The weather’s in the 80s. The park is absolutely flooded with sunbathers. When I went to Hogs for the Cause last Saturday on my first day home for spring break, I got a sandals tan after being outside for just a couple of hours. (And who knows, if I keep talking up the springtime, maybe it’ll become so enraptured with me that it follows me back to New England…)

This can mean only one thing: IT’S TIME TO GO GET SNOWBALLS. The line is already permanently out the door over at Hansen’s, but that shouldn’t stop you. Go get you one (or seven); by the time you’ve made it to the front of that line, you deserve it! I like to get several tiny cups, each with a different flavor, so I can get everything I want all in one go. Satsuma, nectar cream, vanilla bean, and raspberry are all safe bets. Coffee + condensed milk is a revelation.

Dirty chai made with Intelligentsia's Black Cat espresso: one thing I've reviewed recently. Mmm, deeelish. (Click the picture for more!)

I know I’ve abandoned ship with the whole “personal blogging” thing, but I actually started Passionfruit Butter more as a portfolio than a blog, so I’ve decided it would be fitting for me to come here and check in with all of y’all about my whereabouts.

Since my last post, I have become a threefold food columnist. So… THAT’S where I’ve been. Writing a shitload about food, only somewhere else. I would really, really love it if you scampered on over and checked out what I’ve been doing!

Amuse-Bouche is my first real food criticky outlet. It’s a weekly restaurant review of the digs around College Hill, by way of the Blog Daily Herald. So far, I’ve reviewed La Laiterie, Sakura, Sawaddee, Parkside Rotisserie, and The Edge. Coming up in the next couple of weeks will be Harry’s and, methinks, New Rivers. Stay tuned.

Chow Down Brown, also on Blog Daily Herald, is about college kids + food: the funny things we eat and drink in cafeterias, in our dorm rooms, in the wee hours of the morning, etc. It’s a lot of fun.

Ravenous Rapture is the title that’s been slapped on my articles for Post- magazine, where I’ve been writing since the beginning of freshman year. Same old stuff; new official, biweekly column. Last time it was about portable delectable condiments; this week it’ll be about chocolate.

“It is utterly insufficient [to eat pie only twice a week], as anyone who knows the strength of our nation and the foundation of our industrial supremacy must admit. Pie is the American synonym of prosperity, and its varying contents the calendar of the changing seasons. Pie is the food of the heroic. No pie-eating people can ever be permanently vanquished.” –New York Times (May 3, 1902)

What holiday could be more American than Thanksgiving? Rooted in colonialism, family, and God, it remains a quintessential part of our country’s identity, marked by binge fests and football. Similarly, what dessert could be more American than apple pie? A cultural icon, it is the emblem of patriotism and down-home comfort.

Indeed, America has appropriated pie as its most nationalistic dish of dishes, a symbol of heroism met with humility, robustness with cozy delicacy. It’s ubiquitous during the holidays, but in the summer, you’ll find it in the form of strawberry rhubarb or key lime. And what would the Fourth of July be without good old cherry pie?

There is something so viscerally, universally appealing about pie, as darling as a cake but nowhere near as fussy. Pastry and filling were destined for each other like Barbie and Ken: together, they are the image of domesticity, yet infinitely versatile. On any given minute of the day, there is some breed of pie out there begging to be consumed.

Breakfast. Bam. Start the day off right with a simple tart filled with fresh fruit. Berries, pears, peaches, citrus–pick your poison. Best if you pile ‘em over pastry cream, if you can swing it.

At lunchtime, quiche reigns supreme. What the French have done here is answer to the American pie in a trickier, more ethereal fashion. Still, a rose by any other name… yadda yadda. Smoked ham and Brie or mushrooms and leeks are redolent of eating al fresco on Parisian sidewalks. If you, a pie purist, insist on omitting the eggy filling, a noble alternative can be found in a tart of roasted squash and Gorgonzola. Go wild.

Dinner calls for something more substantial, and so the stage is set for chicken pot pie. With its bubbling interior of gravy beneath a halo of crust, it is the textbook example of comfort food, a perfect antidote to these damp gray days with their cruelly evanescent sunlight. Later in the night, pizza is the only option, at least as pies go–as they say in Wedding Crashers, it’s good no matter what.

Dessert, though, is the arena in which pie can really shine at its Platonic ideal. During Thanksgiving, certain dishes start to seem repulsive as more of them are heaped onto the table. I can tolerate two casseroles. I cannot tolerate seven of them. With pies, though, there is no diminishing marginal value. Keep them coming, and everyone will stay happy.

