By Andrew Rice

Best Super Bowl Party
Playwright Irish Pub, 27 W. 35th St. (betw. 5th & 6th Aves.), playwrightirishpubnyc.com.
It’d be hard for almost any bar to top the Playwright for square inches of screen space, as this Irish sports bar has over 80 of them in their two-floor establishment. For a pair of Andrew Jacksons, you’ll get an open bar and buffet to enjoy as you watch the G-Men battle it out with the Pats.

Patriots Bar
The Three Monkeys, 236 W. 54th St. (betw. Broadway & 8th Ave.), thethreemonkeysbar.com.
Two floors of TVs. One giant screen. 36 beers on tap. 13 wins—I could keep going on about the ultimate Patriots bar in the city tucked away in the theater district. Unlike most of its competitors, drinking here won’t break the bank, and all the food from nachos to wings to burgers, is all stellar. Long live the gastropub!

Big Screens Galore
Mickey Mantle’s Restaurant and Sports Bar, 42 Central Park S., mickeymantles.com.
Holy guacamole. This place has more big-screen TVs than you can shake a stick at; they adorn every surface. Get yourself a giant steak, a giant pint of beer, and go root for the Giants. When we take home the Lombardi trophy, you can snag a boisterous carriage ride through the park to let everyone know that you bleed blue.

The Place to Drink
Slattery’s Midtown Pub, 8 E. 36th St. (betw. 5th & Madison Aves.), slatterysmidtownpub.com.
Slattery’s is probably hosting the best drink special in the entire city on Super Bowl Sunday. For an even $50, there is unlimited open bar and combo plate filled with all of your game goodies. But this isn’t your typical open bar where you’re stuck with watery domestics—Every. Shelf. Is. Top. Shelf. Savor it.

Best Eats
Landsdowne Road, 599 10th Ave. (betw. 43rd & 44th Sts.), lansdowneroadnyc.com.
Every football fan knows that the quintessential food for the big game is wings, delicious, delicious wings. Lansdowne is known for having the best wings in the city, with a huge variety. And tons of huge screens means you’ll always catch someone being pummeled into the AstroTurf.

Place to Watch
Jack Russell’s Pub, 1591 2nd Ave. (at 83rd St.), jackrussellsnyc.com.
You can’t beat Jack Russell’s when it comes to watching the game uptown. They have 13 large HD screens and the tables each have their own HD flat-screen TV. If the cheap drinks and all those TVs can’t keep you entertained, there is always the beer pong tables, pool tables and arcade games.

Argentinean white goes perfect with warm winter

By Josh Perilo

I left the house on Tuesday to move my car and I wasn’t wearing a coat.

Yes, this is the wine column, but I felt that sentence needed to be said. It’s both thrillingly amazing (considering the snow spanking we got last year) and very, very scary. By the way, thanks, Al Gore! I still have trouble sleeping whenever it’s unseasonably warm.

But let’s focus on the positive, which is that this weather is kicking some serious butt! Winter is usually the time when I stock up on heavy reds like Cali cabs, those amped up, high-alcohol shirazes from Western Australia and big, earthy tannin monsters from northern Italy. This year, however, those wines just seem out of place and a bit smothering.

So instead I’ve been turning to wines I usually don’t give a second glance until April or May. It’s allowed me to go back and reconsider some selections that I’ve never tried or completely forgotten, which is how I ran into my long lost friend torrontes.

Torrontes is a grape that is indigenous to Argentina. It is also, sadly, a varietal that rings few bells with the vast majority of United States wine drinkers. That’s unfortunate, because these are some of the best bang-for-your-buck white wines from anywhere. It’s also strange, because torrontes is the most produced white wine in Argentina. The typical flavor profile is fruit-forward and light- to medium-bodied with citrus and apple notes, but as you’ll see from my selections, there are a number of ways the profile for this versatile grape can go.

