Very satisfying weekend. Going back to Westchester always centers me. It's like I get to retreat back to high school or something. Go to simpler times. Well, actually, much more complicated times. More fulfilling times. I completed the regression by inviting V over for Rosh Hashanah, which was great because I a) got to hang out with V and b) had an excuse to avoid potentially awkward coversations with relatives. I love the relatives, but sometimes it's nice to laugh about stupid stuff. Like, when I was telling him about the movie "Shortbus," where all the sex scenes are filmed with people actually having sex. I got as far as the title and "all the sex scenes are filmed with..." when his eyes went wide and he covered his mouth in disbelief. I shouldn't even say where he thought that was going, but the title of the movie should give you a clue. Before he came, I told V to BHOB if he wanted potable wine, but apparently my Dad just stored it away without serving it, sticking V with the Jews' Booze. He was perhaps less than pleased.
Natalie brought half of Barnard, which was nice. It's good to introduce some new life into family dynamics, and a bunch of 20 year olds certainly accomplish that. They also asked to see my Mom's pictures, which she was more than happy to provide. Natalie and I were very proud of Mom for not spending the whole night snapping photos. It must have taken a lot of restraint.
I slept for about 11 hours that night, which was excellent, and I skipped temple on Saturday morning. I had better places to be, namely in bed and then at Slave. V was there (so I crashed his one free weekend between the beginning of school and thanksgiving, sue me...) and I sat with him as I read Howard's End. For about 15 minutes. He whipped out the Friday puzzle, and we tore through it, getting through all but one quarter of Saturday before splitting up. With my Mom at home, we managed to conquer the remainder. Put me with any of the brilliant peeps in my life, and we are unstoppable! Woot!
Dinner #2 was lovely as well...Mom made kickass glazed corned beef. Crazy delicious. I got to see my cousin Elliot's apartment building when we drove back into the city. It was a somewhat bizarre experience: He lives two blocks from where he works, in what can only be described as a corporate apartment building on the Hudson. It's, like, the Merril dorms. The neighborhood's fairly sterile, too. But the building does look really nice, and the convenience to work has to seriously pay off, considering the obscene hours he puts in. So obscene. They shouldn't show that to kids.
Today I did some work for GreGAMES! sitting in the Coffee Pot. Because I was on the comp, I sat by the window, where there's a long shelf for computers and such. The whole world went by. First, I saw Katherine (from work) with her roommate and friend. She lives nowhere near me, but they apparently wanted to take a bus from the Port Authority, missed it, and decided to wander around Manhattan instead. Excellent decision. Then I thought I saw this kid Jonathan Meier pass by. He was in Candide with me back in the day, but I haven't seen him since. I tried to catch his eye, but to no avail. Then Hannah passed by on her way home (no surprise). The whole world...by the coffee shop.
Tonight I saw Science of Sleep with Brad. The movie definitely hit me the right way. First of all, I love any movie that has a unique aesthetic. I appreciate being drawn into someone's world. Also, it was reasonably funny, and a bunch of it resonated with me, partially in universal ways, partially in very specific ways. Hm, there was more I wanted to write about my evening, but I'm doing too many things at once now. Perhaps more later.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Eek!
Clement and I had a little problem tonight.
Like, two inches little.
It's a very bad feeling to walk into your kitchen and have your eye caught by distinctly mammalian motion. Once it hit me that, yes, that was a mouse in the corner and, no, it wasn't going to work to scoop it up in the dustpan and drop it outside, Clement went to the deli and got glue traps, the only kind they had. After about an hour, we checked back on the traps and saw that one had caught the mouse. I googled "glue trap" and found lots of advocacy sites telling me how glue traps are the single least humane way of catching a mouse. Great. But one of them did say that if you have a live mouse in a glue trap, you can dissolve the glue with vegetable oil and push the mouse off with a pencil. So we took the entrapped mouse outside and did just that. Amazingly, it worked, and there's now an oily mouse with post-traumatic stress disorder roaming the streets of Hell's Kitchen.
this post excerpted from an email to mom
Like, two inches little.