I am a strong supporter of pecan pie; the pecans, gem-like, precipitate bursts of buttery expression amidst the molasses alluvium. Another contender is sweet potato pie, which is further glorified with a gingersnap-pecan crust. Gild the lily that is pumpkin pie by folding caramel into the filling. Chilled pies needn’t be ruled out; as a Southerner, I’m partial to the lemon icebox pie, a wonder of tangy golden custard atop coarse graham cracker crust. It tastes like wearing a sundress on a wrap-around porch. While you may call that inappropriate for Thanksgiving, I call it timely. This is an under-publicized cure for Seasonal Affective Disorder.

So the New York Times editorial, however hyperbolic, makes a good point. Pie, in its manifold manifestations, is a cornerstone of American culinary tradition. Rustic or highbrow, sweet or savory, it always manages to satisfy–what better cause exists for giving thanks? Should you need to satisfy a pie fix wherever you find yourself next week, here’s my pick. I’ve heard it’ll earn you the eternal adulation of whoever eats it, but you may want to just hoard it in your room. Leave the apple pie to everyone else.

Ali’s Amazing Pecan Pie
It should speak volumes that I still get warm fuzzies thinking about spending the holidays with an ex-boyfriend, an abnormality I accredit largely to this pie, a brainchild of my ex’s mom. It’s so beloved that she has to make several every Thanksgiving in order to satisfy the appetites of her throng of hungry sons. The secret is the dark corn syrup and brown sugar, which meld in a torrid, oven-bound affair to create just about the most celestial smell I could ever dream up.

Ingredients:
1 cup dark corn syrup
1 cup brown sugar
1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
3 eggs, lightly beaten
1.5 cups chopped pecans (reserve 1/4 cup)
One pie crust, unbaked

Preheat oven at 350. Mix together all ingredients until combined. Pour into pie crust, sprinkle reserved pecans over the top, and cover with aluminum foil. Bake for about forty minutes, or until a knife inserted in the middle does not emerge covered in raw pecan goop. Remove the foil and bake for 5 more minutes. Let rest an hour before serving.

Let me start by saying that I love cheese. I want cheese to be my boyfriend. I want to talk to it about its hopes and dreams. I want to be its #1 confidante when it has one of those days and starts questioning what it’s doing with its life.

Sadly, that’s not possible. I suppose it could be if one were to get innovative, but that’s what we’d call fetishistic, and while I am many things, cheese fetishist is not one of them.

With all that said, I can boldly and publicly claim that Ewephoria is very possibly my favorite cheese in the world. It is an all-American aged sheep’s milk Gouda, unabashedly punny, with Reggiano’s robustness but a characteristic butterscotch sweetness that makes you give it a doubletake. I want to show up at its door during Christmastime and profess my love for it.

Indeed, Ewephoria was developed for the palate of the American sweet tooth, which would be vexing if the cheese wasn’t so darn successful. The sheep at the Holland-based farm behind it purportedly eat better than the farmers’ two sons, which resonates in the cheese’s warm, nutty richness, which comes as close to a hug as is possible for a cheese. This cheese, like Iberico bellota ham, is a hands-on lesson on the food chain: really and truly, you are what you eat. Eat something scrumptious, and acquire its best traits. Don’t you want to be scrumptious?

On the first day of French classes at summer school in Nice, my teacher told us, in no uncertain terms, that the only things French people talk about are food and sex. Exhibit A:

Jenna and I found this bakery while wandering through Paris. According to my stepdad, “the guy’s just kneading.” This is a stunning exemplar of efficiency and multi-tasking.

Now I’m trying to write a 10- to 15-page paper for my food anthro class about that. But where do I even start? Better question: where do I stop? The two are so inextricably connected that it’s kind of dizzying for me to attempt to outline an academic essay. There’s so much to say about everything from gendered foods to whipped cream bikinis. That said, I’m attempting to delving into the role language plays. Where do we get phrases like food porn? Orgasmic cheesecake? Sexual appetite?

There is very little conclusive evidence for the libidinal effects of many aphrodisiacs. The New York Times decided chocolate doesn’t have a marked effect on actual desire, and it’s even dubious that oysters, the most infamous aphrodisiac at all, have real physiological effects. If you don’t believe the case that aphrodisiacs are more decided by culture and folklore, consider that bull penises are eaten in China to increase sexual desire and potency. Gentlemen: wanna give that a shot with your ladies next Valentine’s Day and report back to me?

