Thursday, April 16, 2009

Friend of a Farmer

77 Irving Place
New York, NY 10003


(212) 477-2188

While Jack and I were on one of our city-wide, 10ish mile walks, we called our friend Kayla (who likes to look pulled together when she leaves her house) and said, “We are going to be in your area in about an hour, is there anywhere that you’ve been interested in trying?” She said that the line at Friend of a Farmer is always too long but it had been intriguing to her for about a year now. I mean, who isn’t interested in places that consistently have long lines? That’s how we fell in love with Pio Pio.


So we offered to meet her there. On such a great day, what’s a bit of a line with friends? Well, fifteen minutes later, while poor Kayla was in the shower, we realized that we had accomplished our errands (picking a place for the wedding brunch) much more quickly then expected and we were almost there. I called her and said, “well, we are coming up on your area, mind if we move this a bit earlier?” “how close?” she asked me. “Two blocks.”


We met her in line with a thing of flowers. They were in part to apologize for dragging her out of her apartment with wet hair and no warning, and in part to congratulate her on finishing a huge project at work. The line was filled with pointless people have nauseating conversations about their mother’s maid coming down from Connecticut to clean multiple siblings apartments on the same day. But it moved quickly.


Once inside, we were blown away by the floral-carpet wall paper and creaky wooden stairs. Huge old jars of fruit and nuts lined the walls and there was even a fireplace. I could still see the line of pulled-together New York City-ians outside, but inside, I felt like was at home upstate or on a farm somewhere far away.


We had fresh squeezed juices, coffee that came in a French press and a mixed basket with some of the most fantastic breads I have ever found. Zucchini bread, corn bread, lightly glazed lemon loaf and what I hope was an orange bread. They were all thickly cut and moist.

I had curried chicken salad with walnuts, apples and raisins. It was exactly what I had been looking for. The other two ordered southwestern omelets that came as a burrito with nice, soft home fries in a skillet. There was cheese and sauce and egg spilling out and I think they were both very happy. They must have been because I didn’t get a bite.

When we left with a to-go bag of breads (that I later ate over my sink for dinner one night), the sun felt even warmer and the line, which had grown, did not even phase me. I felt country-fied for the 2.5 mile walk home.


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