I'm not sure how I feel about "pesto, covered in mascarpone cheese" or transforming my bowl of mush into a "French croque monsieur with diced ham and nutmeg" -- I'm more of a "pat of butter, pound of sugar with whole milk poured on top" kind of guy -- but with shops catering to just macaroni and cheese, just peanut butter, just cookies, just Pop-Tars and now just oatmeal, Manhattan has pretty much covered "the Kenny diet," as my brother Terence used to call it when I was a kid. The only thing missing is a joint that only sells lima beans.
My life pretty much revolves around oatmeal -- it's the only food I keep in the house: healthy enough to eat but requires just enough effort so I don't just eat it out of boredom -- so you can imagine how tickled I was when I saw this article in the Wall Street Journal about a gourmet oatmeal restaurant. It's called Oat Meals and is located at 120 W. 3rd Street -- yet the writer inexplicably insists it's in the East Village -- and has a plethroa of sweet and savory options. By the way, this article was only brought to my attention because of comment that my coworker thought I would enjoyed. It's since been deleted, but it said (and I quote):
"how many creepy men at the WSJ did this woman have to bend over for to get this review in the paper?"
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