So, allow me to take you by the hand and lead you through the delicious and inexpensive field of Argentinean torrontes.
If you haven’t tried torrontes before, a great one to start with is the Bodegas Callia Torrontes Tulum Valley Alta 2010 ($9.45 at Morrell and Company, 1 Rockefeller Plz., 48th St. & 5th Ave., 212-688-9370). This is a simple, pared-down, refreshingly delicious wine that will kick the door open for those who are new to the grape. On the nose, there’s a good amount of fresh orange zest. The citrus flavors continue on the palate with riper tangerine notes up front. The middle becomes sparer and more herbal with notes of chervil, and the finish has a clean, bright minerality.

For a torrontes that stays simple but has a little more body to it, look no further than Bodega Monteviejo Torrontes Argentina Festivo 2010 ($13 at Yorkshire Wines and Spirits, 1646 1st Ave. at 85th St., 212-717-5100)—it takes the basic profile of torrontes and kicks up the intensity several notches. Scents of intense wildflowers waft from the glass.

Honeysuckle and orchid are the main event. On the palate, though, it’s all about tropical fruit and melon; lots of mango up front with notes of honeydew through the middle and a dollop of lychee on the finish.

Taking the intensity and dialing it up even more, the Bodegas y Vinedos La Esperanza Torrontes Cafayate Menduco Reserve 2010 ($12.75 at Garnet Wines and Liquors, 929 Lexington Ave., betw. 68th & 69th Sts., 212-772-3211) is possibly the spiciest torrontes I’ve ever tried. Right out of the bottle and into the glass the wine smells simpler than it tastes, with scents of pear and orange peel. Up front on the palate, however, there’s a good amount of white pepper and starfruit. This leads to a mid with white peach and ripe orange flavors. The finish is full and floral with magnolia blossom and papaya notes. This is the Torrontes to pair with a spicy Pad Thai.

And for those who love the classic flavors of French, old-world-style white wines, try the Bodegas y Vinedos La Esperanza Torrontes Cafayate Valley Finca El Origen Reserve 2010 ($12 at Garnet Wines and Liquors). This wine has all the telltale scents and flavors of a lean and racy Chablis; wet granite is the main event on the nose. The palate continues the minerality throughout with green apple, pear and lemon zest on the finish.

So don’t be afraid to go light this winter. Think of it as a preview of our (hopefully) beautiful spring!

Follow Josh on Twitter: @joshperilo.

I’ve never watched Grey’s Anatomy, but I think I get it—there’s some guy called McDreamy and some other guy who’s like, McLovesy or something, and McDoeEyes can’t chose between them. And in between it all there’s McCheatsy, McDies, McLetsJustBeFriends and McDoctor. I mean, that’s close enough right? But here’s the thing—I’m pretty sure there’s no character called McScary (apologies if there is, especially to NY Press, because that makes this entire essay completely redundant).

McScary is, you guessed it, scary.  McScary is also rare. From my experience in New York City, people date a lot, and the ratio of McScarys to McMeh?s is grossly disproportionate. We’ve all met McCreep, McNeverCallsAgain, McHuge (work it out), McCriesDuringSex and McBartender (or four). But not many of us have met McScary.

The last time I met McScary wasn’t even in New York City. It was in London. I’d had a rough year blah blah and then one day I met a boy that my heart instantly opened up for. And there is nothing scarier than when your heart starts screaming, “Him, him, Kat, It’s HIM!” Hence the name McScary.

Every second with McScary is the perfect nightmare. It’s like you’re dreaming that you’re eating cheeseburger after cheeseburger [or insert your favorite food here] and it’s so delicious, oil is dribbling down your chin and bits of pickle are stuck to your cheek—but at the same time you’re swelling, getting fatter and more gruesome with every bite. As Beyonce would say, “a beautiful nightmare.” One minute you’re greedily chowing down, the next minute you’re dealing with some severe, long-term health risks.

The time you spend with McScary is like scoffing all those cheeseburgers. The more you eat, the more you want, but the higher the risk of cholesterol, and eventually heart attack, becomes. When I was a younger girl, I used to face McScary with wanton abandon—yeah, I’d pick up like six of those cheeseburgers and stuff them all in my face at once, with no regard for the future pain and possible lockjaw my actions might cause.

