I've been busy, getting married and shit. And do you know what marriage is the perfect excuse for? Eating burrata. For breakfast. You spend your wedding night at the Georgia Hotel and the next morning you wake up in marital bliss, roll out of bed, and slum your way down to Hawksworth for brunch.
This one was the fancy shit, with prosciutto, balsamic reduction, fresh figs, walnuts, and olive oil marshmallows. I'd say it's better than sex but I'd be lying.
