This summer, I’m a restaurant widow.
My husband, Steven, kicked off the season by opening a new restaurant in Soho right after Memorial Day. (Sessanta in the SIXTY Soho hotel. Tell them I sent you!)
When your spouse has just opened a restaurant, you don’t see them much.
I know, “restaurant widow” is not at all a fair term to actual widows.
I still get to see my spouse leave the house in the morning, all showered and smelling like his Commes Des Garcon man spray.
I get to see him come home late at night, when he likes to loudly rip up all the junk mail at the kitchen counter and then take out the plastic waste I’ve accumulated to the recycling bin in the hall.
I get to request my favorite booth at his restaurant even on the busiest nights of the week, and eat Sicilian-inspired pasta and skirt steak at a discount.
But still, I miss Steven being around, especially on the warm nights when we’d normally mosey to Barbuto, our neighborhood go-to, and eat dinner outside together.
On the upside, I have plenty of time for walks at night. That may sound lame, but it’s my favorite thing to do: walk when the sun is on its way down and listen to podcasts.
I have three regular routes right now.
One is down Hudson River Park, which is a beautiful path along the water that allows me to say, “Who needs a vacation house? I’ve got this gorgeous river practically in my back yard, and it has beach volleyball, mini golf, and other attractions I’ll never use but like thinking I would. Joke’s on you, Hamptons homeowners!” This place is the cure for any FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) that I get from people’s posts of feet and glass of wine in hammock, or the ubiquitous “FRESH GRILLED CORN! #LIFEISGOOD!”
Sometimes I try taking sunset photos there, but they’re too dopey to post.
The other main route is around the East Village, which is great for cruising past vintage clothing stores (where I refrain from going in or else I’ll spend my money on a musty-smelling mistake), bodegas that sell dusty bags of plantain chips, and lots of junkies.
The junkies are everywhere if you go East of Union Square.
I’m obsessed with the older, seasoned-veteran kind of junkie with the following uniform: walking cane, sunken cheekbones, oversized sports jersey, giant gold medallion, white sneakers, white tube socks pulled up and leaving just an inch between top of sock and hem of mid-calf jeans.
Somewhere there’s a clothing manufacturer making junkie capris pants. I don’t understand why they all wear bottoms this length. It’s either super-short pants, or super-long shorts. It’s like a secret handshake. A gang sign that says, “Hey, let’s sell some CDs on a dirty blanket on the street and then go shoot up and nod off together next to a pile of vomit and a tin of takeout spaghetti.”
I’ve noticed a couple of ruses these junkies have for looking like they’re not just slumped in an opium coma: holding under the drooping head either a crossword puzzle (Friday’s is so hard! Gotta concentrate on 17 across!) or a defunct old clamshell phone.
When I get thirsty, I like stopping into a bodega on avenue C, where they use awful-smelling disinfectant and sell off-brand bottled water but seem to appreciate my legs. I wear cutoffs on these walks, and though my legs are long past their prime (and were never ready for prime time), they get looks in less picky districts.
So that’s the East Village.
And then there’s the extra route, in my immediate neighborhood. This is for quickies. Last night, I was so riled up by an excellent episode of Real Housewives of New York, and it was so warm and steamy out, I had to go get my walk on at 1am.
Yes. I like the city when it’s dark, desolate, and the temperature of a laundromat.
Along with everyone else who grew up in New York, I complain that the city has sold its soul and exchanged all its grit for hedge-fund douchers who line up for cupcakes. But you’ll see that’s not true if you go for a walk on a Tuesday night at 1am. Especially the block of 6th Avenue below 8th Street, where the B/F/D subway entrance is right next to an all-night Duane Reade.
There are people out selling incense, piles of non-working Blackberry chargers, and, I’m guessing, meth. Glassy-eyed addicts stumble in and out of the pizza place. Pockmarked, transgendered hookers loiter in sequined short shorts. Last night, a guy staggered past me with his mouth open, his dick exposed through the open fly of his corduroy pants, and a big wad of dollar bills in his fist. My thoughts were, in this order: 1) “EWWWW!” 2) “Where’d he get that money?”
And if you think no one’s out at 1 am on a Tuesday, or that I’ve got the whitest legs in town, go past the old Nell’s on 14th Street. (Photo at top.) Nell’s was a hot club in the 80s and 90s. Somehow I got in once or twice. I don’t know what it is now, but last night, I walked past and got to see girls in hoochie outfits spilling out of SUVs and then trying to push their way to the front of the hoochie mob by claiming specialness.
And aside from that, I’m working. No different from any other time of year, except that instead of eating straight from the fridge when I’m procrastinating, I go out and walk around the block, or cruise over to the gourmet grocery store Agata and Valentina to see if they have any samples of cut-up almond croissant.
Now you.