And what pain! McScary is scary for the precise reason that he is the one you instinctively know will break your heart. And not break your heart in an argh-screw-that-guy-short-cry-margaritas-and-dancing-with-the-girls-omg-I-totally-like-party-macked-on-two-guys-where’s-my-baggie? sort of heartbreak. I mean real, sordid, you-can-feel-it-smashed-to-pieces-in-your-chest-shards-scraping-against-your-rib-cage-and-puncturing-your-lungs broken.

Most of us have been broken by a McScary at one time or another—that’s how we can identify McScary now. Chances are the first McScary was simply a McDreamy, in the time before you knew what awesome power the person you fall madly in love with can wield.  So now that you’ve been brokenhearted, McScary is scarier than ever. And you’ll find yourself asking, as I am asking myself now, what the hell do I do? Based on the reactions of me and my friends, I see that you have three distinct options:

- Self sabotage so McScary leaves you wounded, but not mortally

- Quit being a cry baby and just roll with it

- Play Katy Perry really loud and dance around in your underpants singing into a hairbrush

I’m a hopeless romantic. And I’ve learned that in the self-sabotage scenario, you don’t get second chances. This isn’t a rom com and you’re not Katherine Heigl (sucks to be you). So I say do the Katy Perry thing to calm your nerves, then hitch up your panties and dive in, headlong. Because the thing is, everybody just wants to be loved. Sometimes when I think about how desperate everyone is for such a simple thing, and how hard such a simple thing is to come by, that’s what really breaks my heart (I seriously cried today when I thought about all the people who want nothing more than love but don’t have it).

So if you have the opportunity—take it. Grab McScary by the balls and squeeze them (not too hard, just enough pressure so it’s sexy); let yourself fall in love. If it doesn’t work out, well there’ll be an article for that too, and I promise you, we’ll get through it together. Hurting is OK—you’re allowed to hurt. That’s why God invented things like red wine, best friends and bacon. And besides, no one likes that deer-in-the-headlights whiny bitch off Grey’s Anatomy anyway.

Follow Kat on Twitter: @kat_george

Am I oversexed? How much sex is too much sex? It’s not just me though, is it? We’re all “doing it” just a little bit too much. Right?

I love sex. I think sex is wonderful, whether I reach climax or not. It’s fun, raunchy, great exercise and I feel wonderful afterward. What’s not to love about sex? I want to do it all the time—yes, even if I just finished. I’m like one of those kids you see at amusement parks getting off the rollercoaster screeching, “Again, again!

Sure, I have my days where I’m tired or too drunk—I’m not the Energizer bunny, I’m human, just like you. But overall, it would suit me just fine to lie in bed all day on a Sunday feeding the beast with two backs. That’s not to say I like to sleep around or have multiple partners; I’m quite content with just the one, as long as he’s not saving it for marriage.

Sex is something that I’ve noticed to be quite prevalent in New York City, more so than in other cities I’ve lived (Melbourne and London). Everyone is doing it. Think of everyone you know, even that really quiet, geeky guy you think isn’t doing it. And guess what? He’s totally doing it. Like, all the time. Fat people, skinny people, weird people, boring people, loud people, angry people, happy people, shy people, dumb people, smart people, all the different kinds of people—they’re all doing it.

All day I dream about sex; yeah that’s right, like a weird rap/rock song. Sometimes I’ll take a break to think about getting a glass of water or to write about having sex, but even the most mundane things end up becoming innuendos. Like this: Wouldn’t it be awesome to pour this glass of water all over my naked breasts while I’m having sex? Or maybe I’d just really like to be having sex in the shower. Or in the ocean.

Here are some big questions about the whole sex crazed persona (if you relate to any of the above then you should probably ask these questions of yourself, too):

—Am I actually a teenage boy trapped in a young adult woman’s body?

—Is this like that movie with Zac Efron where Chandler is 17 again?

—Is my mother right and my biological clock is not just ticking, it’s slapping me in the vagina in a way that’s completely inconvenient but also deeply arousing?

—How do I control myself?

—Is a baby alien about to explode out of my womb and does that alien also have raging libido?

—How much sex do I need to have to quell the desire?

