By Nora Zelevansky / June 16th, 2009


On this lovely early summer Tuesday morning, let's take a moment to be grateful.  And let's not just be thankful for our health and loved ones and The Bachelorette and Bradley Cooper and The New Adventures of Old Christine reruns and all that good jazz, but let's also be grateful because you all just narrowly missed having to read my "Ode to Cherry Coke Zero" instead of the below post.  And that would have been seriously painful.

Instead, let's talk about ladies who lunch . . . or rather the lunches some "ladies" eat.  Time was when luncheons were defined by rubber chicken and unripened grape and melon fruit salads.  These days, though, I spend quite a lot of time at these kind of events, where I mingle with other writers and editors and learn about a new holiday destination, clothing collection, beauty line or technology.  But, luckily, the new school of luncheon generally takes place somewhere tasty.

For example, last week I attended a luncheon (introducing Italian bag lines that I'll talk more about at a later, more relevant date) hosted at The Mondrian's Asia de Cuba.  Now, I think enough of you probably know about this delectable Asian Fusion sitch that I won't even go into the nitty-gritty.  Instead, I'll leave it at this: we had Calamari Salad (always my favorite tangy awesome menu item), Plantain Fried Rice with Avocado Salad, Chorizo Sushi (YUP) and "Bay Of Pigs" Ice Cream Sundaes (which I shamelessly picked around like the lactard I am).

The Drewser and I are on some self-imposed hell of an annoying diet right now, so I guess I'm just dreaming of anything bad (good bad) that crossed my lips before the torture began.  I can't even wait until this week's cheat night, when for one night only–each week–dessert and fried food and all kinds of good stuff are ripe for the taking.

Until then, dare to dream . . . of Calamari Salads and Dulce de Leche spatters atop frosting, of course.

xo – N.





I MEAN, AAACK.  I'm so hungry that I'm turning into a Cathy cartoon.  Where is Irving?  I mean, Andrew.  Egad. Zoinks.  Okay.  I'll stop now.