Ok, so there's this restaurant here on the Upper West Side. It's called Carmine's. It's an Italian place.
Before last night I had never been there.
Italian spells trouble for me. Pasta, parmesan cheese, garlic bread, etc etc etc. You might as well put me in front of a firing squad, 'cause I'm going down for sure.
It was a friend's birthday the other night, and we wound up at Carmine's, where every dish -- and I'm not exaggerating here -- is big enough to feed five adults. You can't order anything as a single portion. It's all 'family style.'
It started out ok. Stuffed mushroom appetizers -- and that's the one dish that's not insanely huge. We each had a few. Then someone ordered fried calamari.
I was a prisoner of war (the birthday wars), blindfolded and standing against the wall, just praying for a quick death. The ordering of the calamari was the moment when the condemned prisoner hears the executioner's pistol cock.
Oh yes. My fate was sealed just then.
But folks, I died a noble death. I went out with honor.
I ate a large portion of calamari (with lemon and sometimes marinara sauce, but avoided the creamy tartar).
But I stopped eating after that. I didn't stuff myself with the garlic bread. I didn't dive into the (obscenely) huge plate of chicken parmigiana with spaghetti that followed. I even said no to dessert.
And today I did not follow it up with a binge. I did not allow any permissive eating. I wanted a muffin for breakfast, but that simply could not happen given what I'd inhaled the night before.
I had cottage cheese (small serving), an apple, later a banana, and later a 110 calorie snack bar. For lunch, much much later, I had soup from Hale and Hearty.
I went on a Calamari Safari last night, but I managed not to get lost in the wild.
January 15th, 2018 A Different Story
14 hours ago