It's smoky, juice, tender, thick without being touch, oh-so-fatty, just the slightest bit charred on the edges, and amazing. I had sunny-side up eggs in a skillet with toast and was wholly unprepared to the sheer AWESOME of this bacon. Seriously! They make it fresh, in-house. You can't get it anywhere else. I think they must put heroin inside.
Bacon, food of the gods. The other only bacon that measures up is at Balthazar for their brunch. Or the bacon dish at Gramercy Tavern, but that's kind of a different class of bacon. Unless someone out there knows of a better bacon dish!
But, really, that's a bacon dish at dinner, and what I had at Cookshop was a perfect brunch bacon accompaniment.
Mmmmmmmmmmm.
Bacon.
Cookshop
156 Tenth Ave., New York, NY 10011
at 20th St.
212-924-4440
Money, more money, a box of DV tapes, the trunk of Bibi the Volvo, a Mates of State b-side, birthday wishes, random job leads, stories, jokes, photographs, encouragement, advice, affection.
There are the things Leslie offered to me over the course of the last few years. I'm one of the lucky ones who knew her. (As it turns out, there's a lot of us, and I think we all, collectively, feel 110% lucky that we knew her.) Leslie was one of those remarkable people who could swoop in and make it all better -- she always gave freely, no strings attached, out of friendship. I like to think that she'd offer you the world if you needed it.
I'm sorry we never got together that last time she was in the city. I'm sorry I won't get to hear about her re-doing her house with the smokin' hot fireman again or cooking extravagant multi-course meals. I'm sorry I won't get to thank her for everything, ever again. I'm sorry she'll never get to see our finished movie. I'm sorry we'll never have the joy of hearing another funny story from her, or another dashed off, perfectly timed email.
Leslie, we'd follow you anywhere.
Rest in peace, friend.
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