The Food Whore in NYC

(This is coming a little late because I saved this as a draft and forgot to actually post it. Oops, who gives a shit, here it is now).

No, I did not take any pictures of food while in NYC, because I just wanted to eat it. I don’t think about photography when I’m hungry.

The only food I take pics of is food that I cooked, and even then only if it’s wondrous or miraculously survived a detrimental mistake.

Still, there’s nothing stopping me from talking all about the glorious food I shoved into my gaping face hole.

Nipori, a Japanese restaurant presented some spectacular sushi, a smorgasbord of smothered raw fishies and tempura. Although I didn’t have any, the ramen looked pretty fucking tasty too.

And a guy in the next room got shit-faced with a girl, so the entertainment was five stars.

“But Carmin, I’m too pretty for people not to like me!”

That was a guy, not some sorority girl, who said that to his date. No shit, that’s what I heard. Alcohol is a tremendous thing.

I genuinely don’t remember the name of the place I lunched at the next day, but the Himalayan salt rubbed New York rib-eye was deliciously monstrous. All the guys I went with ordered fish, a little pasta, or sandwiches. Here comes this redneck bitch demanding a giant fucking rare-ass steak.

I took the rest of that fucker back to the hotel and ate it with my bare hands while I watched The Hobbit.

Cuz I know how to party, bitches.

In Little Italy, not only did I enjoy a freshly made pizza smothered in shrimp, octopus, and clams, but I also found a street vendor with legit cannolis. Arkansas knows nothing compared to these babies, made with the heaviest of creams and richest of chocolate. Oh man, the pastry was perfectly flaky and had the right kind of crunch.

Woo, getting a little high just thinking about them.

I’m going back again later this week, so perhaps this time I’ll remember to snag a slice of traditional New York style pizza.

Or I’ll just smear my body in cannoli cream and call it a night.

 

 

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