Pretty People

I took a quick trip back to the old stomping ground. New York City. It feels more like an ex-wife than a hot mistress. I still know folks in the Big Apple. I run into them when galavanting about the big city blocks. I got in on a Thursday night. I wanted time to be anonymous. I love Salem, but I miss out on the anonymity. I'm known to all here. I can't go out for a beer without somebody I know seeing me. I was dead set to be the stranger again. I think I miss out on the newness of being a mystery. It feels like a small chance to reinvent myself on the spot.

I walked the East Village in a beaten pair of brown chinos, and a white t-shirt. I looked piss poor by NYC standards. I obviously rocked my authentic black Vans. I'm savvy enough to know not to run around the city in running shoes. You only get to do that if you're over 45. I walked down third avenue. NYU brats were graduating, and populating the streets. Purple gowns were in abundance. I ventured down closer to Bond, and Lafayette. The demographic changed. The well-to-do ones were throwing around those needed dollars. The contrast in night life was staggering. I forgot that every night was a party night here in the Big Apple.

I cut over on Bond near where I used to work. I went down the street, and heard my name called out from only a few feet away. It was Brando, the old sous chef from the last spot I worked at. He was at a new old spot. The chef, Tadd, also worked with us. Tadd was now head honcho. I was proud of him. Both of the guys did great for themselves. Brando and Tadd were the dynamic duo at this reinvented village spot.

Brando was with two young women smoking cigarettes on the stoop next to the downstairs restaurant. He jumped on me, and gave me a big hug. So much for anonymity.

Brando, and I had a brotherly connection. He was half Jewish, mixed with Spanish and Black. He had been to Israel, and lived in Sweden as well. He had a wife, and a baby boy now up in Washington Heights. Brando was a fascinating guy, and fit well into the New York City machine. I had wanted a night of mystery, but a night with a brother recounting times past was equally good.

Brando introduced me to his two lady friends. They were dressed like New York City girls. I was used to girls wearing Patriots sweatshirts, and sweatpants where I currently dwell. Here, that didn't fly. These girls were city girls. Brando insisted he make me a plate, and grab me a drink. I wholeheartedly agreed to the offer.

Brando prepared for me a vegetarian dish. Roasted carrots, chickpeas, arugula, with a pomegranate reduction and tahini sat amply in a porcelain bowl. It was beautiful, and he paired it with a mescal old fashion. We took a table towards the back. It felt like an old converted Dutch armory. The old support beams had to have been at least 150 years old. I sat with Brando, and the two young women. I had wine earlier with an old time friend, and was very much buzzed. Brando, and I entertained (or bored) the young ladies with our tales of the shenanigans we would pull at our old spot. The conversation turned to how expensive the city got. The conversation always went there. It was the siamese elephant in the room. No matter where you tried to turn that elephant was looking you in the eye. You might as well address the obvious. I appreciated my departure from New York more now. It took me about eight months to adjust. Now, NYC was the amicable tryst with the old ex-wife. It used to be hot and heavy, and now it was familiar. What was once mysterious was now splayed open. New York City, I knew her well.

We got two rounds of drinks, on the house, and split for Bleeker bar. It was the after-hours spot reserved for industry folk. We grabbed a spot in the back room by the pool tables. We had beers and talked about the future. We had already covered the past, the present, and now at the last spot it was the future. The past, and future were always fun. The present seemed like an appropriate time to complain, and that we did. Now, it was time to talk of the future. It would have been at least until the conversation got derailed. I had made an aside. I don't know where my aside came from or why I said it, but I was drunk (so memory is inconsistent).

"Pretty people have a solid advantage!" I barked.

"Oh, really? I can't believe you just said that!" One of the young ladies said.

"Yep. I said it." I replied.

"Are we really gonna do this now?" Brando said.

"Do what? " She said.

"She is somehow offended by a truth I said." I stated.

"You're saying that pretty people don't have problems!" The buzzed head radical feminist said.

"Nope. That's not at all what I said. Obviously, pretty people have a clear advantage in being pretty as opposed to ugly. Look at our industry alone... come on." I said.

"That's-" The buzzed head feminist said.

"Okay, please. We're all drunk. Obviously, Zach means that we are visual, and looks matter in our world. That's enough of that discussion." Brando ended it.

We were all down the inebriation trail, but I thought it was bizarre that the young girl chose to call me on a benign statement. I forgot the biggest thing I disliked about the city. It was an echo chamber for the lunatic leftists. The younger post college ones are inundated with contrarianism from their professors. I realize little of the counter points are thrown around (and if they are the counter speaker gets thrown out, and along with their point of view).

Brando nixed that, and the young radical demurred. The conversation turned light again as Brando and I went back into talking of the future. We proposed the idea of opening a small spot together in Salem. He was equally tired, and over whelmed by the city. This happens to us restaurant folks in our 30's. We want slower, less expensive, and more free time. Plus, if you have a family NYC is a bummer.

We finished up our beers, and stepped outside. The girls, and Brando lit up. They puffed away on their cigarettes making sure the wind took it opposite of me. We contemplated continuing the party in Brooklyn, but it was two in the morning. I said my goodbye to the ladies. Brando and I hugged, and he made his way over to the A train to go back uptown.

I meandered back up to Gramercy to crawl into bed.

I was living the Big Apple life again, well at least for 36 hours. It was good for just that amount of time. I knew her well, the city. I remembered when it was a hot bombshell. Now, it was my ex-wife. Brando was still married to a young bride. The city for him was an enthusiastic lay. For me, it was a nice lay, but the pillow talk always turned sour. I'm fine with the periodic romps though. It keeps me from wondering if I was missing out.