The Park: Its Name Alone is Emblematic of the Lifestyle I Desperately Wish I Could Afford

Location: 19th St. and 10th Ave.

Granted, I visited this restaurant more than a month ago for Erin's birthday, and I do have this nagging amnesia problem, but have faith in me. Or don't--for all you know, I've made up all my visits to these places, and my entries are simply fantasies bred of looking longingly into the restaurant windows and perusing their menus. I've thrown the gauntlet!

So, I have given up the set up already. It was Erin's birthday, and even though no one had work that day, we all managed to show up late. Still, Amanda, Val, and I were the first ones to make it. We took the crosstown 14th Street bus to unknown and unvisited locations--past 8th Avenue into the mythical land known as Chelsea/Meatpacking District. Frankly, I have no clue where one ends and where the other begins. I still don't know where Greenwich Village resides as opposed to the West Village. Fortunately, all my visitors trust me blindly. And I, of course, abuse that trust. Regardless, the reason I don't really go past 6th Avenue is because a) in the winter, being outside makes me homicidal, and b) 14th Street to the west of Union Square becomes unwelcoming--no cute buildings, just shady places called Cinderella Palace which blinds anyone who looks in its direction with how pink and cheap it is, or FootLocker, and various two foot wide identical stores that are run by angry, semi-absent owners who pop out of nowhere and try to sell you HILARIOUS shirts that say, "New York Fucking City" or "Fuck you, you fucking fuck" or shorts that have "Bitch" carefully embroidered over the back. You know, the kind of stores that seem really novel when you first move to or visit the city.

So we made it to the other side. That of trendy clubs, and half-empty warehouse-like designer stores where you are guaranteed to find more sales attendants than customers. On our way there, we also passed a place that had a large arc opening with ribbons covering the front door. It looked cavernous and mysterious--my friend ventured a guess that this was the ninja restaurant which is impossible to find, and where one is served by ninjas. So we ditched Erin and went to this place instead. We made great friends with the wait staff, and took pictures.
If you look closely, you will see the school where he trained. I tried desperately to fit in, but something gave me away instantly.

No, but seriously, a real ninja restaurant would never be so conspicuous. And seriously, we did meet up with Erin at The Park, which is a former parking garage cum trendy restaurant/lounge/place where people who wish they lived in Sex and the City land reside. We were seated in the garden area, which, like any good outdoor seating area was secluded, yet airy and spacious. (See previous post for thoughts on seclusion).

This is what it looked like when we went there. The funny (and great) thing about The Park is that money grows on those trees, so this lavish set up was totally affordable.

The prices are in the $15-25 range. They have small plates, but don't bother ordering that unless you enjoy having massive regrets about what you ordered and looking longingly at your neighbors' food. Amanda got some tuna, and it was literally the size of a lemon square. Models, we are not. I got Grilled Atlantic Salmon with Avocado Tomatillo Salsa, Asparagus and Corn on the Cob. (Can you tell I copy-pasted that from their website?). It was delicious, and the corn on the cob was arranged in a pyramid, so demolishing that structure that the chef carefully arranged made the meal all the more enjoyable.

This is what I look like when I eat at a respectable restaurant.

But seriously, these places make you feel quintessentially adult and young--New York already has that effect by default, but the real boon of a place like The Park is that it makes you feel like you are in the thick of the best New York has to offer, like you are really living and experiencing the city as a true city-dweller would. Like you're in on some secret of what constitutes good living in this city. Like you really own the city--or as Holly Golightly says, like it "belongs to me because I belong to it."

Then again, we also split a bottle of wine, so that may be the reason for this sentimentalization. Then we walked around the West Village, Erin told us a ridiculous story about her friend who called her at 4 in the morning, afraid that he had walked all the way to Harlem from Washington Square Park when he was, in fact, only only a few blocks away.

This rambled horribly, so let me be terse: go to The Park. Go to the Highline.

Horus Cafe: More Like Hor-rible Cafe-tastrophe. Hortastrophe. Like This Title.

Location: At the corner of Terrible Service Ave. and Rip-Off Lane, but more precisely, 6th St and Ave. B.

So, as is the wont of all the young rapscallions whose company I keep, my friend decided to get a tattoo one random day when she resolved to quit stalling and start doing! (I have no such ambitions. I am extremely averse to pain, as well as to the retelling of stories detailing painful experiences. Once in a while, the conversation will move toward stories of increasing gore and pain as the storytellers try to outdo each other with the plight they, or their friends, have suffered. Of course I join in, but, having contributed my story, wimp out and ask that we stop this conversation thread. People try to outdo me, so I have to loudly yell over their competing story, but actually listen enthralled. I would argue that this is akin to the horror movie phenomenon--we watch because we like having survived the movie, and we retell because we were lucky enough to emerge from our fall off the roof/rock to the face/collision with falling bomb unscathed and convinced of our invincibility) In any case, there we were at East Side Tattoo ready to watch our friend get some INK. (Posturing is fun!)

Oddly enough, the people there were not at our beck and call when we rolled in 6 deep unannounced (surprise! we all got matching tattoos to commemorate our commitment to COLLEGE! PARTYING! We wanted something that would say, "it's time to party."
Nothing quite captures the spirit of receding innocence like this image.

OK. Enough lies. Eventually, inevitably, I got hungry, and I dragged everyone down with me. Now, we didn't want to go far from where the tattoo place was, we didn't want to spend too much money, and somehow we got stuck choosing between two equally sleazy places. Long story short, we chose Horus, a hookah bar. As soon as we walked in and were greeted by our waitress, I knew this was a huge mistake. The place was awkwardly empty, and had random Ancient Egyptian-like paintings on the walls. We sat at a wooden, extremely phallic table, that, I suppose, was meant to evoke some feelings of luxury and debonair-ness that hookah-smoking generates. All we were missing was Jafar, Raja, an elephant to carry me places, and a servant to feed my grapes and fan me with a giant palm leaf to make the picture complete. Instead, we got an ersatz model of that--our waitress. She was a giant in short shorts. I legitimately see her as a cross between Khloe Kardashian and what I imagine would be Hagrid's wife, proportion-wise. Please see below for a scale model. (Given perspective and depth perception, it's clear. THIS WOMAN IS HUGE.)


The other woman/girl-child working was probably confused because it definitely looked like she was trying out to be the sexy hooker/extremely lubricated/sexually subservient girlfriend/main bitch for a rap video. It was odd.

Anyway, THEY FORCED US TO GET DRINKS, even though we had ordered food. The waitress was snarky. The food took forever to come out. How hard is it to lay out some carrots and hummus on a plate? Mmm? And those sneaky owners realized that their service was atrocious because they were employing a half-giant not fit for Muggle company and another girl that was clearly disoriented, so they include the tip in the price of the meal. Well, surely they would be reasonable and make the tip the standard 15%, you think. Wrong. 18%. Wildly undeserved.

The food was good but that is irrelevant. We ate, disgruntled, and made like trees.

Conclusion: Avoid unless you want to oggle the ridiculous people who pass as service staff here.