Looked up at the full moon tonight. Gorgeous. Looked like a plate to me. Always has. Tonight I thought, “The moon is an orb, not flat,” and it suddenly looked different.
Last week, when the moon was still gibbous, I was in NYC and had lunch. Lunch is the best meal, according to me. Anything goes.
At The Meatball Shop on the Lower East Side they start with meat orbs. You can choose to have them served to you in orbs. Or not. I chose “smashed.” Sounds harsh, but was not. In fact, the smashed orbs were lovingly blanketed in a velvet cloak of provolone and a cozy nap of marinara.
At The Meatball Shop the diner makes a lot of choices, ticking off each choice on the laminated menu. A sunny side up egg atop the smash-cheese-sauce? CHECK! And under toasted brioche. Co-zee. I would say so.
I cannot repeat the remark that crossed my mind as I bit into the sandwich and egg yolk ran down my face, neck, arm. I swear the woman at the next table said, “I’ll have what she’s having.”
The Eric “Roscoe” Ambel (whoa, I see he has a Wikipedia entry) had a grinder with mozzarella, pork meatballs and pesto. Those meatballs look a little squished too, come to look at it. “Fantastic sandwich,” said Eric. Yup, it was.
Sweet sandwiches too. And more choices. Eric was a wild man – gingersnap and peanut butter cookies, espresso ice cream. That’s some crazy combination. Crazy good.