—Can I pass myself off as a sex addict?

—Do I have an illness?

—AM I SICK?

But eventually it all gets to be a little bit too much; especially when it feels like it’s an obsession. The amount of times I’ve heard my friends say things like, “I have to get laid tonight,” or “I haven’t done it in a month, you might as well shoot me in the genitals,” is somewhat worrying. Sometimes it feels as though sex is the most important, most profound activity in our everyday lives. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t want the headline to read “Really Smart Pretty Young Greek Girl Tragically Overdoses… ON SEX!” when I die. What would my mother think?

Follow Kat on Twitter @kat_george

You know The One (You Always Go Back To). This is the person with whom you share two very powerful aphrodisiacs—chemistry and understanding. In my case, I met The One (You Always Go Back To) in the middle of New York’s sweltering summer. We proceeded to spend the next few months throwing down whiskey shots at the Lucky Dog and stumbling home in the humid early mornings to sweat all over each other. And when the sun came up, there was never breakfast—maybe some more sweating and grunting, but never breakfast.

It wasn’t particularly romantic, but it was what it was—amazing sex with someone who for one drunken night would fawn all over me, but from whom I could walk away the morning after without a second thought. That is, until the unambiguous, drunken “Hi,” one would inevitably text the other a few nights later. Everyone knows what that “Hi” means; is there a more profoundly unabashed way to text for sex?

The biggest problem with The One (You Always Go Back To) is that you’re likely to be simultaneously looking for The One, and it can be difficult to let the former go when a potential chance to fall in love comes along. Especially when the sex is: So. Damn. Good. And besides, The One (You Always Go Back To) can’t break your heart—it’s not theirs to break, and it probably never will be.

I met someone “special” in the midst of my summer romp with The One (You Always Go Back To) and for the briefest time there was a probably-wrong-but-not-all-that-wrong overlap. How could there not be when the sex was: So. Damn. Good (did I already mention that?)? I managed to “get a hold of myself” and curb my activities with The One (You Always Go Back To), but that didn’t stop me from flirting dangerously with him the entire time, and I even found myself pining for him more often than I should have been when I was in a relationship.

As soon as my “relationship” ended, you guessed it; I fell straight back into the arms of The One (You Always Go Back To) without even skipping a beat. Lying breathless on his bedroom floor, scanning the room for my missing underpants, mere days after becoming freshly single, I found nothing but a certain confusing feeling, and wondering if I would have to do my walk of shame commando style. Why was I back here? Could The One (You Always Go Back To) be just plain old The One? Was our chemistry so intense that we’d always come back here to bump against each other desperately? Was I still drunk from all the whiskey.

I looked at him, already snoring on the carpet next to me. He was so beautiful. So charming. So good at sex. For a second, I tried to love him. I willed it. I thought about our future: romantic dinners, drives to the countryside, reading the paper to each other in bed on a Sunday morning, gorgeous, tan, golden-haired children. I smiled softly to myself as I retrieved my underpants from where they’d been tossed under the bed. It all seemed so impossible to me in that moment, but less possible still was the notion of not finding myself scrounging for my underpants on his laundry-riddled bedroom floor a week later. I walked out into the night with the sense that I would always come back here. I would always walk this way; it was my routine now.

But something changed, suddenly and unexpectedly. Just as I was preparing to fall back into the old whiskey shot and a root routine, I met someone special. And not “special” like the aforementioned relationship—special as in there hasn’t been any overlap, and not from any want of trying on behalf of The One (You Always Go Back To). It’s a strange thing, the changing of plans, and I get the sick sensation that this might be the end for The One (You Always Go Back To).

Because there has to be an end, right? If you’re not going to make The One (You Always Go Back To) your One And Only, eventually you just have to stop—cut it out, don’t touch those genitals again. Because how many times can you run out on someone before they start looking for a better deal? Don’t they deserve better than to be left high and dry every time your heart seeks something else anyway? How many times will someone take you to bed when you come calling with your broken heart before it exhausts you both? If someone can’t be Your One, can they ever be satisfied with being your fall back? And can you always be satisfied with them simply being your go to when you’ve got the blues? Should you just get out now, before it turns bitter and sours the whole lovely sex thing you’ve had?