How’s YOUR summer?
Spot any junkies?
TELL ME IN THE COMMENTS.
What podcasts do you listen to?
Weirdly this post sold me on new york more than anything I’ve ever read!
I also can’t believe your dad’s comment ended with HOWIE’S DEAT!! I have actually never heard the term “gone to his reward” before but I googled it and that seems to be what it means.
Also I have to throw in that this is what comes up when you google that phrase – http://donboys.cstnews.com/nelson-mandela-secular-saint-gone-to-his-reward
What kind of asshole writes a post celebrating the death of nelson mandela???
Hahaha! Every story of my dad’s ends with someone’s “reward.” He’s running out of living people to tell stories about.
Sometimes it’ll be a funny story and then, a beat after the punchline, “They all perished in Auschwitz.”
I’ll tell you what kind of asshole: an old white one!
Ps – Roeder, miss you. I’m glad I sold you on NY, maybe you’ll bring that cute baby and show him the sights.
I was gonna write a full length blog post to respond back to you, but then my Dad called and used up my fun time for the day.
Wait a minute! I see your Dad comments on your blog. My Dad still has no idea what I do. Hmmmm….
I’m going to have to have a chat with him.
I can tell you this. About 20 years ago I lived on the 3rd floor of an apartment building and caught some old guy walking down the street with his dinger hanging out – at 5:00 PM! – and then came over to my bushes and peed on them!
So rude.
I grabbed a banana and a handful of grapes and threw them at him and yelled fuck off pervert in Cantonese.
(Gotta practice my Chinese somehow.)
Xo.
Erika
I know how to say “asshole” in Japanese. Maybe we can have a conversation.
Love that you threw a banana and grapes. You didn’t have a hot dog and meatballs?
We have a guy like that who used to come by and yank it outside our window. The Diddler. I wonder where he’s been. Maybe back on his meds.
This is the first comment of my dad’s that doesn’t contain a passage about how he wrote out his whole response and then it disappeared. He’s making progress!
I’d DEF read your book. In fact, I would even throw the book launch party.
-Kathy
Thank you! And that means my book launch party will have hot models! Or at least one. That’s good enough for me.
Motion to get your dad his own blog, stat! 🙂
Uh, the world is his blog. There is no platform where he doesn’t express himself.
PS scusa me per i
miei sbagli!
I didn’t notice a single sbaglio. 🙂
First up, you’re at your best when your write from your hood.
Second, You def have a book in you.
Third, I’m guessing you don’t wanna hear about my fabulous summer in the Italian countryside hiking over hill and dale in the fresh mountain sun and air with a barrel or two of fabulous red wine and white wine and some fresh caciocavallo waiting at the other end–then was lunch. I lost count after the 5th course–while you’re cruising god knows what NYC street on a Tuesday night at 1am.
I could send pics, but nah. I do miss the city though. All that grit and life. The bodegas. Wait, we have those here too. That booth, is it for girlfriends too?
First and second, thank you! There is so much to write about in any NY hood.
Third, oh man! I will trade all the grit for a day of that. Except I’d need the 1am walks to work off the caciocavallo.
Laura,
Aside from all the gems I encounter when Mom & I, or I alone, meet up with you, here are 2 from your blog:
First, gotta get to Barbuto, your standby outdoor cafe. (Reminds me of the ole Barbuda or Barbudo on West 46th St., way west, where we had a great dinner outdoors years ago, and my best friend Harvey getting drenched as he sat with us, but (portly) he just outside the shelter of the umbrella, as we calmly ate and talked fully under the umbrella, shielded from the pouring rain
Second) You mentioned “quickies” re your going for a walk. Well another friend Howie had a difficult time “making it” with women. Lo/behold, he met an appealing one at a party, and offered to walk her home. His entreaties to extend the evening with her were dissed by her. Finally, passing a hotel/bar/restaurant, she said,”OK, lets stop in here for a quickie.”
Howie dashed inside toward the hotel receptionist, and signed up for a room. He
then looked in vain for the young woman, and walked back to find her sitting in the bar.
“Where’d you go?” she asked.
“I signed us up for a room,” he replied.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” she wondered aloud
“You said you wanted a quickie.”
“Exactly: a quickie cocktail,” she explained.
I never asked Howie if he played with the word “cocktail.”
Alas, Howie has gone to his reward, which makes me sad.
But now my starting summer reward was for Father’s Day a la your treating me and Mom to dinner at Sessanta. As my Sicilian amicos always say, “MAMMA MIA!!” e MOLTI GRAZIE to you and Steven.
Love from your Dad,
David Charles Belgray
Dad, do you think Howie’s “reward” means he now gets the other kind of quickie?
Also, I like the way you save time by writing lo/behold instead of lo and behold. The work of a true efficiency expert.
Love, L