i definitely like restaurant week too much

Yesterday, in another marathon trendfest, I joined 14 of my closest pals for dinner at 5 Ninth, the meatpacking district brownstone-turned-eatery that serves rabbit. Yes. Rabbit. Thankfully, the poor bunny platter did not grace the restaurant week menu, which left room for a good chunk of obscure yet delicious dishes to select from. Choosing between an anchovy-draped romaine chunk, a bowl of corn chowder, and veal and duck pate for my appetizer, I dreamt of my Speedy, and, remembering that cellulite is one of the main ingredients in corn chowder, opted for the pate, despite the other KR’s description of it as something her darling pooches Milo and Ladybug chow down on. Fueled by a pre-dinner cocktail drunk at the fabulously relaxed Art Bar (thanks for the suggestion, NB, I’ll definitely be back!), I dared to order the pate. Our kooky waiter whose ‘70s-style hair was begging for a make-over looked thrilled at my courage. When it arrived on my plate, looking exactly like a fancy feast for Fido and friends, the table of onlookers could not help but stare as I spread the meat mush on a piece of toasted bread, ready to either indulge or regurgitate. I definitely did not do the latter, but rather scraped my plate of pate clean, just a little more gracefully than the aforementioned papillon and long-haired daschund.

As the courses continued, our meal only got better. From sweet pepper glazed salmon, to juicy steak, to pork and chickpeas, the restaurant week-sized portions (read: three bites that would leave even a ballerina starving) were simply scrumptious. We devoured our plates as we discussed dessert: a chocolate concoction that tasted even better than raw brownie mix. Topped with a dollop of whipped cream and whole chunks of delectably dark chocolate, the treat was the perfect ending to a perfect dinner.

But the madness did not stop there! As a group of fierce females (and one ever fiercer male!) obviously obsessed with those crazy NYC housewives, we couldn’t help but walk a bit down Little West 12th to the Brass Monkey, where the other KR, ML, RJ, and AC contemplated re-enacting the season two scene in which Kelly Bensimon and Bethenny Frankel duke it out like middle school mean girls in one of the Irish bar’s booths. No slaps occurred, however. We’re a bit classier than the skinny girl chef and model has-been.

Missing out on the collection of what SA called a “collection of Irish lads,” as I made a fashionably early exit so as to be in tip-top shape for work the next morning, I couldn’t help but think about Manhattan’s unique neighborhoods. Each enclave has a personality that is as distinct as my collection of friends. (Despite hailing from LI’s most impenetrable bubble, we’re actually a pretty diverse group!) The Meatpacking district is the girl who wears black shorts over black tights with an extra-long white button down -- a look tied together with patent leather peep-toe pumps and a men’s wear blazer, despite the 85 degree heat made worse by subtropic humidity. In short, it’s a neighborhood that is almost too trendy for my pearls and Jack Rogers to enter, but one I enjoyed immensely nonetheless. And speaking of that outfit -- which AC, ML, and I most certainly passed an envied while heel-toe-ing it to the subway -- it just might drive me to channel my inner meatpacker... once my soon-to-be better looking bod is Speedy worthy, of course!