Get in my belly, Belly.

There are days that eating doesn't matter. There are days when I'm so busy and complicated and dense that life itself fills my stomach. That day was not like that. I was hungry all day, dying to communicate with a coherent human being and dumb down the anxiety from the day with a substantial caloric intake.

Meet at 8:45 they said. At Belly. Great, I said. I'll be there at 8 to sample appetizers. Somehow, though, I ended up late, stomach aching, eyes drooping, energy quickly leaking, like air from a tire.

There were not many people there, and it was nice to see the place almost naked. Just a few waitstaff lingering and the chef in the kitchen.

Our waiter agreed to make me a drink and it came out all pink and sparkly in a martini glass. That cheered me slightly. I ordered the braised rabbit pot pie, with corn, cioppolinis, edamame, chanterelles and crème fraiche, and waited for my late late dinner of pleasure.

The pot pie was made with puff pastry, which frankly, could have been covered in dirt and it would have tasted good, I was so hungry. But thank heavens, the puff pastry was filled with the braised rabbit pot pie. It was steaming and peppery and buttery. The edamame were quite prevalent in the dish - even more so than the rabbit. It made it lighter and added a freshness that I wasn't expecting. And of course, the crème fraiche didn't hurt either. (This picture does not do it justice. Damn cell phone camera.)

The waiter was especially friendly and somehow as he was taking our order for dessert, I felt comfortable enough that I spilled out my shameful story of getting tipsy on rum cake. How embarrassing for me. But that's what happens when my brain is impaired by the late hour and delicious food. He graciously laughed and backed away from our table.

We shared a rich chocolate cake for dessert with hazelnut bavarian cream. I had really vivid dreams that night. A bit frisky actually. V.G.