Sisters don't shake hands-sister's got to hug

On June 8th, after several years of petitioning, my sister Julia was finally permitted to visit me in New York. This was a monumental occasion, as my younger siblings are usually used as pawns to get me to come to where the family is. And dangit, if my sister was going to be in town, probably for the only time in her life, I was going to show her the best time she'd ever seen.
A photo Julia took of my neighborhood, as it appears in the wild

So when Julia gets in on Tuesday night, I take her to the Lodge for dinner. Under ceramic antlers and the watchful gaze of a tattooed anorexic waitress, we had chicken fingers and skirt steak and talked about Important Things. The next day, however, was dismal. It rained--so much rain--and it was hot. And when New York gets wet and hot everything smells like garbage. And I had to go to work so Julia had to spend the whole day at lunch alone.
This is Kelsey

We went to Lombardi's for lunch, where I introduced her to the Best Pizza Combination imaginable: ricotta and pepperoni. Julia was mollified by the food, and by seeing her friend Kelsey, but the weather and the genuinely blah feel of the whole day conspired against her.

Julia's friend Chloe

Thursday, Julia's friend Chloe was in the city, so I didn't feel so bad about leaving her alone all day. After work, we went shopping on Broadway, which was well enough, until I passed this new store called All Saints and I thought, "Huh. My roommate Alexis said I would really like this place. I should go in."

No, my friends, I should not have gone in. You know how when you get an Anthropologie catalogue and you look at the pages of beautiful long-haired brunettes lounging about in Icelandic huts on impossibly expensive furniture and you think "Yes, this, I want all of this. This is how I see my future" and you want to buy everything in said catalogue? All Saints is my Anthropologie. Everything from the basics-with-a-twist design to the lux knitwear to the 19th-century silk prints had me foaming at the mouth. Over the course of the next week, I will have returned to All Saints over 4 more times, spending over $700. This is not money I have! This is crazy! But I love it all SO MUCH.
Julia in her new All Saints sweater

On this visit (Round 1) I bought Julia a grey sweatshirt and myself a silk dress. I drop off Chloe at her car, then take Julia on a brief walk around Time Square. We get our snack on at juniors, where Brooke comes to visit us and engage in some late-night cheese consumption. All of this would be much more rock n' roll for me if I hadn't had to get up at like, 4am for the temple. Weeeeeeeeeeak.
Friday, my Fake Husband was sweet enough to hang out with my sister while I returned to my world-cup-frenzied office. Seriously, I'm right across from the British executives' office, and every time there's a goal there is SO MUCH yelling, and I feel like I'm going to have a heart attack. Plus, there's all of these weird account girls who keep going in and making questionable amorous-sounding noises that sound a lot like a bad Sex in the City episode. Hey look guys, it's the one where Samantha tries to impress her boss by acting like she cares about Mexico's World Cup performance. Empowerment!

Met up with Mark and Julia at Lombardi's. For some weird reason, Mark was not as enamored with the Perfect Combination as Julia and I were. He was, however, as enamored as we were by All Saints, which we stopped by on my way back to the office for Round 2 (what?!? It's around the corner from the pizza place!) This time, I bought a sweater with this equestrian leather-and-brass detail. Amazing. Julia was chocked by indecision and couldn't decide. Mark bought the world's sexiest sweater, which it has been too hot to wear (serious frowny face on that one).

I took Julia on a tour of the office so she could see all the exciting things I do. She seemed genuinely excited by the atmosphere and the products we represent, which was great. Dad was super impressed too, but he ultimately things there is something dishonest about advertising. Julia on the other hand seems to love it as much as I do, so it's nice to have someone in the family to bond with.

After work, I meet up with Julia and Kelsey at 30 Rock. On the way there, I walked 2 blocks alongside Patrick Stewart. People kept shaking his hand and yelling "Hey, Captain Picard!" at him. I was surprised he had so many black male fans, as the stereotypical Star Trek: TNG fan is, in my mind's eye, awkward white dudes. Clearly, this is the problem with stereotypes: we miss profound cross-cultural truths.

