They say you could eat at a different Manhattan restaurant every day of your life, and still never have to repeat. Clearly They never tried Momofuku's pork buns. Or Gotham's New York strip steak. Or Egg's French toast. It's hard to branch out into new territory when the old favorites are so darn good. But someone has to do the hard yards.
Washington Square district on a sunny spring day. Everyone is in holiday mode as finals wind down and NYU gets ready to disgorge another load of fresh faced coffee-runners onto downtown trading floors.
A monument to General George Washington. Apparently he's a bit of an old timer from way back. Like from before you needed to have Goldman Sachs on your resume to serve in public office.
Now that's a wine list. Rock searches every line in vain for a fine Rosso di Cola.
Il Maestro in action. When the applause ends, you can eat the baton. It's an imported Italian breadstick in disguise.
Firenze?
Venezia? Nope. West Village, Manhattan.
Salute!
Papa Johns is in the house. Pies don't come any better in the Big Apple.
Empty wine glasses. A familiar sight on Rock's side of the table. And Mei's too. For opposite reasons.
Olde world charm; new world prices.
Otto. Gets the J00ster stamp of approval, i.e. a blog post of its own.
The start of one of the world's great avenues. 5th at 8th Street.
Err... I mean 11th Street.
Spring is in the air. And the wallets, judging by the hordes of Saturday afternoon shoppers pounding the pavement.
A slice of life in the Big Apple as another New York minute slips by.
Washington Square district on a sunny spring day. Everyone is in holiday mode as finals wind down and NYU gets ready to disgorge another load of fresh faced coffee-runners onto downtown trading floors.
A monument to General George Washington. Apparently he's a bit of an old timer from way back. Like from before you needed to have Goldman Sachs on your resume to serve in public office.
Now that's a wine list. Rock searches every line in vain for a fine Rosso di Cola.
Il Maestro in action. When the applause ends, you can eat the baton. It's an imported Italian breadstick in disguise.
Firenze? Venezia? Nope. West Village, Manhattan.
Salute!
Papa Johns is in the house. Pies don't come any better in the Big Apple.
Empty wine glasses. A familiar sight on Rock's side of the table. And Mei's too. For opposite reasons.
Olde world charm; new world prices.
Otto. Gets the J00ster stamp of approval, i.e. a blog post of its own.
The start of one of the world's great avenues. 5th at 8th Street.
Err... I mean 11th Street.
Spring is in the air. And the wallets, judging by the hordes of Saturday afternoon shoppers pounding the pavement.
A slice of life in the Big Apple as another New York minute slips by.
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