Now imagine what a $5 footlong will do to your mind.

Fun fact: in Brazil, the Portuguese word “comer” — meaning “to eat” — has the vulgar added meaning of “to fuck.” Women are “comidas,” or “foods.” So literally, the guys devour the chicks. That brings a whole new meaning to dinner dates.

Other fun fact: the author of The Sex Life of Food is named Bunny Crumpacker. Really and truly. Not only is that horribly vicious on the part of her parents, but it’s like her career as a food (and sex) writer was handed to her as soon as they put her name on the birth certificate. This is supporting evidence for self-fulfilling prophecies, my friends.

Still, I’ve been pondering lately on the oddities of college eating. Deny it all you like; eating here is worlds different than eating at home. It’s as though we harken back to that wish we all harbored as children to live alone in a city with no grown-ups, where we could eat cotton candy for breakfast and use ice cream as toothpaste. No, it’s not that extreme, but faced with independence, we quickly discover our idiosyncratic identities as diners.

So, I’m launching an experiment of keeping my own food log. The rules aren’t so strict and the goal isn’t so defined; quite simply, I think there’s a lot to be learned by having your day’s food in front of you. I won’t be broadcasting it everyday, but to make it official, I’m putting the inaugural entry online. Given that this is a point of fascination, I’d love to hear what y’all are putting in your bellies on any given day. Holla in the comments section!

No, I did not eat this today; I just found this in my photo backlog and it made me wistful. You're gazing at a thyme-y mushroom duxelle topped with ribbons of savory, sexy, spicy lardo, all on top of sliced toasted baguette. Pretty sure they took this off the menu. Pretty sure that makes me want to self-amputate.

“I’ve been awake for two hours so it’s about time for me to eat” (breakfast, around noon): A bowl of vanilla Greek yogurt with a pack of cocoa-roasted almonds stirred in.

“Never again will I put off lunch until after a 1.5 hour lecture” (lunch, around 4:30pm): Ciabatta roll with salami, arugula, basil, tomatoes, and chèvre. My invention. It’s kickass. Also:  one nipped slice of buffalo mozzarella and a cup of warm Masala chai.

“Screw it, you only live once” (snack, around 5:15pm): Half a slice of yellow cake with buttercream frosting and raspberry glaze. Also, some bites of communal cookies.

“I’m not even close to being hungry but I have to eat before the dining hall closes” (dinner, 7:00pm): A pathetic pile of mixed greens with shredded carrots, olive oil, and raspberry vinegar.

“Awesome, it is now 10:00 and I am ravenous” (real dinner, 10:00pm): One pathetic piece of grilled chicken, eaten from the take-out box as I walked home from class.

There were also a couple of seed crackers, three or four dark chocolate Quaddratini (bite-sized Italian wafer cookies, oh my), and some barbarian fingerfuls of crunchy soy nut butter at various points of late night.

Moral of the story? Eat more vegetables; eat at reasonable hours!

I had exactly one meal out in the former place, a small town nestled in the Berkshire Mountains. It was a pretty tasty dinner at a pretty tasty Thai-ish place on the “main drag” in Williamstown (which, if memory serves me, was little more than a couple of blocks long). There are many, many wonderful things about Williamstown. The dining scene isn’t one of them.

I was excited, at the beginning of freshman year, to see that Providence is in fact a hidden gem of a dining town. Small as the city may be, it really holds its own when it comes to food. The crown jewel in the PVD’s restaurant culture, I quickly learned, was Al Forno. In a city of stunning Italian food, Al Forno was the exemplar.

In my entire first year as a resident of Providence and a student at Brown, I ate many, many delicious meals, none of which transpired at Al Forno. I finally got my chance at the beginning of this semester, when my mom was in town to move me into my new dorm. The dinner we shared with two of Mom’s Rhode Island-inhabiting friends lived entirely up to my expectations.

The four of us shared this pizza to begin. A bright, punchy tomato sauce, clearly housemade, blanketed the thin and chewy crust. What I initially thought may be strange — corn on a pizza — ended up being such a welcome wake-up call; the succulent kernels of Rhode Island yellow corn that were tossed atop the pie made for texturally dynamic and explosively flavorful bites. The kernels stood up to the bold sauce, each magnifying the other’s flavor, and the ever-so-thin layer of grated Parmigiano added just the right amount of toastiness.