It's a very bad feeling to walk into your kitchen and have your eye caught by distinctly mammalian motion. Once it hit me that, yes, that was a mouse in the corner and, no, it wasn't going to work to scoop it up in the dustpan and drop it outside, Clement went to the deli and got glue traps, the only kind they had. After about an hour, we checked back on the traps and saw that one had caught the mouse. I googled "glue trap" and found lots of advocacy sites telling me how glue traps are the single least humane way of catching a mouse. Great. But one of them did say that if you have a live mouse in a glue trap, you can dissolve the glue with vegetable oil and push the mouse off with a pencil. So we took the entrapped mouse outside and did just that. Amazingly, it worked, and there's now an oily mouse with post-traumatic stress disorder roaming the streets of Hell's Kitchen.
this post excerpted from an email to mom
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
The Mob?
Outside the front door of our apartment buiding is a large tire on its side. In the tire is a decapitated (or, rather, decorpitated) doll's head, scalp up, hair sticking off to the sides, looking like it has drowned.
I'm half-convinced we're living with the Middle Eastern mafia. I mean, our landlord is the nephew of a major Arab New York real estate king. They could easily be running this area from the underground. OK, maybe not easily, considering the landlord has a full-time job, a building to run, and a daughter. But possibly. The intrigue remains...
I'm half-convinced we're living with the Middle Eastern mafia. I mean, our landlord is the nephew of a major Arab New York real estate king. They could easily be running this area from the underground. OK, maybe not easily, considering the landlord has a full-time job, a building to run, and a daughter. But possibly. The intrigue remains...
Sunday, September 17, 2006
McGrievous Errors
Apparently NJ's old governor Jim McGreevey has a coming out memoir coming out entitled The Confession. He's talked about it on Oprah, in an episode to be aired this Tuesday, the same day the book comes out. The Advocate ran this story on Friday: "McGreevey tells Oprah of gay affair while wife was giving birth." Apparently while his wife was in the hospital, in labor, giving birth to their daughter, McGreevey was seducing Golan Cipel, the man who now claims he never had sex with the good gov'nor. This is how McGreevey describes it in the book:
It partially bothers me that he did it, acting like a 13-year-old boy while in his 30s or 40s. When a husband cheats on his wife with a woman, he's being an inconsiderate asshole, but when a gay husband cheats on his wife with a man, he's really being a 13-year-old boy—placing other people's rights and needs behind his own desire for self-exploration. And this is all fine when you're 13, it's to be expected as part of adolescence. But when you're an adult? I understand that society's expectations are why he never got to grow up during growing-up time, but that doesn't mean it's ok to pose as an adult toward people who care about you when you're reall not, thereby screwing them over. And I think that's why it bothers me so much that he was doing it: When you're wife is giving birth you are in the epitome of manhood, becoming a father, heading up a family. So it seems like the absolute worst time to show that you are ready for none of it. You are not ready for the responsibilities of parenthood. Your wife thought she was marrying a man, but she's married an adolescent. It seems very desceptive. Whereas if he were cheating on her with a woman, well, we could have discounted that douche a while ago. I don't think I'm being very articulate here. I'm just trying to figure out why this creeped me out so, so much, moreso than other creepy things.
The second aspect that bothers me is that he wrote about it. I almost don't feel like that's his secret to share. I feel like that's something so bad, so horrible to his wife, that it's her place to come forth with that information, not his. Does he have permission to incite that much pity?
I don't know what to do with this...we have this whole irritating "dual fault" thing going on...which is really how it is with most situations. A poor urban kid kills another in gang violence. Is it his fault or the fault of a society that does nothing for its poor? Well, both. But the fact that society should change doesn't let him off the hook, and I don't think it lets McGreevey off the hook either. He is really responsible for screwing people over.
Maybe this all comes from my grand fear of marrying a gay man. I don't think it's THAT unlikely.
Bah, bad mood today.
We undressed and he kissed me. It was the first time in my life that a kiss meant what it was supposed to mean — it sent me through the roof...I was like a man emerging from 44 years in a cave to taste pure air for the first time, feel direct sunlight on pallid skin, warmth where there had only ever been a bone-chilling numbness.Aw, how moving. And really, I'd be moved. Touched. Perhaps a little wooed, as is my way. Were this not happening while his wife was in labor. Really, there are many evils in the world far worse than cheating on your wife, even at an inopportune time, but this just rubs me like a deep-tissue retinal massage: the wrong way.
