The chef and I decided to turn off the football game last Sunday in favor of sunshine and live people. We wandered down 14th Street to the Chelsea Market and shopped for fun foodie stuff. (I bought some strawberry/black pepper mints that rock.)
We also took a little food tour. We stopped at Spice Market for an amazing ginger margarita, some delicious crispy egg rolls in a green frothy dipping sauce and an "okay" order of tuna with daikon and coconut milk.
Then we twiddled our thumbs (and peeked in Batali's new restaurant, Del Posto) until Morimoto opened at 5. We sat in the downstairs lounge, which was decorated to feel like the inside of an expensive vase. We drank a Red Dragon cocktail and a sake martini. The food was awesome. We shared three oysters that were topped with foie gras, sea urchin and teriyaki sauce. Then we dug in for Duck Duck Duck, an entree that featured duck prepared three ways and three sauces for dipping. The miso sauce was my favorite.
There was another feature of Morimoto that convinced me to go back: the bathroom. The stalls were very private, with walls and a door that ran from floor to ceiling, and a lighted mirror box along the back wall cast a beautiful glow in the stall. (I never thought I would say something like that about a crapper.) But it was beautiful, and by the end of my brief visit to the bathroom, I had developed some romantic feelings toward the can. See, the toilet was equipped with a pre-warmed seat and a row of instructional buttons that you can direct to spray warm water in the front or back (oscillate or pulse were also options for the wash), plus a warm-air dryer to pamper your tushe.
I could hear other occupants giggling and sighing in their own stalls. So when I emerged with tousled hair, I said to them, "Man, I feel like I should give that toilet my number." When I got back to my seat at the bar, John asked me why everyone was laughing in the women's bathroom. I suggested he grab a newspaper and go find out for himself.