Side note: I’ve been asked by many fellow students where to go for a gourmet but affordable meal in Providence. Al Forno is often dismissed as astronomically beyond most of our budgets, but courses like this pizza have me reconsidering. Shared between two people with the possible addition of a salad or dessert, it actually makes for a quite reasonable (and incredibly high-quality) dinner. I plan on returning and urge the rest of my classmates to do so.

The next starter was these fried zucchini blossoms, which were stuffed with mint-speckled ricotta and nestled atop a puddle of tomato sauce. The batter was delicate and thin, delightfully and miraculously free of grease, exactly as it always should be. The crunchy exterior shattered and gave way easily to the luscious blossoms beneath as though we had just woken up on Christmas morning and it was finally letting me tear open the iPad it had waited so long to give me. The tomato sauce underneath lent color but was overall a bit weak.

Beets and frites are one of Al Forno’s most celebrated appetizers, so of course it had to be added to the roster. Ethereally thin medallions of fuchsia beets hide under a nest of shoestring French fries and topped with a dollop of homemade mayonnaise. Although I am guaranteed to love beets and shoestring fries in almost any setting, this was actually my least favorite dish; I thought it belonged more on the menu of a casual French-style bistro than Providence’s culinary opus. That’s not to say that it tasted bad, just that it didn’t feature the same level of thrilling technique, ingredient quality, and ingenuity that set Al Forno apart.

A massive Caesar salad consisted of quartered Romaine hearts, wisps of Pecorino Romano, and just-grilled croutons, with a thick, peppery dressing. There was absolutely nothing wrong with it, but it too was lackluster.

Like New Orleans, Providence is undoubtedly renowned for its seafood. Here, though, it’s clams, not shrimp and oysters and blue crab, that get the spotlight. The signature clam roast on the menu is served with thick slices of spicy chorizo sausage, reflecting the influence of Providence’s prominent Portuguese population (hey, inadvertent alliteration!). An acutely spicy tomato-based sauce pooled inside the shells and saturated each bite. Speaking as someone who adds hot sauce to her BLTs, her macaroni and cheese, her scrambled eggs (I could continue, but you wouldn’t want that)… I will say that this was SPICY. Occasionally, too spicy; it’s not a pleasant experience to have to gulp down iced water so you can wash down a bite before getting the chance to enjoy it. Still, the clams were resoundingly fresh and the sausage substantially hearty, and their combination made me woozy in its deliciousness. It certainly didn’t hurt that a mound of mashed Red Bliss potatoes had taken up residence at the center of the plate. Had the spiciness been more even, this would’ve been a close-to-perfect dish.

I wished I had more room in my stomach by the time we were presented with a giant bowl of linguine, duck bacon, creamy egg, and pea tendrils. The pasta was clearly homemade, and the egg, in homage to its aunt Carbonara, clung to each strand like a silky negligée. The duck bacon was fatty and pungent, its flavor cloaking the dish with savory muskiness. The bundle of tendrils added color, life, and a touch of lightness to what could’ve easily slid into alienating levels of decadence.

Two desserts were shared by the table: a native peach tart and lavender panna cotta. The tart was rustic in that it lacked pretense and glamour but was otherwise a display of mastery, with a flaky, buttery pastry that snuggled slices of delightful local peach. The panna cotta was like velvet, so much so that the addition of crème anglaise seemed almost tongue-in-cheek: gilding the lily, daring you to actually protest to the extra layer of creaminess. The subtle crunch of crystallized honey was a helpful reminder of texture, keeping me from getting totally swept away by the dominant custard.

Many restaurants awarded the singular accolade of “best restaurant” fall short: their menus are never updated because, hey, if it ain’t broke, why fix it? Complacency damns the customers to their usual favorites, the chefs to their usual routine, the servers to their usual motions. Al Forno, acknowledged by consensus to be the best restaurant in this small culinary capital, certainly has its acclaimed dishes that will probably never be taken off the menu, stale though they may be. But by the same token, a constantly changing rotation of other dishes, inspired by local seasonal ingredients and the experienced chefs’ whimsy, keeps things fresh. That will certainly have me, and the rest of Providence, coming back for more.

What I had then were the greatest hits; those awe-inspiring puff potatoes, that buttery trout amandine, and of course the baked Alaska, confectionery wonder of wonders, lodged themselves in my 8-year-old memory and still hold a fond place there. But that gold standard of fine dining, characterized by menus written in French and a heartily traditional repertoire of ingredients and preparations, has lost some of its salience. Of course, places like Galatoire’s, Antoine’s, Arnaud’s, and Brennan’s are destinations for festivity and indulgence. But the tasting menu has edged into all kinds of restaurants – not just at places like The French Laundry or Alinea, where it has its most noble roots, but also as options at places frequented for their à la carte menu. Stella! has enough traditional first and main courses to make me want to pull a Mr. Creosote, but a chef’s tasting as well as an international caviar and vodka marathon also tempt.

