Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Mistakes Were Made

On a crisp fall morning, when sloth was attempting to reign, devoted partner muscled us out the door and into Manhattan to visit the New Amsterdam market even though, as I said, I didn't need anything. He thought the act of simply doing something would be good for our constitutions and morale. Also, he wanted to take me to lunch at a rugby bar.

I'm pretty sure I learned about the New Amsterdam market from Clay and I decided it would be a good time to figure out how to use my prime lens and also check out the vittles. We could not have been blessed with a better day and after only 15 minutes, we managed to find parking near South Street Seaport, which is no small feat on a Sunday. The market was not what I expected. First off, I expected it to be IN the Fulton Fish Market, not haphazardly outside of it. And yet, and yet, someone looking for food and fun would not be disappointed.

Having now seen some farmer's markets outside of New York, I must say that while I applaud the greenmarket program for hewing to the ideal of 100% local 100% of the time, places like San Francisco, Portland, and frankly even Durham, North Carolina have markets where a person could theoretically do all of his shopping, not just the raw materials. And I like seeing what local food artisans are making just as much as I like to see what local farmers are growing. The New Amsterdam market, while small, had a decent combination.

There were people actually cooking things on site as well as people selling pre-packaged goodies like oils and candy. And there was glorious meat product. And that's where the problems started. Country pate? Clearly needed. Oh, no, and there are duck rillettes - absolutely needed. Devoted partner apparently needed cheese. And Scandinavian bread. I needed fancy caramels. And a bar of regrettable, half-a-bite-only, bar chocolate.

I like this market. I want to go back again and again.

Then we made more mistakes at the rugby bar where beer and shepherd's pie magically appeared. In my defense, I ate about 1/4 of what was put in front of me (rugby players need lots of food; more food than perhaps I would like to eat). The rugby bar was more of a slick Pacific rim bar/resto, but there was rugby on the TV and immediately after my telling devoted partner that all rugby players looked alike we had to suppress a giggle as one sat down next to us ably proving the point.

I responsibly froze the rillettes so that we could concentrate on the pate without distraction. But knowing there are delicious ducky wonders in my freezer is keeping me sane in these times of rice cake and chicken austerity.

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