This Weekend

This weekend was quite GLORIOUS. That is the word that I kept using to describe Saturday, as Cap’n Cara and I strolled around the city.

But actually, the gloriousness started on Friday morning with a trip to the Brooklyn Museum with Debo to see the Keith Haring exhibit.


It was inspiring and moving and just a glimpse into a few creative years of his life. Some of Haring’s notebooks were on display. Debo and I marveled that the radiant baby and the dancing people both came from notebooks on semiotics from the late 1970s.




We also ventured to Brooklyn China/Asia-town and had a magnificently cheap lunch. Then walked back to the R train in the rain. Deb summed up the day best.


Cap’n Cara arrived Friday night.

Saturday morning we perused the Times and saw an article about the Lunch Hour exhibit at the New York Public Library.

We ventured over to the Yossi Milo gallery first thing to see the Matthew Brandt show. We thought the scale of it was quite impressive, but were hoping to see more.

[image via]

Then we decided that because we had no plans, and because we could, we went to the NYPL to see the Lunch Hour exhibit we had read about that morning. It was on impulse. How often do you get to do that? More importantly, I never get to do it, and Cap’n Cara and I have not had the pleasure of spending a weekend together in a while, so really, it was extra special.

Lunch Hour at the NYPL

The exhibit explained the history of “lunch hour.” There was even a recreation of the food system at the Automat. I was impressed. I felt while in the presence of old New York that I was becoming one of those people who yearns for the return of the Mad Men era.

Lunch Hour at the NYPL

That whet our appetites. So then we ate lunch. Cap’n Cara loved the Union Square Zen Palate location before it got taken over by Ruby Tuesday’s, or whatever godforsaken oil pit is there now. Zen Palate recently reappeared on 18th street, so we went there and ate rice out of a halved pineapple. Classy!


We spent the rest of the afternoon walking around Union Square and Flatiron. I gave Cap’n Cara a formal introduction to Joe Fresh, and we also stopped by ABC Carpet and Fish’s Eddy.




Our afternoon was glorious.

After watching an episode of Mad Men, we went to Griffou for a drink before dinner. Dinner was at Neta, and the amount of wasabi in our lotus root rolls will not soon be forgotten. From there, we ventured to Employees Only because it’s a fun little space and I thought Cara would like it. She did, other than the fact that we were getting splashed every time the bartender made a drink.

We ended up talking to the redheaded fellow and his friend who were standing behind us. They were alright. They invited us to go to Black Market, and because I can unleash my inner impulsive monster with Cap’n Cara, we said sure, we would go with them as they were friendly enough and neither of them had attempted to touch either of us in that way that says “I am a creep who touches girls in bars.” And do “we” call it Black Market or do we call it Blk Mkt? I have no effing idea. We never made it there.

The redhead spoke to Cap’n Cara and I kindly while we waited for a cab. The non-redhead, from here on out referred to as “NRH,” hailed a cab. He had suggested that we walk. I asked where it was. NRH said “about 9 blocks.” I will point out here that Employees Only is on Hudson Street, and Black Market is on Avenue A. 9 blocks is one thing. 9 AVENUES IS ANOTHER. I hadn’t quite done the computation yet.

After getting in the cab, the NRH spoke to the cab driver in what I presume was Hindi. The cab driver was not amused. By the time we were crossing 6th Avenue NRH had already told all of us about the best place for fried chicken and that he had known that before everyone knew it was the best place for fried chicken.

Perhaps it was the menagerie of spirits (as in booze, not ghosts) in my system. Maybe I was just sick of listening to him banter on. NRH continued on to say that so and so bar on the LES was the best bar in the city. Again, none of us had any idea what he was talking about. As he said “it’s the best” for what seemed like the 12 millionth time I leaned forward and announced to the car “and by ‘best’ he means ‘worst” and laughed my head off because I was both liquored up and Cara and I thrive on sarcasm.

It was quiet for a minute. Ad then NHR said “Hey [to his friend], I’m going to get out of the cab. Why don’t you go to [so and so bar]. I don’t want to be condescended by some 22 year old girl.”

Cara told me at this point she was waiting for him to maniacally laugh and say he was kidding. He didn’t and he wasn’t. Because I am self aware I said, “oh, I didn’t mean anything by that. I was just kidding.”

He defensively said, “No! You’ve been doing it for the past 15 minutes and I’m not about to sit here and be condescended by some 22 year old girl who knows nothing about life!”

Well, okay.

My 26, soon to be 27, year old self said to the cab driver “can you pull up over here?” And on 10th Street near Stuyvesant Street, the cab pulled over. Cara waited for a car to go by and then we both got out. No other words were exchanged. I shut the door and then told Cara “walk this way” down Stuyvesant. And with great pride and without stopping to ponder our next move, we went to Angel’s Share where she had a drink that had blue curacao in it. We called it the “AMF” though I am sure the establishment would not be happy to know we were naming their fine concoction as an “Adios Mother Fucker.”

It was an awesome weekend.


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