A genuine sense of urbanity in Santa Fe isn’t found in museums or galleries. It isn’t found in capital city politics or at the opera or among top-ranked restaurants. It’s on the side of the road, in junky trucks, churning out chili dogs.
Letter America Dear Doctor Guy, My friend recently stopped taking my calls because I’m dating her ex-boyfriend, but they broke up like over two years ago. I don’t know what to do.—Helpless Hottie ... More
Opening a bar in Santa Fe, given that New Mexico’s liquor laws appear to have been drafted in 17th-century Salem, is just stupid. Add the pricey rents and it’s borderline mental illness. Opening a restaurant here is an equally unsound endeavor, but with lower profit margins. Open both and you've got Corazón.
New York pizza is just the shadow of classic Neapolitan pizza in my book, and it doesn’t interest me as a distinct geo-cultural cuisine. What I like about pizza in New York is that it’s available on almost every block and, consequently, there’s enough competition to ensure that it’s generally quite good.
To hell with the breakfast burrito—the congee at Mu Du Noodles’ Sunday brunch is sumptuous enough to make me lie in print about giving up the tortilla-wrapped goodness for good. It’s like a plate of migas crashed into a bowl of miso in a display case full of fine spices and landed in a gift basket of Asian delicacies.