Fond as I am of Second Home—or as I like to call it, My Second Home, & the exhibition kitchen my kitchen, the wall-to-wall wine rack my cellar, & the staff my servants (at least under my breath)—its sibling the Corner Office isn’t centrally located on the floor plan in my heart, too often crossing the threshold between cheeky & cheesy. Get a load of that faux-risque intro to its website & you’ll see what I mean.

It has its yaysayers, though, in part because it serves chicken & waffles. Personally I can’t imagine ordering chicken & waffles in any place where there’s more than a 2% chance the Prada-clad chick next to me will be trying to seduce her Hugo Boss–wearing Seann William Scott–lookalike of a date by sucking on the candy cigarette from her Dean Martini—which also contains vodka, scotch & an olive, yet somehow doesn’t spontaneously combust from the heat of its flaming stupidity—in ways I don’t even want to know are possible in this particular physical universe of ours, much less view with mine own eyes.

Because I only want the best for my chicken & waffles, that Southern revelation I had for the 1st time a decade or so ago at Little Jezebel’s in NYC, where they were served in heartpoundingly heady fashion with both gravy & syrup, & have craved on a regular basis with tears in my faraway eyes ever since. I’ve gobbled up my share of straightforward epitomes & frilly departures, like the last version I had, the Director by my side, at my beloved old neighborhood haunt back in Boston, Neptune Oyster, wherein the waffle was a veritable cube of fluff & the syrup was figgy (perhaps thanks to Artibel fig molasses,


a Calabrian product whose label boasts what after 8 years or so since I read it for the 1st time remains some of the most gorgeously mangled English I’ve ever come across, recommending as it does that you “find its better utilize in confictionery, in particular like substitutive of the bee honey” or add it “up the greated-ice drink, like sauce up the beffsteak, and irons cooking fruit, for sweet of simple dough, up and other use suggested of the immagination”).

Now I know where my next plate’s coming from, & I couldn’t be more tickled not only that it’s neither the Drone-Filled Cubicle or whatever it’s called nor the likewise much-overrated Big Gross BBQ or whatever it’s called but M & D’s Cafe, with which the Director & I fell in love last night, so much we’d have cheated on each other with M & D, whichever one’s which, given half a chance, especially when Elsie, our waitress, informed us that M & D’ll be frying up chicken & waffles every Sunday beginning with this one.

Having gained 292 1/2 lbs., I checked, overnight thanks to the pile of killer rib tips & battered, peppered fries I plowed through like some sort of meth-addled farmer’s daughter,


I’ll be there with cowbells on.