fête paradiso

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sunday at fête paradiso on governors island

when the summer sun is shining, the electric sound of happy laughing children and edith piaf oldies blend into the background, and the warmth of your calloused hand against mine makes me dizzy as we watch the carousels spin round and round.


my own mind

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She sent for one of those squat, plump little cakes called "petites madeleines," which look as though they had been moulded in the fluted valve of a scallop shell. And soon, mechanically, dispirited after a dreary day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory - this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. I had ceased now to feel mediocre, contingent, mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy? I sensed that it was connected with the taste of the tea and the cake, but that it infinitely transcended those savours, could, no, indeed, be of the same nature. Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it?

I drink a second mouthful, in which I find nothing more than in the first, then a third, which gives me rather less than the second. It is time to stop; the potion is losing it magic. It is plain that the truth I am seeking lies not in the cup but in myself. The drink has called it into being, but does not know it, and can only repeat indefinitely, with a progressive diminution of strength, the same message which I cannot interpret, though I hope at least to be able to call it forth again and to find it there presently, intact and at my disposal, for my final enlightenment. I put down the cup and examine my own mind. It alone can discover the truth. But how: What an abyss of uncertainty, whenever the mind feels overtaken by itself; when it, the seeker, is at the same time the dark region through which it must go seeking and where all its equipment will avail it nothing. Seek? More than that: create. It is face to face with something which does not yet exist, to which it alone can give reality and substance, which it alone can bring into the light of day.

Marcel Proust. Excerpt from Remembrance of Things Past. Volume 1: Swann's Way


sunday at fat radish

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avocado and seven grain toast with spicy eggs

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bacon cheeseburger with duck fat fries and house pickles

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fat radish is a non-assuming food oasis on the border of the lower east side and chinatown that offers the best mashup of casual & elegant, indulgent & healthy, traditional & inventive. manhattan would be a happier food world if there were more restaurants with this level of laid-back style.


wise men

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buttermilk fried chicken wings with honey bourbon glaze

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crab toast with pickled chilis

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bavette steak with wise men steak sauce

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charred broccoli rabe with lemon, pecorino, and chili flakes

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an interesting addition to the ever growing bowery food & beverage scene, wise men is turning out surprisingly good, uncomplicated food. bonus points for their unpretentious intimate vibe and the fact that they have some of my simple favorites on their menu: here's looking at you crab toast, broccoli rabe, and buttermilk fried chicken wings.