We go into the NBC store, meet up with Anna, and then head over to Anthropologie. Now, this will be sad to admit, but for the interest of Professional Journalism I must be truthful about the facts. Remember, dear readers, how a short month ago I was depressed to realize that Boston was maybe kind of a little maybe a bit provincial maybe? And remember when a trip to Uniqulo made me realize that HM was rubbish and Japanese basics were the way of the future? Well, All Saints has spoiled me against Anthropologie. Don't get me wrong-the store has some great stuff, it's still totally aspirational and beautiful and adorable, but I found that I didn't have the same passion for the clothes. And I'm willing to admit it's because I'm euphemistically curvy and All Saints clothing looks better on euphemisms than Anthropolgie clothes do. But that said, it was a sad day, realizing my favorite clothing store was now only my second favorite. It was a bit like having a second child, and thinking you'll love him equally, but you realize you love the new baby more because it's cuter and it doesn't require that expensive heart valve replacement.

After clothing shopping, Anna accompanied the 3 of us to Popburger, where we eat small burgers and listen to Missy Elliot's "Pass The Dutch" at least 3 times. Then, a horrible decision was made: to return to Anna's apartment so Julia and Kelsey could show us the Olsen's straight-to-video classic Holiday in the Sun.

I don't even know where to start with this movie. The French credits? The screenplay built around an Atlantis Resort infomercial? The 90s wardrobe? The dialogue that was ostensibly written by a screenwriter but which was in fact probably written by the twins themselves? The brief appearance of a teenage Megan Fox who speaks in a helium-high voice and may or may not have a belly chain? I don't know. I have no answers for you.
There is no where in the world that makes me happier than amusement parks. Consistently in my dreams, "Happiness" is coded through the meme of "roller coaster." If I'm on an island and there's an amusement park on the mainland and I missed the ferry, …you can tell what that means. If I can’t find a friend at the amusement park, I'll bet you can guess what that symbolizes. And when I climb on board the world's best roller coaster with my best friend, that's pretty obvious too. (Seriously, I dream about amusement parks A LOT)
So when Julia wanted to spend a Saturday doing New York things, it was pretty obvious to me she was going to have to experience the joy that is Coney Island, despite the fact that no one wanted to go (white people are pusssies about the 'cleanliness' level at Coney Island, even though it's vastly superior to any other area of Brooklyn). The main problem? Julia is scared of roller coasters.
But that didn't stop us from going on the Ferris wheel, or getting nachos, or walking the boardwalk and watching those crazy dudes fish for crab off the pier.

And it didn't stop us from eating at Nathan's and going on a carousel and getting our photos awkwardly taken in an awkwardly-timed photo booth. Because it's summer! And we're in New York! And everything that comes out of a New York summer is awesome, even if you're scared of fast rides.

When we got back home, we rented The Warriors so we could get our Coney Island fix. Plus, Mark and I had never seen it, and it seems a bit silly to be living in New York having never seen The Warriors.

Sunday, I gave an awkward lesson, made more awkward by the fact that I still don't know what to do with the Book of Samuel. Afterwards, we watched Germany versus Australia, one of the most awesome games I have seen so far in the World Cup. Julia accompanied me to yoga, and then afterwards we invited her friend Kelsey to watch Hot Rod and sleep over. I sort of liked having a huge crush of people on my bed vegging out to terrible movies--it felt like home.
Mary, getting healthy post-yoga

On Monday (June 14 already!), I took the day off to hang out with Julia. I introduced her to the B-list talent and the D-list production values that make Tales from the Darkside such a success. After a few episodes, we motivate ourselves enough to put on shoes, than amble out into the bright sunlight to pick up Julia's friend Erica. I took the girls to the local Brooklyn too-twee-for-school joint, Pies n' Thighs, which has one of the best chicken biscuits possible (caveat: in a land without Chick-fil-a).
Julia and a missing Erica at Pies n' Thighs

I'm not telling this story to talk about what an awesome sister I am, but rather to share with you a little bit of emotion. So, like all meals I've taken Julia and her friends too, I paid for lunch. And I got to tell you dude, when you buy poor struggling kids a lunch, it's like their faces light up. They relax, their shoulders drop, they smile more--they're SO GREATFUL for food. And I think it's sweet, because I can remember feeling so bad about having adults pay for my food when I was in school, but it meant a whole lot to me. And I love that I have the means to do things like pick up lunch every once in a while and buy my sister sweaters she wants but she can’t afford. Isn’t that what sisters are for, anyway?

