Alison Leiby’s Grub Street Diet

If it weren’t so hot last week, comedian Alison Leiby might’ve dropped into the Grill to celebrate the publication of her new book with a martini, but the idea of going into midtown in the sweltering heat “was a non-starter,” she says. Instead, she kept it local, hitting her neighborhood go-tos and keeping cool with a hefty supply of Diet Coke in her fridge. She got hooked on it back in college, and she’s never looked back. In the book, a collection of essays titled I’m a Lot, Leiby chronicles different versions of herself — teenage jock and current Bravoholic, to name a couple — but her love for Diet Coke is immutable. And don’t ask her to swap in a Coke Zero if that’s the only choice. “Just give me the plain seltzer,” she says. “If you’ve been drinking as much Diet Coke for as long as I have, there just is no comp.”

Monday, June 29
Despite the first 20 years of my life being dedicated to early-morning sports practice, I am now way more likely to see 4 a.m. from the other direction. I’m a night owl, so my morning routine has to be extremely simple. I always start by making an iced Americano. I’m an iced-coffee-year-round maniac, but in the summer, no one knows how deranged I am. An iced coffee in 25 degrees? Psychotic, vexing, a sign of something seriously wrong. An iced coffee in 95 degrees? Chic, smart, necessary.

I toast a piece of Orwashers seeded rye that I scooped up at Union Market and slather it with butter. I also cut up a nectarine that would for sure be better if I wait another day, but I can’t. I’m not a patient person, so half of my fruit consumption is unripened. I eat while sitting on my couch answering emails and watching my cat, Rizz, do big stretches on the rug.

I do a little work, which for me right now is a lot of Substack interviews about my book. At 11, my friend Andrea and I stroll over to our closest public pool. I’m a public-pool evangelist and believe everyone in New York should visit their local option at least once a summer. Sometimes people are like, “Ew, you go to the public pool? That’s gross!” It’s not. The city runs the pools and has strict cleanliness guidelines. You know what is gross? The shallow baths that hotels and private clubs call “pools” where everyone is just sitting in a lightly chlorinated soup of D.S. & Durga oils and sticky Hugo spritzes.

Post-pool, I assemble a snack lunch. I chop up an heirloom tomato, some fresh mozzarella, and basil and toss that with olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and salt and pepper. Then I pour the shards of Stacy’s multigrain pita chips at the bottom of a bag onto a plate. I cut up cucumber spears and dip them in Little Sesame hummus and then put those onto the chip shards, since none of them are functional dippers anymore. It’s kind of like rolling soft serve in sprinkles, but the savory version. I eat this with a can of Diet Coke, which is a lunch requirement.

After doing some writing, I head to Soho to get a bra to work with my dress for my book party. It takes a few stops and some real honesty about which quadrant of my body my tits are now in, but I find what I need. After purchasing an item that seems fit more for Home Depot than the Bloomingdale’s intimates section, I need a reward. I pop into Fanelli for a Stella on draft. It’s hard to not get onion rings and shrimp cocktail, but this is a pit stop, so I have my beer (okay, two) and move on.

My best friend, Natasha Pickowicz, is coming over for dinner. I put out some snacks including a pickle plate (piparra peppers, pepperoncini, and the bright green Union Market half-sour pickles), as well as some sharp cheddar and grapes, cashews, and spicy Bjorn Qorn alongside some Campari-sodas we drink out on my balcony. I bake some chicken breasts from Winner Butcher that we then smother in its spicy aji verde sauce. With the chicken, I roast some potato wedges and make a big crunchy salad with a mustardy vinaigrette, all topped off with Champagne Natasha brought over. Before she leaves, we each have a few squares of a Cadbury “Rock the Road” bar, which is milk chocolate with dehydrated marshmallows and toasted almonds. It’s one of the wildest candy bars out there, and I’m obsessed.

Tuesday, June 30
Normal start to the day: iced Americano and some mango. I know breakfast is important, but I just am not very hungry in the morning. Fruit, coffee, and occasionally toast is where I max out. Today, I also have a ginger shot. I know it has no real health benefits, but it hurts going down so I feel like it’s something.

I spend most of the morning writing. To get a break from my computer, I go on one of my dumb little walks through Gowanus to shake some cobwebs loose from my brain. It’s outrageously hot, and when I get home, I immediately eat a lemon Popsicle standing in front of my air conditioner while complaining out loud to Rizz about the heat wave. He has nothing helpful to contribute to the discourse.

