[I Don’t] Love [You Anymore] Letters From New York: Root, root, root for the away team

Four years ago this summer was the first time I ever even noticed or paid attention to the FIFA World Cup. I will be the first to admit that when it comes to being an American, I am my most American around soccer as I don’t watch it and only did when America was making a pretty good effort at the World Cup in Brazil. Of course, the USA didn’t make it to the final that time around, but the enthusiasm to see as many games as possible in as many bars as possible had built inside me, and I was eager to get another shot at it four years later, which would of course be this summer. Flash forward to present day and the US didn’t even make it to the World Cup at all, I made a bracket with little to no information and I’m doing very poorly, and my support of America overall has hit an all-time low. Like “researching how to get a foreign passport” low and “writing a blog about what’s great in New York City to trick myself into thinking being in the US is okay” kinda low. That’s how I feel about this country I call home.

But it wasn’t just about me and my feelings for this country anymore, it was also about Kate, my friend who I’m trying to convince not to leave New York City. If you’ve been keeping up with my recent posts, you’ll know that I’m slowly hemorrhaging friends in this city as they all move to greener pastures, literally and figuratively, and the thought of losing one more friend to the great expanse that is America outside of my little bubble was too much to bear. I had to spring into action and convince her to stay, which up to this point I have failed at. Thinking back to my summer of World Cup viewing parties at Brazilian bars, or watching the final on a TV that was set up on the boardwalk on the Rockaways, I knew that I might have finally come up with a plan to make her stay. There was nothing quite as fun as everyone stopping, holding their breath, and watching some penalty kicks over a beer. It’s so rare when a group of people come together like that in this city, so maybe that’s what Kate has been yearning for.

The most fun I had during the last World Cup was going to a venue where there was a fervor for one particular team. Watching Germany play in a beer hall. Watching Brazil play at a Brazilian owned bar. Watching America play on my phone in a McDonalds. I had to find a bar and a game that would capture that magic of rooting for the home team despite our home team being at, well, home and not in Russia this time. The great thing about New York City, and I may blow all of your minds with this, but it’s referred to as a melting pot of cultures. There are people from all over the world, meaning there are people cheering for countries all over the world. Unfortunately by the time Kate and I were ready and able to see a game, all that was left were European countries in the World Cup. I have no problem with Europe, I’ve been many times, we’re chill, but I kinda wanted to go to a Mexican taqueria to watch a game. Instead, our best bet was watching the England vs. Sweden quarter final on Saturday, July 7th. I knew of an English pub that is always showing Premier League games that’s also conveniently located off the G (Hey, remember when I exclusively talked about places along the G line? I’ll get back to those posts again soon, I promise), so early one Saturday morning, I headed over to Black Swan on Bedford Ave to get my beer and soccer on with Kate.


6 screens….WITH SOUND!!!!

The game started at 10:00 am, but knowing that it was a big game and that there would be a lot of people vying for seats, my goal was to get there at 9:30 latest. At 9:45, my boyfriend and I strolled in to an already packed bar, all seats taken, limited standing room only. Kate was on her way, but I was worried that my inability to get my shit together in a timely fashion would tarnish her viewing experience and thus, her New York City living experience. Fortunately for me, I’ve already managed to do a lot of damage in that department, so ruining an activity that she already wasn’t into would just be par for the course. I tried to text her just to warn her that it was packed, last chance to turn around if she didn’t feel like standing for the next two hours and straining to see the TV, but because it was so crowded I had no service and my text never sent. A couple minutes into the game, Kate walked in and claimed some floor space next to us, ready to hunker down and watch sport.

I told her how my boyfriend was an avid soccer fan and how he could enlighten us as to how the game worked and who all the players were. Kate stared at me for a solid few seconds and then said, “I used to play soccer, pretty competitively, for years. I know soccer.” She apparently was the goalie. A running theme through all of these posts is that I don’t do my research, and yet again, I had not. I just figured she must not know soccer because who does. She does. And my boyfriend does. Most of my family does. Everyone in Black Swan does. I don’t. I learn just enough to watch the game I’m watching and then immediately forget it so I can save that space in my brain for imagining what my cat’s birth was like. Was it in a field, or an alley? Did his mother howl in pain? How messy was it? What’s it mean to be off sides in soccer? Were there multiple cats in the litter?


