculously attractive men to whom you are completely invisible. Bad for the self esteem), a Broadway show (we won tickets in the Book of Mormon lottery!) and a comedy show. My bank account is just going through a small bout of post-traumatic stress disorder. 

Mini reviews of two of the places which contributed to aforementioned PTSD:

After reading multiple glowing accounts of the delicious grub and cozy atmos served up by this relative newcomer, I had to give it a try, and I was certainly not disappointed. The only thing better than eating juicy fried chicken with Ethiopian hot sauce, pickles and truffle fries is being able to mentally justify it as a gourmet meal and thus, obviously, healthier than regular fried chicken. The beautiful, unique decor in Red Rooster is mirrored in its clientele, equally as beautiful and unique (with the exception on this occasion of the two pink-faced Australians in the corner booth wolfing down mac and cheese). A special shout out to the corn bread, which far surpassed my expectations - probably because my sister had told me to expect something "like cake, but not."




Freeman's, LES
A confluence of events, including multiple non-related mentions of this place by various non-related people, led me down a dark alley off Rivington St on Friday night. Walking through the front door of Freeman's was like opening the door of the wardrobe and finding Narnia - no talking lion, of course, and all the animals were dead and hanging on the walls, but it was equally magical; I half expected an ice queen to serve me a plate of Turkish delight. Instead, while waiting for a table we feasted on life-changing artichoke dip (I almost got my head stuck in the bowl while licking it clean) and some sort of cocktail which involved both gin and champagne, which is basically an unbeatable combination. Fear not the heavily tattooed bartender, Frank, who turned out to be a big softie - one great thing about this place is that the people were nice, despite the place being crowded enough for them to justify being homicidal. The not inconsiderable wait for dinner was worth it; eating a slab of venison whilst under the gaze of a dead deer induces a certain smug satisfaction which arguably makes every meal better. Go there, post haste. 

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