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I’d been wanting to eat there for .. ages. A million years. Countless nights have been spent in the warm glow of my computer screen, browsing the menu. I was particularly curious about their bar snacks, because I like that sort of food – olives, nibbly things .. stay tuned, and you’ll see.

And so, on my last day in the city, I decided to treat myself. (Because apparently the decadent calorie-fest the night before at Artisanal wasn’t enough). The restaurant is relatively close to the train station, and I realized it’d be silly for me to eat, treck back to my sister’s apartment in Harlem, and then hop back down for my afternoon train back to reality.

I packed my 4 pairs of heels, my 806,482 outfits, my textbooks, my laptop, my camera, and that oh-so-delicate chocolate I purchased at Jacques Torres, and set off. Five flights of stairs and 7 hours later, I was out of the building. I was sweating profusely and my arms were precariously close to being ripped out of their sockets, but you know. Anything for good food.

I took my very first solo venture into the subway, after tackling yet more stairs with that enormous suitcase. It was thrilling. And a bit smelly.

A mere zip down the island, and I tumbled out onto 14th street. Not exactly at my destination, but close enough. I walked. With the suitcase. Admittedly, a few nice strangers took pity on me and helped me maneuver through tricky situations, like turnstyles. But enough, enough about me and my stupid suitcase. I finally made it to The Spotted Pig!

I stopped short in my tracks when I came across the pub; it was the sweetest thing. Surrounded by a mass of greenery, it looked more like an odd little cottage in the middle of the forest than a revered Manhattan restaurant.

The actual spot is quite small, but only because the second floor is being renovated and is therefore quite obviously shut off to diners. I yanked my sorry, disheveled self into the door, and begged the effervescent hostess to let me stash my suitcase away. She laughed and grinned and giggled some more, then directed me to a side doorway where I could stow it. That taken care of, I was able to take in my surroundings. The restaurant is adorable; there are pigs eeeverywhere, stuffed, ceramic, painted .. it’s almost kitsch, but so much better.

There were no seats open, but little ol’ me didn’t need a whole table to herself. I sat at the bar, and am awfully glad I did.

There were hooks under the wooden counter for me to hang my purse and .. second bag. (I rarely travel lightly). With a heartbreaking smile, the bartender, whose name is Jesse, if my receipt is accurate, handed me a paper menu, printed with the date at the top. I liked that a lot, mostly because I deplore menus spattered with remnants of last meals. This one was clean and fresh.

Anyway, after sneaking a few glimpses of that smile, I focused on the matter at hand; ordering lunch that wasn’t an outright calorie-fest, as per the past night’s amazing dinner. I wanted something semi-light, but if you know me, you know that semi-light typically means small nibbles of a whole slew of rich, salty, savory stuffs.

Because it was technically a vacation, and because I’m me, I ordered a beer from Jesse. Some of the bottled brews looked interesting – I think there was a strawberry one – but I thought it’d be silly not to take advantage of the great beers on tap. I ultimately went with one called Speckled Hen Ale, which was so excellent. I’m not a beer snob, but I can definitely tell you that this is my new favorite.

The menu is separated into a few parts: bar snacks, plates, sides, desserts. My eyes flew to the bar snacks section, and I immediately knew I wanted an order of roasted almonds and marinated olives. Typically, I would’ve wanted a nutty, hard cheese as well, but again, the last night’s fondue was beating at my memory.

To go with the olives and almonds, I asked for a salad of bib lettuce dressed with a mustard dressing. Now. If memory serves me correctly (and please do correct me if I’m making this up), Frank Bruni had a thing or two to say about this salad. Mainly, he wanted to know why the heck it cost $14. I wondered that too. But I so very much wanted to try it. And I don’t know how to say no to myself.

My olives and almonds came first. They were everything I had been hoping. The almonds were deeply smoky, wearing a perfectly fitted outfit of salt. The olives were something else too. As a girl used to getting hers from the olive bar at Wegmans, I wasn’t prepared for these guys. The flesh was so tender and soft, and the lemon peel they were playing with gave a nice fresh flavor to the intensely tangy and juicy tastes jumping around in my mouth. You can see from the picture that they were really larger than life and very plump ..

At this point, I pulled out Insatiable, Gael Greene’s memoir, and read a few pages in between sips and bites, but to be honest, I was simply too excited to focus on her words. The people-watching was so rich, the weather was so nice, the hostess was bopping around, dancing like a beautiful nymph, the bartender was so handsome (man-oh-man, did I have a crush on this guy), and I just wanted to be there, in that exact moment, with myself.

I love, love, loved that everyone was so friendly there. Upon walking through the door, many a customer received a gigantic hug, or at the very least, an enthusiastic hello. And what’s more, there were all sorts of people present. Isn’t that wonderful? A very stylish British couple; she in a gold sequined top and he with an excellent accent … the “numbers-crunching” guy, grabbing a burger on his lunch break – who whined jealously over my beer … the beautiful blonde who popped in for a coffee. I wanted to know all of them.

My $14 salad arrived. I’ll admit it was beautiful, towering perfectly in a little nest above the plate. And you know what? It was perfectly dressed. Not too much, not too little. We were very much in baby-bear territory in terms of dressing. I think I tasted fennel. In fact, I’m almost certain I did. I’ll be awfully embarrassed if I’m wrong in this assumption, but there must’ve been some essence of it somewhere. It was awfully fun eating a bite of salad, then popping an olive in my mouth, letting the mustard mesh with the lemon and natural oils.

Boston Bibb Lettuce with Mustard Dressing

Midway through the meal, the restaurant seemed to transform itself into an impromptu production of STOMP. The renovations upstairs became deafeningly loud, with pipes clanking, hammers rocking, and floors creaking. We all shared a laugh, and someone must’ve worked their magic, for it stopped shortly after it started. What’s lunch without a little percussion, anyway?

After “finishing,” I pushed my plate away. (Why is it that we feel better about ourselves if we leave one bite left on the plate? I’ve decided that’s ridiculous, and I’ll take part in it no longer, because now I’m angry that I didn’t eat every last olive).

I was about to ask for the check, but after looking around and sighing deeply, I realized that I wasn’t quite ready to leave, or stop attempting to flirt with the bartender. (I’m sorry, he was really cute). And so I did what anyone in my situation would do. I ordered a slice of walnut, chocolate, and amaretto cake.

It was really, really good. It looked awfully dense and rich, but it was actually pleasantly crumbly and light enough for me to rationalize it as a reasonable choice. There was a little dollop of creme fraiche, or perhaps something akin to it, which I wasn’t expecting, but was rather thankful for. I played the “last bite” game with that as well, and am even more sad about that than the olives.

Walnut, Chocolate, and Amaretto Cake

After collecting my suitcase, I was off … off to a world where the olives are mediocre, the lunches don’t come with beer, and the salads are soggy. (Okay, so Syracuse isn’t that bad .. but it ain’t no Spotted Pig, either).

Final Thoughts on The Spotted Pig:

So you could probably tell that I really liked this place. Reeeeally liked it. To the point that it will become a must-do on all future visits. And when I move to the city in the summer to attend FCI .. well .. let’s just say I hope they’re hiring.