A bike ride last summer, in late July, south through Brooklyn.
The hydrant across my street had burst. It was one of those days.
Café Pedlar in Cobble Hill. A neighbourhood institution. High ceilings, Stumptown, a corner with windows.
This was a rare occurrence:
This was not:
Tangy and plump, like good raisins. A bit of rice wine, or vinegar. Lemon thyme. A balmy consistency. Toasted pecans.
And time for a read.
Onwards, south, through Gowanus.
Till Four and Twenty Blackbirds, the famous pie store.
We shared a plum and nectarine crumble with clotted cream, which was divine: not too sweet, texturally satisfying, with an absolutely killer streusel.
There are wide, rough-hewn wooden tables, with space around them. And people hang out.
The walls though: those were my favourite.
We decided judiciously that one slice was not enough between two. So we opted for the one we were fated to: Salted Honey.
Sweet, salty, floral, blossoms and a landscape of herbs distilled into a moussy, dense pâté, lightly browned on top with flakes of sea salt, all cupped in the flakiest, butteriest crust.
Yup. So freaking good. Get yourself there.