New York City. It’s actually quite a small city when you think about square miles, but it’s big… because of the tall buildings? The number of businesses that are on it? The sheer number of people who live here? What are the odds that you’re going to not only be dining at the same restaurant as someone you know, but also be sitting at the table next to them?

My friend, Chris, and I were dining at Scarpetta tonight, and lo and behold, a colleague visiting from San Francisco, his wife, and her parents ended up dining and being seated at the table next to us. I had no idea they were even there, as we were having a very animated conversation, until my colleague came by to say hi and introduce his family. This has never happened in my entire time in New York. “Didn’t realize this city was so small that we had to end up eating at the same place tonight,” my colleague joked.

Tonight, my team, including two team members from our San Francisco office, had dinner at ABC Cocina, a spot I’ve been wanting to try for a couple years but just never got around to going. As you usually do at tapas restaurants, the dishes are small plates and all are for sharing. It’s fun to share food… until you start eating with people who pretty much eat nothing except the most basic foods.

Because I’ve developed a reputation for being knowledgable about food of all kinds, my colleagues let me do all the ordering. What ended up happening was that one of our visiting colleagues, who is incredibly sheltered and not well traveled at all (by choice, not by limited budget) refused to eat anything at the table other than the pork tacos that we ordered. He wouldn’t even touch the bread basket that came to the table. He questioned our servers about every last ingredient in each dish. Being told that a dish was “salmon” was simply not enough. I tried my best to hold my tongue and not say anything mean, but it was really hard for me. Just try new food. Why is it so difficult? You’re an adult. Act like one. It’s not like anyone is asking you to pay for food that you don’t like. Money isn’t an issue here. Just TRY IT.

When I think of people who are that picky of an eater, I then think that they must also be fairly racist… which may sound extreme because there’s a very strong correlation between pickiness in eating and racism. I wonder how many non-white people he really spends time with and is actually friendly with.

I can’t do shared food with him anymore and hope to never have to eat at a restaurant with shared plates with him ever again.

Afternoon tea. It’s one of those uppity, generally overpriced, stick-your-pinky-finger-out-while-sipping-tea-from-a-delicate-cup events that I rarely do anymore except with maybe one or two girlfriends. It conjures up images of flowery tea pots, colorful wallpaper, and expensive crustless sandwiches. And yet, it’s still fun to do with the right people.

My friend and I went this past weekend to have afternoon tea at a spot we both visited and liked about six years ago, and sadly, the quality had gone down hill. The place was just as pretty and picturesque as we remembered it, but the sandwiches had bread that was dried out, the clotted cream was too cold, and the quality of the ingredients in the sandwiches just seemed stale and old. The prices had since gone up, as well, so it was not a cheap or even moderately priced affair to come here. They did, however, throw in a free glass of Veuve Cliquot champagne for each of us, but it still wasn’t enough for each of us to even think about going back.

Sometimes people go to places just for the ambiance and are okay to settle for mediocre food. We are not those people.

I’m still coughing and phlegmy with my voice coming in and out. It’s really uncomfortable being on calls with customers and my colleagues and hearing myself not 100% well, as it’s been nearly three weeks that I’ve had this infection, whatever it is. I thought I was getting better this week until on the train ride home this early evening, I suddenly started coughing incessantly, and it was so bad that my eyes started watering. A woman next to me generously and kindly offered a cough drop. I really just needed water because I was so dry, but I didn’t think to carry a water bottle. It looks like another doctor’s appointment is in tow for me… my fourth in about four weeks.

Today, a good friend from San Francisco and I spent the day together. We watched the off-Broadway musical War Paint together, and as two people who work in marketing, a lot of the themes resonated and cracked both of us up. The one that was the most ridiculous given what industry we work in was when Helena Rubenstein, who was back in the day a famous and very wealthy cosmetics titan and icon, was trying to figure out how to increase her company’s revenue. Her then partner says to her, why don’t you just take the same face cream formulation, label one jar “day cream,” and the second jar “night cream”? No one will know the difference! This “genius” idea led to literally double the revenue they had previously seen and much success for their brand. Of course, this was back in the day when women had no idea what ingredients were going into their skincare and makeup, and they lapped up any type of advertising that led them to believe they were becoming more beautiful and “youthful” as a result of all this crap that different brands were selling at the time.

As someone who works in marketing, I realize that there are some things that I am more easily bought in on than others. The “day cream” vs. “night cream” idea is just so awful that it is good.

It’s been almost two months since we left the Upper East Side, and today, we’ve come back to run some errands and pick up some random mail that failed to get to our new address. Seeing all the new Asian restaurants that have popped up here in just two months since we’ve left is a bit crazy. I guess that goes to show how quickly any neighborhood changes. There’s now a very affordable Filipino restaurant that is the second and sister restaurant of a spot I loved downtown, and they even serve macapuno ice cream. Five years ago when I moved to the Upper East Side, I never for a split second thought that macapuno ice cream would make its way up to that neighborhood. I guess I was wrong.

Now, my old neighborhood seems like it has better food than my current one. It always seems to be greener on the other side.

Tonight, we invited some friends over for dinner to see our place for the first time since we’ve moved in. We haven’t had many people over at all due to travel schedules and my parents’ visit, so this is really the only time we’ve had more than one person over at once. Given that it’s a Friday, I unfortunately wasn’t able to cook and instead opted to get takeout for us instead. Seeing what was in the area and what delivered, I decided to get some Napolitean-style pizza from Don Antonio, a spot Chris and I have been to a few times and have really enjoyed. Little did I remember that the pizzas were expensive – with toppings, anywhere from $20-29 each, and they really aren’t that large — just four pieces per pizza. With just three pizzas ordered, with tax and delivery tip, it already came to over $70. I supplemented the pizza with a spring mix/arugula, toasted walnut and pear salad, some grilled shishito peppers, mushroom turnovers, and dessert.

Is this really how much “takeout” for a party of four should cost? I thought you were supposed to save money by eating in?!

I decided that after a lot of negligence that tonight would be the night I’d re-season my cast iron pan. Cast iron is known to be frustrating in that if it’s not seasoned properly, everything will stick to it. I followed the instructions by preheating the oven to 450 degrees,  oiling the cast iron pan inside and out so it was nearly dry, and then sticking the pan into the oven. Almost immediately did the fire alarm in our new apartment go off, and when I say “go off,” I really mean GO OFF. A little voice kept on repeating “fire!”, and the alarm, glaringly loud, just kept going on and on. I couldn’t figure out how to shut it off. I turned the air conditioner on, then the fan, then even opened a window (for the very first time in this apartment). I finally had to call the doorman to ask him how to shut it off (he reiterated how sensitive those fire detectors are). In the end, it went off on its own after the apartment cooled down a bit, but wow, is that thing sensitive. Everyone on my floor must have hated me.

These are the nuances you learn about your apartment the longer you live in it. Maybe next time I set the oven over 400 degrees, I will just need to shut the fire detector off.