Eventually, you have to grow up, I suppose. And part of growing up is being able to find solace in your own company when you’re downtrodden, rather than turning to someone you know you’re only using to boost your self-esteem. The One (You Always Go Back To) will always be just that—what you have is habitual and ingrained. You’ve been acting out the same old scenes with them for so long now that it’s impossible to script new ones, let alone improvise. And that’s when you have to make the decision and The One (You Always Go Back To) becomes The One (You Need To Let Go). It will take willpower, but I think it will be worth it when you’re cut loose, and can be completely unburdened to fall crazy head-over-heels with someone that gives you a companionship beyond a shot glass and a 3 a.m. scurrying tiptoe to find your knickers.

Follow Kat on Twitter @Kat_George

Happy New Year! Now, which of you had a dirty midnight snog, and which of you stood in the middle of a room of people groping each other, entirely excluded from the exchange of saliva at midnight? It seems that you have either one of two options when ringing in the New Year—kiss someone, or don’t.  The sneaky New Year’s mack is a must, because without it, you wind up feeling kind of… hopeless. And you never want to start a New Year feeling hopeless.

Last year I wasn’t seeing anyone on New Year’s Eve, so I missed out on the midnight kiss. Although at some ungodly hour of the morning, finding myself at a Williamsburg loft party, I ended up tonguing with a good friend. We’d been dancing for what felt like hours, both of us drunk and high (him maybe a little bit more than me), and the scenario went where all good drug fuelled scenarios go.

The details are sketchy but in his stupor he said something obscenely nonsensical about wanting to kiss my eyeballs and we just went for it (on the mouth, not the eyeballs). Afterwards I walked up to my girlfriend who looked at me, horrified.

“Have you been kissing?” she asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“Because you’ve got lipstick all over your face,” she said, cracking a smile.

I looked in the mirror and lo! There was a halo of red lipstick in an almost perfect circle about one inch out from my lips.

No, New Year’s kisses do not need to be romantic. They can simply be as foul and inglorious as that. But you must have them, you simply must. I’ve thought long and hard about the mysterious New Year’s Eve kiss and all it’s connotations, including the pressure to have one, and I’ve come up with the following points as to why we feel we need to kiss when the ball drops:

- because they made a really big deal out of it on Friends

- because otherwise you’ll deem yourself a fat, undesirable loser

- because everyone else is doing it

- because you want to rub it in the faces of all the people not doing it, you smug son of a bitch

- because it’s tradition

- because you’re so high you HAVE to kiss SOMETHING right NOW or your face will explode and oh my God, we should totally take a road trip tomorrow because you’re my best friend, hold my hand, doesn’t that feel nice, oh my God, do you have a cigarette?

- because superstition tells us you live the new year the way you start it

- because deep down we’re all just a pack of horny frat boys

So basically none of it makes any sense at all, really. That mad scramble to find anyone, anything, to mash your face into on New Year’s Eve is entirely ridiculous. But we still buy into it, just the same way be buy into face cream, kale and Brangelina—because even though it’s stupid and doesn’t fulfill any kind of practical reality, it’s still fun. And isn’t it just magical to think that maybe, one special New Year’s Eve, just as the old year ticks into the new, someone you really like will kiss you right on the mouth while everyone around you is shaking hands?

You can follow Kat on Twitter @kat_george

I’ve always spoken out quite publicly (ranted on my Twitter) against online dating, and I’ve been poo-pooed by almost everyone for it, even, allegedly, my biggest fan (you know who you are).  People always come at me with the classic “don’t knock it until you try it” reasoning, at which point I snidely respond, “I don’t need to eat shit to know it doesn’t taste good.” I guess eventually the old adage “online dating is not analogous to eating shit,” won out and I decided to give it a red-hot go before I made my mind up. I figured the worst that could happen was date rape or murder (too far?), and the best would be being able to say, “I told you so.”

