oui oui

french food, jewish owner, polish waitresses.

at least we all get along. (now.)



cafe henri is sort of a staple in this small hood. bedford and downing. it's not quite the west village, not quite soho, and not quite greenwich village. maybe we sould become seperatists.

i will be the borough president. my first order will be to exile all college grads who are here for one year. just because you "lived" in new york for a year doesn't mean you accomplished something. a furnished sublet and a parent's credit card isn't quite surviving, now is it? the second order will be to plant grass on all the sidewalks and put signs up everywhere that say "please stay off the grass." boy, would that be fun. oh, and for sure there would be congestion pricing.

i digress. cafe henri has amazing strong coffee, but not burnt like charbucks. just perfectly black. they will even warm your milk for you.



i switch between the lemon and sugar crepe with strawberries, and the lamb marguez sandwich. both excellent. no matter what, i get a tartine. the baguette is soft inside, toasty outside, and served with butter and fresh fruit compote. they also have fresh squeezed orange juice. (careful, the other juices are from bottles).




that picture is icky.

other good things: ham & butter & cornichon sandwich, any omelette, granola & fruit & yogurt, goat cheese & leek crepe, croque monsieur.

marion was pleased she could have a cold glass of chardonnay. at 11am. diff'rent strokes for diff'rent folks (alcoholics).



i went there twice this weekend. happy all the time there, except for when this happens:



the restaurant is small. and it's like a mexican standoff when two chair backs hit each other. neither party wants to pull in. they think "why should i? let her pull in." then it gets nasty and pretend laughter erupts and the sitter thrusts back in hysterics banging the back of his chair into the back of your chair right as you sip your extra hot (because the milk was warmed) coffee and it splashes up your nose.

fourth order of business for fraulein president is to change chairs at cafe henri.

promises, promises

i said i would never go back, and so far i haven't.

but our stove needed to be picked up so soraya did the dirty deed.

she brought me back a present...

whole foods

i have a problem with boundaries. both in relationships and neighborhoods. i just can't get my lunches back into soho. i keep crossing the line. maybe it's because i'm so glad to be out of there that i'm reluctant to return. broadway has got to be the worst street in the entire country. if i'm not dodging nyu dorks near 8th st, or tourists near prince st, then i am escaping flying snot and loogies near canal. i don't even use the sidewalk on broadway anymore. i just walk in the street because it's safer.

today i went to whole foods. i shopped at whole foods over a decade ago. it originated in texas, as did i.

now, imagine shopping at places like this your whole life and then moving to new york city and being introduced to a bodega! with cats in them! and the fruit right next to the clorox! i feel comfortable in huge, huge supermarkets. (and malls, and target, and kmart, and walmart, and macy's).



i spent forever circling the buffet tables. i almost made it through my whole led zepplin set on my ipod, which is pretty incredible considering all their songs are at least 6 minutes long.



i had to divide my choices into two boxes because i didn't want my indian selections to touch my asian selections. angelina jolie would be really disappointed in me.

i was so excited! everything looked so good. bright, fresh, tasty looking.

line was really fast, but invariably some newbie doesn't understand their trivided (not divided, two. trivided, three. did i invent a word?) checkout system and cuts in front of you. but stand your ground, shopper, and give them the hairy eyeball until they feel completely ashamed for not knowing it was, in fact, your turn at the counter.

i love this. how genius to put PLATES AND CUPS right at the exit next to condiments and plastic utensils. kudos to whole foods for understanding new yorkers don't do dishes, if they even have them.



the earthworm salad (otherwise known as buckwheat noodles) tasted good, but the consistancy was mushy. brocolli was spicy and fresh, but no flavor. vegetarian korma was so salty i thought i'd shrivel up if i kept eating it. the indian green bean salad tasted a little rotten.




alas, i was disappointed in whole foods salad bars. i will try their hot foods next time.

credit cards.

whole foods

obsession

i just reread my entire blog because i am really vain and like to remind myself that i am funny.

i noticed that i talk about weight and eating disorders quite often.

i just want you (shorts, jane, and anonymous) to know that i don't (think) i actually have a problem. i think i just have a problem with thinking about problems. or maybe it's that i feel guilty about always having been thin and eating whatever i want. don't hate though. god made it fair by taking away all fuction of my seratonin receptors. leaving me with the need to take a cocktail of pills everynight to stay sane. one of them makes my tongue numb for a couple hours. i haven't figured out which one it is.

long-y but good-y

last week i get an email from a "fan." right, as if anyone besides me, shorts, jane, and anonymous ever reads this.
(food review at the end of post)

the email is long, so i am editing it:

..........................................................................................
From: Patti xxxxxx
To: soholunch@gmail.com
Date: Sep 20, 2007 6:39 PM
Subject: A Proposal. Not Marriage. at least not yet.