It partially bothers me that he did it, acting like a 13-year-old boy while in his 30s or 40s. When a husband cheats on his wife with a woman, he's being an inconsiderate asshole, but when a gay husband cheats on his wife with a man, he's really being a 13-year-old boy—placing other people's rights and needs behind his own desire for self-exploration. And this is all fine when you're 13, it's to be expected as part of adolescence. But when you're an adult? I understand that society's expectations are why he never got to grow up during growing-up time, but that doesn't mean it's ok to pose as an adult toward people who care about you when you're reall not, thereby screwing them over. And I think that's why it bothers me so much that he was doing it: When you're wife is giving birth you are in the epitome of manhood, becoming a father, heading up a family. So it seems like the absolute worst time to show that you are ready for none of it. You are not ready for the responsibilities of parenthood. Your wife thought she was marrying a man, but she's married an adolescent. It seems very desceptive. Whereas if he were cheating on her with a woman, well, we could have discounted that douche a while ago. I don't think I'm being very articulate here. I'm just trying to figure out why this creeped me out so, so much, moreso than other creepy things.
The second aspect that bothers me is that he wrote about it. I almost don't feel like that's his secret to share. I feel like that's something so bad, so horrible to his wife, that it's her place to come forth with that information, not his. Does he have permission to incite that much pity?
I don't know what to do with this...we have this whole irritating "dual fault" thing going on...which is really how it is with most situations. A poor urban kid kills another in gang violence. Is it his fault or the fault of a society that does nothing for its poor? Well, both. But the fact that society should change doesn't let him off the hook, and I don't think it lets McGreevey off the hook either. He is really responsible for screwing people over.
Maybe this all comes from my grand fear of marrying a gay man. I don't think it's THAT unlikely.
Bah, bad mood today.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
I Claim This Land...
The building next to the Seed offices is being converted into luxury lofts. It took them forever to get the scaffolding down (at least 11 months), but now the lofts are looking very spiffy. Still, half of the first floor is a wreck. The lobby only takes up half the building, which left a sizeable space filled with boards and building block. I wondered if this was going to turn into the boiler room or a storage area or some functional common space for residents. But this week we found out exactly what is to become of the space. Going into the office on Thursday morning, the building looked normal, but when I stepped out for lunch, there it was on the side of the building, just one sign heralding passers-by: Starbucks.
If you turn the right at the corner from my block to Sixth Avenue, there are two Starbuckses (starbuces?) on that block. TWO! On the same block. But that's not enough. We need one right next to our building. Apparently. I have the image of two guys racing down my block toward the empty lot, one with a Starbucks sign and one with a Duane Reade sign. Apparently the Starbucks guy stuck his in the wall first. Ah, me. At least they're also opening a Café Grumpy in Chelsea soon. If it's anything like the Times described it, I'm psyched.
I just saw an ad for Jeanine Pirro's Attorney General campaign. So funny. The message was theoretically the appopriate "Pirro has more experience than Cuomo." OK, fair enough. But it was really "Pirro: Not THAT Republican." The last light of the ad was something like, "For the last bladiblah years I've been protecting women from domestic violence, children from pedophiles and gays from hate crimes." See!? Pirro hearts the gays. This probably rubs me worse than it should because of my personal pet peeve against nouning adjectives that describe people. Gays? Blacks? Not my phrasing of choice.
All right, back to watching the Wolverines slaughter the Irish. Sounds like some twisted version of Roman entertainment...and it more or less is.
If you turn the right at the corner from my block to Sixth Avenue, there are two Starbuckses (starbuces?) on that block. TWO! On the same block. But that's not enough. We need one right next to our building. Apparently. I have the image of two guys racing down my block toward the empty lot, one with a Starbucks sign and one with a Duane Reade sign. Apparently the Starbucks guy stuck his in the wall first. Ah, me. At least they're also opening a Café Grumpy in Chelsea soon. If it's anything like the Times described it, I'm psyched.
I just saw an ad for Jeanine Pirro's Attorney General campaign. So funny. The message was theoretically the appopriate "Pirro has more experience than Cuomo." OK, fair enough. But it was really "Pirro: Not THAT Republican." The last light of the ad was something like, "For the last bladiblah years I've been protecting women from domestic violence, children from pedophiles and gays from hate crimes." See!? Pirro hearts the gays. This probably rubs me worse than it should because of my personal pet peeve against nouning adjectives that describe people. Gays? Blacks? Not my phrasing of choice.
All right, back to watching the Wolverines slaughter the Irish. Sounds like some twisted version of Roman entertainment...and it more or less is.
