Moment Magnitude

Bruce Willis Mac 'n Cheese

Last month I conducted business over a late lunch in a favorite neighborhood hang: Cafeteria.

Cousin T. is its unofficial mayor. Open twenty-four hours, I've been there all hours of the day and night. When I've gone there with Cousin T., it's as if we are dining in "our" family restaurant.

I ordered a side of their mac 'n cheese (my favorite), and assembled papers and documents with my client. We were talking when Simone leaned in to my left side, and asked, "Excuse me. What do you think of the mac 'n cheese?"

Without missing a beat, and without looking up, I responded, "It'll change your life."

And when I turned my head, I cam almost nose to nose with Bruce Willis.

"Okay," he said. "I'll order it."

He, and this gorgeous brunette woman sat at the table just next to us. I looked over to my client, and tried to gesticulate while mouthing the words, "That's Bruce Willis (!)."

My customer joined us and I managed to focus on the transaction at hand, mindful the whole time of the party dining just behind my right shoulder.

I looked up at the faces of the people sitting at the table across from me. They looked dumbstruck and stared agape at the table behind me.

I turned as the waiter served Mr. Willis his mac 'n cheese.

"Excuse me," I said, "You got bacon. Bacon on your mac 'n cheese."

"Yes I did." I saw a flash in his movie star eyes, the look we know from the mega roles he has headlined.

The waiter interrupted. "Oh I'm so sorry! I'll get you bacon the next time." (Such a doll.)

My client, customer, and I completed our transaction. In the back of my mind I knew I had to seize the moment. I remembered something. Something from two decades earlier.

Mr. Willis and company were paying their check. When he finished, I turned to him and said, "I have to ask you something."

He looked at me. "Okay..."

"I have to ask you about...Sam Shepard. I saw you perform in what was it...?"

"Fool for Love. It was Fool for Love."

Yes it was."

"You're one of the privileged few."

"I am?"

"Yeah. That show ran (x number ) of performances, and let's see, (another x number) of people saw that show."

"And I was..."

"And you were one of them. That show got me my agent. It changed my life."

"You were incredible. I'll never forget it. I've wondered about that performance." (This was before Moonlighting.)

He smiled, and before stood, I asked, "So. What did you think of the mac 'n cheese?"

He leaned toward my client. "It's criminal. It makes you want to do crimes. White collar."

He walked around our table and introduced us to his girlfriend (very beautiful, great smile).

"Are you buying and selling something something here?"

My client smiled at me.

"Well, yes. I represent real estate in the Hamptons."

"Do you have anything in the Caribbean?"

We laughed.

And then he looked at me with intent. "You are going to be great at this."

For what it's worth, I got my first commission check this week.

Candy Darling

Before 2007 fades into history (history, dammit!), Liz Taylor Jr. celebrated her birthday, notwithstanding that her latest amour, a yummy, young fellow, flew up from his Caribbean-isla home, but not before he advanced two cases of Perrier Jouet and three dozen orange roses to NYC. Now that's a statement. Pedro's got my vote.

Who but Surfer Girl to upstage LT Jr., and on the latter's own anniversaire?

And so, to paraphrase, from the story delivered not from the honeyed lips of "she-who-challenges-the-Ditch-Plains-break," but from the distillation of the drunken bacchanal that ensued in honor of LT Jr.  Yep, an email, photos shared.

The birthday dinner (the birthday bash started the festivities the week before at Niki Beach), was held at Phillipe Chow's, a kind-of offshoot from the 80s-dinosaur, Mr. Chow. Surfer Girl commented that she nearly went blind from all the ice on parade (unlike my concern during this procedure), the likes of which would cost as much as her entire apartment building.

I'll bet the blingerati stared harder at our girls, as maitres d' escorted them through the dining rooms, through the kitchen, "Goodfellas" style to the private cellar, where their gussied-up table awaited.

No mention was made of actual food. Drink was. Oh, and...

"When dessert was served, I got up, clinged (?) my wine glass for everyone's attention, and announced, 'If anyone needs sugar for their coffee or tea, I got the goods.'"

At which point, Surfer Girl unzipped the front of her top and flashed all fifteen people at the table, in addition to three waiters, and two other adjacent dinner parties.

