Freshman year of college we were on our way to Vermont with my roommates, and I was scrolling through her iPod. Usually, this is a stressful activity for me because my musical knowledge is limited to top 40 hits and dance tracks of dubious quality--specifically reggaeton. I love reggeaton. But then, I stumbled upon gold. I didn't hesitate because I knew this would be an instant hit. That's right: I had found Ja Rule's "Always on Time." And so, we were bopping (is that the appropriate verb for Ja?) along for all of twenty-six seconds when the song just ended. I was living the dream, and then I faced a rude awakening. As it turned out, my roommate had gone through a phase when she was in high school where she cut all her songs to about that length because she knew she had music ADD and wouldn't listen to more than a few seconds of them anyway. If anything, I admire her follow-through. But anyway, Ja Rule has been on my mind ever since.
Fortunately, on Friday night, while driving to the Meatball Shop, we realized that Ja Rule was the perfect artist to listen to--in that he was a rapper from when we were in middle school (the time inaccurately referred to as "the nineties")--would be appropriate. Basically, the night devolved into my friend intermittently yelling "MURDA," and everyone else dissolving into a fit of giggles. It never got old. Later, when we were pulling out of our spot and the song wouldn't load, the need for Ja became more urgent. But apparently, we're not the first to go through this:
But IS there such a thing as a question to which
Ja Rule might not have an answer?
But, oh yeah, this post is about a restaurant, and not a rapper. Finally, we arrived at Meatball Shop at two in the morning. it's strange thing to be telling a hostess that you have a party of four at that hour. The decor, as in all the eateries I attend, was superior--there were old-timey photos on the walls of Mr. and Mrs. Meatball, those lamps in which you can see the filaments that are so popular these days, a long bar, and just a cozy atmosphere. I'm not an interior decorator and my vocabulary is limited, but I hear a picture's worth a thousand words:
Obviously, this lighting is irresistible.
The menus are laminated so you mark your selection there--on one hand it's awesome because you feel empowered, on the other hand, I'm empowered enough in my own kitchen (move along. No gender rights catastrophe to see here). In any case, apparently our selections weren't clear because we had to reiterate them anyway. The selection process was rough--I just went with the classic meatball with tomato sauce, but others had the bacon, pork, and cheese meatball, the spicy pork, and all uniformly ordered spicy meat sauce. You know, meat with a side of meat. We actually got a good sampling of their products--the slider, forever alone meatball on a bun; the naked balls, meatballs in a bowl; and the hero, which came with a salad, because greens are an important part of one's diet at two in the morning. The meatballs were good, which is to say, they tasted like quality ground meat; the bread, fresh; the parmesan, just right. Basically, there's a reason they're open until four in the morning. They know their product's audience.
When I come home from New York, after my parents' friends ask me, "so, how's New York" (seriously, though, what is the appropriate answer for that question?), they ask me about what cultural activities I've been attending. I haven't. In college, my cultural calendar was too full with other important activities: whining about the cold, lounging on the pullout couch watching countless episodes of "Chopped," attending warehouse parties with marching bands, tiny pianos, and midget couples. Still, the guilt persisted, and I'm getting better. I saw a Shakespeare play (I slept through half of it and people watched through the other half) and I've been listening to NPR. Yesterday, I went and saw "Nutcracker in the Lower," which was an "urban" rendition of the Nutcracker--Tchaikovsky having a dance battle with "America's Best Dance Crew." We sat in the front row and I spent all the time the rat king was on the stage wondering if this tights just had massive holes up his outer thigh or if they'd found the most translucent tights ever.
Afterward, my friend and I were left to wander the Lower East Side in search of a place to eat, which is really not a challenge at all, although it's definitely easier to feed the soul (beer) than the stomach, there. We passed by a club called "Dark Room," where, once upon a time, the bouncer had asked me to break it down, and when I showed him my moves, he said, "No, but, seriously," and we were approaching Katz's beacon light--
Puritans need not apply...for a sandwich here.
When we walked by Pink Pony. I don't know why, but, for some reason, I was absolutely convinced this was a lesbian cafe. I'm sure my thinking was something along the lines of pink+animal=lesbian reference. The numbers speak for themselves!
In any case, it was cold and we were indecisive, but Pink Pony was right in front of us, so we walked in. There were some bearded hipsters sharing a bottle of wine, hip twentysomethings, tall ceilings, and literally linens that separated the kitchen from the tables. I was smitten. We waited for maybe two minutes, then we went to the back, through tall, open, medieval wooden doors, and into quite possibly the best decorated restaurant I have ever been in. There were bookshelves haphazardly strewn with books and decorations, booths under said bookshelves, music that wasn't too loud, a great low level amount of white noise, and warm lighting.
We ordered a bottle of wine (because we're not plebes, we ordered the cheapest white they had), beet mesclun salad with goat cheese, and a salami panini with olive tapenade. While we waited, my ear quickly caught the presence of French people. The "ouias, baah, euuuuuuuuuuh" sounds gave them away immediately. Now when I type these out, the French sound like drunk barbarians, but in my irrational mind these are the sounds of cultural sophistication. I have relinquished all critical thinking skills when it comes to France. If I have a blind, unthinking faith in anything, it's in the fact that they live a better life and are better people than we are. I imagine that all their conversations are deeply meaningful.
These are a few of the pictures that came up on Google images when I searched "french superiority." Now, presented with commentary, clockwise from top left: Nike dunks (?), Medieval armor (the last time the French excelled in warfare haha so original), a corner (preach!),Casablanca Police Chief Renault (a corrupt officer who was into married women), a bakery (fact), fighter jets (things the French Army
probably doesn't have because hahahaha they are terrible at war)
In the mean time, the food arrived. My panini was excellent--simple, but the tapenade was just right, there wasn't an overwhelming amount of salami, the cheese was nicely melted, and ultimately, you can't really screw up a sandwich with only three elements. The French sitting behind us were replaced by another group of them, this time bigger, and in the company of some Americans, one of whom was wearing a baffling leopard print jumpsuit and furry vest...basically if Connie could have something like Skeeter's wardrobe, this is what she would pick.
By then, though, my attention was diverted to the guy sitting to my left. He came in, read the newspaper (but really the ads for Broadway plays in the Times) got a glass of wine, ate dinner on his own on a Friday at 10:30 like a boss. What a good attitude. Unfortunately, I was just shy of the right side of inebriation to tell him I liked his style. But then again, hopefully my staring communicated that message.
