FOOD BABY GONE WILD!

Try as I may, I cannot seem to find the balance between indulgence and over-indulgence. If I ever do, I will certainly share this coveted secret, and if you're privy to this priceless information, please tell. Until then, I’ll have to be content to fluctuate between fit and fifteen.


There has been an upside to consuming “lotsa pasta,” and that’s that The Boobie Fairy came to visit! Not that I was hurting in that department, but let’s just say that now, My Cup Runneth Over. The downside is she got a little clumsy and spilled her magic dust over my waist and thighs, too. I went from a woman with curves to one with few new speed bumps thrown in for good measure (or bad measure, come to think of it). Yet, I continued to party on, as Bill and Ted advise. What was my turning point, you ask? No, it was not the daily tug of war I was having with my zipper, but my good friend Murph's reaction to me when we met in Chicago to dine at Next. He looked at me point blank and asked, "Who's been baking the biscuits?" (I feel this question needs no translation.)


Now my dilemma begins: Do I cut back on the cheese and penne, or find a guy who's into Rubenesque women?

The fear of my derriere increasing to proportions that would cause it to beep like a truck when it backs up prompted me to decide on the former. But before I cut myself off, I had to indulge one last time and hold my own personal foodie Mardi Gras. I gave myself permission to feast on all my favorites. (Even though the term “Fat Tuesday” has a different meaning for most Christians, for me, it was sadly apropos.) Who better to share this last meal with than Shane, my comrade in arms, tummies and all things delicious? And to make things even nicer for me, it was his turn at the dining wheel.

I donned the white sundress which, before the Boobie Fairy’s visit, used to fit a lot differently, and set off for the island of Manhattan armed with a bottle of 2003 Mazi from my cellar. (Side note: don't you hate it when girls get pissy at guys for beeping their horns at them, when meanwhile, they’re wearing skirts so short you can see their personality?) Anyway, I texted Shane to warn him that the twins were out in full force! (For the record, he didn't seem to mind.)

On my taxi ride to the restaurant from Penn Station, the traffic came to a standstill on 7th Avenue, so I decided to ditch the cab and walk. With time to kill, I stopped off and had a Prosecco and OJ (my new favorite summer drink) at Bar’rique, a local wine bar that recently opened on Bleeker Street in the West Village. Boy was I happy I did! Not only did they have a lovely Italian red from Umbria (2006 Di Filippo Sagrantino di Montefalco DOCG) on the list, but they also had a great selection of cheeses and cured meats. Shorty after Shane arrived, we were off to L’artusi, a gem of an Italian restaurant that gives Babbo a run for its money.

The pastas that chef, Gabriel Thompson created at L’artusi were tasty, tasty, tasty, but the one dish that lingers in my thoughts (and the one that I will reward myself with when I shed these undesirable side packs) is their Olive Oil Cake. Seriously, it’s to die for, or at the very least, maim for.

The lineup of wines was also scrumptious, and paired perfectly with all of the chef's creations.

P.S. Shane thinks that he's got the edge in what is rapidly turning into a "Can You Top This?" restaurant competition. I beg to differ, Shane. Like my buddy Napoleon said, all glory is fleeting, so watch out. That’s not to say that the food at L'artusi wasn't kick butt good – it was – but I still have a few tricks up my soon-to-be-shrinking sleeve.

One more piece to this dinner of “last but not least” - we ate at the bar! :)