Erica, being a good friend, is patient enough to accompany us to Broadway for All Saints Round 3 (this time shorts and a shirt!). We also stopped in Zara, which was pretty appalling. As I twittered earlier, "Such a fugly collection-almost as bad as american apparel's lauren-hutton-crackhead look."

We parted ways with Lauren, then went to the Starbucks on Canal Street and changed into our new clothes. Caught the E train into Brooklyn, then met up with Mark, Kelsey, and Brooke at Grimaldi's.

While the food at Grimaldi's was good, as always, Julia and I ordered ricotta and pepperoni and were VERY displeased to discover the Perfect Combination was in fact only perfect at Lombardi's. Grimaldi's pizza tasted bland and soggy in comparison. Notice I said in comparison!

It's not like Grimaldi's is ever going to be bad. But one thing it's always going to have going for it is the location. Right by the wharf, under the Brooklyn Bridge, near DUMBO, it's pretty much the best of old Brooklyn in a bottle.

Julia leaving Tuesday morning was pretty devastating. As a family, we REALLY don't like being apart, and having Julia in town was just a reminder of how much more lonely and depressing my life is without her in it. She has a huge amount of energy and optimism and positivity, she's jovial without being mean spirited, adventurous and smart. She is the light of my boyfriend's life, and she makes everything around her seem more fun. So it was really awful having to say goodbye to her at the street corner. I cried all the way to the office. I mean seriously, without Julia who can I count on to take awesome pictures like these:

To get a sense of how crazy my family is, let me put our Twitter feeds in perspective (Julia is @levesinetlepecq, our younger sister Jordan is @jonezz07, I am @alexiaiscariot)

Mary: I have the best sister in the world. So sad to see her go
Jordan: I have the best sister in the world...pish posh. Thanks @alexiaiscariot
Mary: @jonezz07: hey at least she visits me which no one else will do! But srsly, i love all you equally. Except margaret bc she's in italy w/o me
Jordan: @alexiaiscariot lies. you know i would visit you if i could! Mom is cray cray!
Julia: @jonezz07 and @AlexiaIscariot look, our family should never seperate. Its just awful when we do.
Jordan: @levesinetlepecq you know you have issues and if it were up to you we'd all be in the same room all the time :)
Mary: @levesinetlepecq: hey remember that time when our family was seperated for no good reason? Oh wait THAT JUST HAPPENED
Julia: @jonezz07 well duh... When you're older and you leave you'll understand better. We just have the best family of all time.
Mary: @jonezz07: i think @levesinetlepecq and i would be happy just to all be in the same house again. Or at least the same town
Jordan: @levesinetlepecq and @alexiaiscariot yall are just cray cray really
Mary: @levesinetlepecq is right @jonezz07. We have the worlds best family. Also sorry @theenrighthouse for the million texts your phone is getting

The slippage between a scientific fact and moral exhortation is accomplished with remarkable ease in a world where people lack the confidence to speak in the language of right and wrong. But turning science into an arbiter of policy and behaviour only serves to confuse matters. Science can provide facts about the way the world works, but it cannot say very much about what it all means and what we should do about it. Yes, the search for truth requires scientific experimentation and the discovery of new facts; but it also demands answers about the meaning of those facts, and those answers can only be clarified through moral, philosophical investigation and debate.
--Frank Furedi

Aw, the misguided ads of our parents. Be sure you click on the photo of the baby to get that awesome copy.