Okay, so let's see what you think of this idea....

I just found your blog from my very good friend.

I really want to surprise him cuz I know he's a regular, and i
thought, hmmm...what if I get to have lunch with soholunch-girl and
then i can suddenly appear within one of your entries???

yes, it's self-serving on my part, except for a few things:

1. Obviously, I would buy you lunch, your choice of place. (I suppose
you could charge a fee but that would kind of ruin the fun in a way,
at least for me).

2. You already said you're nuts so surely you wouldn't think I am
worse-nuts for proposing this.

3. I'm actually not really a weirdo-freaky-scary person.

4. So, I wish you would want to do it tomorrow cuz it would be so
cool for me to turn this around quickly but obviously that's pretty
short notice. Also, tomorrow is great for me cuz my window-washer is
coming and so is the too-talkative handyman and I'm sure I'll want an
excuse to escape around lunch time.

Well, that's this story. Let me know or don't!
Thanks,
Patti (oh, in case you want to, FYI...I am locate dat xxxxxxx
and xx St.)
..................................................................................................

this was my resonse:

..................................................................................................
From: Hungry Girl
To: Patti xxxxxxxxx
Date: Sep 20, 2007 9:09 PM
Subject: Re: A Proposal. Not Marriage. at least not yet.


ok freak.

is patty pink your real name? i can't decide if that is awesome or
totally fucked up.

i'm down. but i can't do it tomorrow, i am leaving town tonight. in 2
hours actually.

who is the dude?

and you don't have to pay me. but if you do anything weird i will
totally call the cops and press charges. i also know a bunch of goons
who will break your kneecaps--which i think is better because then
everytime you sit down at a table to eat you will feel the pain of
fucking me over.
.................................................................................................

well, i went to lunch with her. she was buying, so whatev's. we met at five points on great jones street.

i walk in and this woman on a scooter/wheelchair with a half empty martini is waving me over. great. i told her i would break her knee caps. this is unbelievable. what are the fucking odds?

12 years ago she fell on the subway tracks and was run over by 3 cars of the 1,9 train before the conductor could stop. this was god punishing me for being a bitch, i thought.

that didn't stop me from asking her if she jumped. is that bad? (she didn't)



"sangria? yes please. anything to make this easier (don't look at the wheelchair. don't look at the wheelchair)."

shit man, she downed that martini and immediately ordered a sangria for herself. oh, boy.



the food was amazing. i had fish tacos. she had grouper? we split a green bean salad. (THIS PART OF THE POST WAS REDACTED BY ME, THE AUTHOR, BECAUSE IT WAS JUST TOO CRASS. FUNNY, BUT TOO CRASS).



(i look like a chipmunk, patty. you are a horrible photographer)

after my cocktail, i felt a little more relaxed. we chatted and chatted. she showed me an article that was published on her. on her stalking. no joke. she is some kind of sick stalking artist. but apparently she has done it to marc jacobs, peter beard, and madonna. so that means that i am, in fact, as cool as those people. awesome.

i scarfed down a whole peach cobbler, and then excused myself to the restroom. i'm sure she thought i was bulemic, but i'm not. i just had to pee.

this woman was great. on the way out, i told her to act like she crashed into the car that already had a dent in it. she didn't get it, though, and backed up WITHIN ONE INCH of the edge of the sidewalk. just what i needed, her splayed out on the street.




patty. you are the bomb. and i was never phased by you or your scary wheelchair. xo!

