A week ago, I had a whirlwind, fabulous, exhausting, gluttonous trip to New York. New Jersey, really, but I logged enough hours at the Port Authority bus terminal to qualify as a real NYC commuter. I am fortunate enough to count this woman among my long-time friends, giving me an only-too-affordable place to stay, and I had just enough time on my own to do my favorite thing at my own pace. That favorite thing would, of course, be eating.

As is proper and correct, I decided to spend my alone time in the city wandering through neighborhoods I have only read about in books, such as the West Village. My only rule of eating on vacation is to eat things that are hard to come by at home. In Maine you have lobster, in San Francisco you eat Chinese, and in New York, you eat whatever the hell you want, because it's all there. I stumbled upon Cuba Cafe around the corner from the subway stop at West 4th, and that's where I set up camp.

This traditional Cuban eatery has a jovial, classical Cuban atmosphere complete with freshly rolled cigars that warmed up a drizzly March afternoon for this girl. Better yet, the people at the table next to mine were more than vocal about how good everything was, and practically ordered the crab salad with fried watermelon for me. I was in for something warm, though, and my waiter surprised me with an amazing platter of vaca frita. This beef dish is not unlike ropa vieja with a whole mess'o onions, served with obviously-slow-cooked black beans and rice. It was garlicky, it was packed with spicy flavor, and it prepared me for a strenuous afternoon of window shopping and touching clothes I can't afford.

I was offered some tres leches cake for dessert, but I declined because I was, after all, in the West Village, and I had other cake on my mind...

Come on, I HAD TO GO! I've been no slouch in my celebration of Pittsburgh cupcakes - though there are certainly many more to try! - so this was really a journey to the source, a come-to-Jesus, if you will, that had been about six years in the offing. Yes, I waited in line. And yes, I ate more than one.

Actually, I ate about six over the course of the weekend. And they were really, really sweet. Diabetes sweet. I'm still partial to my hometown offerings, but at the right time in the afternoon, macking on some Magnolia cupcakes is nothing to pout about.

Cut to my second afternoon in the West Village, when Kirsten and I noshed at the Cowgirl Cafe on Hudson. While I hear they boast a mean margarita - which would certainly fit the southwest theme of the joint - it was the first meal of the day, so I was more interested in the BBQ pork sandwich. Even though I could only finish half - I had cupcakes on the brain, you know - the tangy-sweet, vinegar based sauce was right up my alley. So were the sweet potato fries, which came with a heavenly honey-mustard-butter sauce for dipping. But while the food was good, the decor was better. I'd highly recommend it for anyone looking to browse some country-western kitsch. From cowgirl portraits to animal hides, they've got it all, and a ten-gallon lemonade to go along the ten-gallon hats.

Forty blocks later, I think I deserved it - all of it, including the sweet potato fries with butter on top. And the cupcakes.