Selections from Facebook, or Why I Love My Family:

Jordan Jones why is today such a weird day? k so i'm in my room and i see a FAT (but small) black spider on my wall so i tapped it with a stick and it fell on the ground and died but four really small YELLOW SPIDERS (WHAT THE HECK) CRAWLED OUT FROM ITS BODY AND WENT AROUND MY ROOM REALLY FAST THIS IS NOT NORMAL

This morning was listening to 'marching bands of manhattan,' walking to work. Turned the corner, ran into an actual brass band marching down the sidewalk

Time for change
We all make poor decisions in our lives. I can remember a time when I thought dressing like a lesbian and ignoring the guys I was interested in was the surest way to win said guy over. How was I to know these simple signals (I’m cool and low maintenance! I’m paying attention to everyone BUT you!) would be ignored.

Saturday, I felt it was time for another poor decision. I have been living a very happy life lately as the result of slew of correct decisions: I have a job I adore that pays me well, I have the world’s most perfect partner, I live in the greatest city in the world, I feel more attractive than I have in years, and I have a network of amazing friends and family who bring me joy and happiness. All of these things are the result of work, discipline, maintenance, and sacrifice (some more than others), but most of all, the result of making the correct decisions in life.

So I was due for a bad one. And what, as a woman in her late twenties, could be better than ruining her hair?

You see, for years, I’ve been growing my hair out. As of Saturday, June 5th, my hair was past my shoulder blades. It was the longest it’s ever been in my life. It took an eternity to grow it that long. And I vowed that I would never cut it until I got married. I thought that would be the kind of delightful eccentricity that would be a good story.

And then I fell in love with a man so absolutely wonderful as to make me perplexed as to what I’ve done to deserve him. And I am happy, and trying to be patient while we sort our future out. And it occurred to me at some point that I don’t want to be with anyone but him. And that means taking a jump off a cliff, taking a risk, and hoping at the end of the day that I won’t be too bruised by the result.

So as a testament to the fact that I’ve found the great love of my life, I cut my hair. It’s kind of a testament to my commitment, as it were. However romantic that sounds, cutting off all my hair and dying it blonde was perhaps not the best idea. In fact, it was a very Poor Decision. And I should have known it was going to be a Poor when I walked into the salon and I was greeted by a pirate hooker:

I scheduled an appointment with Woodley and Bunny, this super posh hipster salon and “apothecary” on North 12th street. It was recommended by a friend who had her color done there. They hadn’t done it right the first time, and she had to go back and get it corrected, but I figured that was a fluke, since she was trying to go red, and red is notoriously difficult to mix properly.

I told the salon over the phone I wanted to be platinum. To get my hair from dark brown to platinum takes about 7-8 hours, which I had budgeted for. When I came into the salon though, it was clear no one really wanted to take the time necessary to make me platinum. The colorist didn’t want to dye all my hair—understandable, given the length and the damage on the ends—but to make her life easier, cut off 6 inches before even starting, which reduced my hair to shoulder length. Then, after 3 hours in the tub, she declares me done, seeing as she has other clients to see. My hair is yellow—not blonde, not “ash,” not platinum, but yellow.

Yellow, you see, is what happens when you do a double-bleach process on a dark brunette. To get white, I would have to go through a quadruple bleach process. But by the time the hair began to try and I saw the color, she was busy with another client, the salon was full, and it was clear from everyone’s attitude they wanted me out as soon as possible. Then, they give me a “celebrity stylist” who does editorial work for my hair. He asks me what I want. I tell him something rock n’ roll that I can still dress up for church or temple. I tell him to use his discretion. Without bothering to find out what kind of hair I have (crazy curly), he takes a razor and hacks my hair into chunky layers, keeping it about chin-length (when blow-dried, mind you). He tells me I need to blow dry it and flat-iron it every day to keep it’s shape. I’m like—dude, do you want my hair to fall out? Curly, bleached hair can’t begin to withstand that sort of regimen.

Now, that said, I love my haircut. Especially after a shower—it’s totally Nancy-Spungen-esque.
(^Nancy)

(^Mary)

But with the yellow, it looks terrible. It makes my skin look bad, it washes me out, and I look crazy if I try to brush it out. In short: I made a Poor Decision. I have an appointment on June 18th to fix it, so hopefully platinum will do my skin more favors than yellow. But in general, despite the fact that I don’t look amazing, I am enjoying the punk rock attitude I get with my blonde mop. It's like every day is dress up.