UPDATE: i really didn't make it clear how good the food is here. my fish tacos were unbelievable. the butter had crack in it because it was somehow the best butter in the whole world. the bean salad was perfectly dressed and they were crunchy and perfect. the peach cobbler had a biscuit in it--the ice cream scoop could have been a little bigger. and the sangria is PERFECT! they even have rose sangria. unreal.

lo siento, mis amores

i was in puerto rico. not a place known for its fine cuisine. if anyone offers you mofongo, just say no. it's like the puerto rican version of haggis. not really, at all. but i would stay away from it nonetheless. sorry j lo.

in rincon, puntas, there really are not many choices as far as dining goes.

the only place that is great is puntas bakery, but only for breakfast.



gemma, my new best friend, isn't impressed by the "nachos" at maria's. cheese=velveeta down there. in fact, not much that they eat doesn't come from a box.



i wouldn't go to this place, either.



i forgot we weren't in mexico for a minute. but was jolted back into reality after my first bite of the pork taco-ish. um, i don't really remember how or why the pork ended up in my lap. but there is just something funny about "pork" and "taco" and a picture of a crotch.



and here, the quesadilla. again, velveeta.



luckily, you don't have to cook anything to get drunk.

no phone, no phone (cake)

i am sensitive. no phone line here and pirating internet is just so unrealiable. is that thing about the tumors and the brain and the cell phone still true?


the mean guy at subway with dirty teeth didn't put salt and pepper on my sandwich. he wrapped it and i politely made him aware of his mistake.

when he told me he did, i let him have it "you ain't gotsa lie, craig. you ain't gotsa lie!" (friday? ice-cube? anyone? anyone?)

i fucking made him unwrap that bitch and salt it up. fucking liar fuck fuck. why? why?

and then i couldn't use my credit card because of the $5 minimum. so i took a large soda. which made it $5.01. but then they didn't take amex. so i pulled out my mastercard and hocked a loogie on it before i gave it to him. sucka.

would it be sad or cool if i committed suicide by suffocating myself with a subway bag?

ey!

sometimes i need to remember: if it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck, it is a duck.

grilled lonely with a side of lonely

today was a quiet lunch. just three of us. me, us weekly, and people. i did most of the talking.


we, i mean i (those sluts are concerned with body image), ate at washington square diner. way better than waverly, in my opinion (except waverly has way better fries).

grilled cheese with tomatos, well done.



it was nice being alone. i could think.

think about the hot outfit i was going to wear to my friend's birthday party tonight. is the box still cool? can't be alone forever, you know.

(washington square is on west 4th and 6th ave)

amy amy bo-bamy

stopped by amy's bread on bleecker and leroy to pick up a sack lunch.

internet is down in office so i have to work from home. (because work=surfing the net; therefore...)



amy's food is awesome. their coffee is the best in the city, in my opinion. i have never ever had anything bad there. #1 is the grilled cheese sandwich. it has cilantro, tomatoes, red onion, some spicy tomato paste, and they grill it on a panini press.

i got black bean soup and a mini tuna salad sandwich and a grape fizzy lizzy. all incredibly good. the soup in the picture looks like nutty dog diarreah, but it sure didn't taste like it. (again, cracking up to myself...oh, boy.)



you should knoow that they don't have napkins out. to get a napkin, you have to interrupt someone giving their order or cut the line at the register. i have even asked and they say the manager doesn't like to leave them out because people take them. helloooo! people are supposed to take them! how the fuck else do you blow your snot or wipe food off your face? ugh.

also, if you want to get a job there, make sure your IQ is less than 58 and your smiling muscles are permanently paralized.

for dessert, nutella and peanut butter on a spoon. please excuse the black eyes. i was up late last night sending dirty texts to an out of town friend. guys are so dumb. listen up, pervs: if you ask a girl if she's naked, and she says, "oooh, yeah. you know it." what she really means is she's wearing ugly pj's and anti wrinkle cream, the tv is on, and her dog is playing with a chew toy right next to her. she might, might also be picking at her dry heels. how is THAT for hot?

amy's bread

this is how it should be.

my friend jane, sister and i went to blue ribbon on bedford and downing.

seriously? this is the best restaurant for me in all of new york.

loook at the size of this asapragus.


