Spring had arrived in New York. The streets glowed with sunshine refracted down the walls of glass that towered overhead. Curbside planters burst with lemon yellow daffodils, cerise-colored tulips, and hyacinth the shade of blueberry mousse.

Patrick and I were in town to dine and spring shone from the plates in front of us at each meal. Tendrils of lightly pan-roasted vibrant green pea shoots twirled beneath a fan of skate. At Prune restaurant, we dipped sweet radishes into soft butter and sprinkled them with coarse salt before popping them into our mouths. Momofuko Saam Bar showcased the first baby artichokes of the season with woodsy grilled trout. Tender tips of asparagus poked out from a plate of gnocchi swimming in a light vegetable broth and melted leeks hid beneath barely-poached shrimp at the three-star Le Bernardin.

It was New York and we couldn’t help but eat well. But, no matter how many perfectly executed, stunningly beautiful, tasty meals we ate in the cities finest restaurants, there was one meal that screamed of spring to me.