Murray’s pulls me in again

I have a little problem. I’m physically incapable of ever walking by Murray’s Cheese Shop without going inside. I don’t always buy something, but I always have to at least go inside and take a look, pick stuff up and sniff it, read labels and imagine gorging myself.

Last week, I was walking down Bleecker Street one afternoon on my way home from work, trying to hurry because I had an evening flight to catch to Miami with the boyfriend, when there it was, Murray’s. “Just five minutes,” I thought to myself. “Just a teeny tiny  look to see what’s new.” (Even though I’d just been there the week before.)

Murray's, you got me again. And not even with cheese!

As usual, I saw approximately 500 things I wanted to buy, but with a weekend out of town coming up, I couldn’t really justify most of them… except for one: quicos.

I’d never actually heard of quicos before but when I saw them on the table with the other sweets and chocolates, the description on the bag sucked me right in: “Corn kernels are soaked in water, then roasted or fried to make them super crunchy and addictive. To seal the deal, they’re also coated with chocolate and sprinkled with salt.” SOLD. I sensed potential for an amazing airplane snack.

Murray's quicos, my new favorite snack for airplane rides... or anytime really

A few hours later, while the other JetBlue passengers were munching on their complimentary nut mixes and Terra Blue chips, I pulled out my bag of Murray’s quicos. After just the first one it was decided: these were in fact, absolutely addictive. Both sweet and salty, with a crisp crunch from the bloated, fat little corn kernels, and a buttery chocolate that melts on the tongue almost right away, these were almost impossible to stop eating.

I knew I’d be sad if I finished them all and found myself in Miami without a Murray’s in sight, so I was actually able to save a few. It was enough to hold me over for the weekend, but now that I’m back in the city I’ll have to stock up next time I’m in the neighborhood and drawn by Murray’s magnetic pull once again.

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Getting figgy with it

The Figgy Elvis. Thank you Murray's. Thank you very much.

It was my day off, and with temperatures outside sizzling in the upper 90s, my only plan for the day was to hang out in my PJs in the comfort of my apartment, AC blasting, music blaring, no plans of venturing into the outside world.

It was a damn fine plan too, until I checked Twitter. That’s when I read a Tweet from Murray’s Cheese Shop advertising their special melt of the day, the Figgy Elvis. As I read the ingredients, my thinking went a little like this:

Crunchy peanut butter (yumm), bacon (double yum), mascarpone (oh heck yea, now we’re talking), and fig spread (that’s it, SOLD). Alright, where are my shoes?

I threw some clothes on and bolted out the door and down Bleecker Street to Murray’s, which thankfully is only about a 10-minute walk away. After popping in, ordering and then beelining back, I was once again home, this time in the sweet company of my new lunch, the Figgy Elvis.

It might not be pretty, but it sure made up for it in deliciousness.

Now, I’ve had sandwiches that combine peanut butter and bacon before, but this was nothing like that. Instead of being a dry, tongue-sticking-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth jumble, the Figgy Elvis was creamy and smooth thanks to the velvety softness of the fluffy mascarpone cheese. The fig jam, rich and fruity, was the perfect amount of smooth and sweet to play off the salty crunch of the perfectly cooked bacon (perfect bacon, in my book, is crispy, not chewy).

I love every ingredient in this sandwich but it’s not every day that I eat them all together. But the Figgy Elvis?  I could eat that one every single day it was so good, even on my days off when I want to just hole up in my apartment.

Say cheese!

For the past couple of weeks, all I’ve wanted to eat is cheese. Just huge chunks, wedges, slices, globs of it. While I always love cheese, the reason I’ve been craving it like a junkie as of lately is because of the book I just finished. Immortal Milk, by Eric LeMay is all about cheese, but not in a boring  reference book kind of way. You wouldn’t read Immortal Milk to look up what makes Gorgonzola so funky or cheddar so orange. You’d read it, like I did, to follow someone else’s adventures, explorations, musings about cheese.

Immortal Milk is at times funny, educational, entertaining, and throughout, appetizing. Reading it before bed inevitably made me get up and rummage through the fridge, hoping to find some hunk of pecorino or Gouda or Camembert that I knew damn well I didn’t have, but oh hey, will you look at that, was somehow just magically there. (Note: no such luck. Never any magic cheese.)

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