At the end of my first five months in gay ol’ New York City, among encounters with men of all shapes and sizes (heh), with razor blade lips and high-fashion pouts, with glistening eyes and affectionate brows; after inviting into my home countless opportunities for romance and profound mutual discovery, I have reached this ultimate conclusion: I’m better off with bread.
The way Dim Sum was described to me, as we waited for our table was “something like Chinese Tapas”. It was similar to tapas – a large table sharing small plates. I think that we ought to eat more meals in this fashion. It can be slightly overwhelming for me because I love to try it each new food that arrives in front of me. I appreciate the acceptance of sharing the food and tasting every flavor.
Pop-up restaurants and food trucks, remind us how susceptible we are to the marketing ploys. We can be easily convinced that a we really need to have a $15 lobster roll for lunch from the roving cart across the street, just as we can be convinced to go out and buy an expensive meal at the fancy limited time only joint around the corner.
There is nothing more embarrassing than a trip to the farmer’s market. It’s like a pseudo-zen circus comprised of all the worst stereotypes listed on stuffwhitepeoplelike.com, the brutally incisive website that reminds white people that everything they do is cliche. Tan, sinewy women sauntering around in ballet flats, 30-something couples in cutoffs and canvas Tom’s slip-ons, new parents pushing fancy strollers with tattooed arms, everyone perusing the row of stands with a collective mission to buy whole foods harvested at quaint, local farms– it’s the equivalent of sitting down to eat apple pie on a gingham picnic blanket with a giant pink bow in your hair. The gentle smiles shoppers share as they fork over twelve dollars for a grass-fed trout wrapped in recycled paper, which they then calmly tuck into their hemp shopping bags– it’s almost too much to stomach.