My friends-and-family book party is tonight. I’m known to … not eat enough before a drinking event, and I don’t want this night to take a hard left into me looking at my Uber app in the morning to piece together a timeline. So for lunch, I make my signature grilled cheese: Bread Alone peasant bread, a lot of Kerrygold butter, and cheddar. It’s excellent, and I eat it with a half-sour pickle, a handful of Ruffles, a side of cut-up watermelon, and, of course, a Diet Coke.

I am lucky enough to host my book party at one of my favorite places in the city and on earth, El Pingüino. My friend (and the owner) Nick set up the works: pickled peppers, bread, cheese, sardines, gildas, oysters, shrimp, aguachile, ceviche, sausages, Basque cheesecake, alllllll the cocktails. I have one bite of everything, which is absolutely not enough of a base for how many gin martinis and crisp white wines (and tequila shots) I pour down my throat, but it’s perfect. Natasha made a beautiful cake that looks like a swimming pool. It’s vanilla bean with passion-fruit curd, cream cheese mousse, and olive oil buttercream. My friend Zahra Tangorra made little strawberry-rhubarb cookies called “Imalots.” Against all odds, I make it home with all of my personal belongings, though later I do need to consult my phone to figure out exactly how and when I left the party.

Wednesday, July 1
I knew this morning would be rougher than average, and even pulling a double espresso shot would feel like an insurmountable task, so I planned ahead and left a can of La Colombe black cold brew in the fridge. Shockingly, for how drunk I was, I’m not that hungover. I have my canned coffee with a ginger shot (can’t hurt) and some mango and watermelon. I head to the pool to jump in the freezing-cold water to shock my system into functioning. Post-pool, I down a can of seltzer and everything is right in the world again.

For lunch, I assemble a snack plate of whatever is around: leftover cold chicken I dunk in aji verde, some pickles, sharp cheddar, a few handfuls of potato chips, and a can of Diet Coke. I eat more watermelon and a lemon Popsicle because my lightly hungover thirst is unquenchable.

Later in the afternoon, I have a meet-up with a reporter who is interviewing me. I pound a glass of water and a mini-can of Diet Coke before she gets here. We stroll around the Gowanus Canal chatting and then we pop into one of my favorite places, Blueprint. I have a classic margarita. Normally I get the Smoky Mary’s, which is spicy, but I am so hot from walking around in the sun that I need the pure refreshment of just lime and tequila. We order the burrata bruschetta, which is basically the best French-bread pizza you’ve ever had. We also get my other favorite dish on the menu, the roasted potatoes and shishitos with crème fraîche dip. It’s like a fancy onion dip with pickled shallots in it — a deceptively simple snack. Before we leave we get another bite: toast with ricotta topped with fresh cherry tomatoes, olives, pickled pearl onions, and a green-onion vinaigrette. I chase it with a pilsner.

We walk the half a block over to Union Hall for a spot I’m doing on Cold Plunge, Kurt Braunohler’s new monthly show. It’s packed, the crowd is great, and friends are there. I was afraid all the other comics would be like, “Well, I’ve got another spot so, see ya” after the show. Instead everyone is like, “Soooooo … we hangin’?” I drink a mezcal on the rocks and then a Tecate as people peel off until it’s just me and my buddy Shane talking about comedy. I walk home muttering to myself about how hot it is outside.

Thursday, July 2
Once again, a regular morning of an iced Americano, some cut-up watermelon, and a piece of rye toast with butter. I had to rise and podcast early this morning (9 a.m.), and by the time we’re done, I’m starving. While I figure out what to actually eat, I sneak a few handfuls of popcorn that my friend Iris made. It has all kinds of good warm spices and is truly addictive. She gave me a gallon bag of it as a “popcorn bouquet” at my book party.

I decide on an early lunch of leftovers with a Diet Coke tall boy: cold chicken with aji verde, a few pieces of cheddar, a giant salad. I heat up a hash-brown patty from the freezer until it’s super-crispy and then I coat it in Old Bay. A lot of foods are just vehicles for Old Bay. That’s the Marylander in me. I haven’t had a salad since Monday, which is a long time for me, and it hits the spot. I truly love salad. I crave salad. It doesn’t need to be complicated, but it does need to be green and crunchy and in a dressing with a ton of acid and bite. I’m an acid freak. Nothing ever has enough acid for me. I would probably eat a shoe if you coated it in vinegar.