But that Saturday, I was pretty discouraged by my bad decision. And the rest of my day got worse. Mark was very sweet about the hair, and naturally very positive, but I can tell that it’s not my best look, and he (and the rest of my friends) knows it. I made cookies for Patricia’s choir bake sale. It was hot, and I didn’t have most of the ingredients, nor could I find them in Williamsburg, so I had to make substitutions. Mark and I had a nearly existential crisis trying to install an air conditioner in our room, only to discover after it was installed that it was, in fact, broken.

Luckily, Sunday was a bit better. I gave the best lesson I’ve given since becoming Gospel Doctrine teacher, and my class genuinely seemed to like my new hair, which while maybe not truthful, was a sweet gesture nonetheless. And they loved the leftover cookies I gave them. After church, yoga, and then Mark and I cooked a summer dinner for Lakshmi, Brooke, and Mary South. Because it was so hot, we went with a broccoli soup, arugula with lemon vinaigrette, raw vegetables, and strawberries for dessert (provided by Laks).

Monday, still recovering from my weird pseudo-allergy attack, I cash in my groupon at “Skin TheraP” on 301 81st street. Ok, straight up, the name is lame, but they were offering $160 glycolic peels for $55, and I’m not going to say no to that. The whole experience was a bit surreal, especially getting used to a stranger massaging my face and neck. Then, the gel itself definitely burned, but not as deep as I was expecting. Apparently the deep peels that turn your face red and take 6 days to heal are called, like, rejuvenating peels, and those cost around $120. I am highly considering coming back and getting one, as I have crazy skin damage. The technician scanned my face with this special ultraviolet light to show me the sad state of my sun-tortured skin, and made me promise never to go outside without SPF 50. Frowny face.


Here is a picture of Bill Gates having milkshakes with Warren Buffet! You're welcome!

Every once in a while I stumble across an article that keeps me from despairing at the state of gender relations in this world. This week, salvation came not from the Atlantic’s impressive “The End of Men?” article, but from an Oddee.com entry entitled “10 Most Cruel Wives.”

Allow me to introduce that great equalizer of crazy, Mrs. Katherine Knight:

The first Australian woman to be sentenced to a natural life term without parole, Katherine Knight, had a history of violence in relationships. She mashed the dentures of one of her ex-husbands and slashed the throat of another husband's eight-week-old puppy before his eyes. A heated relationship with John Charles Thomas Price became public knowledge with an Apprehended Violence Order that Price had filed against Knight. She stabbed Mr Price 37 times with a butcher's knife before skinning him and hanging his hide from a meat hook in their lounge room back in 2000. She then decapitated him and put his head in a pot on the stove, baked flesh from his buttocks and cooked vegetables and gravy as side dishes to serve to Mr Price's children. Police found the macabre dinner before the adult children arrived home.

See? It’s not just men who butcher their wives, cut off their heads, and try to pull a Titus on their progeny! Women do it to? Don’t you feel better? I know I do!

You know what else makes me feel good? Goal achievement. June 3rd marks the day in which I successfully made it through all 5 cycles of Matthew Barney’s Cremaster. Oh, Cycles 4 and 5, how much you showed me! There was Vaseline and tap dancing and anthropomorphic testicles. There was goat-men and opera singers and mermaids without genitals. But the best part? The theater was practically empty, allowing me to lift up several cupholders and create a roman-banquet-style day bed where I lounged, eating popcorn and drinking pepsi and absorbing video art the way it was meant to be seen. I will admit to playing Bejeweled during a particularly tedious motorcar race. But I was in the last row, so who are you to judge?

Another goal was achieved the following day, on Friday June 4th. As I noted sadly a few weeks ago, I had not eaten at a single place listed in the “Top 50 Restaurants in the World.” That was thankfully corrected by my sweetheart, Ms. Anna O’Brien, who took me to Wylie Dufresne's wd-50 as a belated Christmas present.

