I'll have the sea bass, medium rare

A few weeks ago I went to New York. I did not expect to love it, but I did. (The last time I was there about five years ago, there was a garbage strike amidst intense July heat. Before that, I spent a summer in the East Village on a photography program during college. A boyfriend and I had just broken up and I stopped eating and sleeping. I poked at white rice and wandered vacant-eyed through Strand Books. And somehow, amidst my angst, I managed to pick up another, even more temporary boyfriend. I miss the resilience of Youth.)

I was there to celebrate the elopement of two college friends who have stuck together lo these many years. Manhattan was great, but Brooklyn (where they live) was even better. Blue Sky Bakery, if you ever read this, please send me your recipe for banana-bran-chocolate chip muffins. Their warm, melting toastiness haunts my dreams.

Also, I wish I could start an Arecibo in my neighborhood. I call cabs and they just never come. They hate me. I'm talking to you, 333-3333. But Arecibo, and its cutely-named competitor Evelyn, are now programmed into my phone in the vain hope that they will come to my house in San Francisco. They'd be like, "Five minutes, darling. What are your cross streets? San Francisco and San Francisco? Ok, honey, five minutes," and then a Town Car would emerge magically out of the ocean fog and they would drive me where I want to go quickly, and at a reasonable price. Dare to dream.

We also hit the little wine bar incarnation of Al Di La and Franny's. I thought SF was supposed to be the capital of strident locavoristic over-sharing. But Franny, you guys take the cake.

Don't be upset. I can poke fun at you because your pizza is superior. And your drinks as well. You redefined gin and tonic for me. And that olive-oil drenched asparagus was delightful. But really. I would have liked to have known exactly which quadrant of the patch my asparagus came from. Soil conditions, sun exposure, bird species in the area. Next time please give me more information.

In Manhattan, we enjoyed the incredible $28 lunch at Jean-Georges. I don't recall where anything came from, but I don't much care. It was staggeringly good. I had a piece of halibut that redefined fishitude. It was bathed in a sunny lemon broth and studded with tiny Japanese mushrooms. We ate foie gras perched atop a little raft of brioche that arrived accompanied by a tiny pot of Meyer lemon jam. We had smokey squab, which was delicious until I noticed a very active robins' nest outside the window and began to ponder the similarities between the proud parents atop their home and the pan-seared carcass atop my plate. And dessert... well. Some sort of icy jicama and citrus thing. Refreshing but a little too austere for my taste. Then things got more interesting. The marshmallow sommelier pulled up with his pretentious cart and with his gleaming scissors began to snip and clip long strands of guimauve into manageable pillows of cherry and apricot. And tiny macarons appeared, the size of pinkie nails. And bonbons. Pretty, pretty bonbons.

We also had lunch at Les Halles, which I will happily admit was damn solid and authentic, even though I was fully prepared to be snarky. I don't know why I expected less. I am not ashamed to admit that I love Anthony Bourdain. Afterwards we visited Laboratorio del Gelato, which was good, but not as mind-boggling as people claim it to be.

I felt like I got in a lot of sights (read: restaurants) and spent some good quality time with old friends, so the New York experience was a winner. Next time, however, nothing will stop me from visiting this place. NOTHING!