Maroni Cuisine in Northport, Long Island, finds itself elsewhere on the spectrum. Wedged in a veritable hole in the wall on the main street of a beachy town, it easily goes unnoticed as a hot dining spot, especially because its precious front window real estate reads simply “TAKE OUT.” Stumble through the front door, though, and you find something decidedly different. The place is unreal, like a shoebox lined with rock ‘n roll memorabilia and finished with gilding and plush curtains. It is a chef’s wet dream: against the odds, classic rock and fine dining meet, fall in love, and elope. Their offspring is the kind of biracial toddler you see walking into school (a Montessori or international school, no doubt), exotic and perplexing and, somehow, already more interesting than you. You are engrossed.

Funky light fixtures are suspended from the elaborately molded ceiling, and every square inch of the walls has been hung with posters, record covers, and kitschy mementos. About ten tables fill the restaurant, running along each wall to leave just enough of a pathway for the adept waitstaff to shimmy through. Albums at a time blast through the speakers; we heard The Beatles’ “Rubber Soul” and a little bit of Rolling Stones. The bathroom walls are plastered with eyes (an homage to Pink Floyd?). The ambiance is hip and irreverent, sure, but gussied-up for an elaborate tasting? Not so much.

Looks can be deceiving, though, so hold your horses. While it’s true that Maroni’s made its reputation on its thriving takeout business (the restaurant’s nationally acclaimed meatballs can be taken to go in “hot pots” so they’re still fresh and warm at dinnertime), it has carved out a name as a restaurant to be taken more seriously in recent years. The eccentricity of the whole venue and set-up, as well as abundantly positive reviews from customers and critics alike, is really what puts them on the map.

First things first, you’ll want to make a reservation. Because it’s a tasting menu, because the restaurant is so teeny, because whoever is the manager is trying to protect waitstaff from nervous breakdowns, guests are seated and served simultaneously. We ate at 6:30, and I believe the other seating is at 8:30 or 9. The close proximity of the tables makes for ideal eavesdropping, and it boosts community, encouraging the kind of fleeting casual conversation with strangers that tinges the atmosphere with a sort of European romance. The attentive, enthusiastic, and seemingly overabundant servers simply ask if you have any food allergies or intense dislikes, and then you hit the ground running. No, there is no formal menu. But you’re in good hands, I promise.

Chef Mike Maroni is quite clearly well-versed on, and curious about, world cuisine; his tasting menu explores just about every corner of the world, giving some countries loud shoutouts and others no more than whispered references in what can only be described as his global fusion dishes. He leans heavily on Asian as well as seafood, and he’s not as into Spanish, Mexican, or Indian, of which we saw none. Just about everything else was fair game. It was a dinner for champions, and nothing like what I’ve experienced more before. Maroni’s is distinguished by its casual and unpredictable nature, at once both furthering and overturning the tasting menu trend. Its bizarre formula is inimitable and quirky, but it works out for them, making for a dining experience that certainly won’t blur together with others in your memory.

——-

They immediately brought out a plate of sweet red peppers stuffed with goat cheese — fast enough that I wasn’t sure if they were the first course of the meal or a little hospitable snack, like olives or bread and butter, to nibble before orders were placed.

Next up was an espresso glass with a single shot of uber-rich lobster bisque. This soup was extremely smooth, with a discernible kick of sherry and flecks of tail meat at the bottom of the tiny cup. If I’m to commit to a full bowl of lobster bisque, I want it to be creamy but still somehow light, with a more aggressive lobsterness manifested in generous chunks of salty, buttery meat. This sip lacked both components, but because it was simply a sip, it remained a tantalizing start to the abundance ahead of us.

It seems like every restaurant has a tongue-in-cheek riff on the Dr. Seuss classic Green Eggs and Ham. In concept, it’s whimsical, witty, and playful – and even now that it’s creeping toward cliché territory, who can argue that eggs and ham go well together? That right there is a fact of life, my friends. This rendition had quail eggs fried over-easy with ethereal, almost glassy flakes of slow-roasted Serrano ham and crunchy little toasts. The symbolism of Kimberly deciding up-front that she wouldn’t like it (“I do not like them, Sam I Am! I do not like green eggs and ham!”) amused me more than it did her, I think. In any case, the quail eggs were delicious under the herbaceous green garnish, basilly oil, and intriguing ham flakes.

