Location: Ludlow between Houston and Stanton
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.
Conclusion: Go! It feels right.
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