La Fourchette
There is a very good reason why you will almost never bump into me in the Meatpacking District. It's not because it's overpriced, overcrowded, and over-pseudo-trendy in a very B&T sort of way. It's not that the easy access to Magnolia is a very real danger to my waistline. It's not even that I am one of those snarky sarcastic people who are skeptical of anything the moment it becomes popular.
It's because every time I go, something happens that I just can't bring myself to explain the next day. And now, for your entertainment, I am about to try.
Yesterday, a fabulous menu distracted me from checking the address, and I wound up at Vento, which was well worth any absurdity that followed. What followed, naturally, was that after about a gallon of truffle oil and some excellent pinot grigio, we did a foolish thing, and went out to find a bar.
After dismissing Too Empty, Too Crowded, Too Loud, and Too Over-Forty, we sidled up to the bar at the two-for-one special of Too Expensive & Way Too Much Attitude. The bartender sneeringly denied the existence of a wine list, which we later found multiple copies of at the tables, and the restroom attendant snapped at Andrea for not tipping her, and then lied about it. By the time Tina's food arrived, we were irretrievably snarky (even though the table staff were much better).
That's when Andrea started about the silverware. And that's when I jokingly slid the ornate fork up my sleeve. And left it there.
See what I mean about inexplicable? I'm the girl who once returned to a store because I noticed that I had been undercharged by ten cents. I have a conscience so hyperactive that I get made fun of for it, and not by people who are especially shady themselves, but rather by normal, ethical citizens. And now I'm the girl with someone else's fork in her purse.
To punctuate the absurdity, at our next stop we found ourselves in a bar with two obvious prostitutes, who, it turns out, were also promoting a vodka that had little to distinguish it from rubbing alcohol. When I say "obvious," I understand that people might be skeptical. But I am sure, and I can prove it.
1) I live in New York. I see women all tarted up all the time. I know clubwear. This was not that. ("I feel like I just walked into Pretty Woman," offered Andrea.)
2) Nick will verify that I never notice prostitutes. It has become sort of a staple of our relationship: walking through Pigalle (the district with Moulin Rouge and much, much more), he keeps up a constant stream of "To your left!" and "She just turned the corner, " and "That woman three seconds ago who asked me for money in exchange for sex while you were standing right next to me. How do you miss these things?"
I just don't notice, so if I do, you can be quite sure. And if you still have doubts, ask Tina for the photo.
I'm not judging, though. I'm too busy trying to figure out what to do with my new fork.
It's because every time I go, something happens that I just can't bring myself to explain the next day. And now, for your entertainment, I am about to try.
Yesterday, a fabulous menu distracted me from checking the address, and I wound up at Vento, which was well worth any absurdity that followed. What followed, naturally, was that after about a gallon of truffle oil and some excellent pinot grigio, we did a foolish thing, and went out to find a bar.
After dismissing Too Empty, Too Crowded, Too Loud, and Too Over-Forty, we sidled up to the bar at the two-for-one special of Too Expensive & Way Too Much Attitude. The bartender sneeringly denied the existence of a wine list, which we later found multiple copies of at the tables, and the restroom attendant snapped at Andrea for not tipping her, and then lied about it. By the time Tina's food arrived, we were irretrievably snarky (even though the table staff were much better).
That's when Andrea started about the silverware. And that's when I jokingly slid the ornate fork up my sleeve. And left it there.
See what I mean about inexplicable? I'm the girl who once returned to a store because I noticed that I had been undercharged by ten cents. I have a conscience so hyperactive that I get made fun of for it, and not by people who are especially shady themselves, but rather by normal, ethical citizens. And now I'm the girl with someone else's fork in her purse.
To punctuate the absurdity, at our next stop we found ourselves in a bar with two obvious prostitutes, who, it turns out, were also promoting a vodka that had little to distinguish it from rubbing alcohol. When I say "obvious," I understand that people might be skeptical. But I am sure, and I can prove it.
1) I live in New York. I see women all tarted up all the time. I know clubwear. This was not that. ("I feel like I just walked into Pretty Woman," offered Andrea.)
2) Nick will verify that I never notice prostitutes. It has become sort of a staple of our relationship: walking through Pigalle (the district with Moulin Rouge and much, much more), he keeps up a constant stream of "To your left!" and "She just turned the corner, " and "That woman three seconds ago who asked me for money in exchange for sex while you were standing right next to me. How do you miss these things?"
I just don't notice, so if I do, you can be quite sure. And if you still have doubts, ask Tina for the photo.
I'm not judging, though. I'm too busy trying to figure out what to do with my new fork.
posted by Caroline | 11/19/2006 02:29:00 AM
1 Comments:
Who brings money into the bathroom?
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