Checked out The Australian on 38th St. between 5th and 6th, for dinner last night, after catching some reviews on Menupages and being intrigued by some of their entrees. There wasn’t much of a crowd for a Saturday, and we didn’t leave till well after 8 p.m. It’s a damn shame, because it’s a beautiful… Read More The Australian: Tie me kangaroo down, sport!
In my quest to expand my gastronomic horizons (and, sadly, my waistline), I finally tried out one of the much-touted brunch places in Murray Hill yesterday. Okay so there’s, like, TWO much-touted brunch places in Murray Hill and this is the other one (Josie’s being the first). But, still, it was well worth the trip!… Read More If Penelope is “Pene-lopee,” why isn’t antelope “ante-lopee”?
February afforded me a peek into the world of casino dining, thanks to my trips to Atlantic City and Las Vegas, respectively. Most people who hit the East and West coast gambling meccas these days know that it’s not just about the slots and the tables; it’s become very much an “experience,” with shows, family-themed… Read More Taking a gamble on food.
I love guacamole. There. I said it. It’s a deep passion and recent one. When I lived back in Ohio, I never tried it. Then again, who would really want to eat guacamole in Ohio anyway, right? (I should tell you about my San Diego-based brother’s aversion to eating Mexican anywhere outside of SoCal…) The… Read More What the guac is going on here?
Okay, I’m not going to lie: living in New York City is not always sunshine and rainbows. Winter, especially, is difficult. It’s gloomy, it’s cold, and it often feels really hopeless to try and carve out a life here that isn’t caught up in financial worries and job stress. Waking up today was a chore.… Read More Ways to ward off the winter blues.
Living in a city where most kitchens are equipped with gas stoves and ovens, my penchant for cooking has taken a serious hit. I have a strange fear of the gas, getting killed by a leak, etc. It took me two years to work up the nerve to actually start cooking on the gas range.… Read More Pasta ala Mala.
I grew up in a college town, which meant that you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting a wing joint. We didn’t get a Buffalo Wild Wings until the ’00s, so up until that point, it was all local places, with their “Nuclear” and “Chernobyl” wings. Mind you, since my stomach is not exactly cast… Read More The wind beneath my wings.
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