There's No Such Thing

Occasionally nights are so good they're actually depressing.

Yesterday was extravagant dinner number three: Bouley. V and I got seated on the same side of the table...for most it's canoodling position. For us, it was the ideal people-watching setup. The people, alas, were not especially hilarious, although V did catch one adorable waiter's eye. And I tactlessly called him on it. Heh heh. The meal began with (what else?) foie gras. Next to my inability to write thank-you notes, my love for foie gras is perhaps my worst trait. It really is crazy delicious. V got the egg (yup, an egg), which he aptly described as "eggs Benedict on crack...in a good way." The main course was perfectly-cooked lamb with Jerusalem artichoke, a green that was new to both of us and totally salty and wonderful. There was one especially good cheese from the cheese course—practically a butter substitute. And the dessert. Oh. The dessert. The chocolate frivolous (who cares what part of speech it is, just stare deep into the chocolate and all will be well) consisted of an incredibly dense and sweet souffle, a chocolate brulee with a sugar crust, ice cream, a small chocolate layer cake with some fruity/liquor-ish filling and this Platonic ideal of a kit kat. Astounding.

But of course the evening couldn't end with so few great loves. We walked from TriBeCa to SoHo, where we tore through the Saturday puzzle at a wine bar (I got a glass of port, V got the Riesling flight; no surprises there). It's amazing how quickly the crosswords go with a second person. It's an exponential improvement. The point is we rule.

It seemed like the evening was winding down. We headed up Varick toward the Christopher Street 1 stop, and when we got into the area, V mentioned the Duplex was his old watering hole back in high school (precocious children, those Catholic schoolboys). I still had never been there, so we decided to stop in for a drink. The place was, well, wonderful in every way. The schticky-but-not-schmaltzy piano player bangs out and sings a totally sing-alongable collection from the 60s, 70s, 80s, and (less) 90s. The whole place has this great high-fun, low-key vibe. According to V, the lines have stayed more or less the same since 1990. Like, the piano player would say, "And now it's time for a little Mama Cass," and the entire crowd would shout, "There's no such thing as a little Mama Cass!" Amazing. He played a few Redhot songs, reminding me of the reunion I was missing but also allowing me to impress V with my vast knowledge of "Sweet Blindness." Aw, yeah. The whole thing was a blast.

We parted ways at midnight. My stomach kind of went crazy after I got home...after the full meal, one glass of port and two bottle of Corona, it wasn't entirely surprising. Too much for one small organ (everyone knows the kidneys are just there for show). And now it is all done and I am back to UUSTing and watching Beaches. I've never seen the whole thing and will have to miss the (supposedly wildly sad) ending for UUST class. Shame.