It was a few weeks before my 34th birthday, and I was seven months pregnant with my first child. My husband, a native of Wyckoff, and I were living in Manhattan. We worked long days back then and didn’t cook much at home. After all, we lived in New York City, food paradise of the world. We could get meals delivered to our door 24/7—the ultimate room service. So we mostly ate out or ordered in.
For my birthday, my husband wanted to take me somewhere special. We’d go to the restaurant of my choice for a splurge dinner. Almost daily he’d offer suggestions—food for thought. Nobu. March. Aureole. Le Bernardin. Fancy establishments that would require a reservation weeks in advance. Maybe even the enlistment of “people in the right places.” I needed to decide fast.
There was only one problem . . . continue reading in NJ Monthly