Kate’s face when she’s about to tell you that she used to be a goalie

I decided for Kate’s viewing pleasure, and probably for everyone there’s viewing pleasure, I would keep my questioning to a low roar. I was thoroughly enjoying my morning beer and how clever I felt that I could tell which team was wearing which color by looking at the scoreboard on the upper left of the TV, when about 30 minutes in England scored a goal! The place went wild, people screaming, some of us taking out our phones to take pictures of the chaotic celebration. “Are you taking pictures for a blog, too?!” I screamed. I didn’t scream that, but can you imagine if I did? The man sitting in front of us was perhaps the biggest England soccer stan of them all. Every once in a while he would break out into song, hoping the rest of the bar would chime in, usually they wouldn’t. “Pickford is on FIRE!” he would yell at no one in particular. Pickford is, as I learned that morning, the goalie of the English team. The Kate of England, if you will.

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The excitement following the first goal, and perhaps another blogger in our midst?!

At the halfway point England was up by one and the energy in the bar was high. I was hoping that perhaps someone would want to step outside for a smoke because smoking is big in England. Then maybe we could snag some seats and enjoy the rest of the game over a full English breakfast. Alas, only a few people moved from their seats to go to the bathroom and made it abundantly clear that they were coming back and no one was to sit where they were sitting. Our fate was sealed the minute I decided to try a new face moisturizing routine that morning forcing us to be late. We would have to endure the second half standing. And so we did.

Only a few minutes in to the second half and England scored their second goal. While everyone in the bar was losing their goddamn minds, Kate told me that her coach always said that being up 2-0 is the most dangerous lead to have. I could not tell you why, but for some reason that shook me to my core. It felt like election night 2016. I hadn’t even considered the possibility of England not winning because we were in an English bar so it had to happen, but what if they fucked this up and there was a surprise Swedish victory late in the game? How could we go on with the rest of our day knowing that the man who so loved Pickford would be crushed under the weight of England’s defeat? I didn’t realize how much I needed England to win until that moment, surrounded by people all cheering for the same team. It was then I realized I’d probably be very susceptible to joining a cult. I also had seen “Wild, Wild Country” only a few months ago and was very upset at how much my own wardrobe looked like the Rajneshee’s, so my closeness to cult life has been heavily weighing on my mind lately.

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No one else seemed to be inside their heads as much as I was…

Well, dear reader, this was almost a week ago so I think you know how it turned out. Amidst jeers from the crowd in Black Swan for Sweden to “go fuck itself” and “I like Ikea, but fuck you Sweden!” the dangerous score of 2-0 held for the rest of the game and England defeated Sweden in the quarter final. When the final whistle was blown, the bar went nuts, and my favorite patron began singing “It’s coming home…”

This also being almost a week ago, we now know that it is not in fact coming home, because England lost to Croatia in the semi final. I worry about the man sitting in front of me at that bar, I worry about Pickford, I worry about the USA, and I worry about the sanitary conditions of the location of my cat’s birth. I also worry about losing my friends to the outside world, the one beyond the five boroughs. Hoping she was riding the high from that mornings win, Kate would have a change of heart and perhaps think that New York City was in fact now Old York City and now a part of England. I mean, fuck, that would be amazing. But Kate knew better and turned to me and said, “You know you can watch the World Cup and root for teams literally anywhere?” I guess it is one of the few events that the whole world comes together for and celebrates. Then why aren’t we in it? Oh that’s right, we suck in so many ways these days. I’m moving to Old York City, I guess you would just call it York. But I can’t because of passport and visa restrictions! ARGH! I guess I’ll stay, even if everyone else won’t.

Until next time,

I Love You, New York? Do you love me?

[I Don’t] Love [You Anymore] Letters from New York: coming to terms with the Museum of Sex

After many failed attempts to convince my friend Kate not to move out of New York City, I most recently tried once more, perhaps somewhat misguidedly, at the Museum of Sex in Manhattan. Filled with obscene and sometimes disturbing images and exhibits, it’s a place a 17 year-old boy would probably love and a grown woman would have many mixed feelings about, but mainly upset. If I’ve learned anything from my previous missions with Kate, it’s that the potential for things to go wrong and to push her further away is high. How could a museum where one of the main exhibits focused on an artist many have called a “perverted monster” possibly send my feminist friend to another state?

