Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘food’ Category

Yes, it’s winter.

It happens every year but this winter is extra dreary because it’s actually cold and snowy and icy and grey … and did I mention it’s really, really cold? Since anyone who resides in the ever-widening snow belt has to slog through it every day, we also endlessly talk about the weather. There’s no escape, even in our conversation, and that’s making winter even drearier.

So while New York City is likely running out of road salt, budgeted overtime hours for plow drivers and possibly patience the good citizens are, thankfully, funny as ever.

Since the weather drove me inside for the little exercise I get, I can report on SoulCycle’s hilarious request that clients practice good hygiene (they call it doing laundry).  The bikes are close together and they worry that when your neighbor takes a deep, cleansing breath, they might choke on your odor.  Flywheel’s attempt to be hip and cool with everything down to the locker instructions is also worth a chuckle as they dare you to lock up your Blackberry.

NYC, you’re doing great! Let’s keep up the humor and keep our heads on!

Greensquare Tavern, 5 West 21st St, NYC, is holding up their end in the humor department.

You should go here, not only because the signage is funny but because the food is fresh, organic and good.

If you order a margarita, the joke is on you so please steer clear. This is more of a pull of beer, pour of wine kind of place.  We ordered meatballs and being New Yorker’s, expected a single meatball centered on a giant white plate to be set between us.  But instead of gingerly cutting tiny food in half and wondering what else we’d eat, we got a bowl – and not a single meatball in a giant, but an actual bowl of meatballs!

We left Greensquare tavern nourished by the food and connected to the restaurant through our mutual dislike of Jury Duty Justin Bieber.

And we are warmed by the promise of Spring!

Read Full Post »

This weekend, New York opened its slushy, crusty coat of winter to give us a glimpse of the blue sky and heart-warming hope of spring.  It was a spectacular February weather weekend.  It was also National Margarita Day. Coincidence?  I think not.

Spring and Margaritas have a lot on common.  In their best form, they both have a pleasant hue.  Both can make you forget your troubles.  Both can inspire love and adventure.  Both can change your perspective.

I can’t say which had more influence this weekend – spring-like weather or Margaritas.  But the good citizens of New York City were out in force and in the mood to celebrate.  I think of their numbers and zeal as an unofficial parade in honor of National Margarita Day.

There was a man on the sidewalk, tucked into the shadowy crevice of a building.  Usually this kind of beginning would have a bad ending – but not on National Margarita Day!  He was air-swinging a “golf club.” He had a cigarette perched between his lips.  He inhaled on the back swing and exhaled on the forward swing so his hands cut through his giant puff of smoke.  He smoked with no hands and golfed with no club and looked thrilled.

The grifters, dressed as your children’s favorite characters, had an extra spring in their step.  Elmo and Cookie Monster gave exuberant high-fives as they stuffed tips in their fanny packs.  Their costumes could harbor margarita sippy cups.  I picture a hat with two cup holders and straws under those furry heads.  Or maybe it was just the sunshine?

Coats were off and skin was out.  Ladies on the way to the gym let their calves loose and left their coats at home.  Grateful faces sat on benches, cheeks turned to the sun, soaking up Vitamin D.

And love was in the air.  I sat, sipping a margarita and eavesdropping on the people next to me.  Eavesdropping is a New York City hobby.  In more polite moments (or when we can’t get close enough to listen) we call it “people watching.” But I was flat-out listening to a couple on their first date. as he explained that he isn’t rich and isn’t successful but he’s glad about that because he really likes to scramble.  His ex-wife is a vindictive person and he’s in a good place about their break-up. He views it as a blessing because had they stayed together, he would have killed her.  Oh, and he cries in therapy weekly.

I tend to think that first dates need better game.  It’s wise to keep murderous thoughts to yourself if you’re hoping for date #2.  But thank the margaritas – either overconsumption or the magic in the air … she was leaning in.  I wish them well! And, I’ve taken a mental snapshot of his face if he ever comes up in an online dating match.

I went a little crazy too.

At Quality Italian, I turned down Aprile Super Oakville (2010) from Gargiulo Vineyards in favor of a margarita. Super Oakville is Gargiulo Vineyards version of a Super Tuscan or Brunello and Brunello is my favorite wine treat.  But margaritas are well, margaritas.  And I’m nothing if not dedicated to my research.