Monday, September 11, 2006
The Five Year Mark, Etc.
I doubt anyone's manage to miss the fact that today is the fifth anniversary of the attacks on the World Trade Center (and Pentagon (and Flight 93)). It was, unequivocally, a bad, bad day. Everyone has his or her own 9/11/01 story, so I might as well tell mine.
September 11, 2001 was the day I had the best callback of my life. The fall musical my freshman year (it was only the second week of classes, I think) was to be Candide and I was just destined to play the old lady with one buttock. Really, there are a few parts that are totally perfect for me, and that's one of them. After auditions the day before, we had callbacks on Tuesday. I sort of knew I had it in the bag, especially during callbacks, when I was explaining the jokes in the monologue to the other people called back for the part. I spoke to quickly, sure, and my singing is passable at best, but I sailed into that role. Such sweetness.
And frankly, it was exactly what I needed. Like everyone else, I had been sitting around campus all day glued to the news or wandering around feeling like there should be someone to comfort or blood to donate or something to do besides check in with my parents that they (and more relevantly my uncle, who worked at the WFC) were ok. Some skinny barely post-pubescent femme gay boy is clutching his cell phone to his ear screaming that his sister has an internship at the world trade center and he can't reach her. What do you say? "I'm sure she's OK?" Um, that would be dumb. And after a while, shock and sadness just turn to restlessness. You can't smile, but it's hard to maintain one emotion for hours on end. You need to relax, fall asleep, let your brow ease up. So going to an audition, where I had to be funny for a director whose boyfriend lived three blocks from the WTC. And being forced to be funny was perfect in every way.
Oh, and totally off topic, the facebook news feed has informed me that my ex is in love and he has posted cheesy (and seemingly inapt) French quotes about it. My own browsing (read: stalking) has informed me that he has taken his name off of the picture that Dave G. posted of us at prom and that the girl seems pretty cool. And by cool I mean dorky. Which is cool. I'm happy for him and all, but the old feeling applies: you want your ex to find someone absolutely wonderful...after you do.
September 11, 2001 was the day I had the best callback of my life. The fall musical my freshman year (it was only the second week of classes, I think) was to be Candide and I was just destined to play the old lady with one buttock. Really, there are a few parts that are totally perfect for me, and that's one of them. After auditions the day before, we had callbacks on Tuesday. I sort of knew I had it in the bag, especially during callbacks, when I was explaining the jokes in the monologue to the other people called back for the part. I spoke to quickly, sure, and my singing is passable at best, but I sailed into that role. Such sweetness.
And frankly, it was exactly what I needed. Like everyone else, I had been sitting around campus all day glued to the news or wandering around feeling like there should be someone to comfort or blood to donate or something to do besides check in with my parents that they (and more relevantly my uncle, who worked at the WFC) were ok. Some skinny barely post-pubescent femme gay boy is clutching his cell phone to his ear screaming that his sister has an internship at the world trade center and he can't reach her. What do you say? "I'm sure she's OK?" Um, that would be dumb. And after a while, shock and sadness just turn to restlessness. You can't smile, but it's hard to maintain one emotion for hours on end. You need to relax, fall asleep, let your brow ease up. So going to an audition, where I had to be funny for a director whose boyfriend lived three blocks from the WTC. And being forced to be funny was perfect in every way.
Oh, and totally off topic, the facebook news feed has informed me that my ex is in love and he has posted cheesy (and seemingly inapt) French quotes about it. My own browsing (read: stalking) has informed me that he has taken his name off of the picture that Dave G. posted of us at prom and that the girl seems pretty cool. And by cool I mean dorky. Which is cool. I'm happy for him and all, but the old feeling applies: you want your ex to find someone absolutely wonderful...after you do.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
The Trouble With Facebook
Never has the Web 2.0 community been in such a fury. Facebook, the homegrown, elegant alternative to such shitshows as Friendster and MySpace has made the hideous mistake of including an RSS feed on the front page of everything your "friends" have recently done. The elegant design looks cluttered, the move reeks of corporate misstepping, and the beautiful illusion of privacy facebook once gave (by not allowing you to click on the profiles of people you aren't in a network with) is shattered. The verdict is more unanimous than a Cuban election: The feed sucks.
