Grub Street Diet: Steven Phillips-Horst

"For lunch, in an act of utter depravity, I stomp over to what is likely America’s last remaining Blimpie. I order a six-inch Blimpie Best with prosciuttini (adorable prosciutto), salami, ham, capicola, Swiss, lettuce, pickles, sweet peppers, and mildly spicy banana peppers. “A little bit of mustard … DEF oil and vinegar,” I tell my sandwich artist. It’s these subtle linguistic modifiers that help guide him to appropriate condiment amounts without stepping on his creative freedom."

"I meet up with Lily, co-host of our new podcast Celebrity Book Club, to “discuss business,” which is actually a ruse to leave the house (put on an outfit) and swing by a former lover’s gallery opening for attention. The plan is heat-lamped martinis at Saluggi’s, a sort of Boston-ish sports bar in the Lower East Side, but they don’t have heat lamps, and food is mandatory (“Thanks, Cuomo!” barks the barkeep), so we opt instead for hot toddies to go, and march toward enemy lines."

"The real coup is getting a table at Pastis at 8 p.m. on a Saturday in the middle of a pandemic — and guess what, honey? It works. We’re seated by a roaring heat lamp, thank God. Every single person there is dressed like Countess Luann, including the men. Fur vests, leather leggings, seasonably inappropriate hats. We order steak tartare, oysters, and escargot to share, and of course, two very dirty, very dry martinis."