The bun can barely contain its contents of gelato and Chantilly cream.
“Oh my god you have to have the focaccine at Amorino,” my new friend Sara Massarotto told me last night in her broad Florentine accent over mounds and mounds of San Daniele prosciutto, speck, and ham at a swine and dine at Osteria del Principe hosted by my good friends at Tabelog and Joios! I ate a lot of pork product—thumbs up for both truffle ham and porchetta—but I didn’t let that deter me from trying the new gelato sandwich that Sara had enthused about. “Ask for Federico,” she reminded me as I left. (more…)
Biscuits of the Pillsbury variety—warm fresh and slathered with ersatz butter—were a childhood favorite. I didn’t try true blue fluffy Southern biscuits until many years later. After my good friend Elyse Pasquale forced me to visit Empire Biscuit in the East Village last night I’m convinced I don’t eat them nearly often enough.
I’m only half kidding when I say she forced me. We’d just eaten our body weight in hors d’ouevres—including a killer creation of smoked mackerel nestled in a curl of whey steamed onion, topped with shaved foie gras—at an event hosted by Tabélog at Skál. Elyse doesn’t play when it comes to food, so when she told me that they were the best biscuits ever, I agreed to undertake the long march from Chinatown to the East Village. (more…)