Puttanesca
Puttanesca roughly translates to ‘whore’s pasta’. There is no uniform theory as to why. As summer in Paris came to an end, I told my friends of a peculiar coincidence wherein two married men had made me puttanesca in the space of two weeks.
Mafia Food
Park Side, written in gold font, on a forest-green awning that wraps around an entire corner of a small tree-lined park a couple blocks from Flushing Meadows. The restaurant stands out of place in the overwhelmingly first-generation Latin American neighborhood, just as much as it stands out of time. Formally dressed valets wait on the curb, offering a hand to women stepping out of Porsche Cayennes and Cadillac Escalades. The light wood-lined walls and lantern lighting give the interior of the restaurant the feel of a beloved steakhouse in a midwestern town — somewhere hundred of miles away from places that cater to patrons who have vague, elitist creative-class jobs like ‘Product Designer’ and ‘Artistic Director’.
Mangia & Manifest
From the trance of twirling saucy spaghetti to the satisfaction of the first bite, the act of eating and enjoying pasta is a transcendental experience.