A New York Love Story

There are very few places in the World that make me feel warm inside. There’s my home in Venezuela, my apartment in Boston and, as I recently discovered, Eataly in the Flatiron District of New York City. Let me give you some background information: Mr. Mario Batali recently opened what can only be described as “Italian Food Heaven,” outside of Italy of course. It is a warehouse in the middle of New York City where fresh fish, meat, pasta and heavenly smelling cheeses combine with creamy desserts and imported wines to bring food lovers to their knees. The warehouse is divided into meats, produce, fish, pastas, cheeses, meats, desserts, gelatos, coffees and everything from kitchen appliances to cook books.

I’ve been there about three times; every time I venture into the Big Apple I try to stop by and take a walk around. See, a place like Eataly is a perfect place to spend a rainy afternoon with a nice book and a cup of coffee and that is exactly what I did today. I’m reading “La Sombra del Viento” by Carlos Ruiz Zafón; a novel about a boy living in Civil War Spain who gets lost in history, literature and love. I sat at the cafe which serves Lavazza, exclusively. People came and went around me, leaving me with by book, my coffee and my Baci chocolate.

After a few hours of daydreaming about Barcelona, I walked around the Italian warehouse. I took in the sights, the smells, the atmosphere. I even looked through a few cook books and bought myself a Toro, a hazelnut-lover’s dream dessert. The thing about Eataly is not the food, or the smells, or the fact that the server is so Italian, he reminds you of a much less violent member of the Corleone family. The thing that captivates me about this place is that when you stand between the cheese and the pasta section and you close your eyes and breathe in, you immediately forget that you are in one of the noisiest, most overpopulated cities in the World. This place makes you think that teleportation is possible except the only place you can travel to is somewhere in the middle of the Umbria countryside and a big old Italian woman is making pasta from scratch while Parmesan cheese is fermenting in the next room. You leave there missing Italy, thinking in Italian and dreaming of your next meal which, I promise you, will be pasta.
Love,