It was one of those fantastic Saturdays that I haven’t had in a while. Bob and I hopped around the city like we used to when we first started dating (nostalgia!). We went to see one of the last showings of Orphans on Broadway, got our beloved macarons (I told you I would!), navigated through jam-packed Times Square like a ninja, had a delicious dinner and — bonus! — I came home with a pair of holy-grail jeans. A note about that: once you find those perfect jeans that fit well and, most importantly, make your butt look fabulous and perky, then you best hoard all the colors you can before they discontinue them. Because that’s what always happens. Get ’em while they’re hot!
I am so sad Orphans has run its course because the play was excellent and the cast was equally as amazing. I’ve seen quite a few Broadway shows and feel confident in saying: the musicals on Broadway are great, but the plays, oh the plays! The best are wonderful and beautiful and leave you feeling invigorated. Superb stage acting is just one of those things that leaves you breathless and thinking, wow that was…tremendous. I left that show teary-eyed and affected. Do I need to say it? I loved it. Tom Sturridge completely deserves that Tony nomination for his captivating and sensitive performance, but where’s the love for Ben Foster and Alec Baldwin, Tony committee? They deserve it too.
After three minutes of that silly conversation, we both knew what was going to happen. Sweets always win.
Since we were in the East Village, we went to a terrific little Mediterranean restaurant, Virage, for dinner. Nine out of ten times, I will always opt for the spinach fettucine here because it is the best ever and no one can tell me differently. They do this thing where they put sweet tomatoes on the pasta (tucked under the cheese and chicken) and at first I thought, tomatoes on spinach fettucine? Then I ate it and thought, tomatoes on spinach fettucine! They also have this great appetizer of Black Mission figs wrapped in bacon. The one problem is that they only serve five, so me and Bob argue over who gets to eat the last fig. We halfed it. It’s fair, but unsatisfying. Half a bacon-wrapped fig? Give. Me. More.