World’s Best Cup of Coffee

Around the time I began dating Rob, my dear Freed introduced me to a little blog called Six in the City. (That’s not a typo- you can breathe easy mom.) A witty Colorado suburb mom of 4 was moving her family of 6 to New York City. The blog was her journey. And it is funny. I started reading it religiously, especially as she began to deeply immerse herself in the culture that is New York. I felt comforted when she felt the same way about that crazy city. And excited when she gave me a new part of the city to explore.

Recently, she wrote about a little Italian grocery close to her apartment with amazing coffee. I went there to confirm this.

So, my Thursday in the city dawned bright and beautiful. I laced up my new boots (yep, I had to buy new boots to forge through the snow. Yes, I really HAD to buy shoes.) and went on my new adventure to Agata and Valentina. It’s on the Upper East Side—from Rob’s place it really is quite a trek.

This is what I got….a café au lait and some Italian almond pastry. It was delicious. I enjoyed sitting in the little café, sipping my coffee and SCARFFING down this incredible deliciousness. And I wanted to scream in all my Elf glee, “Congratulations! You did it! World’s best cup of coffee!” and I would have meant it.

 

 

 

 

 

Then, I wandered through the grocery section.

I cannot begin to explain a New York grocery store. They’re small and congested and full of characters. And every time I come home I kiss the floor of Marianos.  The entire store probably fit into the produce section of Marianos…and I’m not lying when I say I saw strawberries that cost more than a week’s worth of mistos from Starbucks.

Suffice it to say, take the mad, crazy, floorplan weavings of Ikea and shrink it to the size of my apartment. And you’ve got this magical little Italian grocery store.

I was one of those people I hate—I had no shopping agenda. I needed nothing. I couldn’t buy anything because I had a huge day ahead of me with no room for groceries. I wandered around picking up cookies and smelling pounds of coffee…

But I will tell you this…they make their own pasta. I looked up…and hanging like beautiful curtains on a clothesline in Italy were these very delicate, mysterious sheets of noodles. It took everything within me not to reach across the refrigerated section and rip one down for a taste of the pure carbohydrate heaven. I’m actually regretting that moment of self control as I sit here typing this. I will return.

 

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