you know that times where you are standing in front of a soda vending machine and you just WISH it served hot french fried instead?

well, such a thing exists. i swear.


foreign land and bike line violators

hi my babies. i am leaving for a long time. 12 days. just about 10 days longer than i'd like to leave my doggie and my job and my friends. just about negative 15 days longer than i'd like to have to eat at another restaurant in soho. i am going to do some fun international posts. you'll feel cultured.

but lets be real. you guys don't really care about my food. or where to eat. wait, maybe you do.

but i personally like to get personal. like, tell stories. like, how the other day i had to maneuver (woah, i spelled that right without spell check) around a parked TRAFFIC COP van in the fucking bike lane. what the fuck? lead by example, much? he should have been ashamed because it was one of those new bike lanes painted green; as in, "hello you fucker, the measly 2 foot wide lane is painted green so that people like you blocking us should feel humiliated for doing so."

kinda a situation like this, from an image i found on google. clearly a rampant problem:

so as i pass the rolled down passenger window, i flick him off so hard that my sinewy scrawny arm muscles gain perfect definition and i yell "you're in the fucking bike lane, you ass hole!!!"

then i peddle as fast as my little legs can carry me on my DK fury, riding it like a hood rat--frame moving side to side and side to side to help me gain speed. prada bag perched firmly on my shoulder.

that fucker couldn't catch me though. he hit a red light while i sailed through...

bikes are the ONLY way to get around town.

(mine, except i have custom orange handle bars and no logo stickers. just graffiti.)


in fracais. mes amis.

a quote

a quote from "barton fink"

yeaaahhh, ladies do ask for attention. in my experience they pretend to give it but its generally a smokescreen for demanding it back with interest

yup. you said it.



bossa, as in bossa nova. as in brazilian. i think. ya, must be cause they serve brahma. or however you spell it.

assistant and i went there for lunch. so nice, sat by the windows and it felt like a real new york city moment.

which got more real...and fast. but first the food.

brett ashley (two names) ordered the curry mango chicken. i was weary since it was hot outside, but ok. i got the lentils, rice, and lamb merguez with a yogurt sauce. both were insanely good.

hers wasnt too rich or thick. it was a light yellow curry and the chicken wasn't gross. plus the mango didn't overpower anything.

the sausage was amazing (if i had a nickel for every time i said that...). the lentils/rice were a bit soupy, but i got used to it after a few bites and actually liked that it wasn't dense.

we had to have a cappuccino afterwards, which tasted like CANDY it was so good, to finish watching the new york city drama unfold in front of us.

this guy

likes his tan. i first saw him last summer on prince and mulberry. it was the first time i saw a fire hydrant open. and there was this old man with his beach chair on the sidewalk with a a newspaper acting like he could have been at far rockaway or st. barts. either.

this same guy was about to set up camp at the hydrant in front of us. just as he places his green and yellow striped beach chair at the bumper of a chevy, in backs a range rover sport into the no parking zone in front of his oncoming temporary waterfall. THE GUY WAS PISSED. he spent at least 21 minutes on his cell phone (shirtless), pacing around the car, talking to the police department about an illegally parked vehical... i've been on the phone for 19 minutes--whaddya want? my fingerprints? my DNA? i'm calling about a fuckin cah, heyah.

so along walks a (super hot) FDNY guy. yielding a wrench so huge i would be turned on if he threatened to fix my leak. (gross). he not only opens the hydrant for this guy, but replaces a cap with the man's custom made cap with strategically placed holes so that a perfect spray hits just nearly have the street, with a smaller stream that flows into a doggie water bowl-which he provided. so not only does he do that, he also points the stream to hit the driver's side door of the range rover. everyone clapped! it was awesome.

of course when the douche returned to his black car, he and his goombah girlfriend just climed in the passenger side door. but come, they must have been just a little embarrassed.

barbossa is on mott btween prince and houston. they take cards.


little helpers

so cute. these little girls had a lemonade stand and bake sale, i guess as an exercise on how to embezzle money from charitable donations.

i kid, i kid. they were selling treats and then asked you which charity you would like your money to go to.
every fucking liberal fuck donated their money to obama for president...leaving the puppies and sick cancer kids in the lurch. not that liberals are fucks, just these ones. it's 3 quarters. can't you make a gesture towards something apolitical?

i gave to the sick cancer kids. my 75c will do great things. great things, i tell you.

the cookie was pretty good.


hoomoos asli

this israeli joint is on kenmare and lafayette(ish). i ate lunch with poo. poo is a friend of mine. both kinds.

despite the rings and long hair he ain't gay. he does things like ask you to kiss his cheek then turns at the last minute to catch your lips. or puts his hand under your butt when you sit down.

i love him.

we met at this place mostly out of laziness and and uninspiring group of restaurants left to blog about in soho.

i ordered the salad combo. you can choose three salads from a list of around 8. i got humus, israeli salad, and spicy moroccan tomato salad.




the humus tasted like mud. zero zest whatsoever. the israeli salad tasted like bland cucumber. i tried adding salt but it didn't help. the spicy tomato one was good, but not good enough to make up for the other two. it was supposed to come with 3 pitas (as written on the menu) but i only got one.

the iced tea was excellent. i especially like the tumbler it came in with big ice cubes. like something in my childhood suburban kitchen.

poo poo had a chicken sandwich (schwarma) in a pita. with french fries stuffed in. the fries were good. thick homemade ones. not like the frozen ones all over town.

they take amex, but who cares. i won't go back. if you want good israeli, go to 12 chairs on sullivan. if you want good falafel, go to rainbow falafel on 18th and broadway or chickpea on 3rd ave and st. marks.

as we got up to leave, poo put on his sunglasses. woah, woah, woah, woah. oh. my. god. there are only a few men besides my father that can pull off blue blockers. and poo is for sure one of them.

i like to kiss poo.