Dinner for one is awesome: Franny's - Prospect Heights, Brooklyn

I was in a funk yesterday. I don't know if it's because I haven't been smoking (I quit on New Year's, with just a small handfull of backsliding drags), or because I was also trying to not drink (because I am a glutton for punishment...for gluttony, and also the aforementioned backsliding), or because it was a full moon, or because of hormones. There are a million possible reasons.
In any case, I had planned to cook a lovely, optimistic "Goodbye Winter"-themed dinner for a few friends, something comforting, warm, stew-ish perhaps.
But then I got into a funk--maybe my body was shocked by the sudden leap in climate temperature--and had to go for a walk. And then I had to drink way too much coffee, not only because I have recently become addicted to drinking "black eye"s (coffee with 2 shots of espresso), but also as a preemptive move against the inevitable desire for alcohol that would come later while dining with friends, as well as to amp me up for cooking the wonderful feast (that was never to be). Big mistake. Somewhere, somehow hours got lost in meandering purposelessly around my neighborhood listening to Iron Maiden, and then in the chapter on herbs of the mint family in On Food and Cooking, and a directionless sort of panic set in. Panic to make the most of my day off, to make use of the beautiful day, make use of all of this synthetic energy? Who knows.

I canceled all my plans. I decided that I was in no condition to be amongst people in a social situation, and that I should just give into my craziness, surrender all my good intentions to the greater cause of sheer selfish gratification. And a terrific decision that turned out to be.

Because that is how I ended up at Franny's, with this gorgeous thing before me:

Pork Cheek and Beef Tongue Terrine

All for me, none to share. That is only half of the portion given, as I originally had not intended to photograph/blog it. The meal was supposed to be an entirely selfish endeavor, in every way. But this was too beautiful not to. Pork cheek AND beef tongue, pressed into one sinful orgy of arguably the world's finest meat parts, presented as a shimmering slice (two slices, actually) of heaven. With fresh horseradish shaved on top, and a sidekick of delicious crusty bread drizzled with olive oil. I don't think I even need to go into details, but I will. The tongue was so tender that the best way to describe it is "fluffy" (wishing for a more appetizing and meat-appropriate adjective here), while the cheek meat all but melted at the slightest poke of my fork, and all of it somehow still seeming light as a cloud as it wept (yes, wept) succulent rendered pork and beef fat--it was incredible. And if that sounds borderline erotic, well, I am happy to have provided a faithful and accurate depiction of my experience.
This, along with a hot, comforting bowl of cicerchie bean and kale soup, and a glass of Lambrusco, made for one of the most revelatory meals I've had in recent memory. For a lot of reasons.

1. I learned what cicerchie beans are [kind of] and that they are delicious.
2. The guy who walked in before me and inquired about the wait for a party of 2 was told, "at least an hour," whereas I--party of 1--was immediately offered a seat at the bar.
3. Without the need to be polite and try to carry on a conversation, or eat with a modicum of decorum (though I always do), I was able to devote 100% of my attention to the task of consuming, enjoying, and relishing--and none to the grating voice of the woman beside me, repeatedly jabbing her elbow into my left side, carrying on about her intense excitement about completing her acupuncture license training, or her (misguided) opinions of the same Lambrusco that I was enjoying at the moment. Once I started eating, it was like I was in the eye of a storm. All environmental intrusions vanished. Just me and the food. Until...
4. As I slowly, with some wistfulness, shoved the last porky-beefy-fat-smothered morsel of bread into my mouth, the vacuum surrounding me was punctured by the unmistakable and bracingly exhilirating intro to possibly the best feel-good song ever, and one of my favorite songs in the whole wide world:



Too perfect. I walked out of there feeling like I was actually glowing.

And with absolutely zero desire or need for a cigarette.

Lesson: if you want to eat a nice meal, at prime dining time on a weekend night when most good places are sure to be a shitshow nightmare, dining solo is a great way to do it anyway you want it.

(Sorry, had to.)