...and thank god its over. The days were filled with meals designed to make me not hungry, and nothing more. I ate an egg sandwich for breakfast every day, and a cheese sandwich for dinner every night. This is the food of depression. Kind of a mundane signal that I went out too often and indulged in confrontation. The only upside? Mid-day take-out with friends, rehashing the woes of the night before.
Cuban Mojo Pork Melt
King of the Mezze (sorry, San Chez Cafe) melts. King of all San Chez food, including the fucking seared tuna. The woman who makes these is a miracle; food she cooks is just better than things other people cook, even if they are using the same recipe. I think she adds love.
This woman will yell at you if you get Mojo Pork on anything but sourdough, but she'll be really pissed if you try to get it on baguette. She says it ruins the sandwich for reasons of constuction and proper warming. Listen to Jen, she always knows best. Hope that she prepared the pork too, as the others dont massage the spices in as well, or give the marinating such care. Pork is roasted and shredded, and piled onto sourdough(!) with melted cheese, a fried egg, pickle slivers and horseradish alioli. It is then panini-pressed and served with a side of mojo to dip it in. You will need extra mojo. You will need extra napkins. You will need a box to take half of it home, which you will eat in front of tv watching the Anna Nicole Smith Show.
Grand Central Market makes really good sandwiches as well, and the boys there are really nice. They tend to undercharge me and they are always talking really excitedly about going on bike rides. The great thing about this sandwich is that it is so full of really good lunchmeat you can pull half of it out and eat it by itself without disturbing the taste of the sandwich proper! And eating lunchmeat with your hands is one of the Singular Joys of Being Not A Vegan.
Wierd Pita Thing That Probably Wasn't Delicious
I think I only ate this because I had a contact high from being in the same room as a bunch of people smoking, like, the biggest joint ever. Or spliff. Whatever you call it. Work parties are so so wierd. Suddenly finding yourself in a far-flung suburb looking at your boss's wife's chotchkes and being encouraged by people who daily make your life difficult to "take a hit of this" tends towards the surreal. Especially when the friend you came with passes out on the hammock and you are left inside contemplating just how obsessed your boss is with turtles. Thats when you decide that watching people get high might be an inviting throw-back to high school and the end result is you, smearing pita with hummous, Mother Earth Salad, Doritos and pickle relish and trying to hold up your end of the circumcision conversation all the while.
Please, someone come out to dinner with me today!