I chose to use Nerve.com’s dating service, mainly because my girlfriend works there but also because OKCupid and other sites I’ve browsed seem to be inhabited by online dating militants, and I felt very much out of my depth with all the crazy features. One of the reasons I’ve always shied away from online dating is because even though I’m a writer, I’m very much a “show don’t tell” kind of person, and most dating sites tend to weigh you down with, well, you. They’re personality resumes, and I don’t believe I’m half as lovable on paper as I am in real life.

I’ll admit – Nerve was still really fucking scary. The first time I got a message I squealed, covered my eyes, groped for a button on the keyboard of my computer, any button, and managed to close the browser all the while shrieking “ew, ew, ew, ew, ew!” It wasn’t even the guy – I had barely looked at his photo let alone his profile. It was just the fact that someone had messaged me. I felt sort of… Violated.

What followed was like catching a spider in a jar and not knowing what to do with it: lots of pacing, weighing up my options, and texting friends. I could either kill the spider, or be a real man and set it free in the garden. I decided that if I was going to try this online dating thing for real, I had to take it outside and set it loose on a tree. Metaphorically speaking.

So I went back to Nerve and started filling out my profile. I was pleasantly surprised to find that there was no “profile” component, per se, and that the site operates a lot like Twitter, with a series of status updates based on your daily life and random culture questions generated by the site. I eased into it quite naturally, and for a split second, I felt like maybe online dating wasn’t just for the emotionally desperate, divorcees and the obese, and I actually thought, “hey, I can do this!”

Between messages from crotch grabbing weirdoes, guys old enough to be my dad and guys who seemed normal but approached me with cheesy one liners, a few stood out and I settled on one to meet for a date. Ok so I’m lying, it wasn’t that easy.

After setting up the initial date, I cancelled, mere hours before. I’d had a long day at work and the last thing I wanted to do was go hang out in a bar with some stranger who was probably a total freak with a fetish for adult diapers or something equally creepy. To my date’s credit, he took the cancellation well, and we rescheduled for an afternoon drink on the weekend, after which we both had other commitments, a perfect escape route for my already skeptical self.

When the weekend rolled around I was no more enthused about the date. Which is the first problem I found with online dating – there’s no anticipation to see someone you really like, and instead it feels more like a chore or a job interview for a job you don’t really want but have to take because you’re broke. I thought of all the ways I’d rather be spending my afternoon – catching up with friends and loved ones I barely get to see; instead of making small talk with someone I’d never met before.

In the name of journalism, I went on the date anyway, although in all honesty I’d already decided online dating wasn’t for me. Choosing people to date from what is essentially a menu takes away the serendipitous nature of dating, and that “you could meet anywhere, any time” possibility is synonymous with New York, and why I love dating so much. Take that away and all you have is another errand to fit into your already bursting schedule. Moreover, while serendipity might not lead you to prince charming, when you’ve met someone in person before you date at least you know your attracted to them. So even if the conversation is a flop, you can still look forward to a bone at the end of it, which ensures your shitty date will alwys be worth it. Not always so with online dating, as I found out.

I won’t say too much about the date itself. It was brief and boring, although the guy did seem nice enough and he wasn’t rapey at all. He was much more into me than I was into him, although I was caught off guard from the moment he walked in by his height. His profile said he was 5″7, but his guy shared my eyeline, so was 5″2 at best. I was being generous going out with him in the first place (I don’t date guys less than 6 foot) so you can understand my reservation. I’m not really sure what he thought he would gain by lying – I mean, we were going to see each other eventually. I would figure it out. I have eyes. But as my dad shrewdly observed, “he got the date, didn’t he?”

So nope, online dating is not for me. I think I’m too much of a romantic. Either that or my life is just so busy I don’t have time to waste interviewing for the position of potential boyfriend. If someone great falls into my lap some day that would be wonderful, but I’m not looking for a formulaic relationship. And I’m willing to be alone rather than with just anyone, for the sake of it. New York is such a big, exciting place and I sort of hope that one day when I’ve spilled latte down my shirt and I’m playing angry birds on my iPhone, I’ll lock eyes wih him across a crowded subway car, and the rest, gentle reader, will be history.