I was at a dinner party last night at my friend Caro-linda’s house, who is a writer for Epicurious, as well as one of the prettiest ladies ever to kiss a pineapple on a video blog. She is the contemporary Great Gatsby of hosts, minus the penis and the obsession with a worthless nymphette, plus beauty, brains and a sense of humor. Every few weeks, I have the good fortune of being invited to one of her salons, to which I bring the finest Chilean wine $10 can buy.
(Put this braggadoccio to a beat, and you’ll have a Kanye West song.)
Last night’s theme was Mexican cooking, and I swear on all that is holy to me—which is nothing, when I pause to think about it—that it was the best Mexican food I’ve had in New York.
It was prepared by Caro-linda and her friend Fernando, and it consisted of roughly five courses—rock shrimp, huitlacoche quesadillas, an orgy of salsas, a cured beef flown from the North of Mexico—so good that they almost made me cry. The last time I ate so well was when I was in Oxaca, where I played the role of a lifetime as an earthworm stuffed with cheese, soaked in tequila, and then left out to roast in the sun.