The Bitch Can Cook

When I was in Chicago we spent a pretty decent chunk of time in Sable, the restaurant on the ground floor of our hotel. The executive chef is Heather Terhune, who recently got the boot from Top Chef, and according to every article I found about her is a "horrible bitch". Luckily her bitchiness did not spill over into my food, though, as everything I ate was outstanding. The pizza pictured up top housed a plethora of pork belly, green apples, white cheddar and chipotle BBQ sauce. I wasn't sure if I could do it but I ate the whole thing in one bite.

And lookatthisfuckinguy, atop which sat a savory scattering of arugula, roasted garlic, bourbon cherries, blue cheese and duck confit. Confit is a French word which means "sexual assault of the face". It lived up to its definition here.

Gettin' Deep

The deep dish pizza we got was actually the size of Michael Clarke Duncan, the magic black guy from The Green Mile. It spoke in his voice as well. I understood that a deep dish was a somewhat serious endeavor but I didn't expect that it would render me a moron for the next five hours. We had it topped with jalapenos, onions, black olives and sausage.

It was a fork and knife situation, obviously. I could only eat one slice. We took the rest back to the hotel and put it in my mini fridge and I'm not kidding you that later in the middle of the night I was roused from my sleep by my sister who SNUCK INTO MY ROOM, took the rest of the pie and crept back out like some psychotic, criminal addict.

An Unwavering Necessity

If I see someone on the street eating pizza, I have to get pizza. This is not a flexible equation. If I don't abide by it, my brain will short circuit and I start to become frightened and defensive and am liable to attack something. So I usually just get the pizza!

I write this to you from the tropical confines of a 102.0 degree fever. If at any point the contents of the following posts begin to take on a tone of incomprehensibility, it is because I have slipped into the scalding claws of delirium. Caveat Emptor.

Countless of these magical dessert pizzas were devoured at our end of the year SVA party, which was held at TJ's Restaurant in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn. Hungry, tipsy art students crawled on all fours to the bar, like a deranged pack of rabid hyenas, and tore at the spread before them with fangs and claws bared. Atop this sultry pie sits a delectable orgy of mascarpone cheese, nutella, pears, bananas and powdered sugar. And yes, it tasted every bit as good as it sounds. Here's the link to the joint. It's very small with a nice back patio and owned by a charming, friendly Italian man.

http://www.yelp.com/biz/tjs-wood-burning-oven-pizza-and-restaurant-brooklyn