This week, it’s just us Gulls! On a particular Friday in May, we decided to collectively say fuck it, take the day off from work and have ourselves a Lil’Rhody Eatin’ Extravaganza.
Friday AM
As told by Kitty
Before retiring on Thursday eve, we decided that our Friday morning call time would be somewhere between 7 and 8 am. Although I set an alarm, I woke up naturally in anticipation of a chock-full agenda. The day’s planned events were anchored in food, but we also welcomed curiosity as our compass. Our day was calculated enough to avoid a brush with low blood sugar, but loose enough to explore any scenic routes that piqued our interest.
My fridge was stocked with breakfast provisions, and I acted as sous chef, fetching the pepper jack and “brewing” a Nespresso while Greg constructed two of his famous Gregg & Cheeses. While there are many variations, Friday morning’s sandwiches were in their original form—toasted brioche buns, a schmear of Stonewall Kitchens’ Sriracha aioli, eggs fried over-easy in a dollop of butter, melty slices of cheese, and a Maldon sea salt sprinkle dupe. (Nick and I are a Trader Joe’s household.) For lack of a better phrase, these slap every time. They provided just the fuel we needed for the next leg of our journey.
After a quick pit stop in Pawtucket at Aster Candle HQ1, we sought out proper lattes. Hazel Origin Coffee had an iced blueberry pancake latte special on offer, and we said, “Make it two!” Shots of espresso were laced with whole milk and sweetened with a blueberry-flavored maple syrup. I sucked that thing down like I’m not teetering on the edge of lactose intolerance. In the name of research, we also ordered a chocolate chunk cookie. To our surprise, they served it warm, which gave it a sort of upscale, easy-bake-oven vibe. There's a special place in the afterlife for those who know how to properly present a chocolate chip cookie—ooey, gooey or we don't want it.
Next, we took the Tiguan down 95 South on a quest for vintage finds in Charlestown. After scoring a couple of great deals, deals, deals, it was time for lunch. Sly Fox Den Too had been on our radar, and we couldn't pass up a chance to dine there together. Chef Sherry Pocknett won the 2023 James Beard Award for Best Chef in the Northeast, and her menu of Indigenous cuisine sounded phenomenal. We were both struck by something Chef Sherry had been quoted saying in an article about her award. "What is Indigenous food? It means to eat where you're at. It means harvested by the season."
The restaurant was quaint and unassuming. Upon entering, Greg clocked a blueberry bake in a countertop display case. “It’s a blueberry buckle,” we were told. Our server suggested we have this as a dessert with ice cream after our meal, but we elected to have it served warm as an appetizer. Our eyes rolled back as we dug in. Our server came over to check in on first bites. Had she heard us audibly moan? “What’s in this?!” We exclaimed. She looked back at us with a quiet smirk and said, “I can’t tell you.”
We shared a Turkey BLT and Indian Taco as our mains, one with fries, and one with coleslaw. The fry bread was a real stunner. Thick and hearty, without being too dense. I used it to sop up my chili and the dollops of mayonnaise that had fallen from my half of the BLT. We both agreed that there was something special about Chef Sherry’s dishes. They had a home-cooked quality, but one I knew I’d never achieve in my own kitchen. Is this what food tastes like when it’s made with…care?
Friday PM
As told by Greg
After lunch, we put our ass into high gear and drove over to Ninigret Park to stomp some nature trails. It was a scorcher of a day, and we followed our instincts down a path that led us to the bay. Upon arrival at the water, we took in a serene tableau. Small boats dotted the horizon, red-winged blackbirds chattered over the gentle lapping of the waves and twenty-somethings jumped off a raft in the distance. Our appreciation for nature stopped after getting a good whiff of the marine life rotting in the sun within the embankment’s flotsam. The odor sent us packing, and we set our sights on getting some pics with the park’s much-talked-about troll sculpture installations. Our expectations weren’t high. Most of their praise appeared in a Facebook feed littered with marketplace handicrafts and posts about missing neighborhood dogs. However, once we located them, we admired their craftsmanship, scale, and thoughtful relationship to the environment.
