[GUEST POST] ST. PATTY’S 2K10: BOMBED ON ROBICELLI’S FRIED IRISH CAR BOMBS

When I first read FIPS’ 40,000 posts about fried Robicelli's cupcakes, I thought, “This blog must have so many readers that they can spare a few, because Erica and Meredith are trying to kill my ass.” I mean, FRIED CUPCAKES. Really?

Yes, really.

I’m not ashamed (OK, maybe a little) that I called the Double Windsor three times to ask what time they’d be serving up Robicelli’s Irish Car Bomb confections. Or that I dragged my friends “all the way to Prospect Park West... ugh” to start our St. Patty’s bar crawl with fried goodness and a beer (the way any red-blooded American should on a trumped-up holiday).

After picking my way through the BREEDERS and their green-hatted spawn, listening to my friends bitch about the walk the entire time, and regretting my decision not to get a Shamrock shake on the way, I quietly thought to myself: “These cupcakes better be *really* fucking GOOD.”

When the treats arrived hot from the deep-fryer, I dubiously cut into the zeppoli-looking thing and took a small bite.

O.

M.

G.

The chocolate Guinness cake! The Jameson whiskey ganache! The Bailey's buttercream...all skipping merrily all over my tongue! Oh, FIPS, how could I ever doubt you? I want to marry you...with fried cupcakes dancing around us in celebration! Needless to say, the fried deliciousness was gone in about five seconds flat.

And if I never write for FIPS again, you’ll know I never returned from my trek to the Ridge in search of more Robicelli’s. That or my arteries committed suicide in a balls-out, clogged-up display of pure ecstasy.

Julianne Pepitone is a writer living in Brooklyn. Read more about all her shit here.