First off, whatever anyone thinks about Herr Changers, you have to give him props for not only culinary creativity, but being self-aware enough to embrace the impish, childish impulses to name his baked goods after not only illegal, but low class, drugs. I am referring to none other than the Crack Pie. (For the record I also ordered two pork buns, which for nutritional purposes were probably turned straight into glucose upon inhaling; just like the pie. In my defense I had walked pretty much the length of Broadway from the UWS to the LES, so I figured I was safe from auto-inducing a diabetic coma.)

Anyways, back to the pie. Eating this pie was the same high I experienced in sixth grade while consuming Duncan Hines cream cheese frosting fresh from the plastic white can on graham crackers.  So smooth, so creamy. Can I get a Homer Simpson salivating sound effect, please?

Of course Chang’s Crack Pie does not taste like cream cheese. Or crack. (Not that I would know what crack rock tastes like). It’s actually comprised mostly of the building blocks that those of us with a sweet tooth crave obsessively: a super simple concoction of butter, brown sugar and heavy cream, and tastes, not surprisingly, akin to a burnt brown-sugar pie. A crispy crust holds this sinful mess together, and I could have eaten another piece, but I had gotten large slice of chocolate chip cake as a chaser. Did I mention the pork buns already? I admit, it’s kind of gimmicky, but I am all for food as entertainment if it’s done with enough snark.

After the sugar high had subsided I moseyed back to my hotel on the bleak UWS. I did manage to stop for a slice of spinach pizza.

Going for a slice.

The  next day I was on to more serious endeavors at Tom Colicchio’s Craftbar. Unfortunately my visit there was really just a mad dash, but I figured a mad dash is better than no dash at all. Started with a winter time classic: a beet salad of bitter greens, beautifully dark-rouge beets, and bright, meyer lemon-colored squash under the gaze of a study of Warhol-esque chickens in an alcove of the  main dining room. The salad was much like a great hair cut. Good hair cuts are good even after they grow out, and even when I was finished with my salad, the red stains on the white bowl that had housed the greens looked like a piece of modern art, or a child’s finger painting project.

I have to admit, I love D.C., but New York has given me a fevah for crack. Pie that is.