Never one to follow convention, Betsey Johnson doesn't let anyone less than Keith McNally fill her cabinets. When we spotted the eclectic designer at Morandi last night, she was picking up her weekly stockpile.
Do you have a calendar on your cubicle wall? Perhaps a photo or a Post-it note tacked up here or there? If so, and you work at the Prada offices, you might want to put that crap away now or face unemployment.
Name: Bethenny Frankel Age: 37 Neighborhood: Upper East Side Occupation: Health-conscious celebrity chef, star of The Real Housewives of New York City, Health-magazine columnist, Pepperidge Farm Baked Naturals spokeswoman.
How'd we miss this yesterday? Our compatriots at Grub Street report that — are you sitting down? — Peter Luger has changed its menu. (The south-Williamsburg beef temple does, by the way, officially have a menu, though one rarely actually sees, much less uses, one.) After 120 years of serving porterhouse, Luger has added the option of rib eye. Why the change? It seems there just isn't enough good porterhouse in the city to meet the restaurant's needs, so the only alternative was to start offering other cuts (or to, as the Grubbies say has recently happened, force some diners to eat fish). Grub Street is not displeased with this development: "Truly great porterhouses are hard to come by; they’re not marbled the way rib eyes are, and they don’t have the same depth of flavor." Perhaps, but we won't be eating them. You go to Luger for the experience as much as for the food, and the experience includes porterhouse. We could get a good rib eye without riding the J train.
After 120 Years, Peter Luger Introduces a New Steak [Grub Street]
We're not quite sure why, but Polaris Images sent us a set of photos of Ana, a Russian immigrant, picking wild boysenberries yesterday in Central Park. So there you have it: There are fresh wild boysenberries, ripe for the picking, waiting for you in Central Park, apparently on the West Side near 106th Street. You know, in case you haven't been feeling enough like a sharecropper lately. (Which is not to say we'd ever say no to a nice cobbler.)