The Art of Eating In - Cathy Erway [156]
“How about tomorrow morning, for breakfast?” I suggested. I was off work the next day, a Friday, and I knew that Saha had a pretty flexible schedule, too.
“Okay,” he wrote back. “How about bright and early? I’m actually going to the office tomorrow, so I can pick up a bunch to bring to folks there.”
We agreed to meet at nine o’clock. I continued to click away at Doughnut Plant’s website infrequently throughout the day, building up an appetite for the sweet dessert I had normally thought so little of. It seemed like Doughnut Plant was the very height of doughnut sophistication in the city—with different specialties for every day, all-natural, homemade jellies and curious combinations, and their signature square shape. I read an article about the store’s founder, Mark Isreal. “Well, we had to be different,” he was quoted as saying, explaining why they had gone with a square shape for their jelly-filled doughnuts. What a niche food to get sophisticated about: the once scrappy, proletarian, police force breakfast.
After work, I hopped on the subway and got out in the East Village. I found Momofuku Noodle Bar quickly and, since it was raining, ducked inside even though I was five minutes early. The hostess greeted me with a smile. I told her I was waiting for my friend and asked if I could sit at the bar.
“We don’t actually seat people until their whole party is here, and the bar’s another seating area. But you could hang out here and order a drink if you’d like,” she explained, gesturing to the space within five feet or so of her and a small wooden bench beside a wait station with a computer. She handed me a menu and moved aside a small pile of them on the bench. I put my coat and bag down and settled on the bench. Five minutes later, after I’d ordered a beer, Michael arrived.
“Hola,” he said as we exchanged hugs. Our waitress led us to the end of a long table that was taken up with other parties. We sat across from each other.
“Where’s Kathryn?” I asked, referring to Michael’s girlfriend, whom I adored.
“She’s in Ethiopia right now.” Kathryn worked for a nonprofit hunger organization and occasionally traveled to Africa. We talked for a moment about Ethiopian food.
“When I told her about your restaurant week, Kathryn predicted there was going to be a huge line of guys wanting to take you out on dates,” he said, grinning.
I laughed and denied any such line.
“How did you go on dates all this time?” he asked, echoing a question I’d heard plenty times over the last two years.
“Well, for the first year I had a boyfriend,” I began.
“Uh-huh,” he said, listening attentively
“And then, I don’t know.... I guess it’s been weird.”
We laughed.
“This place is a lot less busy than I thought it would be. I’m surprised we got seats right away,” Michael observed. I looked around us. It felt chaotic and busy, and I felt squished into a corner of the table, on a backless wooden stool. The long tables were all completely packed, and people were constantly getting up and sitting back down. Behind a separator along one side of the room, the cooks scurried around one another as they worked.
“So what should we get?” I asked.
“Start with a couple of appetizers, and definitely get the Momofuku ramen,” Michael said. The menu was heavy on meat, especially pork. The only criticism I’d heard about the place was that there was only one vegetarian entree on the menu, a rather boring ginger and scallion noodle soup.
“I’d say definitely get the pork buns if you haven’t tried them; they’re what everyone comes here for,” said Michael.
“Okay ... and what else?” I thought aloud, my eyes scrolling through the menu. “Have you tried the pig’s tails?”
“No, I’ve never had that one.”
We decided to get it. Our waitress came by for the second