Class outside

I cannot properly express how GOOD I ate this week, featuring one of the best meals I’ve had in New York. Semma is (I think?) the only Indian restaurant in the city with a Michelin star, and I first read about it as one of the New York Times’ top restaurants in the city. Meera and I tackled their menu with tastekeepers Allie and Sam, who are always down for deliciousness. The South Indian spot is bright and brimming with pre-summer excitement, and I wondered if everyone there tried just as hard as we did to get a reservation. Allie and I drank the thanga magan colada, which was one of the most peculiar drinks I’ve ever had. Think layer of yogurt protecting a spice-infused whisky. The first taste was bizarre but I adored each following sip, and I got the perfect level of buzz for the meal. The four of us shared everything, and the appetizers came out pretty quickly. Most people order the gunpowder dosa, which is basically this massive crust triangle filled with potatoey goodness. The meal’s stars were its sauces, and we kept the dosa’s three sauces for other courses to play with. I expected a lot of spiciness from these dishes, but nothing was that far out of my comfort zone, especially the main courses. The dosa was probably the spiciest. Soon after we started sinking our teeth into the dosa, the paniyaram arrived, which are these tiny lentil and chutney puffs you can inhale in a bite. I’m no seafood girl, especially the bottom feeders I avoided in my semi-kosher youth. Unfortunately, the hefty, punchy prawns further enforced that I can’t go back to my old dietary restrictions. For the main courses, I was in heaven eating, of all things, the lobster tail, which had this creamy, coconutty sauce that I will be dreaming about for the rest of my life. I dipped some parotta (if a croissant was flat and slayed) in this sauce that we later boxed up. We also had the melt-in-your-mouth lamb and oxtail entrees, which were both fabulous but very similar. This was a spiritual dining experience that I recommend for anyone who wants to live a life of love. Honorable dining mentions this week are two lower Manhattan bagel obsessions: Apollo Bagels and PopUp Bagels that are both unfortunately so worth the long lines for. I cannot pick a favorite of the two just yet. Get Apollo if you’re alone or in a small group and Popup if you’re feeding the masses.

One of my favorite songs of my New York era is “Girls Night Out” by Doechii ft. Babyface. It’s funny because I associate this song with late nights going home to the Upper East Side while Meera lived in another state, but I added this to my mega playlist on June 1st, one of the first few days of Meera and I’s lease here. It’s such a bop to dance to while walking alone, even though it was meant to throw down to with friends. I’ll enjoy any chance to hear this song, which is all about being newly single and having a night on the town. I love Doechii and how even her silly songs have a twinge of sadness to them, and Babyface is a great feature that I originally thought was Brent Faiyaz on a stimulant. Listening to this song sometimes makes me feel like I’m single, other times like I’m coupled, and always like myself.

I watch TikToks while washing my face before going to bed, and I always hope to happen upon a long or funny enough one that won’t bore me upon looping, my wet hands unable to scroll yet. I enjoyed watching this portrayal of a girl singing a musical theater rendition Chappell Roan’s “Good Luck Babe” in a fake audition. This user does such a fantastic parody of how musical theater people would enunciate and emphasize words in songs. The best is when she pulls back for the titular words.

Challengers fever have you wanting more threesomes you can watch with your friends in a morally acceptable way? Try one of the movies that inspired it, like Alfonso Cuarón’s classic Y tu mamá también. This summer scorcher follows two young guy besties in Mexico City taking a road trip with an older, beautiful Spanish baddie. I usually can’t stand an egregious age gap, but I don’t mind it in this movie. The movie explores themes of fidelity, class, death, and regret. The film has an omniscient narrator that might feel odd in other movies but really works for this one. I want to run around all of these beaches with a bandana on my head.

Being a New York Magazine print subscriber is such a pleasure. I tore through the latest issue. I try to read every story, but it’s usually hard to get through the middle section of longer features if the topics bore me. Thankfully, all three features gripped me and hopefully will take you, too. First, “Our Campus. Our Crisis” is reporting from student journalists at Columbia University, primarily made of interviews with students done throughout the school’s encampment cycle. I am so proud of these brave students, working grueling hours to present a balanced portrayal of what’s happening on campus. They shared stories of collective action, antisemitism, Islamophobia, students just wanting to learn, and adults escalating things too much. In another edition of The Cut publishing stories of crazy rich people, enjoy this odd Mother’s Day story from the daughter of a woman who traveled to Switzerland for an assisted suicide. This is one evil mom, made crazier by the unimaginable wealth she had. The organization that assisted her with her suicide has much more lenient rules on who qualifies for the procedure than most American practitioners that require a terminal illness. This lady was a miserable person who was destructive to everyone in her spiral and said some things that will make you gasp and giggle while reading the story. Finally, a get-rich-quick gone wrong from “The Package King of Miami,” a UMiami student living a flashy lifestyle funded by Amazon refund scams. This would be a great short film or documentary. It’s fun to see how young hackers use their powers, whether for good or evil. These three stories made a great issue (despite another story profiling an anti-woke Dimes Square “writer” written by one of their friends).

It’s the middle of a rainy Sunday, and I’m day drinking at a birthday pickleball tournament. Where in the East Village can I use the restroom? I ducked behind a building on the courts but decided the risk of public urination yielding sex offender registration was not worth it. A friend I met at the tournament took me a few blocks from the East Village courts to a wine store she just went to. This adorable store did not look like the type to have a bathroom even for employees, but they did, and I went to my first-ever American public restroom with a bidet. I did not use it because I did not want to take too long in the bathroom being stupid. My friend went after me and used it.