Well, now, this is potentially awkward for all involved.
Last week I wrote about my favorite greasy dance mix, and now I am, yes, going to ginuwinely jump back to food as if it never happened. We don’t need to talk about it.
Yes, that is a DiFara pie. Yes, I went for the first time a few weekends ago. And yes, I agree with Alan Richman, who didn’t put it in his Top 25. Ooh. I’m following a famous critic several days later. Bold!
I should admit that unlike Richman, I’m not a huge pizza fan, but a tacos, huaraches, fried chicken and burgers sort of gal. Dom’s crust was to my taste undersalted, the tomatoes were too choppy, the sausage was uninspiring and for heaven’s sake if you’re going to drizzle half a cup of olive oil (which I love) on top of a cooked pie, it had better be some damn good oil. This wasn’t. It had over-oxidized a bit in its little genie bottle. It was still a fine pie, no doubt. I’m just not sure I understand the mania.
Then again, perhaps I only like to hang out at The Palace, the only place in New York that makes me bust out the inner princess I didn’t know I had, gawk at the chandeliers and run up and down the carpeted steps like Annie in the freakin’ mansion. They just opened their outdoor terrace, and if the Pimms Cups (spiked with lemonade, frothy ginger beer, sliced green apples and cucumber rounds) are as good as they were at a press party then you will be there all summer staring at the pretty people, putting your hand over your eyes and plunking down your credit card for whatever ungodly amount they decide to charge. (I checked: $20).
And then you will dance up and down the steps singing “It’s a Hard Knock Life” until you are thrown the hell out.