Oh, how do I even begin deconstructing a meal this heartbreakingly amazing yet blisteringly expensive? Probably the way in which will annoy just about everyone: a long, involved blog post complete with photos taken from flickr!

wd-50: The 12 course tasting menu deconstructed

First course: Spanish mackerel, arriving with broccoli rabe, enoki, orange.
Anna and I started with the Spanish mackerel.
It is not news that I really hate seafood, but I try to make a point of trying it whenever I go to nice restaurants. I feel like I’m missing out on a crucial part of the chef’s creativity if I am cutting out seafood, plus, seafood (and sweetbreads and brains and other questionable food) has it’s best chance of success (that is to say, pleasing me) when cooked by an artist. And my goodness, what a way to start! The mackerel was a revelation—light, clean, and simple.

Second course: Everything bagel, smoked salmon threads, crispy cream cheese

One of the reasons I was so excited to eat at wd~50 is Wylie Dufresne’s reputation for deconstructing foods (that, and the concept of ‘food science’ geeks me out). So when I bit into my “everything bagel” only to discover it was actually ice-cream seasoned to taste like an everything bagel, I practically lost my mind. The cream cheese arrived in a thin wafer, and you had to break off a section to layer with your “bagel” and “lox.” Absolutely unreal.

Third course: Foie gras, passionfruit, chinese celery

As Anna and I wait for the third course to arrive, we start munching on the flat bread that decorates the center of the table. The consistency of an Indian papadum, these flatbread wafers tasted exactly like a light, delicate French-bread crust. When the waiter placed a huge chunk of foie gras down in front of me, I naturally reached for the flatbread to offset the butteriness. No need. Upon cutting into the foie gras, I was surprised by a flood of yellow gel that ran out of the center—a passion fruit filling. When layered on my fork with the Chinese celery, the bitterness of the vegetable offset the sweet/fat taste of the other components perfectly.

Fourth course: Scrambled egg ravioli, charred avocado, kindai kampachi

What should have been obvious to everyone took me until roughly the end of the third course to figure out: deconstructed food needs to be constructed. This seems like a basic thing: each element tastes ok apart, but amazing together. In general, when eating out at someplace fancy-schmancy, I try to load my fork with all the components on the plate in order to see how the chef envisioned the flavor harmony. Usually everything tastes great apart, and amazing together. At wd~50, it was quite a different story: things tasted awful as separates: bitter, boring, bland, salty, fishy, saccharine. But when stacked together? Oh my gosh—a complete transformation, a perfect mouthful of perfectly cooked food, precisely measured and prepared to elicit the perfect blend of taste and intensity.

What was also fantastic to see was the sheer human ingenuity of what Dufresne was doing. I was seeing techniques I hadn’t even imagined, much less seen. Take the fourth course: Scrambled egg ravioli. The plate arrives with a cube of egg on it, like an omelet that has been folded on itself over and over until it forms a box. A box that is full of delicious, creamy scrambled egg. Next to it is a bit of charred avocado, as well as a pile of small crispy potatoes the size of mustard seeds and a thin piece of fish.

Fifth course: Cold fried chicken, buttermilk-ricotta, tabasco, caviar

Previous to my night at wd~50, the only caviar I’ve ever had wasn’t even caviar—it was pink salmon roe, served to me on stale bellini at a Russian restaurant. Salmon roe has an unfortunate texture that feels like you’re popping miniature water balloons in your mouth with every bite. While this caviar—proper black sturgeon caviar—wasn’t really my thing, it was definitely beautiful in it’s own way. Very salty, very strong, very delicate. With the right dish, I could be persuaded to love it. This dish had a bit too much caviar on the plate, which I felt overwhelmed the other components. That said, what a delight! A chicken tureen with crispy skin, buttermilk-ricotta spilling over like rich mashed potatoes, and a spicy Tabasco sauce all worked together to make this the perfect breakfast for the morning after.

