Note to self: drinking and cooking do not mix

High point of the weekend: finally going to Marlow and Daughters and using my christmas gift certificate on lots and lots of prime meats.

Low point of the weekend: Screwing up said meats

In between: copious amounts of alcohol.

This weekend I ventured out along the great hipster silk route to go to Marlow and Daughters, the retro-foodie-meat nerd shrine of Williamsburg (second only to the ironic moustache cathedral of Greenpoint).  This place was very, very exciting. Marlow and Daughters is a sort of  meat boutique, if you will. Some of the best looking, custom-butchered cuts of meat and homemade sausages I've seen in a long time. And the cheeses, condiments, pasta, imported oils... let's just say I usually only drool that much when I walk past my friendly neighborhood fire station.

Butcher porn interlude....

Bow chicka bow ow....

Ok, I'm back. Phew.

Anyway, Marlow and Daughters was great. As fulfilling as any butcher shop can be. I bought:

Lamb and olive sausage

ground veal (more exciting than it sounds)

some fan-freaking-tastic salamis and cheese

balsamic vinegar

brooklyn ricotta

italian artisanal pastas

and a leg of lamb... more on that later.

Being in this strange new place, I thought I should try some of the native drink. Finding the native drink agreeable, I thought I should have another to befriend the indigenous Williamsburghurs.We traded gifts as a peace offering as I left. They gave me a unicycle, and I gave them smallpox.

So... two drinks in and I hadn't even started dinner. What's a girl to do? Pop the prosecco. Here is the evidence of my dinner-- notice how the quality of the cooking is inversely related to the number of drinks consumed.

Starting out pretty well: gougeres

Still pretty much ok:  hazelnut mushroom salad

Going downhill fast: my leg of lamb somehow got forgotten around the second bottle of wine. It was a little on the overdone side and the braising liquid all evaporated... fail. The brussel sprouts and polenta were pretty tasty though. Thanks, butter!

Hammered: pistachio gelato was DELICIOUS! But only because I had made it ahead of time. Notice how in my rush to finish the bowl, I can't even hold the camera still. Or was it because I was sloshed?

The moral of this story is, if you are going to buy a very nice piece of meat, show it some respect. Dont start cocktail hour until the meat is in the oven, and for god's sake, set a timer. In penance, I went to MoMA at the busiest possible time on Sunday afternoon. I forced myself to stand in the most crowded exhibit for a full 20 minutes, and didn't make one snide comment at all.

And for the record, I blame all of this on Patty, the greatest enabler that ever was.