We had Chicken Parmigiana for Two (which is really enough for six).  It’s a giant, round chicken parm disguised as a pizza.  The chickens I’m used to eating doesn’t come flat and round so I’m sure a lot of manipulation (I don’t want to know) goes into this entrée.

We shared Dry-Aged Porterhouse Agnolotti and a bunch of sides.  If you go, bring your appetite.  Quality Italian is a steakhouse and the dinner menu is protein-heavy and priced to match.

And if you go, bring a lot of friends.  Even the best restaurant is helped by good company and on this night, the company was really good.

The weather here in New York has turned cold again so we tuck our skin under coats and scarves and bend our heads against the wind.   But the sun is out and hints of spring linger … and margarita magic is still (always) in the air.  I hope you can all feel it and I hope you had a wonderful National Margarita Day!

Read Full Post »

Not being Santa Claus frees me up to do lots of stuff.

I’m not responsible for delivering gifts to the 1.9 billion children of the world.  Be thankful for that.  Logistics isn’t in my wheelhouse.

The Santa Operations Center at NORAD reports that Santa had an on-time departure.  He’s following his usual route, starting in the South Pacific, hitting New Zealand, Australia, Japan, Asia, Africa, Europe, followed by North America and South America.  At the time of writing this post, Santa is about to deliver to Kenya. NORAD says they aren’t responsible for planning Santa’s route – they just track him!  Which is good for NORAD because that frees their staff up for other things too.

Here are 5 things I’ve done with the free time I have (from not being Santa):

1. Travel to Seattle.  I made my way to Seattle to spend the holiday with margagogo’s Marketing Director and North West Correspondent, as well as margagogo’s two biggest non-margarita drinking fans and margagogo’s future Investigative Reporter and Managing Editor. (Tracking how people move around so gifts can be delivered properly must be time-consuming and a giant pain in Santa’s tuchas.)

2. Win all Tickle Fights.  Since the future margagogo employees are only 8 and 5, I can still take em. Size and a team approach makes my future standing in tickle fights uncertain. My nieces are getting bigger and getting organized.

3. Manage Amazing Feats of Athletic Prowess.  Ice skating and rock wall climbing topped off with cartwheels are what it takes to keep up with the margagogo team. I made it to the top of the rock wall (in the children’s section), never left the ice till skating ended and after years of considering my body a no cartwheel zone, managed impressive cartwheel form. Christmas is an endurance event for everyone. I’m a little tired now so I can’t imagine how Santa feels when he parks his sleigh back at the North Pole on the 26th.  He is an endurance champion. But as crafty as he is about getting down chimneys, I’m certain he can’t pull off cartwheels.

4. Eat and Eat More.  Evidence indicates that Santa makes this a priority and everyone celebrating is doing the same.  So I won’t dwell on food. I’ll just say that I’m stuffed full and can’t imagine eating again at least until dinner.  Thank goodness I only have to wait a few hours.

5. Drink Margaritas.  Santa needs to be sober but since I’m not driving a sleigh tonight, sobriety isn’t a priority for me.  My future Managing Editor and I invented the song “The 10 Margaritas of Christmas” and I’m ashamed to say that actual events don’t live up to the lyrics.  But, I did manage to taste test at three different venues:

La Catrina.  Seattle, WA. Nothing says “Christmas” like a mural with a skeleton.  And nothing says “Christmas” to me like a pint-sized margarita that’s actually good. What a gift!  So if you’re in Seattle, check out La Catrina. It’s in Georgetown – a hip and gritty neighborhood. (For you East-Coasters, it reminds me of Hoboken of ten years ago.)

The Whale Wins.  Seattle, WA. I made a mistake by not asking them where the name came from but going here was a genius idea (credit to my Marketing Director).  They’re serious about their drinks and take great pride in the mixing.  And the bartender was happy to share his margarita secret – Dry Curaçao instead of Triple Sec or Cointreau to give the drink zip without syrup sweetness.  It worked.  I had two.  If you go to the Whale Wins, make a reservation or go at lunch.  I hear they get quite a crowd.

The Big Picture. Possibly the best place in Seattle, WA.  It’s a theatre and a bar.  A bar and a theatre.  If you give them your seat number they will deliver drinks to you as often as you direct.  They too serve a margarita in a pint glass (scary sign) and they too pull it off!  And they’re serious about their mixing.  They also serve popcorn in champagne buckets and give out Hershey’s Kisses with the tickets.  I love this place.

The Big Picture

Merry Christmas!  I hope not being Santa gives all of you time to focus on the important stuff too.