"My candy bikini top." (Recall photos, above.)

Her quickie backstory (my asides in italic, parenthetically): "A few months ago, I was getting drunk (I am shocked) in Chelsea with my best gay boyfriend (duh), when our bartender hooked me up with a bikini top made of candy. It's the same candy used to make candy bracelets, the ones that ice cream trucks display, hanging next to the ring pops."

To me, they look a confectionery version of puka shells. C'mon now, retro 70s-chic, I saw a resurgence out East last summer on (ahem) younger fellas. But back to Surfer Girl, baring her almost-all, chez Phillipe's cellar tables.

"There were three people at out table whom I had just met. I doubt they'll be forgetting me. I had to give a Tara Reid apology, the 'nip-slip,' because I had no control over my candies."

Now take a harder look at those photos.

"The waiters told me to come back very soon."

Heck, I just jealous of her tan!

The fur hat-and-jacket poses came later, reportedly four-something in the morning. Note what appears to be an empty bottle of designer vodka. Even if it is a water bottle, I'm wagering the contents were swapped out for something Russian. Da!

January First

I spent most of yesterday traveling, returning from New Mexico, after spending the holidays with Mom and Step-dad.

The trip was uneventful, despite snowy weather and a two-plus-hour layover at Chicago-O'Hare.

I have spend, oh, probably thousands of hours on airplanes and airports, but this is a first.

Once boarded upon the second flight and final leg bound for New York's La Guardia, the bursar, or head flight attendant, or whomever, came on the public announcement system with this information: A passenger, who had told the flight attendants of her "airborne peanut allergy," requested that all other passengers, if they had any food items containing peanuts, to refrain from eating them during the flight.

I raised my eyebrows, and at first, said to myself, "Only in New York." Except that we weren't in New York, yet.

Then I thought of the little white masks I have seen folks wear in Chinatown. Couldn't one with such an allergy wear one of those, instead of making such a request - to a whole planeload of people?

Okay, maybe the allergy is so bad, that this person would go into anaphylactic shock at the merest whiff of a peanut. Maybe. I'm just saying.

The words "high maintenance" fluttered across my mind.

Anyhow, once back in NYC, and back at my loft (sans automobile), I bumped into friend-neighbors, and we set off for dinner at decades-old Florent on Gansevoort Street. Half way through our meal, Ethan Hawke came in with companions. My friends commented that they see him frequently, on the street. We all live in Chelsea after all.

Later, back at my now semi-empty loft, I popped around "My Favorite Blogs," scroll down below the photo albums in the left-hand column, yep, over there (<<<).

I hadn't checked my favorites in a while, and I am so happy to say that (with the exception of one that has been dormant), they are as vibrant, witty, and as wonderful as they have ever been. Bless you, insomnia haiku. I laughed out loud many times. You rock.

I also received my first comment of 2008, on the post, Lemonade, comparing my writing to Susan Orlean (!). Except that there is no bloody way I could ever have a crush on Dick Cheney (urgh), ironic or otherwise (apologies to Ms. Orlean).

Still, that's what I call a nice start to a New Year.

A Single Girl's Caesar

Caesar salad, that is. With grilled shrimp. And a glass of white wine (I prefer French chardonnays, but I'll go with what's available).

I got it into my head that I would sample grilled shrimp Caesar salads among some of the East End restaurants - now that I am living out here 90% of the time.

Since I run - okay, drive - around a lot (the real estate biz), I often like nothing so much at the end of the day as a solo-stop into a restaurant, a stool at a bar (if there is one, either a stool or a bar), a newspaper or book, a glass of wine, and that salad.

So far, I've sampled restaurants in Bridgehampton and East Hampton. I try to keep the meal to $30, tip included. It is off-season out here, so that price point could work, hypothetically. The challenge of it is, I seldom have just one glass of wine - and the bill reflects that.

Since this idea popped into my head, I've sampled World Pie (two times) and Bobby Van's (once) in Bridgehampton, Nichols (once), and The Lodge (once) in East Hampton. I have a way to go. Good thing I like Caesars.