“Ham flakes.” There it is: the least appetizing phrase ever.

Pictured here were the next two courses: million dollar potato chips with creme fraiche and foie gras on toast. The million dollar potato chips were so called because they tasted like crispy, solid gold. They were thick-cut and not too greasy, seasoned with coarse crystals of salt that perfectly set off the salinity of the caviar. The foie gras was, well, foie gras – velvety, earthy, decadent. I don’t have anything new to contribute to that.

This was followed by spring rolls filled with a creamy mixture of snow crab, minced shrimp, and spinach. The shells were a translucent gold, fried until they blistered. The filling was sweet and definitely unlike any spring rolls I’ve encountered before – it could’ve stood alone as a dip. The product was a departure from tradition and would’ve been equally at home served on a big platter alongside beer for the Saints’ first game of the season.

Course #7: baked clams casino. Tasty, lemony, with a healthy hit of garlic and toasty bread crumbs. I want to eat these from a trough on an outdoor picnic table.

Here’s a dish of chicken and ginger steamed dumplings, to be eaten family-style. This tasted much more traditional than the spring rolls we’d eaten minutes before these arrived. Little wisps of Chinese sea spinach added color and a vegetal crunch. This was not one of the standout dishes for me (oh, those are coming), but the spinach, chives, and white sesame seeds made them look like little presents that needed to be unwrapped.

Shortly after this, servers made the rounds of the restaurant, handing each of us little planks of smoked turkey bacon topped with lobster salad. This dish is an exemplar of Chef Maroni’s ventures in the more strictly American realm, which are as successful, tasty, and fresh as his more exotic endeavors. As it turns out, the large, gorgeous pieces of lobster meat that were lacking in the bisque (and which would’ve been terribly out of place in those tiny cups) had been hiding all along in this dish. The thick-cut bacon was crispy, and the turkey was a good choice – pork bacon might have competed with and compromised the lobster, which was the star of the dish.

Just as we were getting used to the onslaught of small white plates bearing two-bite courses, this behemoth arrived at our table, and the intricate gilded ceiling opened up for a chorus of angels. Icelandic oysters, Newfoundland crab claws, and Hawaiian spotted prawns are a locavore’s nightmare (and made me awfully nostalgic for our own Gulf oysters), but all my qualms disappeared with my first bite. The oysters, dotted with a touch of hot sauce, were icy, sweet, and delicate, the antidote to our scrumptious but massive (occasionally unwieldy) bivalves. The crab claws were pristine and plump, and the shrimp were the perfect vehicle for the heavily horseradished cocktail sauce. Culinary ingenue? Not so much, but one of life’s finer things, to be sure.

Continuing on the theme of Wildly Foreign Seafood, the next course was Newfoundland lobster (not the whole thing, for goodness’ sake; they let us select either the tail or a claw). My claw was no different from any other lobster claw I have gleefully devoured in this lifetime, which is to say that it was a dream. I do wonder, though: what’s wrong with Maine lobster? I didn’t think to ask at the time because I was so happily ensconced in my little lobster world.

Kimberly composed this beautiful design with the following two courses. Serving as what appears to be the fellow’s coif is a three-cheese cracker, and his visage is made up of sliced melon and wild boar sausage. I asked which cheeses went into the cracker and the server told me “cow, goat, and sheep,” so I guess it’s more like three-milk. The cracker was ethereal, like a tiny crunchy crepe, and the goat cheese spread onto it was mild. I loved the wild boar sausage that came with the palate-cleansing melon; both slices were thick and perfectly chewy, sweet with a touch of spice, mellow but slightly wild. Being a relentlessly peckish snacker, I live for charcuterie, which lends itself so swimmingly to keeping around and nibbling here and there. I want this on hand at all times.

Hamachi tuna lollipops arrived next, neatly cut bites of firm, silky flesh. Apart from the chives that clung to the fish, it had hardly been doctored or touched. Like the melon, it was a clean, simple refresher amidst the chaos of such a decadent, fast-paced meal.

The lightness of the previous two courses was quickly forgotten when a big plate of Memphis-style barbecue ribs arrived at the table. The ribs met Memphis’ high standards for barbecue; the meat fell apart and off the bone upon contact, and the sauce was tangy and dark. Cole slaw was piled high on top of the ribs, but it took up valuable stomach space that needed to be economized for the ribs and courses that followed. By the time this plate was bussed, the only thing left on it was most of the cole slaw and all the bones, licked clean.