Read Full Post »

My mother crocheted me a bikini.

I was maybe 4 years old. I felt uneasy as I donned my fancy, loose-looped bathing suit but I’m sure my mother will tell you that time and experience warped my memory. She’d also say the bikini was “high” fashion and could have come out of the pages of Vogue.

We went to the public pool where I eased my crochet clad self into the water.  The fancy loops of my suit got loopier.  The holes grew holier.  With a single dunk, my bikini, both the top and bottom, blew up and swished right off my body.

There I was, naked in the shallow end.

Possibly that same year, I dressed as a pumpkin for Halloween.  My mother made the costume, a big orange fabric orb and a green felt leaf hat. How to make the fabric pumpkin costume round must have been a conundrum.  But my mother is nothing if not a problem solver.

She rounded out my pumpkin suit with balloons.

My costume was stuffed with balloons and I was stuffed into the station wagon (I recall it took some maneuvering because my costume girth was greater than the door width and I was an under-coordinated 4 year-old) Once in, the downside of balloon stuffing revealed itself.  I couldn’t sit without popping the balloons and turning my pumpkin from plump to sad and saggy.  So I stood for the drive, with my arms wrapped around my father’s driver seat headrest so I wouldn’t take a tumble (and pop the balloons).

I remember a birthday party where the entertainment was making party hats.  My guests and I each colored a thin paper plate and my mom stapled a ribbon to each side so we could tie our decorated creations under our chins.  We had party plates on our heads for the afternoon.

I didn’t yet have to wear an eye patch so I got to see all of this with two eyes wide open.

The thing these memories have in common is they must, at least in part, be responsible for my grown-up sense of humor.  And all this action took place in Ohio. “O-O Way to go Ohio.”  (Extra pride points if you remember the musical reference.)

There are lots of directions this post can take now.  I can explore lessons learned (like not all yarn is good for all projects and if anyone out there decides to crochet a bikini, learn from my experience and do a bath tub test).  We can discuss creative mishaps and unintended consequences (like balloons are a great filler until they aren’t).  Today I’m most interested in memory.

I’m not sure why some images cement into my life story while others fade away.

I remember two apartments, powdered milk, the crunch of the gravel parking lot waking me up and welcoming me at the end of a car trip.  I remember our neighbor who used to swallow marbles and then gag them back up.  We made card houses. I went to dance class and got to dance on a public access television show.  I was super excited to go and buy baby wipes because the teacher said stage lights are hot and we’d want to blot.  I was a star in need of supplies.

The Ohio memories seem to group together but I have super vivid memories throughout my childhood.  Things like resting under the dining room table with the dog, carrying Nilla Wafers in my patent leather purse, sledding though my sled wouldn’t go, making ornaments out of dough we couldn’t eat and my Kindergarten School Bus driver, Mrs. Hubbard and her nursery rhyme key chain.

But while I can remember toddling into my father’s 70’s brown panted knees and laughing and getting away and doing it again, I can’t give you directions to 90% of the streets in my home town.  To this day, I seize with fear if asked how to find Walnut Street.  I often forget people’s names as soon as they say them and for all the money in the world, I can’t tell you what I ate for dinner last night.  Memory making is fascinating and I’m always impressed when people show off extraordinary memory feats.

Like when the bartender at Maysville (17 W 26th St, NYC), across time and out of context, remembered me and a friend.  A year earlier, he worked at a different restaurant and we stopped in after shopping.  Cut to current day when we pulled ourselves up to the bar at Maysville and he remembered us, the shopping and our conversation. Impressive.  And he makes a great drink.

Maysville has more than a talented bartender who may well have the best memory in the city.  The food is excellent. Go and try the Crispy Grits with Country Ham.  Believe me, you’ll forgive its artery clogging properties as you bite into one of these treats.  And you’ll order them again.  The Brussels, a menu regular, are amazing (I confess, I push the pig’s ears aside) and so far everything I’ve tried rates a “yum”!

Maysville is a bourbon bar and the under lit bottles give the place a warm bourbon glow.  They take their drink making seriously.  My margarita was delicious.  They use Milagro Silver Tequila and fresh lime.  (I can’t believe I forgot to take a marg picture!)  The drinks are balanced and worth the indulgence especially if you line your stomach with Crispy Grits.

So check it out and when you go, say hi to Andy (I really hope I got his name right). He’s super nice, he will mix you a great drink and when he says hello to you on your second visit, you’ll know he actually remembers you.