The Museum of Sex, site of much self-discovery

The last and only other time I had been to the Museum of Sex was roughly 11 years ago. At the time it seemed somewhat rebellious to be surrounded by old timey sex machines and graphic mangas with girls covered in ejaculate. I was legally an adult then, mentally still a child. But with time comes maturity. Maybe. When I got to the Museum of Sex this time around, I waited for Kate and our friend in the gift shop where I found emoji vibrators. “Aww, these are cute,” I thought, and took a picture. Is this what being a mature woman in her 30’s looks like? Looking at the other clientele in the gift shop, it was about what you’d expect; some NYU students who probably thought it would be “a real gas” (that’s how the youth speak) to go to a museum all about fucking, some couples who were probably trying to spice things up, a few tourists with huge cameras strapped around their necks, and after Kate and our friend Casey arrived, there was also us. Where we fit into this group is hard to say. I guess you could classify us under “group of friends who are 33% sure they’re moving to another city.”

Kate blending in with the art, unsure as to why I thought this might be a good idea

Our first glimpse of the actual museum was the exhibit “The Incomplete Araki,” which took us on an uncensored tour of the works of the aforementioned “perverted monster,” Nobuyoshi Araki. A floor plus filled with images of women naked, bound and gagged, hanging upside from ceilings with ropes cutting into parts of their bodies definitely seems has a place in the age of the #MeToo movement. But it’s the wrong place. You walk into the room and they pose the question “Is he a genius or demented?” and I’m landing on demented. The descriptions of him repeatedly coming close to or actually crossing the line with the subjects of his photographs only further confirmed that this guy was gross. We spent the bulk of our time in this exhibit making disgusted faces, looking for pictures of cats (because for some reason those were also sprinkled in there), and trying to find the exit. This was not going to make Kate stay. It may make her leave the country. We had to move on to another exhibit if we wanted to salvage the evening.

Life imitating art, when will I be featured in this museum? I’m better than Araki, BELIEVE THAT

Where the Araki exhibit was on one side of the #MeToo spectrum, the next exhibit, “NSFW: The Female Gaze,” was on the complete other end. It’s as if the museum itself grew a conscience and knew it had to atone for its sins of putting cute cat pictures in close proximity to pictures of women being subjected to torture for the benefit of a man’s “art.” NSFW was pictures of sexuality from the female-identifying perspective, which meant one of the porns was about a woman masturbating to a fantasy about a guy she sat next to at a bus stop. Ya know, real mature lady stuff. At least I think it is because as I mentioned, the juries still out on whether or not I’m a mature lady. I thought that perhaps this exhibit would tip the scales back in my favor of persuading Kate to stay, especially since it was so femme-focused, but the last exhibit had left us all feeling a little bit drained. One of the major draws of the museum was getting to jump in the room full of inflatable boobies, so I figured it might be time to high tail it over there. Maybe if I could get Kate bouncing around soon she might come around, but it was on our way to locate the titty jumping palace that we were distracted by two words: “Animal Sex”

A truly inspiring and fascinating story found on the walls of the animal sex exhibit

What would you do? Truthfully, faced with the choice between models of fake animals fornicating or bouncing around a room of fake breasts, which would you choose? A real Sophie’s Choice. There’s a model of a dolphin with their dolphin dick in another dolphin’s blow hole, the dolphin’s take on a blow job! Some animals having three ways! An article on the wall titled “Homosexual Necrophilia in the Mallard Duck!” I KNOW WHAT I WOULD DO AND IT’S CHECK OUT ANIMAL SEX. Walking around the room, trying to guess if the measurements given for each animal in the exhibit was its height or its genitalia length, realizing that it was definitely 100% their height, and then watching a video of a turtle having sex with a staircase, we knew we made the right choice. “I saved the trip!” I thought, as we watched the turtle almost come to climax. Then a second part of the turtle’s penis in the video appeared and it’s vague reminiscence to an alien made us all a little queasy. Time to jump in boobs, that’ll settle the stomach.

Kate and Casey bouncing amongst the areolas, in technicolor!

