Some weeks are loud and expansive. Others are quieter — more about rhythm than revelation. This past week felt like that. The commute is settling in, the new house feels less “new” and more like home, and winter has tightened its grip on Connecticut. Lunches were forgettable. But dinners? Dinners carried the soul of the week. From gluten-free Chicken Piccata with the in-laws to tapas at Barcelona Wine Bar and a slow-simmered Super Bowl chili, this edition of What I Ate This Week was about comfort, proximity, and building new traditions.
The Commute Groove & Winter Reality
I’ve officially entered what I’ll call the “commute groove.” The train schedule feels predictable now. The rhythm of the financial district is familiar again. The platform cold hits hard in the morning, but there’s something grounding about routine.
Lunch, however, has not yet found its spark.
The building café is efficient and unremarkable — safe sandwiches, standard soups, food that qualifies as fuel but not memory. And maybe that’s fine for February. Winter compresses life into tighter patterns. But I know that once the weather softens, I’ll start exploring properly — wandering the side streets of Lower Manhattan in search of espresso counters, tucked-away Italian delis, and places that feel discovered rather than assigned.
For now, lunch sustains the day.
Dinner defines it.
A Wednesday Beginning to Feel Like Tradition
One of the quiet blessings of this move is proximity. The in-laws are three minutes away. Not “close enough to plan ahead” close — actually close.
Wednesday has started to feel like ours.
I don’t commute midweek, which gives me the gift of time in the kitchen. No rushing. No reheating. No squeezing prep between calls. Just real cooking.
This week’s anchor meal was gluten-free pasta and Chicken Piccata. Lemon zest brightening the butter. Capers releasing that salty brine into white wine. The sauce reducing slowly until it turned silky and balanced — rich but not heavy. The gluten-free pasta held its texture beautifully, which always feels like a small victory when you care about the integrity of a dish.
The table filled naturally. Glasses refilled without asking. Conversation stretched longer than expected. There’s something powerful about knowing family can simply “pop over.” It accelerates the feeling of home.
If this becomes our standing tradition, I’ll consider it one of the best outcomes of this new chapter.
A Burger & Beer at Archie Moore’s
Thursday night offered one of those small, perfect decisions.
After picking someone up from the train station, instead of heading home into the cold, we crossed the street to Archie Moore’s. No debate. No overthinking.
Archie’s has that timeless neighborhood feel — warm wood, familiar bar energy, TVs humming quietly in the background. It doesn’t chase trends. It doesn’t need to.
I ordered a burger, fries, and a cold beer. The kind of meal that requires no explanation. Proper char on the outside, juicy center, simple toppings, nothing architectural about it.
There’s something deeply satisfying about a meal that meets the moment. After a long day and a freezing platform, it was exactly right.
Sometimes eating out is about elegance. Sometimes it’s about proximity and comfort. That night, comfort won.
📍 Archie Moore’s | 48 Sandford St, Fairfield CT ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Tapas Energy at Barcelona Wine Bar
Friday night shifted the tempo.
We met friends from Newtown at Barcelona Wine Bar in Fairfield, and the table filled quickly — as it always does there. Barcelona carries that dim, European warmth that encourages lingering. It feels layered and alive, especially in winter when everyone wants to be inside somewhere vibrant.
We started with cured meats and aged Manchego, then moved through patatas bravas, bacon-wrapped dates, meatballs in tomato sauce, mussels in white wine, empanadas — and somewhere along the way, another bottle of Spanish red.
Tapas dining invites optimism. You order with curiosity, not caution. Plates overlap. Forks cross. Stories interrupt each other in the best way.
The beauty of a place like Barcelona is that the meal becomes less about any single dish and more about momentum. Conversation builds. Laughter sharpens. The week loosens its grip.
For a few hours, February didn’t feel so cold.
📍 Barcelona Wine Bar | 4180 Black Rock Tpke, Fairfield CT ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Antiques & French Onion in Trumbull
Saturday morning took us to Stratford Antique Center, walking through aisles of old wood furniture, mirrors, art, and objects that once lived other lives. There’s romance in that kind of browsing — the idea that something with history might become part of your own.
We didn’t leave with a perfect piece for the house, but we left hungry. On a two-degree afternoon, warmth became the only priority, which led us to Old Towne Restaurant.
French onion soup was the obvious choice. Deep, savory broth. Fully caramelized onions. A cap of melted cheese stretching into long strands as the spoon broke through.
It was restorative in the way only winter soup can be.
I followed it with a simple chicken panini — crisp bread, melted cheese, nothing complicated. Not every meal needs reinvention. Sometimes the right dish is the one that matches the temperature outside.
📍 Stratford Antique Center | 400 Honeyspot Rd, Stratford CT ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
📍 Old Towne Restaurant | 60 Quality St, Trumbull CT ⭐️⭐️⭐️
Super Bowl Sunday: Chili, Nachos & Ritual
Sunday belonged to the kitchen again.
I let a pot of chili simmer most of the afternoon — cumin and paprika building depth, tomatoes reducing slowly, beef tenderizing into something cohesive and comforting. Nachos were layered intentionally — no naked chips hiding at the bottom — and the guacamole was made fresh with lime, salt, and just enough texture to feel homemade.
Super Bowl Sunday food isn’t meant to be plated perfectly. It’s meant to gather people around the island. To hover. To snack. To talk between plays.
The Patriots didn’t win. That part stung.
But the ritual held.
And in the middle of winter, ritual matters.
What I Ate This Week wasn’t glamorous. It was intentional.
A midweek Chicken Piccata that might become tradition.
A burger across from the train station that felt like reward.
A tapas table loud enough to shake off February.
A bowl of French onion soup that restored circulation.
A pot of chili that turned Sunday into something warm.
Living with Italian passion doesn’t require being in Italy.
It requires attention.
And this week, that was enough.