Read Full Post »

I think work is the problem.

I’m credentialed to say this because I passed a pass/fail class called “The Philosophy of Work.” The course was required toward my undergraduate Honors Degree in Liberal Studies. For those of you thinking that an Honors Degree in Liberal Studies is useless, don’t worry, I have a BA English Literature too.

In class, we talked about what it means to have a job versus a career versus a vocation.  We talked about the value of work in our culture. Hard work is respected and applauded.  We are bootstrap pulling people.  We even have a national holiday, where we don’t work, to celebrate all the other days when we do.

We talked about work and happiness. Is work a necessary evil or the path to fulfillment?  Is it toil or enlightenment?  Maybe both?

Does the type of work matter? Is the person who digs a ditch, using muscles and will to make things happen more or less fulfilled than the person who uses a computer to diagram the ditch and makes things happen while dressed in business casual attire?

Looking back on my school days, I didn’t have a clue about what real work meant and the philosophical discussions didn’t do a thing to prepare me.  I thought I had it rough if I had a class on Friday.  I thought housekeeping chores were a burden.  I might have cut my arm off with a weed-whacker, if we’d had one, to avoid lawn maintenance.

I’ve been in the 9 – whenever working world for a while now. There are days when I look forward to getting to the office and know I make a difference.  When I work with someone on my staff and see the light of understanding flip on in their iris, my chest swells. There are also work days when no amount of compensation seems worth it.  And there are more workdays than I like to think about that end 13 hours after they begin.

Work helps me appreciate my leisure time.  And, my leisure time makes it possible for me to do my work.

My friends; my funny, smart, interested and interesting friends are a big part of my leisure time.

And we are funny.

The funny grows with group size.  Margaritas probably don’t hurt either.  And we were funny on fire the night we celebrated the birthday of a good friend (and short list candidate for margagogo’s open slot for a Brooklyn Correspondent).

Sometimes when we are together, I laugh so hard my cheeks cramp and tears run down my face.  When I get going, each peal of laughter rolls over the one before it, squeezing out the normal rhythm of my giggle until I sound like an asthmatic, wheezy bulldog.  I wish I could come up with a more attractive description than cramped cheeks, tears and wheezing. But in these moments, when I’m surrounded by friends and laughter, I know I’m exactly where I belong.

My friend’s birthday celebration at Bamonte’s in Williamsburg (32 Withers St) was the scene of one of these perfect moments.

Bamontes

Bamonte’s is old school Italian.  The lights are a little too bright, fixtures ornate, walls red and the staff supports every old school stereotype. My friends chose Bamonte’s for the celebration because their family has a relationship with the restaurant since way ‘back in the day’.  You’ll feel the history when you walk in the door.  It was the perfect setting to explain hashtags to friends who don’t and won’t ever tweet and it made total sense when “hashtag” became “hound dog”.  Thanks to this night, I will forever be “hound-doging” #hounddogisthenewhashtag  #funnyonfire

You should go to Bamonte’s and get a double order of the Eggplant Rollatini – it is insane.  Everyone had a great meal and unless you’re really, really hungry, you’ll have left overs to take home. I had spaghetti and meatballs (amazing) and my laughter turned to real tears the next day when I realized I wasn’t getting the lunch I was drooling for because my to-go never made it to my refrigerator and instead spent the night in my purse. #bummer #cryingagain

Food Styling by the Birthday Boy.

Food Styling by the Birthday Boy.

Grab a group of friends and head to Bamonte’s.  You should, under no circumstances, order a margarita.  But if you stick with wine and anything else on menu, I know you’ll have a great meal and I hope you have half the fun that we had. #funnyonfire #happybirthday #Ineedahounddogsymbol

Read Full Post »

The history of Guacamole is both short and long.

The Aztecs invented it.

History lesson over.

And since the Aztecs were happily living and eating guacamole in Mexico long before the Spanish swooped in on them in the 1500’s, Guacamole’s been around a long, long time.

Anyone who’s ever seen Guacamole turn brown and crusty at a party has reason to be afraid of it.  And let’s face it; the Avocado in its full fruit form is standoffish, even scary. Bumpy, green and black on the outside, it’s the bad apple of the fruit basket.  Unripe, they’re hard and horrible.  Overripe, they are the stuff of science fiction with the pale green flesh blighted with brown spots and stringy and the skin easily dented.

If an Avocado was a 5th grader, it would be the reason the teacher fears turning his/her back to the class.