We got to the boob room, possibly among the last bouncers of the day. It cost an extra few dollars, but it was worth it to try to turn this day around and prove once and for all that New York was worth staying in. After securing all our valuables and loose change, meaning leaving everything aside from the clothes on our backs with a man we just met outside, we entered the bouncy booby zone. The music immediately switched to heavy metal and I could feel rage coursing through my veins. “This is for the woman who had a rope so tightly tied around her body for some Araki’s shitty photography, she probably couldn’t pee properly for a month!” I thought, throwing myself at a breast mounted on the wall. “This is for objectifying women for centuries making an exhibit about female bodies and sexuality from a female perspective seem like a new and revolutionary idea!” I screamed internally as I dropped all my weight onto a half inflated boob. “This is for the cats who are too close to the torture and for the turtle penis that was too close to the staircase!” and I bounced back and forth between too tata’s like a ping pong ball being hit back and forth on a table. After releasing our rage, we all tried unsuccessfully to shoot each other off the floor boobs. This all makes perfect sense to me, although it might not to you. Here’s a video for clarity.

We overstayed our welcome amongst the walls of inflatable breasts, but we needed to, and only some of us got the squirts afterward. Poring over the books of giant penises in the gift shop, Kate and I both looked at each other in horror. I don’t think that I had convinced her to stay with this visit, but I think we both learned a thing or two about ourselves. And that is that we ARE mature women and we’re not 17 year-old boys. And then we got tacos.

Until next time,

I Love You, New York? Do you love me?

[I Don’t] Love [You Anymore] Letters From New York: In search of the perfect slice

As a quick refresher if you’re reading this feature for the first time, I’m currently on a quest to convince my friends who are all threatening to leave New York City to stay. My subject thus far has been my friend Kate, as her threats of moving away are the most pressing. Now that we’re on the same page, let me tell you the tale of one rainy Sunday afternoon in Brooklyn.

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Kate outside of one of the pizza bang bang visits, either contemplating her decision to move to Boston or her decision to allow me to take her all over New York City in a failed attempt to get her not to move

When people think New York City, they think of a lot of things: yellow taxis, summer smelling like hot garbage, pigeons with deformed extremities, bagels, etc. Something that almost everyone can agree on is that there is nothing that defines New York City quite like the perfect slice of pizza. That and the hysteria that surrounds something that has been deemed otherworldly, resulting in flocks of people lining up for it for hours (see: cronut). So armed with that knowledge, I decided to find a place that was the intersection of both of these: a slice of pizza so good that we would have to wait to taste it for hours. What’s more New York than that? Maybe if a pigeon missing half a wing and several toes flew into the pizza place while we were all waiting and shat all over the dough? It does somehow feel like a perfect metaphor for life in New York; you wait really long for some huge payoff, everyone cramped together fighting for the same thing, hoping they get it next, only to have it destroyed at the last second by an interloper. But alas, that part didn’t happen!

Our pizza bang bang (as all of my journeys with Kate have ended up becoming bang bangs) started at DiFara Pizza, located in Midwood, Brooklyn. I’ve long heard tales of it being the best pizza in the city, although somewhat far afield from the hustle and bustle of the Sbarro’s in Times Square (And yes, that is a reference to Sbarro’s being Michael Scott’s favorite slice of New York pizza from “The Office.” I watch seasons 1-4 pretty consistently now that “30 Rock” isn’t on Netflix anymore. So there’s a peak behind the curtain at my home life, I hope you’re happy. I regret letting you into that part of my life). This is all to say that if you’re a strap-hanger like myself, getting to DiFara’s can be a bit of a journey which is part of the reason I had never been. However, if I learned anything from dragging Kate out into the ass-end of Astoria in my last post, it’s that I learned nothing so why not drag her way the fuck out into Brooklyn. Of course, it being nowhere near anything I’m familiar with, I showed up late. Getting out of the Q at Avenue J, we saw an unassuming looking pizza place that looked maybe like it was closed, maybe was actually a place called MD Kitchen, and maybe a shoe and watch repair place. All of these I can only assume are meant to deter and distract those who weren’t quite ready for what’s been referred to as “legendary” by Anthony Bourdain and “far away” by me earlier in this post. It was in fact open and packed to the gills with people, so we joined the crowd.

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Hi, what are you?

