I’ve never been one to ignore the bread basket. On the contrary, I’m usually the first to dive, shamelessly, to uncover the warm and satisfying lumps swaddled inside. The height of irresistibility, for me, lies in the chewy, dark-crusted loaves of New York City’s East Village restaurants—sliced, steaming, into thick and spongey slabs to be dabbed with butter or pushed through a drizzle of olive oil.
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