Rancho Los Compadres

Reading about Hanoi Pho in the Smithsonian whiles eating a suadero tostada. Rekindling love affair with Valentina Salsa Picante. The bottle flows effortlessly and wakes the eyes. A citrusy cocktail in hand, and now this all just too much (isn't it?). This isn't sexy, "Food should be sensual," she said. I am a sloppy man and that's how this is going to be. I repeated. Tomorrow is food writing class and spring break means it's cancelled. Tostada and burrito tonight, New Yorker rests my grazen eyes. "We eat at night what we mean to eat tomorrow. If it weren't for the night, I'd barely eat at all." -Felix Winter

I sleep with food, or does it sleep with me. Anyhow, it is Sunday which means I am tired and hungry.

Knish For My Brother

I am a self-hating cook. I moved to New York five months ago in hopes that I would be doing something fantastic like collecting unemployment and writing. But, lo and behold, I am now a master family meal planner at an East Village restaurant. I make less money than I ever have doing more than I used to. I live with my girlfriend and my best friends are in Seattle and South Africa. The one in Seattle wants me to open a delicatessen for him and the other is pissed that I can eat knishes whenever I want.

While in a frenzy of crying caused by lack of direction and confidence I declared to my girlfriend that the only thing I'm good at is lunch. So, here I am.