A vaguely amorphous line seemed to have formed in the small pizzeria, so confirming with the guy in front of us that he was in line, we got in back of it and waited. And waited. And waited. The frantic energy from the kitchen scurrying to get out orders was transferring to some of the customers. And by some, I mainly mean me. Other people started to form in line behind us, but we seemed to be making no progress and had at this point been there for 20 minutes without moving. It seemed like no one was even ordering, yet somehow the place was chock a block full of people and pizzas were being churned out left and right. The math didn’t make sense to me, and I say this as someone who minored in Japanese. I could feel Kate questioning why I thought this slice, this wait, this possible shoe and watch repair place would be what swayed her into staying behind in New York. I had to act somehow, so skipping the man in front of us who I initially asked about the line, I asked the people directly in front of him. “Excuse me, are you guys in line?” “Oh no, we already ordered a long time ago.” The guy in front of us turned back to me and gave me a look as if to say, “Can you believe this?! This whole time we’ve been waiting in a non-existent line behind people who have already ordered!” I could believe it. You know why? Because you told me you were standing in line to order, so I lined up behind you. That’s why I can believe it.

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Do you understand the ordering protocol is this place, because I don’t

Once we had cracked the case of the not moving line, we made our way to where it looked like they were potentially taking orders. We weren’t looking for a full pizza pie, again this was to be an afternoon pizza bang bang, there just simply isn’t enough room in the human body. So we were opting for slices. Kate and my boyfriend left it up to me to order our slices, after all, this was my idea and it was my cross to bear. Even though the man who told us there was a line had led us astray before, I wanted to be polite and let him order first since he was clearly there before us. But sometimes politeness doesn’t get you ahead in life. For example, this time. Because I stood behind him, watching him timidly raise a finger, then put it down, continuing to not order. I made a mental note to myself, if he didn’t order in the next five minutes, I was going to let my inner New Yorker out, get assertive, jump to another part of the counter, and order before him. I was about ready to scream to Kate and my boyfriend to just order if they get the chance, and fuck this guy in front of us because it’s been an hour, when I realized someone I went to High School with was directly in front of Kate. You should know that Kate had been saying my name loudly at different intervals for probably 15 minutes at this point. You should also know that I have a somewhat unique name and there was no way that this person didn’t hear my name said and also see me. However, without ever once making eye contact, we both carried on with the rest of our respective visits to DiFara’s not acknowledging the other person. And those are truly the best interactions in New York City. I know you, I have nothing against you, never thought you were a bad person, but I’m in no mood for small talk right now, I’m hardly in the mood to wait for this pizza and I haven’t even ordered it yet. If for no other reason, people should stay in New York City because it’s the best city to avoid people even in small, cramped spaces.

Just when I was about to give up on all of it, the man in front of me ordered a slice. The guy taking the orders wasn’t sure how long it would be because he didn’t know when they would make their next slice pie. “I want three slices if that’ll make it easier,” I immediately interjected. “I also want a slice,” said a woman behind me. This is the only way any of us wanted to associate with each other at this point, to help each other out in our quest for pizza. The guy taking our order scribbled all of our names with the number of slices we wanted haphazardly onto a legal pad. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the way the names were jotted down. And that very nicely lined up to our experience at DiFara’s thus far. We then spent the next hour plus of our wait for our slices alternating between standing outside and trying to stay dry from the rain, and watching the madness unfold inside the pizza place.

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Kate takes in the “behind the counter” scene, starring old man DiFara

We watched as the younger employees, possibly sons of the owner, rushed to take phone orders, get the dough ready, cut the basil onto the finished pies, try to decipher the legal pad of orders. There seemed to be an easier way to streamline the whole process but that would definitely feel out of place here. The draw of this place was the complete anarchy that preceded the “best slice in New York.” Would all of this craziness somehow come together in a way that would make Kate want to stay? Was it all so ridiculous that she would laugh and say, “Huh, I kinda get it now.” At one point, someone came in with a camera and loudly said, “I come here every five years to take a picture of the old man and make sure he isn’t dead.” Then he took pictures of an old man making pizzas behind the counter and left without ordering anything. Looking at the old man, unfazed by the insanity happening around him, I thought that maybe that’s what happens when you stay in New York forever. He seemed at peace, happy to knead some dough, sprinkle on some ingredients, and throw the pies into the oven, even if sometimes he kinda missed and closed the oven door on the pizza so part of it was hanging outside. Hey, no two pies are alike! I liked the cut of old man DiFara’s jib, and thought if I could channel some of his low key energy, maybe I could transfer it onto Kate and she’d decide to stay. But I may have already been too late as Kate was starting to play a game in which we all guessed how much longer we’d have to wait. We were all wrong. It took longer than all of us predicted. None of us could be as chill as old man DiFara, and truthfully that isn’t even his name. It’s Domenico DeMarco, and the name “DiFara” was apparently given to the pizza place by his lawyer in 1959 when he did a classic mashup between DeMarco’s last name and his then business partner Farina. Having been there for almost 60 years, DeMarco still hand-makes every pizza to this day. Would the story of an immigrant from Italy making his way to being one of most popular pizza places in a city full of world class pizza pull at Kate’s heartstrings, making her realize that despite the sometimes endless slog of bullshit that New York throws at you, occasionally it churns out the classic story of the American dream being realized? The answer is no, because stories like that don’t exist anymore and New York City is ridiculously expensive. Old man DiFara having a big break in a pizza saturated city, all while writing orders at random on a legal pad wouldn’t succeed today. A pigeon would shit on his legal pad and then he wouldn’t be able to afford his rent and would be forced out and turned into a Starbucks before he even really got off the ground.

