I don’t know what happened to me the night before — some drink combination, or a particularly handsome man looking at me in a certain way — but I woke up last Sunday with nerves of steel. I could do anything, I suddenly realized. Why hadn’t I ever seen it before? Buoyed by this superlative confidence, I sent out a text to a few choice friends: “In search of duck bacon today. If I succeed, we will have dinner. Wish me luck.” And I ventured out into Brooklyn.
It’s laughable how easy it was. I should have known. It shouldn’t have surprised me that duck bacon in Brooklyn is literally sold on the sidewalk. But, there it was, in the heart of the paltriest, most pitiable farmer’s market I’ve ever seen. Six tents, crammed on the length of one sidewalk, offering very little in produce (no duh, it’s January in New York, but STILL. Very depressing). I walked up and down the block twice, looking for the duck salesman the internet had said might be there, before I finally saw why I hadn’t seen him the first two times: he was just some dude, youngish with a hipster beard, sitting atop a cooler, behind a hand-painted sign that simply said, “DUCKS.” Continue reading
The Danny/Gwyneth Project 