But why does the feed suck? Sure, the clutter may be objectively unsightly, but it's not like any information is there that wasn't available before. Why does everyone complain about privacy? Well, in my opinion, it's because privacy is less about what information people can know and more about how that information is presented, whether it's presented with the respect it deserves. You can easily invision situations, I'm sure, where you know gossip, and you can tell all of your friends individually, but it would be tactless to tell them en masse. The same information gets conveyed, but the information seems graver and more important when it's presented personally. It actually feels like privacy was maintained, at least partially because the people you've told likely don't feel they can gab about the gossip to each other. The new facebook announces all information blaringly. Alex Kelston has made a slightly brilliant mockery of this by changing his marital status to every possibility over the last day. But on a serious note, if my friends break up, and they change their profiles, I don't think they'd want that announced on the facebook home of everyone they barely know. People self-censor. I only look at the profiles of people I'm interested in, and while I don't consider that information confidential, I do consider it personal. And worthy of some modicum of respect.
Also, there's an "opt out" box. The opt out box is the worst part of this whole experiment. First of all, it smells like the Friendster travesty where they created a new feature where you could see who looked at your profile. People didn't even realize this until they had done some stalking and later found out the person they stalked knew of their visit. You could opt out of this (and be unable to see who viewed your profile), but everyone was automatically set to the less private setting. This made people, especially me, feel violated. While this move isn't nearly as bad (again, it doesn't make new information available), it does just feel like privacy is something you have to opt into, not assume.
Also, if people opt out, the feed becomes totally useless. Everyone will still go to each section to see who's updated their profiles. They're not going to remember who opted in and who didn't, so they'll just check on people they're interested in. No time is saved. Frankly, I like to go to each section. Facebook is a time waster...extreme efficiency isn't a plus. The site runs cleanly, and that's what I want. MySpacesque technical disaster isn't a good thing, but a few buttons can be nice.
On the other hand, I kind of like the mini feeds. They shouldn't be in people's profiles, that just looks ugly, but they'd be nice on the sidebar to show us what people we're already stalking have updated.
All right, I'm done ranting for the night. No spell check or grammar check this evening. Later, kids.
But why does the feed suck? Sure, the clutter may be objectively unsightly, but it's not like any information is there that wasn't available before. Why does everyone complain about privacy? Well, in my opinion, it's because privacy is less about what information people can know and more about how that information is presented, whether it's presented with the respect it deserves. You can easily invision situations, I'm sure, where you know gossip, and you can tell all of your friends individually, but it would be tactless to tell them en masse. The same information gets conveyed, but the information seems graver and more important when it's presented personally. It actually feels like privacy was maintained, at least partially because the people you've told likely don't feel they can gab about the gossip to each other. The new facebook announces all information blaringly. Alex Kelston has made a slightly brilliant mockery of this by changing his marital status to every possibility over the last day. But on a serious note, if my friends break up, and they change their profiles, I don't think they'd want that announced on the facebook home of everyone they barely know. People self-censor. I only look at the profiles of people I'm interested in, and while I don't consider that information confidential, I do consider it personal. And worthy of some modicum of respect.
Also, there's an "opt out" box. The opt out box is the worst part of this whole experiment. First of all, it smells like the Friendster travesty where they created a new feature where you could see who looked at your profile. People didn't even realize this until they had done some stalking and later found out the person they stalked knew of their visit. You could opt out of this (and be unable to see who viewed your profile), but everyone was automatically set to the less private setting. This made people, especially me, feel violated. While this move isn't nearly as bad (again, it doesn't make new information available), it does just feel like privacy is something you have to opt into, not assume.
Also, if people opt out, the feed becomes totally useless. Everyone will still go to each section to see who's updated their profiles. They're not going to remember who opted in and who didn't, so they'll just check on people they're interested in. No time is saved. Frankly, I like to go to each section. Facebook is a time waster...extreme efficiency isn't a plus. The site runs cleanly, and that's what I want. MySpacesque technical disaster isn't a good thing, but a few buttons can be nice.
On the other hand, I kind of like the mini feeds. They shouldn't be in people's profiles, that just looks ugly, but they'd be nice on the sidebar to show us what people we're already stalking have updated.
All right, I'm done ranting for the night. No spell check or grammar check this evening. Later, kids.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
28 26 27
Tonight, I ate well. Really well.
