Okay, so here's what happened: I was supposed to be meeting Monica for brunch at this cute little bistro in the West Village. Naturally, I got distracted by a window display with the most unreal pair of vintage Chanel heels—don’t worry, I didn’t buy them (yet)—and, of course, I took a wrong turn. Or three. But here’s the thing: sometimes when you’re lost, the city gives you something a little better than what you thought you were looking for.
Wandering on Perry Street… Alone… in Heels
First of all, let’s talk about cobblestones. Who decided we should be walking on medieval driveway rocks in four-inch strappy Manolos? I didn't sign up for cardio and core strength. But the architecture? Stunning. Like, I half expected Sarah Jessica Parker to sashay by in a tulle skirt humming “Moon River.”
I passed by this tiny flower stand with peonies so perfect they looked fake—like, Central-Park-proposal perfect. Then there was a guy playing jazz on a saxophone outside a bookstore that probably only sells novels written before 1952. Ugh, I love this city.
And just as I was getting ready to Uber myself out of my own maze…
Cannoli Found Me. (Yes, That’s Dramatic. Yes, It’s True.)
I see this little Italian bakery. Tucked between a narrow brownstone and a dry cleaner’s that had a neon sign buzzing like it hadn't slept since 1983. The place was called Dolce & Clemente. No sign (which obviously means it's the spot), and one little sidewalk chalkboard that read:
“We don’t sell happiness, but we’re pretty close.”
Um. I had to go in.
The second I stepped inside, it smelled like vanilla and almond and seventeen generations of Nonnas whispering secrets into butter. The place had these mosaic tiles on the floor, copper light fixtures, and walls lined with imported biscotti in jars. Cute guy behind the counter. (Unconfirmed if Italian, definitely charming.)
I asked for one cannoli. Just one.
Oh. My. God.
Let Me Describe This Cannoli
- The shell: delicate, golden, crisp—but not too crunchy. No shrapnel-mouth here.
- The filling: smooth ricotta, just a hint of orange zest, sweet but not cloying. Like, dessert and breakfast had a magical baby.
- The garnish: chopped pistachios dusted in powdered sugar, and get this—little curls of dark chocolate.
I stood there. On the sidewalk. Moaning softly, like I was in a commercial I did not know I was part of.
A Love Letter to Getting Lost
New York has this way of reminding you that the best things aren’t always on your perfectly color-coded iCal. Sometimes they’re two streets over, past a flower vendor and a guy playing Duke Ellington, waiting to happen when you give up and start Googling “nearest pizza.”
So if you ever find yourself wandering with no idea where you’re going, just know—you might not find Monica and your overpriced grain bowl, but you just might find something better.
And if that something is a cannoli, call me. I’ll meet you there.
“It’s not just dessert. It’s destiny.” – Me, full of sugar and wisdom.
—Rachel G.
NYC // Fashion Enthusiast // Cannoli Convert
