Tuesday, January 08, 2008


I write this blog to keep the people of Saskatchewan updated aboot what my life is like living in New York, because they ask and I like that, and by now you guys know it's not anything outrageously glamorous what you should be jealous of.

Well, you should be jealous of my life last night. It was well into the 50s well after dark, so friend and I took a stroll along the Brooklyn Heights promenade, which is outrageously quaint in and of itself, but from which you also get a very nice objectifying eyeful of Manhattan.

At the end of the pathway we decided to press on and zen-navigate our way to Grimaldi's - knowing it was somewhere under the Brooklyn Bridge - since according to some newspaper articles and some guidebooks and some lore it actually has the best pizza in New York. No reservations, no delivery, no slices, no credit cards. Just dine-in, packed with people and their hungry pizza-holes, and tiny tables and a coal-fired oven and pictures of famous past diners on the walls (and a poster of Marlon Brando threatening to offer you a pizza you can't refuse). When we joined the lineup on the sidewalk it was only 20-people deep, because it was a Monday, but a minute later Grimaldi himself grabbed us from the back of the q and brought us to a table. A large pizza (I won't try to top all the reviewers' histrionics about the sweet crushed tomatoes, the aromatic basil, etc.) and a half carafe of wine is only $24 so we had dessert and espresso too.


Aaron, Kate, Will and Wyatt said...

Shut UP, I love your life. It keeps me hopeful here in...this place. I don't even have a name for it anymore. It's getting too ridiculous. 5 more months. Have a piece of cheesecake for me and the baby.

M said...

I will, and several bottles of wine.

Phil said...

I went to that place with some linguists and it was tasty.
Hey, do you know where I can get good tartufo in Edmonton?

M said...

No, but you should go and get anything at La Table de Renoir. I'm still on his Mechoui mailing list. Spent all evening there one night chitty chatting in French. He's that Renoir's nephew.

M said...

By the way, were they cunning linguists?

Yes, Phil - every time.