Dessert
Chocolate cake at Troquet
My gay best friend and I rushed in 20 minutes late to a cake and wine tasting at Troquet, so I missed the cake making demonstration. But hey, I did get to do the important part: eat it all. Twice.
Troquet chocolate cake and port wine
The space is a cozy. It’s narrow, with a line of black lacquered two tops in warmly painted room, perfect date material. And the best part? Over on the counter were over a dozen small plates of chocolate cake kissed with confectioner’s sugar, a duo of raspberries nestled on the corner.
I recounted my horrifying lost iPhone story to Christine Liu, editor of Boston Citysearch, and the host of the shindig.
Me: So I get back to my room. And my roommate says, “Lingbo, your friend D is looking for you, he’s really worried.” So I head over to his room. 5 gay guys open the door saying, “You’re alive! The guy who stole your phone told D that you were at this address in Roxbury.”
Christine: Woah.
Me: So the police officers come up and said they sent squad cars out to Roxbury to look for my body. And had filed affidavits for my cell phone carrier. Then they yelled at me: “Next time you go out, you have to leave contact information!” Later, my roommate hugged me and said she was glad I wasn’t dead.
Oh, and they booty texted all my recent contacts.
True story.
I also met the great Michelle-Kim of Fun and Fearless in Beantown, along with assorted other bloggers and industry folks.
Chocolate and booze? How could it be a bad night?
Exactly.
If only no one had stolen my iPhone.
A love affair with coffee shops – The Biscuit in Somerville
Fruit tart ($3.50) at The Biscuit in Somerville
It was spring, freshman year. By then, the Cambridge frost had receded from the cobblestone, and warm air spilled out from T stop as you walked by. To cheer myself up, I’d appoint myself in a wrap dress and green wedge sandals, the ones my mother bought me from China, and slip on a pair of $10 sunglasses. Then I’d find a coffeeshop.
And I’d sit there, feeling the caffeine ooze into my blood, my fingertips, buzzing in the back of my mouth. There was something nice about being surrounded by people you didn’t feel guilty for not knowing.
As a result, I’m an unapologetic table hog. I’ve planned days where I come in the morning, buy a large cup of joe, stake out a table, and stay for a good 8 hours. I love how coffeeshops occupy a liminal space that is not quite home, school, or work.
You can go by yourself, or with a friend. You can talk, or not talk. You can linger, or you can rush. You can eat, or just drink.
The Biscuit is a favorite of mine that I often forget. They suffer from a few flaws – there’s no wifi, and seating could be more plentiful. Their pastries are enormous – think, biscotti the width of your forearm – and cheap. But you’d probably have better luck, in terms of execution, with their hot sandwiches. You can even get them in halves for $3.25 each. Blissful.
I was seduced by the candy-toned hues of their fruit tart ($3.50), but was a little underwhelmed by the crust, which was more of a brioche than a pastry crust. Maybe a personal preference. Even so, I love the charm of their mismatched wooden chairs, chalkboard menu, and low prices. If you’re looking for a more substantial lunch, Kebab Factory down the street has Cambridge’s best Indian buffet by far. It’s a lovely part of town, and one that Harvard students don’t often discover.
Find it!
———-
406 Washington St
Somerville, MA 02143
(617) 666-2770
Valentine’s Day in Boston ideas: Shoulda put a ring on it
Since my foray in Jewish speed dating clearly hasn’t earned me a date for Valentine’s Day, I’m turning all my brilliant ideas over to you, dear reader. This list of a sugar-themed crawl of Cambridge is meant primarily for the adventurous and thrifty, a winning combination in my eyes. I realize that my awkwardly inserted mentions of makeouts perhaps should be cut. I’ve spent too long with my Macbook to know what you crazy kids do these days.
Or, if you’re sexy singleton, a la Bridget Jones and pre-Big-and-wedding Carrie Bradshaw, try my “For all the single ladies” v-day list. Except I’d probably switch out the movie options – I just don’t watch enough quality cinema to know of movies where men turn out to be evil puppy-eating beasts – a much better ointment for the soul than some 40-something tearing up as her man abandons her at the altar. Buzzkill, much?
I’ll be hitting the gym, regardless.
Food porn: sfogliatelle and a cappucinno from Modern Pastry
Whenever I think of Italian, I actually think of Giada. I remember the first time I saw her – it was in paper version of the New York Times. I mean, who even reads the paper version of the Times anymore? Nobody. They’re bleeding cash. Anyway, it was the cover of her book. She was wearing a blue shirt that matched her eyes, and it was the kind of photo that takes your intestines and whips them around with an eggbeater. There’s a certain cheesiness to how attractive she is – an obviously exploitative quality that always makes me feel awkward about staring. When she’s cooking while I’m at the gym, I’ll watch her whip up a cheesecake, or some stuffed shells, or whatever it is she is making. She narrates her motions with a eager, wide-eyed zeal that ever-so-slightly feels scripted. Then she’ll replace the “real” parts of food with words: oh, it smells amazing! Mmm, this is delicious. It’s funny how on TV, chefs are forced to be self-congratulatory to compensate for you not being there.
