Eating the East Village

There are times when I imagine eating; envision the tastes, the experience, all day long. My mind rushes away from the yogurt at work, away from the ham and cheese assembled that morning in my shoebox kitchen, and away from the inevitable soup and frozen chicken that awaits, always ready for preparation in the evening.

There’s so much amazing food here. My roommate’s job affords him the luxury of eating out, or ordering in, every meal. At first I questioned whether he might become bored (especially as I enjoy the act of cooking). When I asked, he was incredulous.

Are you kidding? Look around you…said his expression.

Out loud, “No.”

The more I pondered, the more ludicrous my initial thinking became. It existed on every street corner. Each eatery; stylish or not, possessed the ability to sate every craving imagined. Once I began mentally cataloging my favorites, I couldn't stop.

A place I love is best categorized French-Mex (and was, in a review by New York magazine). At Itzocan the queso fundito is a savory mix of poblanos, fresh sautéed mushrooms and salty chorizo; covered in gooey Manchego. It’s divine with a basket of warm tortillas and glass of white sangria. There, puckered semolina dumplings with fresh veggies floating in a clear broth--crunchy corn, more mushrooms and herbs--are the perfect complimentary entrée. Best of all, the restaurant seats only 15, maximum, and plays twangy guitar music just like that week in the Dominican Republic, where I had no appointments but one, to sip a Rum Punch by the pool and flip through a trashy, chlorine-splattered novella.

South, 7A is a picture-perfect brunch spot, if a table is ever open, offering a shrimp, pesto and tomato sandwich that soaks its crusty bread in a fine sheen of olive oil. Last time I sampled one, a ferocious wind carried an umbrella from the opposite side of the street, up, sailing over our heads, where it javelined into the rear window of a late-model Audi with a terrific crash, glass shards careening first into the air, then popping on the pavement as blue hail.

A half-block down, a night of overindulgence with my girlfriends commenced with us polishing off a second bottle of red wine and the cheese plate we told ourselves we wouldn't, waxing on our places in life, love, and all the rest.

A tiny sushi place with hospital green walls will never give us a bastardized Philadelphia roll no matter how much we want it, the wasabi in a bright pile next to our pink-fleshed fish. And the waitress never quite understands, English not being a strong suit, and our order is consistently a pleasant surprise.

The Lo-Side Diner is reminiscent of my college town’s tomato bisque on rainy days, before frat parties on Saturday night. A French jewel, just a few blocks east, serves cappuccino in soul bowls with whipped froth slipping up and over the edges, handed by a Frenchman with fingerless gloves; always the same tattered black shirt and wiry black beard.

Two weeks ago, I ate al fresco, far too soon, but was warmed regardless by the conversation and the pureed fava beans, pulsed with garlic and oil, surrounded on the pretty plate by roasted vegetables.

And there are so many others, just as deserving and more, if only I had the hours to list them.

If and when I ever move away from here, this will be what I will miss about New York the most.