Nacho, man

After lunch at Gee Whiz Diner (in operation since 1989!) with one of my favorite gal pals (ew) on Friday, (not pictured!), I met my top secret husband at Jajaja in the West Village for nachos (and more) and sundry nonsense. I walked home five miles from Astor Place, through way too many clones with egregious sartorial taste. Last night was one of the only times I was unable to finish every last atom of food on my (or Eric’s) plate. (The cocktail is his. I was tipsy on his mere presence.)

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