Picture this: a quaint restaurant tucked somewhere in the West Village. The brick is exposed but painted white. How about we chip that paint for authenticity? The sink in the back is a great basin that we imagine old grandmothers scrubbing shirts in. The food is simple and not overwhelming. There are vintage washboards hanging on a slant. Let’s call the restaurant: The Laundry Room. Food that purifies and wrings us out. My dad thinks our makeshift kitchen in our cramped laundry room is West Village material. I think not.
Considering how inconsistent a hot-plate is, I’ve managed to make: shrimp, tomato sauce with onion, zucchini & wild mushrooms and orzo with olives, mozzarella, cucumber, shallots, salami & cherry tomatoes. The cutting board above is actually for rolling pizza dough. I’ve only made pizza a few times (disaster, the crust is so difficult! how can someone swing it? make it thin?) It’s perfect for cutting with very little space though. With the weather warming up, I can get away with more cold dishes and salads. Sometimes I look at the opposite row of brownstones and wonder if they look into this very small room. They’ve probably seen me in many incarnations (including my laundry days spent in the buff since I like to wash everything at once!). Hey, cleanliness is next to godliness.