Sure. Every asshole on the planet goes to New York and writes about it. That's a given. And, I've written about New York in the past, too. Negative, awful things about the city that doesn't sleep. And, as far as I'm concerned, when I factor in my reasons for visiting, plus the conditions of the visit, I still stand by my previous, assesment of the city.
Rising before dawn is easy for me these days with work time starting at 5 am. But, rousing myself for a 6 o clock flight after a half gallon of Snake Handler wasn't easy. Mix the hangover with a nervous stomach due to my fear of flying and you get a nice long session of deep breathing and self loathing.
Easy flight in. No big deal. Watching the Chesapeake Bay reflect the sky back up at me while I was in the sky put me in a nice space, mentally.
We got a cab from the airport and drove to little Italy, which is where we were staying. Right on Mulberry. Heart of the beast.
I am immediately wanting to write off the city as a fucking joke, because the tourist scene is out of control on such a gorgeous day. Yet, here I am, another fucking tourist, bitching about tourists. So, I suck it up and we set our sights on lunch. We are in a food-centric neighborhood after all.
We walk for a ways to get out of the firing line of all the sideshow barker clamor surrounding "World's Best Chicken Parmesan", and "Free Glass of Wine with any Appetizer." Gelled up guys looking right outta Jersey shore promising that the ladies will eat free.
I never understood that. The eating free thing. Even before I cared about food, or even started working in restaurants, that whole eating free thing always (and rightly so) just sang of sub par chow that can be slopped out without fear of profit loss. But, nevermind.
We settle on a little spot called Fiat cafe. Tidy and clean upon first impression. Menu looks alright. Glancing at other diners plates, I see homemade pasta and very good colors. I'm at ease. We catch up with old friends and make a new one. I have a beer in the sunshine and begin to decompress from the flight and subsequent Death Race 2000-esque cab ride.
Got a nice bowl of spaghetti bolognese and a wonderful plate of pruiscutto, parmesan olives and sopressa. Great way to start.
Spaghetti Bolognese, you ask? I went all the way to NYC to eat spaghetti with meat sauce? Sure I did. Here's why. A lot of times, places wanna dazzle you with all kinds of crazy shit. So, if I'm eating somewhere new, I'll usually go for the basics. Because, If you can't make a simple dish like spaghetti & meat sauce, why would I want to try your horseshit electric space pasta over cappucino essence of suvee'd penguin beak?
Wandered around the Village and the LES. Bought an Oscar Peterson record that I didn't have (Original pressing , too!) and settled in for a few beers at a bar right by some park. 2.50 tecates and good jukebox. I think it was the Horseshoe Bar or something like that. We caught up some more in the cool, darkness of the place. Goit a little giggly and decided to bail.
Took the train back and tried not to get pink eye.
For dinner, Liz and I struck out alone in search of something different. Since Iytalian was lunch, and we were in Little Italy, we were kinda resigning ourselve to a "same but different" kind of meal. Spotted a sketchy oyster bar with nobody in it while all the places surrounding it were packed. No thanks.
So, we cut up a side street and find a quiet, tiny little sushi place right in the heart of Italy. Perfect.
Quan Sushi. Fucking dynamite. 6 dollar 24's of Sapporo. Beautiful presentation. And, Black Pepper Tuna. Holy Smokes! So simple, yet, so incredibly good. I've never seen this anywhere else. Seriously, go there and check it out.
Beer and tequila followed at a nearby place where you could smoke and the night faded in to satiated slumber.
Day two was to be the event day. The whole reason we went to the city in the first place. A wedding party. We were greeted with yet another day of wonderful weather. Grabbed some pizza at a place with excellent music and watched a chinese protest go down on the street in front of us. A really cool protest that involved Thai Chi completely random music and of course, shiny stuff.
Recharge the batteries back at the apartment. put on a decent shirt and hit the subway for the party.
Pink eye successfully avoided day two.
Showed up early at Good Company (bar) to help set up for the party. It's a really neat sopt in Brooklyn. Nice interior. Excellent, enormous outdoor area. People started showing up and the party got started. And, it got started quickly.
We had the place from 3-8 with an open bar from 3-6. Bang bang, out go the lights.
More Birmingham people arrived and reunions floowed drinks and vice- versa. Made new friends and toasted to them. The sun is till shining. The drinks are coming now in twos and threes.
And then someone busts out the Corn Hole. I'm not going anywhere anytime soon. I'm anchored.
We throw a few games among friends with mixed teams. Then, The Doctor and I get a challenge from some well groomed fellas with well groomed women in tow. The Doctor is already shit housed at this point. And, I am following close behind. We accept. Because, why not. We're drunk and throwing bean bags.
Game one goes down pretty neck and neck with The Doctor and I squeaking it out in the end.
Game two, they destroy us. We got sloppy. It was poor form.
Then, as they begin gathering their things and congratulating each other, the Doctor pipes up.
"Fuck that. Tie breaker!"
'What?"
"Fucking tie breaker."
They look us over and accept with a smirk. As they had just cleaned our clocks. Easy out, I'm sure they thought.
We hit out fucking stride. Every bag I threw was either in the hole, or resting nicely on the board. The Doctor was sinking them left and right as well. The well groomed ladies stopped cheering for the well groomed fellas. The previously mild mannerd well groomed fellas got deadly serious and really let their inner-jock come out. But, hair gel and a fucia golf shirt doesn't threaten the likes of the Doctor and I. I put it in the hole for a blowout win.
The well groomed fella on my box was gracious and jovial about the thing. But, the guy on the Doctor's box was having none of my handshake and cheer of "Good Game." Sheesh. It was a game of bean bag toss. We didn't even have money on it or anything.
After that The night goes as follows:
1. Standing out on the sidewalk, and through some very sketchy geneaology, figuring out that The Mexican and I are related somehow through Robert E. Lee. I've got to follow up on this.
2. The fourth tequila seemed like a brilliant idea.
3. Scene Missing.
4. Waking up in the cab, stuck on the bridge.
5. Scene Missing.
6. Coming to while eating pizza.
7. The End.
We decide that the best way to deal with day three is some greasy diner. it is approved by majority and carried out in full. Then, we retire to the aprtment to relax and read before the cookout. Then traain it back to Brooklyn.
Day three of avoiding Pink eye is a success. However, Union Station smells suspiciously like doo doo and bubblegum.
The cookout was for Bama folks only. It was so chilled out and nice. Another perfect day. We listened to Beastie Boys and poured out a little for MCA. Nobody told me that they had turned on the grill, so, of course I put my hand right on it. Genius. Our cab driver got in a fight with a cop on the way home. Fun stuff.
Since the President was in Manhattan on our final day, we decided to just take it all back over to brooklyn again and get to the airport in a more timely manner. And to avoid cops and motorcades and blocked off streets and all that.,
The rain settled in and we wandered around looking in the windows before eating lunch at Calexico. Excellent Tortas and Burritos all around. Good stuff. Cool interior. Good music. Get some.
Flying home later that day, I decided that I am not scared of Turbulence. I am mad at Turbulence. Because, after being successfully wooed back into the good graces of the Big Apple after so many bummer trips there, Turbulence wants me to die in a fiery heap of metal in some backwoods Maryland swamp.
Turbulence is a dick.
