"TLDR: the pot pie Upon arrival in the city late last night, we were greeted by hand woven tales of the Black Sheep. In utter disbelief of the praise I was hearing, I reached out to the Oracle, Google itself, for more information. I found countless praise for an unexpected contender, the Chicken Pot Pie, so I made a mental note to explore this enigma the very next day. Already satiated by the likes of copious street meat, Margaritaville and subway mangoes, we arrived at the promised land itself. Our bartender, disinterested as she was attentive, jotted down our order of happy hour beers and the famed Chicken Pot Pie itself as I made my way to the bathroom. I swear it was itself made of urine. Unabashed by the dismal restroom experience, I sat at a corner table and downed my first Modelo. Brimming with anticipation, I ordered a second with the intent of washing down the glory that was to come. It soon did. Like a perfectly executed reverse play, the cook handed it off to the server, who in turn placed it delicately upon our table. The presentation was immaculate, it looked like a soft golden football, and it was leaking steam from the thin cracks in its surface. I eagerly reached for the spoon before me and dismembered its exterior with as much respect as I could muster, barring any of my fragile human ego. As soon as the first morsel touched my tender lips, I knew the stories were true. I heard songs, praise, stories of long forgotten triumph. My eyes rolled back and my tongue did backflips. It was pure ecstasy. I tried to contain my excitement, but it was a losing battle. We vigorously devoured this monument of culinary excellence without hesitation. Black Sheep? Aptly named. An unexpected excursion into the depths of the fine dining experience that New York has to offer. Thank you to our Ray of Sunshine for speaking of such a hole in the wall. We owe you our lives."
