Casellula Night

I honestly believe that many a friendship are forged over huge glasses of wine, hunks of good cheese, and fat slices of chocolate cake. I met up with a friend last Wednesday at this quaint, wine and cheese place tucked in a street midtown, just a few blocks from work. NH left an incredibly thriving modelling career in Manila to study fashion design at Parsons.

When it comes to Manhattan hotspots, I gravitate towards the quiet, quaint, and fabulous; or the incredibly obscure and anti-social—like the small tavern where a friend bartends on the Lower East Side: a true-blue dive with the requisite dim incandescent bulb over the beat-up pool table, vintage jukebox, and a cash register that paints a picture of 19th century Manhattan in your head.

On the flipside, when a place gets too packed (and trendy) that it requires one to adjust to a few decibels louder when conversing and to battle beefy—and very snooty— bouncers: Count. Me. Out.

Fortunately Casellula rose up to the challenge of being 'quaint and fabulous' without being pretentious, serving up honest-to-goodness topnotch wine, authentic French cheese, and freshly-baked dessert in an ambient neighborhood setting. NH and I conversed like long-lost friends, sharing tidbits and tirades from a life left behind, over gourmet grilled cheese, olives, and sweet pairings. And before we knew it it was already past 1am, and the temperature had dropped to the 30s (on a day I'd chosen to wear an airy spring dress).

I'm not sure if this slight brush with hypothermia is what's causing me to feel under-the-weather at the moment, like the early stages of flu where one's throat is scratchy and knees feel wobbly. I'll try to sleep it off but will close this entry pondering whether in life, if it truly is possible to have your cake (drizzled with fresh cream) and eat it too?

And if so, what exactly are the consequences?

Listening to: "Say Goodnight and Go" by Imogen Heap.