the service is amazing. waiters are waiters. they know their place. you would never know if they wished they were reading a script instead of cleaning your crumbs. and damnit, that is what being a fucking WAITER is.

and i believe, me. i have been there. but i quit when i thought i was too good for it. i didn't take it out on my customers. well, actually, for a while i didn't wash my hands after peeing. but then i quit.

and more, the menu has everything you could possibly want. from pickled tongue to burgers. the music is background. the lighting is flattering. the breast feeding women are pretty. wait, what? (look carefully)


yes. i am fucking sorry. BREAST FEEDING YOUR CHILD AT A DINNER TABLE IS VOMITOUS. i saw nipple. i don't want to see a strange woman's nipple unless i am on a topless beach in greece, and even then i do not want to see a newborn baby attached to it. GROSS GROSS GROSS. i almost went over and said something, which is oviously not out of character for me. but i was paralized by disgust. i think the manager could sense it and he didn't charge us for the stilton cheese. take that big boobied bitch. bet YOU paid for your cheese.

blue ribbon bakery

lunch with phil

we went to cafe falai, the san gennaro festival, and pinkberry.

first, falai...

this is their menu. cash only? strike one.


this is their floor. someone should tell their designer that white grout is the DUMBEST idea in the world. especially white grout in white tiles. it is just disgusting seeing how dingy it gets.


this is an appetizer. someone should tell them making ricotta and figs look like an ice cream sundae is just confusing.


this is phil eating octopus. that is latin for 8 pussies. he seemed to enjoy it.


this is me excited. i ordered whole wheat spaghetti pomodoro and it looked amazing.


this is me not excited. it tasted like fishy dishwater. or dishy fishwater. either or. (oh, boy i ma laughing out loud right now. i crack me up.)


since i hated my food, phil decided to take me to pinkberry. he thought it was necessary before i die. to get there, we had to pass through the san gennaro festival in little italy. i said sure, because i needed a little culture. i saw real italian roasted corn on a stick. and real italian fried rice. and real italian bratwurst and saurkraut. and real italian peruvian hand knit sweaters. also, in italy, they have this traditional game where you shoot waterguns at a target to win a traditional stuffed stewie griffin doll. mama mia.



this is a picture of meat. this is why i can't eat it that much anymore. (phil, on the other hand, said it looked delicious)


this is pinkberry. at long last. it was, eh, ok i guess. but i guess i would go back. not because it's addictive, but because it's addictive.

cafe falai

san gennaro festival

i fucked up my blog

i fucked up. i tried to customize something with html (i am getting obsessed), and i lost my pretty pink background and i hate this pea green shit. any help is greatly appreciated.

fuck.

i need help.

i just... i can't. i just don't know what is wrong with me. it's not that i don't actually have a reason to be at ikea, because i do. it's that i purposely don't eat before i go so that i just "happen" to be hungry when i get there.



it all started out well. but a glitch in the system (well, really i lost the receipt i was supposed to bring--it said it clearly in capitol letters on my form that i should, but i have this thing where i don't think the rules apply to me) meant i had to go to customer service after lunch. perfect! an excuse to eat cinnamon buns while i waited for my number to be called. i was 67 and they were only on 44. that was around 1:30pm. funny ha, ha. still loving that we are rocking ikea.



cut to 7:30pm, stuck in fucking new jersey STILL and i wanted someone to shove a self assembled bookshelf up my ass because i was sure it would feel better than the situation i was in.

i will never. i repeat: never! go back to ikea. it is way too expensive to save money that way. time is money, dog.

(but if anyone does go, can you pick up a pack of frozen meatballs for me? and the gravy mixture packet. um, and not to be greedy, but they recommend TWO gravy mixes for every pack of meatballs. that's all. no biggie.)

discuss

these two are ACROSS THE STREET from each other.

red mango
pink berry
eh?




seriously, though. i am not going anywhere near these places. my friends who have, eat it like crack and whenever we pass one they drool and convulse and it just really. creeps. me. out.

red mango

pink berry

UPDATE: a commenter said they are owened by the same people. now that is just ridiculous. that's like me standing on one corner in a school girl outfit, and another corner in black latex and each of me saying--pick me! picke me! but really, no matter which me you choose you still get a needy jealous bitch.