Sixth course: Sweet shrimp, red pepper, black sesame, shiso

Again, not a huge fan of seafood, but this shrimp was so fresh I couldn’t taste anything but the sweetness. The red pepper threads had a curious texture, and the black sesame gave a rich depth to the whole plate.

Seventh course: Beef and béarnaise

So after several plates of fish, the sixth course is ready to come out, and I’m excited, because it means I’m ready to move into real land animal territory: things with hooves and real blood! But no! In a clever bait-and-switch move, Wylie doesn’t give me beef with béarnaise sauce, but béarnaise with beef sauce. Or more specifically, béarnaise that’s been treated to look and feel like matzoth balls, served in a rich beef broth. The béarnaise “gnocchi” were gooey on the inside but firm on the outside, not unlike the weeping scrambled egg ravioli from course 4.

Eighth course: Lamb loin, black garlic romesco, soybean, pickled garlic chive

My first hoofed animal appears! And with it, a cluster of vegetables that taste vaguely minty but are in fact not meat, and a garlic sauce that brings out the bloody taste of the lamb (trust me, a good thing). Most lamb I try tends to be “gamey”, which is a polite word for “rancid-and-fishy.” Not so! This lamb was like beef, only lighter somehow, and a little bit more greasy (again, in a good way).

Ninth course: Chewy lychee sorbet, pistachio, lemon, celery

When I saw the palate-cleansing sorbet in front of me, my heart was heavy, for I knew the main thrust of the dinner was over, and everything from now on was like a consolation prize. I started looking at other tables who were just starting their meals, jealous that I wasn’t trying the deconstructed Eggs Benedict or braised beef. It didn’t help that the chewy lychee sorbet was dreadful. It was the only part of the meal I didn’t like, and mostly due to the consistency of the sorbet, which was in fact almost disgustingly chewy. But the other sorbets were light and clean, and I finished refreshed, ready to tackle the final hurdles.

Tenth course: Hazelnut tart, coconut, chocolate, chicory

Unlike the rest of my family, I am not obsessed with Nutella. In fact, I don’t care about it at all. I don’t even like the flavor of Hazelnut, especially with chocolate. But the chocolate hazelnut tart put before me was a runny, crunchy dream that exists somewhere between the worlds of sleeping and waking. I almost leaned forward and licked my plate.

Eleventh course: Caramelized brioche, apricot, buttercream, lemon thyme

So imagine the perfect French toast, blended with the most perfect vanilla cupcake, then blended with an apricot tart, deconstructed, and served with a lemon thyme foam? That would be the amazing caramelized brioche, served with a buttercream that brought me to tears.

Twelfth Course: Cocoa packets. Chocolate shortbread, milk ice cream


As if I wasn’t impressed enough, wd~50 decides to win me over with just one final trick up its sleeze: the bonbon tray. I am a firm believer that a poorly-conceived bonbon tray can make or break an evening. Case in point: Gordon Ramsey at the London, who marred The Most Perfect Dinner of My Life with an inferior tower of stale popcorn and bitter treats. But Wylie, my dear Wylie, how much he cares for us. How much he cares for every detail. Why else would he engineer perfect chocolate leather packets filled with crunchy cocoa, which have the look and feel of a ketchup packet but taste like a crunchy slice of heaven? Why else would he make the perfect ice cream sandwich by taking milk, freezing it with liquid nitrogen, and rolling it in chocolate shortbread crumbles? It boggles the mind.

I’m not going to lie, there’s something heartstopping about receiving a $400 bill at the end of dinner for 2, but sometimes sacrifices need to be made for perfection. And wd~50 was a stunning, perfect meal. The waiters were kind, relaxed, funny, and unpretentious. They managed to be attractive, but in a laid-back, approachable way that you rarely see at LES restaurants. The décor, the bathroom choices, the atmosphere was absolutely spot on. And it was wonderful to be able to lean over and talk about food with the tables around you. Everyone was enthusiastic about food and adventure, and were more than happy to engage in conversation or ask a question about something on our plate. And that’s the kind of experience that’s priceless. Plus, there’s that sweet taste of success as another goal is checked off of my life’s “To Do” list.