Overheard in Harlem: Pathmark Edition

The Scene: The 125th Street Pathmark, on a Wednesday before noon

So I was taking a look at the selection of granola bars on display, honing in on the Fiber One variety (nine grams of fiber in one bar!), when I was momentarily disturbed by a scream from a few aisles away. A shout of "I fuckin' hate you!" was followed by a few other incomprehensible, angry verbal attacks, but my worry soon subsided when I remembered where I was. Yup, that's Harlem for you. The same neighborhood where a live chicken and rabbit have been spotted, on separate occasions, just mulling about, the same neighborhood where I've been yelled at to "get in the street, white girl!" while jogging along the sidewalk, the same neighborhood where my roommates have had a jar full of shit thrown at them from an apartment window above the street. Needless to say, a little domestic dispute at the grocery store wasn't any cause for alarm.

So I kept shopping. A few minutes later the offending couple passed by, the screaming woman with shopping cart just ahead of her stroller pushing (ex-?)boyfriend. She had yet to conclude her tirade, chastising the male for trying to re-enter their daughter's life after an extensive absence, to which he replied, defeated, "C'mon, it was four days!" The commotion they produced soon passed, and in the quiet wake of it all, a plump Hispanic man commented candidly, "That's love."

Restaurant Review: Pamplona

Last week I finally convinced Andrew to throw aside his wrestling-induced anorexia and come out to eat with me at Pamplona, the new-ish Spanish restaurant around the corner from his apartment I had been dying to visit. I had seen Frank Bruni's review in the Times the day before and decided it was definitely time we go-- especially considering I hadn't eaten Spanish food since my return from Spain almost two years ago.

Dining at Pamplona was definitely one of those experiences where you are just so happy at the end because nearly everything goes perfectly. We experienced a bit of a wait to be sat at our table at the beginning, but after that, it was smooth sailing. Everything we tasted was delicious, and Pamplona's large selection of small plates certainly lent itself to quite a bit of tasting. The waiter suggested that perhaps we try two tapas and two appetizers; but that didn't quite work for me. We decided to go with three tapas and three appetizers.

The restaurant immediately wowed us, beginning with the bread basket. While the bread was typical of any restaurant you would find throughout Spain, the accompanying oil, a bright green color enhanced by garlic, was a welcome diversion. From the tapas section of the menu, we chose the bunuelos de queso, small fried balls filled with a mix of three cheeses- Iberico, Manchego and Cheddar, the chickpea fries, and the eggplant meatballs in a sweet-ish sauce. Cracking through the crisp outer shell into the creamy, cheesy center of the bunuelo was knee-weakening. The chickpea fries, small fried squares with a pepper accompaniment atop, were just as tasty, and Andrew, a decided non-fan of meatballs, even went back and snatched the third, and final, meatball before I had the chance.

From the entradas section, we opted for a mini lasagna flavored with salsa verde and bursting with a fresh crab meat center, a dish of plump, poached shrimp sitting in a creamy manchego rice with chorizo sauce, and a lobster salad featuring three of the most meaty, perfectly-textured lobster meat I've tasted, accented by avocado.

By this time, I was utterly stuffed, but not having dessert was obviously not an option, and much to my surprise, Andrew threw himself completely into the game and insisted we order not one, but two. I chose the bunuelos de chocolate, a chocolate version of the cheese balls from earlier, alongside a lemon ice cream. Andrew, as expected, went for the Tarta de Turron, a chocolate and almond mousse cake. And even I, a decided non-fan of mousse, found my spoon stealing numerous samples of Andrew's cake in between bites of bunuelo.

Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip Cookies

So last weekend I met up with some friends I hadn't seen in a while and drank for a while at their East Village apartment with the intention of ultimately going out to a bar. Multiple hours of vodka and karaoke later, we headed downstairs, still with hopes of going out in our heads. I then decided I was just going to go home to Andrew's, which in hindsight was a good decision for Drunky McDrunkerson over here. I thought the rest of the girls were still going to hop a cab to Phebe's, but it ended up they turned right back around as soon as I left (Hey, rain and overly-drunkenness aren't the best motivators). When I talked to Eva the next day, she recounted a story to me of their ascent back to the apartment:

While wondering to themselves what they should do instead, Jill burst out with "Let's check the mail!!" So, they did just that and waiting inside the mailbox was none other than a box full of peanut butter chocolate chip cookies!!!! I started laughing when I heard this, as it seemed so entirely inconceivable, far too good to be true, certainly a dream. Apparently Katie's aunt had sent them to her as a gift. This fact takes away from the magical quality of such a story a little bit, but still...Chocolate chip cookies just waiting for drunk you in the mailbox??!! And who the fuck checks the mail at this point in the night?? I mean I am still wowed by this story. Needless to say, there were no cookies left the next morning.

Random Running Reflections

Sometimes the iPod isn't sufficiently entertaining.

I'm sure you've seen the latest advertising campaign for Manhattan Mini Storage. You know, the ones featuring nude models doing things like peeking into an empty closet alongside the catchphrase "Maybe we make this too easy" or something along those lines. Anyway, I certainly don't have any complaints that these ads have "gone too far"... A little billboard nudity is a nice surprise from time to time. But, one particular advertisement, displayed on West End Avenue near 57th street, featuring a brunette woman's backside made me look twice: It was quite apparent that only the bottom half of her ass crack was displayed! The top half had been airbrushed off and this is the truth! Maybe the model had an especially high-rising crack, I really don't know. But either way, something was erased from this model and I propose it be returned.

I was opening up a bag of bread today to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and something written on the plastic wrapping caught my eye : "Sliced Sandwich Bread." I'm still on the hunt for "Sliced, Non-sandwich Bread."

And finally, why is it that whatever combination of discarded items are lumped together in a trash bag on the sidewalk, they always give off that same smell universally recognized as "garbage smell?" How is it possible that so many people so easily replicate this exact scent? I swear someone out there has a recipe for this smell.

Marathon Sunday: Strictly for the Runners?

Now I don't think I'm a great runner by any means, but I do run fairly often compared to other people I know. I usually try to go out for a jog at least five days out of the week, and each time I go out, I'll do about nine miles. Generally, I won't pass anyone else out for their own run. Sometimes I'll pass by one other person; at most, two. Maybe it's my timing, maybe it's the location I chose, I'm not really sure. But in any case, as I was running my normal route through the Upper West Side just after noon, I realized that there were significantly more joggers out that day; I must have passed by ten, maybe as many as fifteen runners along the route.

Okay, okay. I admit it wasn't just any Sunday, it was Marathon Sunday, but this still doesn't explain anything for me. For one, I wasn't anywhere near the course. And secondly, I have always been a bit hesitant about running on Marathon Sunday, personally.

Let me explain where my hesitation comes from. Marathon Sunday in New York is, obviously, all about the marathon and the runners doing the race. So when I'm out running on my own, I feel like a bit of a fake.

I can already imagine:

"Excuse me miss, you're not on the course"

"Oh no, I'm just out for a run, I'm not in the marathon, thanks"

"HA! Not in the Marathon! Well, all the real runners today are in the Marathon! Hahaha!"

Basically, I was a bit surprised to see such an abundance of non-marathon runners out on Sunday. And while the majority were probably feeling inspired, I know this wasn't the case for at least one other pair of runners who strode down Tenth Avenue wearing matching "Detroit Marathon" t-shirts, as if their worth was written across their chest.