It’s outrageously hot again, so in the afternoon I head to the pool to put my head under cold water for a while. It helps. Another post-pool lemon Popsicle is a necessity. My friend Nina is also at the pool, and afterward, we are both desperate for a drink.

We go in search of piña coladas, but are satisfied with a happy-hour Paloma at Sweet Polly. We have one there, swing through Uncle Barry’s for a cold beer and colder tequila shot, then pop to Fourth Avenue Pub for one more beer-and-shot combo before heading home. Our friend Rachel, who’s also my neighbor, is making dinner. I bring over Iris’s popcorn bouquet and some super-crunchy red grapes and a watermelon. Nina makes watermelon-mint margaritas and Rachel cooks up a wildly good pasta with white beans, cabbage, miso, and parmesan.

From there, we all head out to my one true love, my home away from home, Canal Bar. We have a few more beers and tequila shots and meet up with my friends Audrey and Zach. We all bounce back and forth from Canal Bar to Bar Great Harry and then back for a beer on Zach’s roof. Suddenly, it’s extremely late. I come home and crash into bed while cuddling Rizz in my aggressively air-conditioned bedroom.

Friday, July 3
Once again, a typical morning of an iced Americano and the remains of some watermelon and mango. I have to record a podcast, so I chug two glasses of water beforehand to undo last night and also prepare for another heat-wave day. We finish recording, and I eat a few handfuls of popcorn and open a Diet Coke for good measure. Between the heat and the beer and shot combos I’m desperate to dunk my head under water, so I head to the pool.

I get back starving, and the only answer is freezer pizza. I like to order a big pizza from Norm’s, half plain, half pepperoni, and I freeze the slices individually so I always have good pizza on hand without having to go anywhere. I heat some up and throw together a “whatever is in the fridge” salad of baby kale, red onion, celery, and cucumber in an easy dressing made with a healthy amount of dijon and red-wine vinegar. I eat this with a cold can of Diet Coke and pretend to write all afternoon but mostly just look at my phone.

I have a spot at Union Hall tonight on Whiplash, so I eat an early dinner alone at the bar at Rucola. It’s the home of my favorite salad on earth, which is just escarole, almonds, and a literal fistful of creamy, salty feta in a light vinaigrette. Since I had a big stupid salad at lunch, I’m weirdly not in the mood for it. I start with a 50/50 martini and a Diet Coke and try not to eat all of the focaccia and olive oil they give me within two minutes of sitting down.

The menu at Rucola changes constantly, which is thrilling, but it also can create a hellish unrequited love when you have a pasta you can’t stop thinking about and then never see again — mine is a corkscrew noodle with pesto Trapanese and a mountain of Parmesan that I only got to enjoy once, like, eight years ago. Its current chicken dish is one of my favorites, though, so I get that. It’s roasted and served with asparagus on a white-bean purée and topped with chimichurri. I also get the side of the summer squash topped with feta, which is less a squash dish and more a feta dish (complimentary). When the food comes, I get a freezing-cold glass of Arneis. I want the dark-chocolate pudding, but I need to go onstage soon and am already full. Before I leave, my friend Peter, who works there, shows me a million pictures of the two new kittens his roommate adopted. To me, cat pictures are basically dessert.

My friend Josh Gondelman is also on the show and lives nearby, so he meets me at Rucola. We walk to Union Hall in the 97-degree heat because we’re idiots, and I arrive almost soaking wet. I have a cold Narragansett (fine, two) and when I go up I have a fun set and only scream into the mic about the heat twice. After the show, a few of us swing by Littlefield for a birthday party where I drink a beer and a tequila shot. Everyone else hangs longer, but I peel off and meet my friend Daniel at Blueprint. We have margaritas before making a move over to the Commissioner, where I have another marg and he gets a Campari-soda. After a strip of blurry photobooth pictures, we head to my place to scrounge around for one more nightcap. We talk about Widow’s Bay until way too late, making plans for the next day we know we can’t keep. I go to bed around the same time I used to get up for rowing practice when I was younger, and I’m already thinking about the Diet Coke in the fridge I’ll drink tomorrow.

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