Yesterday I was sitting at work, writing my column, reading up on science news, and trying to rope V into hanging out with me this weekend. After some indecisiveness he had an idea: Great food. This may not sound brilliant, but in New York, there's good food, and then there's great food. Good food is all over the city—semi-fancy spots, cozy corners and solid burger joints dot every area, especially my very own Ninth Avenue. But there are a few restaurants that are GREAT. Leading the list are Masa, Per Se, and Le Bernardin; also up there are Daniel, Alain Ducasse, Bouley, Union Square Cafe, Jean Georges and Gramercy Tavern. We went to the last. The numbers titling the post are Gramercy Tavern's Zagat ratings. Read it and weep...with envy!
Metro North conked out on V (oh, the rain...), so at 5:30 he left Westchester in his car for our 6:00 reservation. And he made it. OK, so maybe it was 6:02 when he got there, but I was impressed, and he was clearly adrenaline-pumped from his success. I don't want to imagine the driving he had to do to get there, but he arrived in one piece, so all was well. Since the restaurant is business casual, I had an excuse to wear the cute dress Mom got me for my birthday. It's not my usual style, and it doesn't bring out the best in my sizable thighs, but it's pretty snazzy.
We were seated in the back (the real restaurant), and as we walked through the place, the whole thing smelled like burning wood. It has a delightful lodge-like atmosphere. Very not Manhattan...in a good way. All through the meal, we got little "compliments of the chef" palate cleaners and supplements. They were pretty damn delicious, every one.
We ordered drinks: I got Chianti (shocker), and V got a cobbler martini thing. Both were excellent. Then we began to pick out the components of our $76 prix fixe meal. For an appetizer, I got the oyster stew, which consisted of fried oysters, fava beans and summer truffles in some sort of consumme/chowderish broth. It was delightful, and it had the bonus feature of allowing me to say I've had "fava beans with a nice Chianti." I mentioned that to V, and he was insulted when I asked if he got the reference. Great line, great line... V got a corn chowder, which is what I had planned on, until I saw the oysters. It was frothy. Mmm.
Second course was, for me, lamb shoulder with ministrone and goat cheese ravioli. I've certainly never had lamb that good before...Even the fat was totally edible and delicious. And how can you go wrong with goat cheese ravioli? You can't, and I didn't. V got the sirloin—three perfect slices of meat—with sides that for some reason I can't remember offhand. One was bone marrow. It looked good.
After our entrees, we ordered a cheese course. I posed Brad's question to V: If you had to give up one for life, which would it be: oral sex or cheese? By the end of the night he still didn't have an answer and looked like I had stabbed his mother every time I posed the question. Really, it's a horrifying Sophie's choice. In any case, while we retain the right to all of life's great pleasures, we had 5 cheeses selected by our waitress. All were lovely, except I've never been a huge fan of bleu cheese, so I didn't love that one. We savored every bite, no less, and I left the majority of the most intense one to a very happy V.
For desert we split the chocolate cake and the chocolate/hazelnut mousse. Oh Lord, we have sinned. SO good. Even their coffee was magnificent. Especially the pre-desert treat of cinnamon creme fraiche and raspberries was magnificent. Just heavenly. And they gave us muffins for the morning, so the experience can continue until tomorrow. Yay, Gramercy Tavern. We're buds, now.
V was kind enough to drive me back to my apartment, and he came up, as I promised him some fine, full-bodied, judgment-clouding-yet-legal, 18-year-old scotch.* We broke open the Macallan and hung out until he decided to beat the theater crowd out of midtown. Thus officially ended a pretty much perfect evening. V's always great company and good food makes anything wonderful. V's also not afraid to rave about things he likes, which makes every enjoyable experience so much better. It's so much nicer than ranking things or listing pros and cons during this sort of activity. The more you rave, the more you savor, the more you'll enjoy. And that's really the point.
As things go, the evening didn't actually end there. Adam gave me a call saying he was in the area, and he came over to work on the Saturday puzzle with me. He had already done a fair amount, but together we finished it (more or less...about 2 letters were off). Go us. We chatted for too long, and here I am, verging on two o'clock and typing away. It's time for a sure-to-be-sound night of sleep. Sweet dreams. Sweeter desserts.
*The joke never gets old. And given V's occupation, I should probably clarify: No, the double meaning doesn't apply. He's very age appropriate. I just like the line. Carry on, now.