And because of their look, Avocados are slighted.  Have you ever seen an avocado image on a slot machine? Cherries, apples, lemons, sure.  Avocados?  Never.

Nobody is the avocado of your eye.  You’ll never say, “She’s an avocado!” as a compliment.

English: A seedless avocado, or cuke, growing ...

Location: San Pablo Huitzo, Oaxaca, Mexico. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I grew up in New York State so Avocados didn’t grow on trees, you know.  I knew about apples and pears. I understood strawberries and blueberries and berries of all persuasions.  I don’t remember when I first encountered the avocado but I know I was suspicious. Too wary to try it and I admit without any avocado knowledge, I was a hater.

Until a frostbite cold, stark and beautiful experience in Uyuni, Bolivia, brought me to the light.

Uyuni is possibly the ickiest city in Bolivia but also home to the largest salt flat in the world (Salar du Uyuni).  A salt lake covered much of Bolivia in Prehistoric times. Today, what remains is about 10,000 square kilometers of desolate, stunning salt desert.

Pre-warned about the ickiness of Uyuni, we booked a night bus from La Paz and planned a single day to see the flats, getting out-of-town that same night to head toward Tupiza (the town near where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid are rumored to have met their maker).

I boarded the bus, my backpack deflated since I was wearing every possible layer.  Without heat on the bus  I was grateful when the combined body heat of the passengers warmed the air. The windows fogged but it didn’t matter since it was too dark to take in any view.

The trip lasted hours and hours and I was awake, sleep hard to latch on to, feeling the bus rumble on the road and feeling tortured by the sounds of snoring all around me.  Sleep eventually won out as the sun crept up on the horizon.  I drifted, only to jump up moments later when a drop of water fell on my forehead. Then another hit my nose and yet another dropped on my glasses and ran down the lens.

The windows were all closed and now streaked with water on the inside. The scent on the bus was Ode De Stale Locker Room and the ceiling was covered with droplets, waiting to pull away from the metal surface and fall on my face.

The breath we blew out during the night, transformed and collected on the ceiling was raining down on us.

I was trapped in a terrarium.

We weren’t even there yet and it was already icky. I was cold and worn through and really grossed out. And when we finally arrived, the driver parked and kept the bus doors locked with us inside. It wasn’t quite light and the streets were too dangerous to allow us to wander.

But it was all worth it.

Salar du Uyuni is isolated, unforgiving and beautiful. Just ask these guys:

It is also white crystals that run all the way up to the horizon.

We drove on it, walked on it and then ate it for lunch. Our guide, pulled white bread flour-dusted rolls from his pack, and with a jackknife, cut tomato and avocado into open rolls. Then he reached down, took a pinch of salt from the ground next to his boot, sprinkled it into the sandwich and handed it to me.

I ate two.

And I still remember that lunch as one of the best meals I’ve ever had.

The most spectacular moment of the day was sunset. The white of the salt bed held and reflected the colors of the sky and sometimes even seemed to be directing the show – as the bed turned pink, the sky followed.

I left Uyuni nourished, body and soul, by the experience and by the avocado.

I will never repeat the trip to Salar du Uyuni but I get to go back to the avocado over and over again.  I rarely slice it into a sandwich since my preferred avocado delivery system is Guacamole.

Aztecs believed Guacamole to be an aphrodisiac. I will leave you to test that theory on your own.  It clearly lights a pleasure center in my brain – I think if it as Guacrackole or Crackamole or I just think about it all the time.  Science today tells us the avocado is just plain good fat, good stuff, good for you.

Since Guacamole is avocado mixed with anything, recipes vary. I like the simple set up that lets the ingredients stand out.

My guacamole/guacrackole/crackamole recipe is:

  • 2 Avocados, mashed but chunky
  • 1 medium onion, white, chopped, about a cup
  • 1 medium tomato, juice and seeds removed, chopped
  • Cilantro to taste
  • Jalapeno to taste
  • Sea Salt to taste
  • Liberal dash of love

– Mix but don’t mush!

– Eat fast so you don’t have to share!

And of course, have a margarita!

Read Full Post »

If you don’t write a post for five months, do you still have a blog?

The answer seems to be “Yes!” since wonderful, margarita-loving people around the globe clicked and read despite the lack of new content to beckon them and yesterday, the hit count on margagogo.com topped 3,000.  That my words live on in the face of my neglect is a gift, a miracle and a mystery and it has me pondering other life wonders.

