vip in the city

Party at Public

Our small group gathered in our finery at Public for M’s birthday celebration. As I stood considering the infused vodkas with MP at the bar — Pineapple-Peppercorn? Fig-Fennel? — M and L glided in, dressed to the nines. They made a smashing pair. It may have been the first time I’d ever seen M in a dress; it was certainly the only time I’d ever seen her in a full-length mink and a tiara. But tonight was a special occasion, and I was happy to be a part of it.

Over a sumptuous dinner (Cured Wild Boar, Grilled Scallops, Mushroom Ceviche, Grilled Kangaroo on a Coriander Falafel, New Zealand Snapper on Wasabi-Boniato Mash) and flutes of champagne, friends and family toasted to our host, who radiated contentment in the candlelight.

As the rest of the party began to trickle in, we cleared our plates and made our way into the private lounge to continue the celebration with friends from near and far. The hours flew by, and when M insisted on one final round of Lemon Drops before BM and I said our good-byes, how could we deny the birthday girl? Cheers!

That’s Amore!

It all started with an email just before New Year’s. DK, prompted by a post he saw on Chowhound, sent out an email jubilantly announcing that the long-lost pizza from our childhood had somehow resurfaced at a nondescript shopping center off the service road of the Van Wyck Expressway. Was it possible?

Given the rhapsodic tone of his missive — “the sauce… the sauce… best pizza i’ve ever had in my entire life. i’d eat half a pie as a little kid.” — I’m surprised that a full week passed before we made the trip out to Queens to investigate.

Saturday afternoon, he and SYB dropped by Dad’s office to pick me up for our adventure. We bid adieu to my parents (who seemed amused by the prospect of the three of us driving out to the mall for pizza on a Saturday afternoon) and off we went.

There it was: Amore Pizza. The familiar, sweet aroma hit us as soon as we stepped inside the glass doors. We ordered a pie and proceeded to wait with nervous anticipation. Would it be just as we remembered? Or was the pizza we once knew, lost to our decades of memories?

When the tray finally hit the table, it was all DK could do to pause the necessary few minutes to allow the cheese to set. (At least it gave me a little time to snap this photo.)

A tentative bite. Some thoughtful chewing. Yes… yes… a shade on the crispy side, but otherwise, yes, it was the same pizza! Slow smiles spread around the table.  DK looked so happy. There’s some remark to be made here about Proust and his madeleines, but on this sunny, surreally warm January afternoon, among two of my oldest friends, such erudite thoughts were far from my mind. Sitting in that booth with molten slice in hand, I felt about 16 years old, which these days, isn’t such a terrible thing.