My, but wasn’t this lovely? A filet of Rhode Island cod was prepared Piccata-style and plated with zingy asparagus spears and tiny capers. The sauce, a lemony, buttery emulsion, lived up to its name; it was neither greasy nor sour, just very balanced, and enough to bathe the flaky white cod, which had the oceanic saltiness of only something very fresh.

These Kobe beef sliders were, like the green eggs and ham, a fancified spin on a universally recognized (but far less gourmet) concept. The tiny patties of beef were grilled to a juicy medium-rare and served with melty cheese (if my memory serves me, I think it was American) on precious buns that were reminiscent of Hawaiian sweet rolls. “Tasting menu,” much less “26-course tasting menu,” no doubt conjures images of white linen tablecloths and a hushed, plush dining room. This course, with its top-notch beef served between packets of Heinz ketchup and a side of tater tots (arguably sourced straight from an Ore-Ida bag), was a comical reminder of where we were and of the philosophy behind the dinner itself — a philosophy that crosses culinary expertise and gastronomical indulgence with pragmatism, humor, and a refreshing lack of pretense.

Before we had even polished off our two-bite burgers, a server whisked through the restaurant with a large platter of duck spring rolls with a thick, sweet plum sauce. These spring rolls were different from the ones we’d had at the beginning of the meal; they were thin little cigars with a sturdier shell that stood up to the rich duck meat it contained. The flavor combination, too, was much more classic, reminding me of the Peking duck crepes we used to order so often from Five Happiness.

Ahhh… this was butter-poached lobster on mashed potatoes my single favorite bite of the night. This says a lot after all the lobster they’d sated us with by this point, but I still daydream about that one spoonful. In presentation and concept, it seemed more likely to come from the kind of restaurant with white tablecloths and hushed dining rooms that I described earlier; it was, after all, a tiny amount of exquisite ingredients served on a silver spoon, without any of the casualness or humor of the Kobe sliders and green eggs and ham. But that’s what I came to love about Maroni’s: this unpredictable but somehow harmonious alternation between casual snack and highbrow fare. The mashed potatoes that anchored the dish were flawlessly smooth and aided by heavy cream but evaded both starchiness and heaviness, instead sliding off the spoon and melding with the morsel of lobster. And such a good morsel it was, its luxurious texture accentuated by the butter. It was, altogether, a luxurious meeting of flavors that left me wanting just one more bite.

Instead of another bite, they were so kind as to bring out veal short ribs that might’ve been a teeny bit superfluous as we’d already had one dose of ribs that night, but when we’re talking about ribs, is there such a thing as too much of a good thing? I’m still investigating, but my tentative conclusion is: no. I preferred the Memphis-style BBQ to these, tender as they were; they were just a bit too much on the fatty side. Some people like that. I do not.

Indonesian peanut shrimp followed, one for everybody, and even our Kimberly set aside her disdain for seafood to taste it. A big prawn was fried in a crispy batter, then tossed in a sticky-spicy-sweet peanut sauce and crusted with a few white sesame seeds. I didn’t eat my whole shrimp because it was so gooey and decadent that my already full stomach protested, knowing full well it had much more on the way. I can say with confidence, though, that I’d have polished it off had it come a bit earlier in the meal.

And then… there it was. The moment I’d been waiting for. The course my stomach had saved a little room for. Maroni’s meatballs.

This along with the following two courses, which came out simultaneously, marked a sudden shift in the chef’s repertoire to cozy Italian food like grandmas make it. The meatballs came with great ceremony; they have long been loved, worshipped, craved, and sought after. In fact, Maroni’s made its name as a largely takeout-oriented business, and people would come from all over to take home Grandma Maroni’s secret-recipe meatballs in their own hot pots. Now that it’s established itself as a reputable restaurant for sit-down meals as well, meatballs remain a fixture. A bit smaller than baseballs, they arrive bathing in pomodoro sauce and garnished with grated parmesan and slices of basil. The meat itself is finely ground, incredibly so, imparting a delicacy and refinement to the rustic presentation. I’ve made meatballs many times, and I’ve concluded that meatballs are one of the foods that are easy to make decent but hard to perfect. The Maronis are doing something right: a few years back, they challenged – and defeated – Bobby Flay in a meatball-making throwdown on Food Network.

