Fat Mac USA

So you all know that I was in New York for [American] Thanksgiving last week. We got home this morning and I am gonna have a food hangover for a week. And while I never, for a cotton-pickin’ minute, believed any of that detox crap, there is something strangely appealing about eating black grapes and fennel tea for seven days and erasing the sins of holiday eating and squeezing back into my gray skinny jeans. Oh the power and persuasion of wishful thinking!

Annnnnyways. On my last day in town, just before the boyfriend was set to fly back to the UK, we made a last minute pit stop at S’Mac in the East Village. It’s a cute little restaurant that sells mac and cheese and mac and cheese only. Which sounds, like AMAZING, I know. And the lady behind the whole idea is Canadian. Even better.

After our order came up (me Gruyere, him All American, his was better) we ran back to Union Square to catch the subway home.  By the time we had gone three stops the take away containers had already started to bleed massive splotches of grease through the carrier bag (which probably weighed about 2.5 pounds all told). The sight filled me with unfettered joy, my salivary production out pacing the spread of the grease spots.

But the boyfriend merely smirked and said: “I just don’t understand why there is an obesity crisis in America.