Yesterday I was sitting at work, writing my column, reading up on science news, and trying to rope V into hanging out with me this weekend. After some indecisiveness he had an idea: Great food. This may not sound brilliant, but in New York, there's good food, and then there's great food. Good food is all over the city—semi-fancy spots, cozy corners and solid burger joints dot every area, especially my very own Ninth Avenue. But there are a few restaurants that are GREAT. Leading the list are Masa, Per Se, and Le Bernardin; also up there are Daniel, Alain Ducasse, Bouley, Union Square Cafe, Jean Georges and Gramercy Tavern. We went to the last. The numbers titling the post are Gramercy Tavern's Zagat ratings. Read it and weep...with envy!
Metro North conked out on V (oh, the rain...), so at 5:30 he left Westchester in his car for our 6:00 reservation. And he made it. OK, so maybe it was 6:02 when he got there, but I was impressed, and he was clearly adrenaline-pumped from his success. I don't want to imagine the driving he had to do to get there, but he arrived in one piece, so all was well. Since the restaurant is business casual, I had an excuse to wear the cute dress Mom got me for my birthday. It's not my usual style, and it doesn't bring out the best in my sizable thighs, but it's pretty snazzy.
We were seated in the back (the real restaurant), and as we walked through the place, the whole thing smelled like burning wood. It has a delightful lodge-like atmosphere. Very not Manhattan...in a good way. All through the meal, we got little "compliments of the chef" palate cleaners and supplements. They were pretty damn delicious, every one.
We ordered drinks: I got Chianti (shocker), and V got a cobbler martini thing. Both were excellent. Then we began to pick out the components of our $76 prix fixe meal. For an appetizer, I got the oyster stew, which consisted of fried oysters, fava beans and summer truffles in some sort of consumme/chowderish broth. It was delightful, and it had the bonus feature of allowing me to say I've had "fava beans with a nice Chianti." I mentioned that to V, and he was insulted when I asked if he got the reference. Great line, great line... V got a corn chowder, which is what I had planned on, until I saw the oysters. It was frothy. Mmm.
Second course was, for me, lamb shoulder with ministrone and goat cheese ravioli. I've certainly never had lamb that good before...Even the fat was totally edible and delicious. And how can you go wrong with goat cheese ravioli? You can't, and I didn't. V got the sirloin—three perfect slices of meat—with sides that for some reason I can't remember offhand. One was bone marrow. It looked good.
After our entrees, we ordered a cheese course. I posed Brad's question to V: If you had to give up one for life, which would it be: oral sex or cheese? By the end of the night he still didn't have an answer and looked like I had stabbed his mother every time I posed the question. Really, it's a horrifying Sophie's choice. In any case, while we retain the right to all of life's great pleasures, we had 5 cheeses selected by our waitress. All were lovely, except I've never been a huge fan of bleu cheese, so I didn't love that one. We savored every bite, no less, and I left the majority of the most intense one to a very happy V.
For desert we split the chocolate cake and the chocolate/hazelnut mousse. Oh Lord, we have sinned. SO good. Even their coffee was magnificent. Especially the pre-desert treat of cinnamon creme fraiche and raspberries was magnificent. Just heavenly. And they gave us muffins for the morning, so the experience can continue until tomorrow. Yay, Gramercy Tavern. We're buds, now.
V was kind enough to drive me back to my apartment, and he came up, as I promised him some fine, full-bodied, judgment-clouding-yet-legal, 18-year-old scotch.* We broke open the Macallan and hung out until he decided to beat the theater crowd out of midtown. Thus officially ended a pretty much perfect evening. V's always great company and good food makes anything wonderful. V's also not afraid to rave about things he likes, which makes every enjoyable experience so much better. It's so much nicer than ranking things or listing pros and cons during this sort of activity. The more you rave, the more you savor, the more you'll enjoy. And that's really the point.
As things go, the evening didn't actually end there. Adam gave me a call saying he was in the area, and he came over to work on the Saturday puzzle with me. He had already done a fair amount, but together we finished it (more or less...about 2 letters were off). Go us. We chatted for too long, and here I am, verging on two o'clock and typing away. It's time for a sure-to-be-sound night of sleep. Sweet dreams. Sweeter desserts.
*The joke never gets old. And given V's occupation, I should probably clarify: No, the double meaning doesn't apply. He's very age appropriate. I just like the line. Carry on, now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)