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Old man DiFara, née Domenico DeMarco, puts a pie into the oven, potentially closing the door onto one side of it

We finally got our slices, eating them on the street while ordering a cab to go to our next pizza place. It was, despite all that waiting and all that realization of a New York that just no longer is, a fucking delicious slice of pizza. I looked to Kate hoping to see the overly cooked thin crust and the olive oil dripping down her chin would translate to a need to stay in New York and eat all the pizza, but instead she just bluntly said, “Yeah, that is really good.” And we got in our cab to go to the next place, L & B Spumoni Gardens in Bensonhurst.

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Thank you, pizza! I love you!

L & B’s offers a much different pizza experience. For one, this pizza used to be sold out of a horse drawn wagon in the 1930’s and 40’s. Then over time it turned into a sit down pizzeria in the 50’s, which is where we went. The horse that used to sell the L & B pizza’s I’m pretty sure died more than 50 years ago. So right from the get go, we’ve got a story involving a horse and a big dining room with seats that we can sit in immediately, two major differences from DiFara’s. You would think the differences would end there, but no! L & B’s famous pizza is a Sicilian pie. And if you aren’t well versed on pizza styles because you’re more of a Domino’s pizza tracker kinda gal, a Sicilian pizza is the one that’s square. I’m not typically a Sicilian fan, but this is not your typical Sicilian. It’s a little bit sweet, it’s crust is fluffy and doughy and perfect, and someone once got murdered over the sauce recipe. If your pizza’s history doesn’t include a horse and a murder, are you even really making pizza?

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The storied Sicilian pie of L & B Spumoni Gardens

I told most of L & B’s story to Kate on our cab ride over, highlighting the fact that we wouldn’t have to wait. “I don’t really like Sicilian pizza,” she said. There are things I need to research before I drag Kate to these places, and those things are me simply asking her if she likes the things I’m taking her to. I will not learn my lesson. We got to L & B’s and were seated immediately and had our pizza in front of us about 8 minutes after we walked in the door. And yes, I ordered for her and made her get the Sicilian pizza because THAT’S WHY WE WERE THERE. I barely looked up to see her reaction because I was too busy audibly moaning with every bite I took. When I finally came up for air, it was clear that Kate liked it, but in the way that one is impressed with something they don’t actually like, but respect why other people might like it. Looking around the dining room, which very much had a small town feel, like a place parents bring their children after their softball team loses to make them feel better, or a place where you might see someone who looks like Rider Strong but 100% is not Rider Strong, but also a place where you wouldn’t be surprised to see a mob boss talking to a hit man in a corner booth, Kate asked, “How do you find these places?”

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Kate and a Rider Strong looking man in blue


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A child who probably just lost some sporting match because they ate too many mashed potatoes

Between DiFara’s and L & B’s, these were two places that on the surface seemed very random. But they’re old school Brooklyn institutions that are touted as some of the best pizza in New York. If you spend enough time in this city, you hear about these places that aren’t so hidden gems. You’re not a Michael Scott eating Sbarro’s in Times Square anymore. So maybe you should stay Kate? Or is the literal and proverbial wait for the ultimate New York slice just too long and you’re running the risk of a pigeon coming in and shitting on your dreams/pizza?

Until next time,

I Love You, New York? Do you love me?

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Goodnight L & B’s! Goodnight pizza! Goodnight this blog post!