I’m sick, I hate being sick, was it SoHo that made me sick? I don’t know what possessed us, Kat and I thought we’d hang out in SoHo yesterday afternoon. It’s a hellhole out there on the weekends, all sorts of slow-moving touristy types, including the mother-and-two-daughters dress-alike team in their too-orange tans, too-yellow hair, too-short skirts. We eventually escaped to a decadent dinner at Public, where it’s impossible to have a bad meal. The basil foccaccia, the herby lentil salad, the grilled scallops with green plantain chips, the grilled frog legs and three soups. Mmm. The grilled frog legs and three soups: three small cups in a row, one each of coconut laksa, grilled corn, and curry lentil, and each with a succulent little frog leg poking out of it. Bubble bubble toil and yum. A pecan ice cream terrine to wrap the night up and send me to the Second Avenue F stop, where the drunks and hipsters wait on the platform.