GO to the corner of 2nd Street and Avenue A, where there’s a kick-ass taco stand serving al pastor, chorizo, lengua, spicy pork, carne asada tacos and other deliciousness. It looks like it’s 24 x 7, and it’s Mexican street food’s gift to me. Check it out:
The Taco Morelos stand on 2nd Street and Avenue A
THIS is a new format of blog post that I am trying out—to post four links, or highlight four interesting news items, or show you four photographs I really like, and so on—for Friday afternoons, when the yawns come frequently, the sun is shining outside so why are you stuck inside, and the brain cells are mushy. They might be a random collection or might share a common thread—I haven’t decided yet. Continue reading
MIDTOWN finally has good Indian food. Used to be, New Yorkers had to schlep down to 6th Street, or east to Curry Hill, or even further east to Jackson Heights. Now the executive chef at Dévi, Hemant Mathur, has opened up his own eatery, Tulsi, on E 46th Street. And from the full house on a Wednesday night, four months after its launch, it looks like the neighborhood much appreciates it.
Plating at Ziya is a work of art
THE menu is unexpected, and features such surprises as apricot chutney, naan scented with truffle oil, khichdi with coriander and kishmish. The portions, when they arrive, are designed per person. The presentation is exquisite, with a swirl of sauce on the side to rival the snootiest of French restaurants. And you are seduced before spoon meets mouth.
Belize is a land smooth and green, like a bedsheet tugged flat, with an embroidery of palm trees that only wrinkle and bump the landscape.
When confronted by great white sharks a few feet away from our boat, jaws dropped open and a collective “wow” swept the onlookers. We forgot everything we had seen in scary movies and on Discovery Channel’s Shark Week and just stared.
One of the seven wonders of the modern world, the limestone structure that is the Kukulcán pyramid looms at the centre of the vast public ground in Chichén Itzá, the ancient Mayan city in the heartland of Mexico’s Yucatan peninsula.
Most rapids seemed to be named after people who had died or were rescued at the last minute from a terrible fate. Maybe someone long ago had thought that it would add to the thrill of rafting down the river, but to me it seemed rather depressing. I shivered in the sunlight.
“Cookies for the survivors!” yelled Nelson cheerfully as we climbed up a muddy slope made slippery by the driving tropical rain. It was not the right sentiment to warm the hearts of the dozen or so tourists about to voluntarily zip from treetop to treetop 400ft above the ground.
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