So far, The Lodge's salad is hands-down, the best. The dressing goes beyond the expected, piquant, salty tang of the usual Caesar (I "get" the anchovy requirement). Some would aver that when it comes to Caesars, it's all about the dressing. If that's so, then The Lodge's chef worked special magic. It had an additional lemony tang that made me want to gobble it in a pico-second. The Romaine lettuce was crisp, crunchy, and just cold enough. The dish included eight (maybe more), fat, perfectly grilled shrimp, a tinge of charring to spike the flavor. Yum. I sat at the bar (the bartender served me a lovely French white), and recollected the first time I dined in that room, back in the mid-late 1980s, off-season, when it was The Laundry. The room has lost nothing of its ambiance, even with the change of proprietorship. If I had stuck to one glass of wine, the tab would have been $30.

World Pie's iterations are serviceable, and tasty enough. The price is right. One of the quibbles I have is that the serving plate is too small. I have made a mess both times. The salad could be a bit more crunchy, and the croutons feel like an afterthought. The upside: The fellows at the bar are real pros, from service to personality. Classic guys. I wish they had a French white by the glass, but the sauvignon blanc does almost as well.

I have to give Bobby Vans another go. In truth, I was with Surfer Girl (she performed the heroic act of driving out from the city, fetching me from LaGuardia after a week-long stay with my Mom in New Mexico) in the early evening, and driving my ass all the way back to East Hampton). We popped in, sat at a proper table, gabbed nonstop, and chowed. I could have paid more attention to the food, but didn't - but I've never gone wrong at Bobby Van's. The staff is always first-rate - especially to folks they know (nod to Surfer Girl). It'll bear a re-visit. Or seven.

I like Nichols. It's an easy place to go - precious little attitude, a warm cluster of two small rooms, the feel of a rustic, old building, the outside patio in the warmer months. The bar is tiny, and often fully-occupied, so I sat at a table. The low lighting made it hard to read, but the conversation at the table next to me was entertaining enough, looping from modern psycho-analysis, to books on philosophy (Nietzsche in particular), to film (Elizabeth for chrissakes!), to HBO's new series, "Tell Me that You Love Me." The party seemed tweedy, city-intellectual, professorial, with a dollop of Woody Allen. I wish the salad had been half as interesting, although I know I will return to Nichols in spite of that dish's ordinariness.

I'm enjoying this, the foray and the forage. 

Persiflage

A snippet of light conversation from last night, after at least one too many glasses of wine:

"I don't want to talk about tennis," he said.

"Then what do you want to talk about? Do you...read?"

"No, not much. I'm a simple guy. But, we could make out for, like, forty-five minutes."

"What, what, what what, what?"

(Why did I sound like Jennifer Anniston just then, I thought, in that almost unwatchable film, The Break-Up? Mortified, face gone scarlet.)

"What?"

"I just wanted to stop that big intelligence of yours..."

C'mon, Eraser.

Caveman Crush

I have a confession. I have a sort-of crush on the Geico Insurance Company's cavemen.

They're probably a tad high-maintenance-girly-boy, but there's just something about them.

Check it all out here.

I'm not kidding.

Try to get that Royksopp ditty out of your head: "And anywhere I go..."

The Breast Stroke

Last Sunday, Monsieur made a turkey dinner with all the trimmings.

He was blasting his way through a "dirty-stay-out" weekend, as my mother would have called it. So he didn't get the turkey until one in the afternoon - the same day he planned to cook it. Balducci's or not, the fifteen-pound bird was a frozen boulder.

When he phoned me Sunday afternoon, he told me, "The turkey. She is swimming in the bathtub."

"Doing the backstroke? Or the Australian crawl?"

We did the math. At fifteen minutes per pound, I figured, close to four hours. For a fully thawed turkey.

"She is moving from one end of the tub to the other."

Hmm. "Are you alternating warm and hot and cold water or something?"

"Something like that. With the hot water, she like, skims along the bottom. But with the cold, she doesn't move."

"I'm sure there's a physical explanation."

"Oh yes."

"The important thing is that it gets cooked."