Kitty's desire for new denim shorts drove us back up north to Garden City Center. We popped into Madewell where a Gen Z sales associate styled us from head to toe in "aspirational" millennial pieces. As we handed over the AMEX in exchange for summertime whites, we realized we were running late for dinner at Broadway Bistro with our dear friend Elise. With no time to stop home and change out of our activewear, we did a quick outfit update with our afternoon purchases in the car. Broadway Bistro had been on our list since we saw it was performing its last service at the end of July after being open for sixteen years. We were seated outside and enjoyed watching a hot day turn into a glorious summer evening. Dappled light from nearby trees splashed the sidewalk as the sun set over Providence, painting the sky with glowing hot pink smudges.
We started with a pea shoot salad and housemade bread topped with a beautifully peppery olive oil. The Olympic effort of trying on sale items left us so ravenous that we ordered three baskets.
Our server alerted us that all the pasta dishes were made in-house, and the three of us said, “Yes, please!” Kitty and I buckled up for the bucatini and Bolognese while Elise opted for the Mafaldini. All three plates of pasta were thick and plentiful. The hand-cut variance of the pasta added visual appeal and a certain je ne sais quois. Devouring the fresh and zesty Bolognese felt almost as good as basking in the comfort of old friendships.
After dinner, we strolled down Broadway on a vespers walk to Tricycle, an independent frozen treat shop specializing in artisanal ice cream sandwiches. Walking in felt like entering an enchanted portal. You brush past two gigantic fiddle-leaf figs to behold a warm interior clad with reclaimed wood and a beautifully illustrated chalkboard menu. As I absorbed all of the inventive flavor combinations, making a decision felt impossible. I made a game-time call when it was my turn to step up to the counter, selecting the banana pudding ice cream with nilla wafers on peanut butter cookies. It was decadently dipped in Callebaut chocolate and sprinkled with roasted peanuts. Kitty chose their classic Madagascar vanilla with espresso shortbread cookies. At the counter, the staff kindly informed me to wait a few minutes for the sandwich to thaw, but I couldn't stop myself. Even with a hard frosty bite, this treat ushered in the start of the warmer months, instantly transporting me to a best friend’s backyard after school had ended for the year. The ice cream sandwich carried the magic of everything you’d crave as a kid but with a grown-up palate.
It’s hard to say whether our day together was really about food or the satisfaction we receive from seeing joy on each other’s faces while eating. For years, a mantra in our friendship has been, “The best part [of any experience] is watching you enjoy,” which is especially true when indulging in an outstanding meal. The phrase demands a simple word in English, but like most feelings, it’s hard to name. It’s the ecstasy of those first few bites—a combination of joy, surprise, and vulnerability. The moment your friend reaches for their napkin to wipe the glob of garlic aioli from their chin and you lock eyes and laugh. It's then you both realize that getting to bear witness to them being happy and full is better than the bite itself.
Name drops: Hazel Origin Coffee, Sly Fox Den Too, Broadway Bistro, Tricycle Ice Cream
A special thank you to this week’s illustrator, Franco Zacha2! See his work here.
If you’d like to be a Guest Gulletier or illustrator, drop us a note at putitinthegullet@gmail.com
Surprise! I'm a candle maker. Here's a shameless plug for my business.
To Franco Zacha, illustration is the language of the heart. By combining the world he observes with carefully crafted concepts, Franco captures emotions through the lens of solemnity and beauty. Today, his work is frequently published in the pages of The New York Times, The New Yorker, and The Atlantic, and has been recognized by institutions like the Society of Illustrators and American Illustration. When he is not painting, you may find him relishing the art of old Pokémon cards. Franco is from Buenos Aires, Argentina, and based in Providence, RI.