The other night a watermelon was brought to my table in the backyard of Olmsted, in Brooklyn.
The first thing I noticed was its unusually compact size, slightly smaller than my teenage son's head. The more unusual thing, though, was the copper spigot sticking out of its midsection. When I turned the spigot, out trickled a stream of cold, pink watermelon punch.
Even before the alcohol — both aquavit and clairin, the clear, small-batch rum from Haiti, swam around in watermelon juice seasoned by lemongrass and a subliminal amount of fish sauce — had a chance to work its way to my chafed nerves, I was already glad I'd left the house.
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Jenny Huang for The New York Times
The other night a watermelon was brought to my table in the backyard of Olmsted , in Brooklyn. The first thing I noticed was its unusually compact size, slightly smaller than my teenage son's head. The more unusual thing, though, was the copper [...]
