24 Hours of Eating in NYC

Day 7: a flight of lasagne and glycemic turbulence

We woke up feeling full - finally. It was the kind of full that, when you look in the mirror, renders you so bloated and visibly glycated that you just don’t recognise the swollen lump staring back at you; the kind of full that even a dunk in the iciest of ice baths wouldn’t remedy. We decided, in the interests of having a future, to skip breakfast and go straight to the gym (not, I should add, to burn off any calories - I don’t work out to burn calories, I work out to feel alive and to push my body to its limits - but because a good, sweaty session always helps to soothe the carbover - carb hangover).

On the way to the gym, though (a whole eight blocks) I got peckish, so accidently fell into Ess-A-Bagel again (see earlier post for more info) and devoured another turkey and scrambled egg on a wholewheat everything bagel. Oh the chew on those bagels is just everything I want from a snaccident like that.

Sweaty workout done, and apple-melon protein water downed, we showered and changed, then took the subway up to the North Eastern corner of Time Square, on the hunt for our favourite antique and reclamation store, Olde Good Things. We’ve bought a few pieces from them in the past, which we’ve had to lug home in our suitcases, sacrificing items of threadbare clothing for the greater good. Our copper bar trolley and tin ceiling tiles all came from one of their stores here on Manhattan. But before we could make it to tchotchke town, the brights lights of Broadway beckoned, but this time it wasn’t the theatre, it was Junior’s diner.

The original Junior’s restaurant is still where it started in Brooklyn, boasting the best cheesecake in the state, corroborated by many of my Instagram pals. Thanks to its popularity they now have a few Junior’s restaurants in New York. Not wanting to just jump straight in for the famous cheesecake, we thought it only civilised to start with a main course. Paul had a chicken mayo butty on lightly-toasted challah, absolutely flecked with fresh dill. It was a really good sandwich. On my perpetual pursuit of protein, I opted for the matzo ball soup, which was the best one yet - probably because it was salty and full of noodles, but you could really taste the depth of the chicken and the matzo balls were so lip-coatingly full of schmaltz (chicken fat).

When the cheesecakes arrived, hitting the table with an audible, almost earth-shaking thud, we saw the errors of our ways, but my wisdom can now be imparted on you: either skip the main, or share the cheesecake. They were massive wedges of joy, so big they took your breath away. They are almost everything one needs from a cheesecake: slightly sour, extremely dense, creamy as hell and not at all too sweet. The only downside was their base, which was a sponge rather than a buttery biscuit base that Greg Wallace might ‘rap’ about’. But that’s just Junior’s style, so I can’t be too mad about it. The whole meal was really bloody good; yes, it’s now a tourist hotspot, at which the locals may turn their noses, but sometimes you just have to go with the masses and stop fighting for the latest and greatest, and just celebrate the old-school.

Plates licked clean, we had to spend a few hours wandering around town. We found the antique centre and ambled around in the dappled rainbows, refracted through crystal chandeliers. We continued to bask in the golden light of the evening as we made our way to central park, cut across the centre beneath the lake at which we married, then back down fifth avenue, downtown to the West Village.

Continuing the theme of going with the masses, we learned about La Lanterna di Vittorio and its flight of lasagnes (yes you read that correctly!) on a noisy television screen in the back of the taxi from JFK to the city. They were flogging it based on Taylor Swift having eaten a pizza there once, but it wasn’t the pizza that interested me (none could compare to L’industrie now) but the eight (or twelve) ramekins of lasagne. Annoyingly, we had to sit in a little heated greenhouse outside, which for two already large fellas, now terminally bloated, was snug to say the least. And the constant banging of the door on this windy night was driving my ADHD-brain mad (that and what can only be described as glycaemic turbulence after a week of indulgence). But when the flight of lasagnes landed at our table, my mood was instantly elevated. Every single flavour, from smoked salmon to salsiccia and friarelli (that bitter rabe flavour is unrivalled), this was a flight of angels. And what do you get with eight ramekins of lasagne? Eight opportunities to hack away with a fork at those burnt, crispy bits.