Pictured beneath that are the eggplant parm and rigatoni pomodoro with ricotta creme fraiche. The eggplant was layered with the cheese in very, very thin slices and baked, as it should be, until the cheese on top got super melty and ugly. Because it was sliced so thin, it was easy for Kimberly’s mom, not usually an eggplant lover, to eat (and in fact she did so with great joy and passion), but because there were so many thin slices, there was still a good wallop of undeniable eggplant flavor. The rigatoni was al dente, perhaps could have even been cooked thirty seconds longer, and was no-frills with the same red sauce that came with the meatballs, it was overshadowed by the magnificence of its two predecessors – but tasty all the same.

As if to laugh in our faces at the dull pain we were experiencing by that point as a result of our satiety, we were awarded yet another plate, this one laden with gnocchi and shaved black truffles. I feel about truffles the way some 15-year-old girls feel about Justin Bieber, so I was very, very excited upon first whiff. I have to say, I was let down. The gnocchi were leaden, which competed with the earthy truffles and dark gravy.

To remedy my disappointment was this FINAL COURSE: pigs in blankets. You heard me. Tiny sausages wrapped in flaky dough, akin to that of Pillsbury crescent rolls. And yes, you’re seeing correctly: they came on one big plate with tongs (so we could help ourselves) and a piggy bank (should we be so inspired to tip prematurely) whose rump read “Happy Halloween” (I don’t get it either). That was funny. The PIBs were, well, PIBs: the kind of snack that seems unremarkable until you realize you’ve eaten 20 of them because they’re fatty and salty and oh so addictive, especially with the spicy Dijon that was served on the side.

Dessert came all at once on a long plate that was to be shared amongst all the table members. Perhaps understandably, Maroni’s skimps on desserts in both effort and quantity. (The question here is, after successful completion of such a gourmet extravaganza, is an equally lavish dessert in order, or are we better off with scant dishes of sorbet and a kiss goodbye… or maybe even less?) All in all, here was the spread:

• A small ramekin of chocolate mousse with a toasted marshmallow top
• Another small ramekin of crème brûlée
• A wafer-thin (see what I did there?) slice of “chocolate ganache cake”
• A minuscule slice of tiramisu
• A chipwich (chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwich)
• A “kaleidoscope cookie” (essentially a giant, overstuffed Oreo rolled in rainbow sprinkles)
• A homemade Dove bar

Standouts were the crème brûlée, which had a warmly satisfying layer of burnt sugar that yielded to the spoon’s pressure with a loud, crunchy crack, and the tiramisu. The chocolate ganache cake was a whole lot more cake than it was ganache, and it was a bit on the dry side; the chipwich and kaleidoscope cookie were yummy because, um, they were cookies with sweet cream filling… but they could’ve just as well come off a tricked-out ice cream truck. Kimberly’s dad had a shot of espresso that was spiked with a bit of sambuca. That, to me, was the best send-off.

A brief run-down of my first day in New York: I had my first NY-legit bagel (fortunately, it wasn’t my last, as I forgot to take photos then). Kimberly and I cleaned up. We hopped in the car with Robin, Kimberly’s mom, and Cassie, the Wachtlers’ adorable golden retriever. I took the backseat so I could snuggle with Cassie. Come to find out, she’s so terrified of cars that she literally draped herself across my lap for the entire duration of the car ride.

We finally got to Kimberly’s grandparents’ house, which is spectacular and comfortable (and filled with golden retriever paraphernalia), with a gorgeous view of… a body of water. I think it’s the Long Island Sound. Regrettably, I am not intimately familiar of Long Island geography and topography, so I cannot be too sure.

Another thing the property boasts is a generous garden that is host to all sorts of shrubs and flowers and, most importantly, vegetables. Lettuce bursts forth from the soil in giant green tufts, and zucchini the size of newborns litter another corner. Raspberries and blueberries grow in neat rows. Armed with gardening scissors, the three of us raided the garden and plucked our perfect produce. We then went home with our loot and prepared a lunch to nibble as we rested up for the 24-course dinner that laid ahead…

Soft, buttery leaves were the foundation of our salad. Kimberly roughly chopped a cucumber, some carrots, and a delightful orange bell pepper, as well as balsamic-roasted chicken that we’d picked up from Grace’s Marketplace. I was worried the chicken would be dry, as chicken often seems to be when you pick it up pre-cooked at the grocery, but each bite was tender and had the added bite of aged balsamic. Dressed with oil and more vinegar, then topped with sheets of parm, it was exactly how lunch salads should be: fully satisfying but light, colorful and well-rounded. Not at all a New York staple, but so much fun — from picking the greens to eating the last bite.