For heathens (or hedonists) like me, Sunday consists not of rest and religious services but of food and flea markets.   At Isabella’s on Columbus and W. 77th I worship the concept of brunch, that wonderful meal offering me the options of both breakfast and lunch.  As an added bonus, Isabella’s brunch comes with a complimentary Bloody Mary, Bellini, Campari, mimosa or glass of champagne and a basket of raisin-fennel and carrot breads.   Is it any wonder why I bound out of bed?   

Suffering from a terrible sweet tooth, I usually order the carmelized banana-stuffed French toast.  Topped with strawberries macerated in Grand Marnier sauce, it’s both decadent and ever so slightly good for me.  (Just remember, whether sauteed in sugar and butter or soaked in orange liqueur, it’s still fruit.  Or so I keep telling myself.)  On mornings when I’m hankering a cholesterol boost, I opt for Isabella’s smoked salmon Benedict on a buttermilk biscuit with a side of home fries.  And, on those rare Sundays when I’m feeling a tad health conscious, I order the seasonal fruit plate.      

After brunch it’s across the street to the temple of quirky consumption, GreenFlea.  Looking for bronze Buddha, 19th century doorknob, pint of half sours or a sweater from Ecuador?  Greenflea’s got them all and so much more.  With proceeds going to the local school I can splurge on that vintage Clash t-shirt and still head home feeling relatively guilt-free.