Rating: 💋 😘
Hello hello and welcome to this week's episode of how did MK survive this past weekend? Well, my pursuit of good food had a dramatic turn of events, but at least I was in good company. The ever lovely Rebecca spent Saturday overnight in New York, and of course we had a fabulous time.
To shed some light on the subject, Rebecca and I go all the way back to Kindergarten Orientation. I was a small five year old with glasses constantly sliding down my nose, a sagging ponytail because my hair was always too heavy for my scrunchy, and blonde wisps of hair flying all around my face, at all times. My mom always did a great job of making sure I looked put together when I left the house, but by the end of the day, my look would scream 'chaos'.
So there I was on my first day, super excited because I was put into the 'yellow triangle' group, and yellow was (and is) my favorite color. During story time, the girl who sat next to me intimidated me to no end. She had chocolate brown hair with bangs and stood much taller than me. She sat on her knees, making me even smaller in comparison, as I sat cross-legged. She was from the 'blue circle' group, so I had not seen her before. When they gave us free time, she turned to me and asked, "Wanna play?" She was so serious, and so tall, I couldn't say no. Then I found out her name was Rebecca and that fact absolutely overjoyed me, because, "That's my mom's name!" Hesitation evaporated. We explored our new domain, and on the first day of real school, I was ecstatic to learn we were both in the KB class! Essentially, history was made on that day, because we have been best friends ever since.
Over the years, Rebecca and I have always stayed close, even though we have not gone to school in the same state since we were fourteen, and we once went an atrocious two years without seeing each other. She has saved me countless times, from swooping in to pull me away from the kid vomiting grapes everywhere in kindergarten, to rescuing me from bullies throughout middle school by giving them a strong piece of her mind, to talking me though adjusting to high school in Philly. Nobody messed with Becca, and I was safe as long as I was by her side. We kept in touch through letters when I went away every summer, as well as throughout college, and we are notorious for phone calls that last hours on end. When these telephone chats began in kindergarten, my mom could not help but raise her eye brows when Rebecca's voice authoritatively requested to speak with Mary Kate. Then, once I had hogged the landline for more than an hour, my mom could not help but wonder what on earth two five years olds could possibly be talking about for so long. All we let her know was, it was Very Important. By the time we got to college, those important issues grew more serious. We discussed our futures and our big plans to become something great one day. We navigated college parties, a wholly new concept. When I experienced my first (and, so far, only, tyvm) heartbreak sophomore year of college, Rebecca called me up immediately. She knew I did not want or need her to hate on him; that would not help at all. I just needed her to remind me that I was worthwhile, and that is exactly what she did. As we got older and faced more loss, we had each other to lean on. I am so grateful for all she has done for me, and I will always drop everything to be there for her and fight for her whenever the time calls for it.
All of this is to say, a lot of people move in and out of your life, and Rebecca is one of those truly special people who knows how to be a true friend effortlessly. She will always stick by you, even when you are struggling or being stupid. She is sarcastic and practical and a big fan of the tough love method, and she is the best. I am constantly overwhelmed by how lucky I am to have her, and to have found her so early in life.
Also, if it weren't for her, I might still be curled up in a ball outside Roey's. God bless.
So anyway, we were almost late to dinner Saturday night because I was having - ahem - a bad hair day, but I think what we need to focus on is that, by some subway miracle, we made it on time. We only made one wrong turn on the way to the restaurant, and the lovely hostess was happy to seat us as soon as we arrived. The dining room was open with good lighting and festive decorations, so it created a very welcoming atmosphere.
Unfortunately, the tables along the wall were pretty close together, and the girl to my right was not very enthusiastic about moving her coat and shopping bag off my seat. From there, it took a while for our waitress to stop by our table, which turned out to be the standard for the evening. We did not necessarily regret her absence though, because our waitress was very unenthusiastic about helping us. I know revelers from Santa Con had invaded the dining room, and I know working is not the ideal way to spend your Saturday night, but wow. Making your clients feel guilty for being there is definitely not a model of good service.
Instead of normal water, the waitress plunked a glass bottle full of water and foliage onto our table. I suppose this was meant to be fancy and unique, but the rosemary water did not do much to refresh us, plus it was slightly warm. Rebecca was so unimpressed by the water that she is insisting on blaming the interloping herbs for our later troubles. Maybe they were not washed properly? Honestly, she could be right, I don't know. Probably though, Rebecca is scapegoating the rosemary water. Either way, it did not tip our dining experience in a positive direction. We did have a great time laughing about how there was a Christmas tree in our water though, because we are glass half full kind of people. (Of course the glass was half full - drinking the rosemary concoction tasted gross!)
The wine list I found online varied slightly from the one they gave us at the restaurant, plus the prices were different, so all my research went to waste. Our waitress's attitude did not make us comfortable asking her for her thoughts, making this very unlike the pleasant walk through the wine list our waiter at Aunt Jake's took us on. We were left to our own devices. Rebecca and I took a stab in the dark, ordering a sparkling red wine called L'Ambrusco Rosso, vintage 2017. Well, it was different, which was our intention behind the choice, but maybe not different in the way we would have preferred. It was a bit too dark in flavor for my liking, earthy almost. The bubbles were fun.