And I mean the BIG stuff.  None of this stuff like, “Why do you park in a driveway and drive on a parkway?” or “Do bleached blondes pretend to have more fun?” For my first post since my last post, I’m delving deep into the mysteries of life.  Yes, I’m going there – wherever “there” is.

Wonder 1:  “The Blog is Back in Town” – Who knows this musical reference and why in the world did I choose it for this blog post title?  I don’t own an album by this band and have never downloaded a single.  But the song stuck in my head and now possibly stuck in yours too.

Wonder 2:  Why do songs get stuck in your head?  I don’t mean just the catchy Song-of-Summer.  Blurred Lines never registered for me.  (No offense to Robin Thicke who is surely capable of writing a catchy tune that will get stuck in heads everywhere.)  But random tunes burrow in and make a home.  My current musical backdrop for rainy days is Rise and Shine song:  “Noah, he built, he built and ark-y, ark-y, ark-y – So rise and shine and give God your glor-y, glor-y…” You get the idea.  The thing is, I probably haven’t heard that song since I went to Tuesday afternoon religious education when I was 8-years old.

Wonder 3:  Bacon.  Why is bacon universally loved?  (And I mean the cured meat, not Kevin Bacon though he has his own dedicated following.)  I’ve met a rare few who say they don’t eat bacon but I’ve never met anyone who says they don’t like bacon.  Bacon is the gateway meat for vegetarians who fall off the plant wagon.  People hate chocolate (huh?) and ice cream (what?) but put a little bacon in either and those same people salivate. It’s a mystery to me.

Wonder 4:  Golf. I don’t understand it. Why do people play this sport and how can networks justify putting in on television? Playing is an exercise in frustration and watching requires extraordinary mental toughness because it’s so boring.  I’m not the only one who thinks so – just ask the streaker who decided to brighten up the President’s Cup with a naked dash.

Wonder 5:  How does the Congressional Gym stay open when the government is closed?  If National Parks, the FDA, and the National Zoo closed, shouldn’t the gym shutter too?  Do congressional members need access to free treadmills so they can blow off steam while they’re blowing off the business of the country?  If they want to understand with their constituents, they should buy overpriced memberships to chain gyms that they’ll stop using after 60 days though they’ll continue monthly payments indefinitely.  They should also have similar health care to the rest of us.  I’d be fired for far lesser offenses than maneuvering the shut down of my company.

Wonder 6:  Avocado. How can an ugly, Seuss-ian orb hold so much creamy goodness? A fish oil substitute? Yes! The magic and soul of guacamole? Clearly.  More to come on the avocado. It deserves a dedicated post.  And the lovely avocado leads me to my next wonder …

Wonder 7:  Should pomegranate seeds be part of any guacamole recipe?  Ok, this is a clear continuation of Wonder 6 but this is the only Wonder I’m able to solve.  Pomegranate might be great for a lot of things. In fact, I hear it actually improves the power of sunscreen.  But as a component of guacamole?  No. The answer is no.  Uh-uh.  No way.  Not right.  Not Guacamole. I know this because I tested it at La Cenita, 409 W 14h St, NYC.

La Cenita is a new addition to the Meatpacking District and they put pomegranate seeds and pistachio nuts in their guac. The pistachio nuts I like. I’m evolving to believe that pistachio or pine nuts should be included in almost everything. But I can’t work with pomegranate seeds. They add an unwelcome sweet surprise to guacamole, a near-perfect treat in its traditional form. I suggest you get the seeds on the side.

 

La Cenita has a street theme to it. They don’t have stools at the bar and they serve their chips in paper bags with the edges rolled down.  But the standing bar-flies pay around $15 per drink so the street theme “Park Avenue” and less “Calle en Mexico”.

 

The traditional margarita on their menu is made with grapefruit juice and the flavor is overpowering.  So if you like tequila more than grapefruit, I suggest you request your marg sans this citrus.

So far, La Cenita has pulled in 2.5 stars on Yelp and the universal theme is the food is ok and really expensive but you should go once and go to be seen. But when you do go, watch your wallet.

And so margagogo.com is back in town. I’ve got much to discuss, like romance novels, the avocado, things I’m grateful for (besides romance novels and avocados) and great places for hanging out and having a drink.

So please stay tuned and thank you for hanging with me through my long blog sabbatical.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the blog is back in town!

Read Full Post »

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »

%d bloggers like this: