if i can’t get home i’ll get fat
As one of the victims of the Blizzard of Christmas ‘10, I’m stranded in Manhattan until Friday, at least. Thank heavens (or Starwood) for the Element on 39th, which allowed us to keep our room indefinitely at the promotional rate. (The hotel offered half-priced rooms for their grand opening, a rate which was supposed to come to an end on Dec 27. But for those of us stranded by snow, slush and black ice, they’ve extended the rate. Not only that but they’ve offered free daily coffee buzz and a happy hour wine buzz to help ease the pain.)
Today, I spent the morning going back and forth between the hotel gym and laundry room–oh fresh laundry, how I love your fluffy scent. Thank you, Element, for saving me from another day of sludge-splashed jeans. But all of the hotel housework worked up quite an appetite. So what better to do when I’m stranded in Manhattan away from the comforts of home and the Life of Reiley Test Kitchen than head to Momofuku Milk Bar to eat myself numb.
I walked my way there, amid slush puddles and shopping tourists, 20+ blocks. I was fueled by the thought of Cinnamon Bun Pie, a dessert I’d been dreaming of since I first read about it (moths ago) in Daily Candy. But before dessert must come lunch. So I picked from the glass case one of Momofuku’s new pastrami on rye croissants, heated to order with goopy Russian dressing and crunch ‘kraut. I took it to go, along with my pie and some apple pie balls for good measure.
Normally I frown upon eating standing up. Food should be respected. You should be seated, focused, to truly savory the tastes and textures before you. But somehow the thought of walking down Fifth Avenue defiantly nibbling a gooey croissant held a certain appeal to the caged tiger that had been living inside me since my flight out of town was canceled.
I stomped down the avenue pretending I was Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, stopping to admire the Christmas windows as I licked rye crumbs from the corners of my mouth, the promise of pie dangling from a brown bag hooked over my coat sleeve.
Back at the Element, I helped myself to a steaming cup of joe and headed to my room to experience what I anticipated to be dessert nirvana. I warmed the pie in the microwave for 45 seconds per Momofuku instructions.
Gazing longingly as it spun on the microwave’s lazy susan, I could feel myself salivate when a little ooze of cinnamon started to drip out of the pie’s cream cheese center. I wish there were words to describe the taste sensation. I could start by saying that “pie” is probably a misnomer. This decadent dessert starts with a chewy, glutinous cinnamon shell, thicker than a pie crust but shaped like deep dish dough. It serves as a holder for a half inch of cream cheese, brown butter and cinnamon goo all topped with a thin layer of sugary crumble.
Was it worth a forty block walk in street gravy? Was it worth soaking suede boots, molding my socks to my toes, fighting the after-Christmas hordes? Yes, yes, emphatically yes. And while it might not make up for three days of being stranded on America’s most famous island it did serve to make my day taste just a little more sweet.