And cooked it most certainly did get. Monsieur put his twist on the stuffing, taking the basic mix of bread and cornbread, and seasoning it with sausage. I could have made a meal out of that, but for the wine, the cranberry sauce, the sweet potatoes, and the finishing touch: home-baked gingerbread cookies.

Tennis Pro called later on, and when I told him about the bathtub turkey, he laughed out loud and hard. After he caught his breath, he said, "I sure hope nobody knew the bird was in the bath."

Funny, I didn't think about germs. Anyhow, they must have been cooked out. I'm sure of it. We left Monsieur's with fat bellies and smiles.

The next day, I woke still feeling full. And no worse for wear. 'Tis the holidays.   

   

Bar Stories

So. Last Thursday, in the way early evening, damn it gets dark so fast these days, I met one of the gals at Employees Only. I'll call her CeeCee. She's a showstopper. Curvaceous, alabaster skin, a fountain of thick, brown-auburn hair, red lips, animated hands. A superb raconteur. Months earlier, I met her through Surfer Girl, who joined us at the our preferred, curved end of the bar. Dushan, the bartender-extraordinaire, worked his alchemy.

I had walked over from a late afternoon business meeting at Pastis, where I had one of the best hamburgers in my life: big, salty-savory-seared on the outside, good and juicy on the inside. Perfection. A burger so good, you don't notice the fries, or frites, on the side.

My full belly grounded the almost ceaseless procession of filled-to-the-brim flutes of Prosecco.

CeeCee regaled us with this shape-edged story. She was at The Spotted Pig, seated at the bar with girlfriend, one of the rainy evenings last week, the end of one of those days when all New Yorkers are in pissy, bite-me moods.

Her friend got up to hit the head, and a couple standing too close edged in on the empty seat, although it was covered by her friend's jacket, the usual marker that indicates "taken."

Not this time. The female member of the couple insisted on making a grab. And CeeCee would have none of it.

"Sorry. That seat is taken."

The woman got testy, insisting that she sit. "I'm pregnant!"

(Apologies right now to all my girlfriends who recently announced their second trimesters.)

"My friend is just in the loo," CeeCee responded. "And will be returning."

Apparently, the woman began to shriek. The bartender, whom CeeCee knows, looked up and over to her.

She said, "Now you're too close to me. And you're yelling. I am going to close my eyes, and after the count of five, you will be gone."

It was a command.

CeeCee closed her eyes. She held up her hand, five fingers splayed, and then, folding down one finger at a time, starting with the pinkie, "Five, four, three, two, one."

She opened her eyes. And the woman was till there, too close. "You're still here."

Surfer Girl and I listened, eyes wide. I started to laugh.

The woman's other half, a man, came up, and appeared millimeters from chest-butting CeeCee. The bartender intervened, "Sir?"

CeeCee's friend returned to the bar. As the couple bristled before the bartender, CeeCee whispered that the shrieking woman was pregnant. And her friend, without pausing, said loudly, "Pregnant? I thought she was fat." Ouch.

The couple stormed out. 

That was a good one. In the midst of our ensuing chatter, CeeCee and Surfer Girl mentioned that Dushan and his partner just had their book published.

"Really?"

When we three called him over, he heard the following sentences:

"She's a book publisher."

"Yes, I was a book publisher."

"She writes about us."

"Sure. I could write about your book and post it."

Dushan smiled, turned, and presented me with a copy of You Didn't Hear It From Us: Two Bartenders Serve Woman the Truth About Men, Making an Impression, and Getting What You Want. I asked him to sign it, natch.

We returned to our various stories. Surfer Girl had been out all the previous night, in a silver Rolls Royce Phantom, taken to the re-opening of The Russian Tea Room (!). Of course Liz Taylor Jr. was there, enabling the shenanigans.

CeeCee received a call. And Argentine gentleman, a paramour, would drive by. He did, and she would vanish, dancing through the rest of the night.

CeeCee's friend from The Spotted Pig story had arrived, model-tall and British-charming, she spilled various contents from her bag. Surfer Girl and she planned to head off to some other party.

Dushan made me a final cocktail, buttressing it with a couple of tall glasses of water. Something I call a Campari-hari (like the Mata Hari in his book). I sipped half, as the gals closed our "tab," a paltry sum given the number of drinks.

