I have a thing for radishes--and my cousin does too. We share them at my home on a regular basis, and we shared some at
The Nomad, and we recently shared an email pining after that particular occasion. I bought a black radish today--it is hopelessly romantic, like black velvet, the Anna Karenina of radishes. I will slice it very thin, drape it with a little olive oil, sprinkle it with Galveston county salt, and offer it a little butter on the side. Radish, salt, butter: a combination that I think of as part of my wardrobe. If my clothes had a taste, it would be this. If my perfume were a snack, it would be this. You want to go to there, don't you? So do I. And so I want to go to
The Fat Radish. I heard about this place over the summer, and though I don't see a radish on the menu, I'm keen (as a radish is as much an idea as it is a root vegetable). Here's what I'd like to taste: oysters (always oysters); grilled cheese and pickles (always pickles); celery root pot pie; the bacon cheeseburger with duck fat fries, and the scallops with beet and sweet potato hash; maybe the fat radish plate too (here, I expect to find an actual radish). I want to leave The Tenement museum and stroll down Orchard street as the violet hour takes over and go...to there. Would you?