We were here for the pizza though, and it lived up to the gorgeous stories I had heard online. Rebecca's Margherita pizza prioritized the concept of using few ingredients to create a masterful slice, with sweet and salty tomato sauce holding up refreshing basil leaves and milky, light circles of mozzarella strategically placed around the pizza. My broccoli rabe pizza used garlic and red pepper flakes to add a kick to the bitter broccoli rabe, but the fluffy straciatella and sweet pignoli subdued the otherwise strong flavors, so an equilibrium was reached. I fell in love with the thin, chewy dough that spilled out into a pillowy crust at the top, and happily discovered that the pizza did not have much grease soiling its surface. Thick, greasy pizza always makes me sick, but an oil-free, thin slice is the least problematic pizza, so I can enjoy it confidently. I did, and it was so good it almost made up for the grumpy waitress and the fact that the guys next to us kept looking at us. Rebecca and I agreed it seemed like the guys could be on a date, but we wished they had paid more attention to each other and not any to us. What was that all about? Weird and uncomfortable, but no worries if I can redirect my attention to the beautiful pizza on my plate.
And then...I died.
My previous understanding of what pizza I could and could not eat totally failed me, and now I do not know what to believe in. Rebecca was in the middle of a story, and all the sudden cramps started searing across my abdomen. I figured it would pass, but by the time we got the check, I could barely breathe my abdominal muscles were contracting so much. As soon as the tip was paid, I bolted outside for fresh air, because I was suddenly, incredibly, entirely overheated.
Rebecca found me curled up in a ball in a little nook between buildings, praying cops would not drive by and mistake me for a wayward Santa Con celebrator. "No Mr. Cop, I am not drunk, I am just dying." Rebecca wanted to go to Urgent Care, but I immediately dismissed that. I mean, let's not be dramatic. My face had lost all color, I physically could not stand up, my small intestines were being punctured by an evil force, and I was alternately super hot and then freezing, but come on. I have had bad reactions to pizza before, we know this. If anything, I felt vindicated for every time people judged me when I told them I cannot eat pizza. Here's proof: I really cannot eat pizza. Except, who is that vindication helping? I would very much like to be able to eat pizza. It's no fun standing on the sidelines at a pizza party. Also, I have never had such an extreme reaction. I kept thinking it had to pass soon, as reactions have in the past, but it would only come back stronger and meaner.
Eventually, the manger came out with a glass of ice water (rosemary-free, including a fun blue and white striped straw) and two lactaid pills. I have never taken those before and here's my review: they either did not work, or it would have been unimaginably more painful if I had not taken them, and that renders me speechless. The manager was concerned about Roey's reputation and the possibility of cross-contamination, understandably so. Later, Shannon asked if they comped our meal.
No. They did not.
Needless to say, we decided the subway would spell out sure disaster, so we called a Lyft home. Fortunately, the Lyft driver did not judge me in my doubled over state, or at least not so much that he would not give us a ride. Now that I think about it, I should ask Rebecca how her rating has fared in the wake of the weekend. Oops.
On the drive home, I'd occasionally, feel a bit better and pop my head up to ask Rebecca what she thought of Dua Lipa, or some such nonsense. The searing pain always came back though, and Rebecca would pushed my head back down. Folded in half was the best position for me to be in at this point. She chided me for being "too cocky."
I had several rational thoughts as we scaled the stairs to my top-floor apartment:
1. "No guy wants a girl friend who cannot eat pizza. I mean, what fun is that?"
* Really, MK? You know, I once bought a slice of pepperoni pizza for a guy I was with, and I sat there empty-handed, talking to him while he ate. He was just curious about my allergy and happy to have a free slice of pizza. Come to think of it, why did I buy him that pizza? What was the rationale there? - Surprise! There is no rationale when it comes to liking boys. It's an SOS situation, pretty regularly.
2. "If this is an allergic reaction, there is no way I can make it through childbirth."
* Fortunately, your brain has these fun little chemicals that make you forget just how bad pain is after the fact, so nah, it'll be fine. I want kids, I'll suck it up and get over it like every strong woman before me. Also, why am I so dramatic?
3. "Why is there a vampire baby biting its way through my abdominal wall."
*I never should have been allowed to read The Twilight series if this is where my brain is going to turn in stressful situations.
The point is, by the time I crawled through our front door and invaded Shannon's happy evening of whiskey, pumpkin spice pancakes, and 90s throwback music, I was completely delusional with pain. I curled up on the kitchen floor while Shannon and Rebecca had a serious discussion about how I absolutely must see a nutritionist to get to the bottom of this issue. Is this lactose intolerance? Do I have celiac? Was this a case of food poisoning from the broccoli rabe, or some other ingredient? All worthwhile questions I would love the answers to, and I knew they were right about all of it. I was just a little preoccupied with the fangs piercing my stomach from the inside out.
Not to mention, we were supposed to go to Il Laboritorio del Gelato after dinner, maybe partake in some holiday festivities in the city, and I had totally gone and ruined it. What kind of hostess am I?? My Martha Stewart gene is still in hiding for the disgrace of it all.
That was Saturday night, and the real concern is that my stomach still feels totally out of sorts. I wake up starving each morning, and then as soon as I eat breakfast, my stomach is aggressively peeved about it for the rest of the day. How long can this go on for? What is happening?
Maybe this is a me issue or maybe this really is a case of cross-contamination. Whatever the cause, I do not think I will ever return to Roey's. This experience definitely killed it for me. 😔
Stay safe out there, kiddos.
XX,
MK
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