The New Yorker

"Unless you know the Spanish word chapulín, you may not realize that the shrimp tacos are battered and fried in a crust of grasshoppers, creating a deliciously recursive arthropod."

"Out comes a parade of sushi, though the chefs identifying their creations don’t always make themselves heard over Drake or Jay Z. Guessing games ensue: “Did he say scallop sperm?”"

"A drink called Beets by Dre contained beet juice, gin, and rosemary—O.K. if borscht’s your thing; watch the white jeans."

"Raising a salutary rumpus for summer’s dog days, the Matthew Marks gallery gives three locations over to “What Nerve! Alternative Figures in American Art, 1960 to the Present.”"

"At dinner, "girls’-night posses descend for watermelon margaritas and guacamole. The waitresses wear short, calico-print dresses, and have the spirit of the unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt.""

""Order a champagne cocktail on a Tuesday night at the bar, and the spiral of lemon rind bobbing on the bubbles looks like it’s having more fun than the clientele.""