My phone rang, and when I looked at the number, I smiled. Tennis Pro. Tingle. I took the call outside. A minute later, Surfer Girl handed me my jacket, bag, umbrella, and air-kissed me goodbye.

I walked the mile or so home, laughing with Tennis Pro, right up to my front door.

What of Dushan's book? I breezed my way through it the next day, on the subway, later finishing it off before I nodded off to sleep.

It's fast and funny. Parts ring true, others don't. I think it aims for folks who mostly seek one-night stands. And it feels as though it skews to a younger audience. Still it's clever, in a pop-psych way: Be present, accept that you are desirable, learn to flirt, take care of yourself first and foremost, and remember that men want sex. What we women do should be our choice.

Nothing earth-shattering, but a sweet reminder, and worth the read.

Once thing I will take away. whenever I am in Employees Only, or any other seasoned bar for that matter, I will watch the bartenders with renewed interest, and try to see what they see, from the other side.

Duckwalk

I cannot see buds on the trees yet. They are bare and barren. It is winter still.

A whiff of warmth teased the city last weekend, enough to motivate a drive to the East End, an event in Southampton, and a weekend with The Savior, rambling around his home. For the first time this year, I could smell in the air the anticipation of sun, the promise of a warm, fragrant breeze, waiting to caress my face.

I left late, and arrived at Duckwalk Vineyards about an hour and a half into the party. The event was intended to celebrate the vineyard's sparkling white (not bad for methode champenoise), and samples from a chocolatier (dreadful gack). Perhaps because there were about a hundred and a half guests only, perhaps because of my tardy entrance, all I know is that when I came through the glass French doors, it seemed though everyone turned and stared. Vampires.

The spell broke in the next instant. A lovely blonde woman reintroduced herself to me - I had met her over the holidays, and my mind was working fast assembling its pattern recognition. My memory clicked, "Yes, yes," when my arm was pulled to one side.

Mr. Raffish pointed, "Holly, I want you to meet my date." I followed the line of his hand to see one of my girlfriends from the city. Quelle surprise. Small world. She was invited out with a bevy of twenty-something-year-old babes, an all expense paid trip, pretty faces recruited to decorate the event. The baby girls, combined with the year-rounder-women, made for a poor ratio - eight women to each man.

And I was chatting with three of them. Mr. Raffish, The Savior, and one of his funny-playboy-buddies. I didn't co-opt all their attention, but we did share insidery laughs. Like only-we-know-a-secret. Men are good that way - among the many ways that men are good.

But I wasn't interested in monopoly. I was heartened to see the swarm of babes surrounding The Savior.

"You look like a movie star," I whispered. "You always do."

The party fizzled fast and we decamped to Mr. Raffish's home, where the babes were staying the night. When the Brazillian percussion drums and instruments hit the living room - after a handful of the girls dipped in and out of the hot tub and then changed into Ambercrombie & Fitch-style sweats, the odd college sweatshirt among them - I knew it was time to get out of there. My girlfriend, a true contemporary, joined me, and we drove ten miles further east to The Savior's.

Slowing through Sag Harbor, I spied the flashing red lights of two police cars, and for a second, I wondered if the cops had set up a checkpoint. I slowed and saw a young woman, hands behind her back - cuffed - an officer leading her to the waiting squad car. Busted. I assumed that the truck with Wisconsin tags was hers. Small town, small town drunk bust. 

The next day, we stragglers attended The Savior's tennis tournament in Westhampton. He won the first match in straight sets. After the first match, Mr. Raffish took the remaining gals to the luxury-liner bus line. I stayed behind for the second, the final. The Savior won straight sets, he won the tournament. When he scored the winning point, he sought me out on the sideline, and raised his fist in victory. Excellent. Bloody superb.

We celebrated in Bridgehampton at Bobby Van's Restaurant. I like saying the whole name. Bobby Van's Restaurant. It reminds me of a line from in the film The Door in the Floor. And I ain't telling. That film should be required viewing for anyone who spends time in the East End.

That evening, we ate fried calamari, drank red wine, and watched the first episode of the last season of The Sopranos. And I don't need to tell. Badafuckingbing. Game on.