Who You Callin' Sick?

This past fortnight has been a freakish one.

After a mind-blowing Giants Superbowl win (I love you ELI), an impromptu visit from my little bro (who’s not so little really), Meghan’s birthday extravaganza up in tree-tickled Tioga County, and a spiritually crippling 5-hour trek back to Jersey through nasty Upstate New York white-out conditions, it should be no wonder that this last week has seen me physically ill and mentally out of sorts.

It is truly amazing how being under the weather can teach you so much about yourself. Sometimes I feel as though the only way to truly know who you are as a person, is to see who you are not, a vision achieved sometimes rather easily through the travails of minor illness. For example, when the beginnings of illness are apparent, I am convinced that my struggling immune system feeds on my personality for strength, an (albeit short) internal consumption process that divests me of all the unique attributes and quirky characteristics which come together to make me the imbecilic, opinionated, half-twit we’ve all learned to accept.

Furthermore, in this void of any innate personality, it seems as though what I consider to be reliably abhorrent and repulsive, becomes strangely acceptable, if not mildly palatable. It is only when I am sick, stuffed up, and medicated, that Barbara Walters doesn’t look like as though the staff at The View sculpted her face out of play-doh prior to the show. It is only when I am under the weather that I lack the desire to rip that moustache off Dr. Phil’s face ("What were you thinkin!") It is only at the behest of a relentless cold virus, that I can stomach two minutes of that shrink-wrapped puss on Donald Trump's face everytime he arrogantly utters, "You're fired!" And it is only when I am under the spell of ample amounts of Nyquil that I seem to be able to keep my food down when I catch a snippet of another ulcer inducing, IBS-causing installment of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Oh and Tyra Banks? Can someone tell me what's she's done...ever? Regardless, what this teaches us is that while a virus weakens the structure of your body, it wreaks absolute havoc on the very delicate wiring that is your mind...and clearly my wiring is operating correctly.

Thankfully however, it wasn’t long before nasty comments about Rachel Ray and Joy Behar starting bursting in rapid succession throughout my head like a bag of Orville Redenbacher’s microwave popcorn; a strong indication that I would be victorious in my bout against my annual yet always unexpected (and rather unnecessary) illness. Shortly thereafter, when I happened upon bobble-headed Giada DeLaurentiis and her two nieces making Strawberry & Nutella Dessert Bruschetta on Food Network, my stomach began to churn. Before I could find the Brioschi, I was floored by a sudden close up of Giada’s shark-like chompers closing in on an overdressed piece of toast that was evidently, so good, it required her to moan in pleasure while intermittently sharing a giggle with her adoloscent cohorts. She marveled at the delicious simplicity of her stinkin' Bruschetta, implying that we the dumb people out there, have never heard of toasting bread and putting some Nutella on it. And while this disgusting display made me want to vomit all over my $40 IKEA rug, this stealth nauseau subsided as I soon realized that I was my old self again; (and that I didn't want to ruin my rug).

I realize none of this innane analysis and petty persiflage has anything to do with my usual topic of food, but it does allow me to clear my head before I resume Ubereating ways. Amidst this whirlwind of infirmed introspection, I was able to make it to Papatzul, a handsome Mexican restaurant in SoHo serving authentic fare at reasonable prices. Even better was Meghan's birthday dinner at Mario Batali's Wonder on Waverly, Babbo, one of New York's most elusive reservations.

I am ready to once again tell my story...

THE UBEREATER IS BACK BABY.