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“Seymour Burton”


  Occasion: Cuisine: Area: Cost: Rating:
  Night Out New American East Village Moderate Good

sted English muffin, adorned with a layer of bubbly Vermont white cheddar and a few circles of red onion ($12), with a forehead high pile of fries—thin, golden and salty—on the side. Mel was happy with her trout—quite simply grilled with lemon and herbs, the right treatment to let the fish’s sweet flavor shine through, but I know I sensed a touch of food envy.

With our entrees we shared the brussels sprouts (some of the best I’ve had), and the mac’ n cheese, which Mel had informed me early on, she does not eat. “Why not?” I asked, not understanding how one could be against eating mac n cheese. It was not beef mac n cheese. I was confused. Mel clarified: “You know me, I’m Italian. We don’t eat over-cooked pasta with cheese. It’s sacrilegious.” Suit yourself, I thought. More for me. When it arrived, in a rectangular white casserole, all golden and breadcrubmed, she watched me dig in, the three cheeses (Gruyere, Sonoma Dry Jack, and Cabot White Cheddar) stretching in melting threads and gobs as it reached my mouth. After a few bites, she caved. “Well, I guess I’ll try it,” she said, sinking her fork into the center and pulling out a big cluster of glistening elbow noodles coated in hot gooey cheese. In between bites of my burger, I watched her return again and again to the mac n cheese, practically finishing the entire casserole on her own. “Glad you don’t like mac ‘n cheese,” I said, smiling.

Mel was also skeptical of the bread pudding ($7) I ordered for dessert, instead opting for the homemade selection of ice creams ($6)—caramel, chocolate bourbon, and coffee—so good and creamy they should be sold by the pint or perhaps ten-gallon vat. “I don’t understand bread pudding,” she said, as I dug in to the warm hunks of brioche soaking in cinnamon and cream. “What’s not to understand? It’s what you do with stale bread. You put it in a pan with cream and eggs and cinnamon or chocolate or whatever you’ve got lying around and you make something. It’s so you don’t waste,” I said. “In Italian households, we don’t do that. We make breadcrumbs. Why anyone would want to eat bread for dessert?” she replied, resolutely. “Okay, but do you at least want to taste it?” I asked. (She was already pushing her fork toward my plate.) She to ... [more, click below]

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