Food for Thought

Dinner last night. Lotsa wine, no tequila which I suppose now makes me a double liar. Also, in lieu of fringe I wore floral and stripes as a way of adapting to the fact that the temperatures were low and my lower limbs were somewhat unshaven.

Top, Urban Outfitters. Vest, Rag & Bone. Clutch, Marc by Marc Jacobs. Jeans, J Brand.

Shoes, Pour La Victoire. Nars Orgasm Blush. Tom Ford Perfume. Madewell bracelet.

I’m not going to say the name of the restaurant because I don’t have a lot of nice things to say and I’m more of what they call a gossiper. Plus, I already told you the genre and neighborhood so if you’re really dying to know I’m sure you can figure it out on your own. Double plus, if you ask me I’ll tell you.

During dinner, I often shift into my food-critic alter-ego to analyze the precision of the cooking techniques (“This steak is SO not medium”), the creativity of the dish and the appearance of the plate. I’m telling you, they could someone should pay me for this stuff. Last night, the filet was very much overcooked, the swiss chard was so salty I couldn’t eat it, and we were pretty sure that the cornbread puree was cornbread batter. The goat-cheese cheesecake was overcooked and tart, with really-tart strawberries on top and stale, whole pistachios on the side.  The meal was not terrible, but it wasn’t great either.

Being that we are now law school graduates and were nearing the end of our second bottle of wine, we took the conversation up a notch to discuss the overall complacency of food, restaurants and eating in general. This was the third or fourth time we went to a restaurant recommended by friends that turned out to be mediocre at best. When did it become acceptable to serve a relatively expensive yet totally mediocre steak? Just because something is a filet, or a short rib doesn’t mean it’s automatically delicious! Where is this going? Mom? Are you still there? 

Seriously, with all this worry about organic-this, low-cal-that, people seem to have lost focus on what actually tastes good. All cheesecakes are not made equal. Stop eating bad cheesecake. Please. Because then there won’t be bad cheesecake anymore and then I don’t have to risk bad cheesecake after I turn down the chocolate molten cake. Please.

Jewelmint Earrings. Vintage Cigar Box.


How to Drink Cocktails and Look Good Doing It (Part II)

Ok, I know what you are thinking. I already wrote this. Which of course is true, I did. But I went out this weekend and I realized people aren’t listening to me. Are they crazy? Why would you not want to wear denim, leopard, army green, cargo pockets, red lace, glitter and leather at the same time? Duh! Do it!

So I went to a bar, let’s just say it was not a bar that demanded a high level of dress. Ok, let’s just say that bar is in Fenway and has “Tequila” and “Rain” in the title. Let’s also say that if you go to a bar with either or both of those words in the title and you happen to drink a two foot long frozen something or other with bourbon (not tequila?) your body might remind you for three days afterwards that you went to a bar with “Tequila” and/or “Rain” in the title. Ouch.

This way, I know its mine!

Before I go further, let me just say I am a huge advocate of anything short with heels. Its my favorite thing. I recognize that the time is coming when I won’t be able to get away with mini-skirts and stilettos and so I plan to rock it for as long as possible. Theoretically, because I am no longer an undergrad that time may have passed, but I can rest on the fact that I am still a student so its ok. Or just in denial, but either way, I’m going with it.

I also know that girls get dressed up for their girlfriends and girl strangers, not strange boys. In fact, in my opinion it’s the opposite–the hope is that stranger girls think you look good and strange boys leave you alone. For that reason, my forthcoming statements about hoo-has and ta-tas are limited to what I think, not what boys think with their pants. Or what’s in their pants. This is all getting very uncomfortably NSFW.

First of all, never show your hooha. I’m not sure whether or not to hyphenate that. I know that’s foundational but when I think people need advice, I never hesitate to word vomit all over them. It might seem like a worthwhile risk in the evening after a few cocktails. You may be thinking “I’m free. I’m independent. I don’t care what people think.”

But remind your intoxicated self, that sober self has to wake up the next morning to ask “How many people saw my underpants last night?”

See, no one in Beverly Hills would serve this lady… What a hussy Oh yeah, still got it.

Dress Rag & Bone (old), Shoes BCBG Max Azria, Bracelets, Tai and Kwiat

General rule of advice, if you are dancing around the idea of flashing strangers with your barely-there bottoms, first call me, second, cover up up-top. No need to show the whole world the whole bit of what your momma gave you.

Jacket Urban Outfitters, Chambray Shirt, J Crew

Second of all, my chest never really made it through puberty so my advice on covering up on top is both limited and biased, because I might as well be a 17-year old boy and I’m still jealous of the most popular girl in middle school. Nevertheless, the rule applies in opposite too! Show some boob, cover some legs or arms or both. As I am writing this, I am planning the photographs I am taking, and I just got very uncomfortable at the idea of actually following up on this, but that’s ok because there is still plenty of time in the day for wine.

I tried to take pictures of a low cut something or other but all it highlighted was my sternum, which is strangely deep, and my rib cage. So Pretend these are major league yabos (I just learned that)

Shorts, Winter Kate, Shoes, Luxury Rebel. Blue Books in the background, Journal with my published note, holler.

Then pretend this man shirt is a pair of baggy pants. Then dance to Miss New Booty.

Longest post ever, but its half about boobs, so Delta 0!?

Whimsy Chef at Chef’s Whim

Dinner night out on Sunday? Well, yes, if you want a whimsical meal with whimsy wonders…on a whim.

At Craigie on Main in Boston, Chef Tony Maws offers a well-priced four or six course menu entirely of his own creation, every Sunday after 9:00. The menu is called “The Surprise,” which thankfully is manifested in the super-delicious-definitely-not-school-cafeteria-lunchmeat connotation. And, if you order the six-course menu, as we did, you practically get the restaurant to yourself by the time you finish!

Our meal consisted of a scallop ceviche with a rose-harissa dressing, roasted bone marrow and texas toast, and a skirt steak with carrots braised in duck fat. For dessert, we were provided with a sour cream panna cotta (which I loved even though I generally despise panna cotta), and a bourbon-ice cream cake with a bacon-fat graham cracker crust. Holy moses…let me tell you.

Ok, instead I am about to lie to you. But at least I warned you (you unknown reader…). I had big plans for my outfit out, I’m a student and it doesn’t happen all the time. But Boston decided to be a disagreeable -4 degrees that evening, and so my choices were severely limited. I had a pair of glittery Proenza Schouler lace-up oxfords all laced up for the occasion, but I thought it prudent to save my toes (I only have ten afterall…) and so switched into last minute dress-and-black-tights combo. Unfortunately, this blog hadn’t been born then, so I wasn’t able to document, but I won’t make that mistake again.

Instead, I give you my pick for the death trap perfect date night shoe, my satin Nicholas Kirkwood satin peep toes. Similar ones here. I think they are as whimsy as whimsy dinners can be. I’ll be sure to include a more inclusive outfit as I move forward as I am afraid that readers my mom will think I am advocating a birthday suit outfit with fabulous heels. Well, I guess when you put it that way….