4:30 pm- I need to buy prosciutto and taleggio for a recipe. I try to visit two Italian salumerias but Sunday must be sleepy time for the paisans; both delis are closed. I give up on my culinary mission and go to pick up the bike I drunkenly abandoned the night before. This involves a train ride to Long Island City.
5:30 pm- On my bike ride home, I stumble on a supermarket I’ve never seen, just three blocks from my apartment. It’s called International Market, which seems promising for Italian meat and cheese.
The pouty goth kid at the deli shaves me 1/3 pound of domestic prosciutto. It’s six dollars cheaper than the imported stuff, and I’m too ignorant to know what I’m missing.
The taleggio proves elusive. I spend 15 minutes pawing through every iteration of global cheese except what I need. Finally I ask the manager, who informs me with sad eyes that they have none. When I inquire if he can suggest a similar cheese, he says “I can’t give you a replacement for taleggio.” I’m not sure if he is a taleggio purist or just ignorant.
6:00 pm- Walk my bike home, groceries stuffed in my man-purse and hanging off both handlebars. I am $52 poorer, but have quite a bounty to show for it, including fresh spinach and thyme, mushrooms, asparagus, two kinds of gouda, shredded swiss, Italian rice, cheap white wine (for cooking), and a huge can of Danish beer (for drinking).
I need caffeine to keep going but I fear I’ll have trouble sleeping later if I do. I’m a wuss about these things.
To be concluded