Early in the evening, we headed for Chelsea to find some eats and ended up at a super cute Thai restaurant called Room Service for some incredible (and wicked spicy) curry. It was happy hour, so we both had two Thai beers for the price of one, and then headed out in search of dessert. We found a cute little bistro right around the corner from the club where we ordered a dish called -- I cannot make this shit up -- The Caramel Experiment.
I'm kicking myself now for not taking a picture of it, because the very sight of it defied description. But since I am not one to be defied, here I go anyway. The dish arrived with a little pot of caramel and tons of accouterments. Popcorn, pecans, brownies, fruit, mini-cupcakes and various other tiny bites of incredimouth. The pot of caramel was sitting on this pink slab-looking thing that resembled the pink ooze from Ghostbusters. But in a less gross way than it sounds.
The waiter poured the caramel out all over the pink slab thing, and we went to town. It took us almost to the end of our dipping to realize exactly what that thing WAS.
A Himalayan Salt Lick. I have no further explanation on this matter.
Now, by the time we wrapped up our beers and our caramel Himalayan salt experiment, we were pretty lit. We bopped around the corner to the club and started in on our two drink minimum. Loni was absolutely amazing, and I may have told her just the teensiest fib when she asked if it was anyone's birthday in the audience. I resisted the selfish urge to scream, "ME! ME!" and decided to go with Harry. I mean, his actual birthday is closer than mine, so, half-truth? Quasi-truth? Eh, I was drunk and excited.
After the show, I headed downstairs to take my two-drink-minimum tinkle, and y'all, my heel popped RIGHT. OFF. MY. SHOE. I'm talking three-inch heels. One on and one off. In the ladies room, I tried to shove it back on to the screws that were now protruding from the bottom of my foot. No dice. I put the heel in my purse and tippy toe limped out of that place like a champ. Right back upstairs, where I was apparently THIS excited to meet Loni. I wonder if I told her about my shoe? I'm betting yes. And at length.
After we gushed at Loni for a while about our undying love for her, we headed to a place called Dusk -- funny enough, the same bar we'd been to on Harry's birthday almost exactly two years ago when I was first moving to the city. We made fast friends with the bartenders (obviously) and then I made friends with a sweet little gay boy named Ben, who was just cuter than a bug in a rug and let me help him pick songs on the juke box on his dime. Then, of course, we danced. And as I swayed and listed and almost knocked things over, he said to me in this sassy patronizing motherly voice, "Elizabeth, are you too drunk to dance?" And I said, "No, Ben! Really, it's not me! It's my heel! I swear!" And I showed him the situation. But y'all, I rocked those one-heeled shoes til five in the morning. THAT IS HOW I ROLL. Mostly because I refuse to go barefoot. Foot diseases are real, people.
At one point in the evening, after having become such good friends with Mike and Paul, the bartenders, that I felt this was okay (don't you love how I act like I still had the ability to assess risk at this point? Playing pretend is fun!), I asked Mike to make me "magic." I'm pretty sure "magic" ended up being straight vodka -- or at least it tasted like it. I do not recommend asking a bartender, or anyone for that matter, for magic. Requests that open-ended are just too dangerous for words. Also, apparently at some point they produced a sequined yarmulke. Which I made Harry put on. Are we going to hell?
A bit later on, we were joined by a friend of mine from high school who I used to kick it with a bit when I lived in the city. Naturally, I engaged in some strategic overshares. I know, I know. Tell you something you couldn't have called from SEVENTEEN MILES AWAY.
We shut the place down and headed back toward Bryant Park in search of an all-night diner and found that actually, we were in the one area of Manhattan completely devoid of all-night diners. Then we managed to walk seven blocks in a circle looking for a McDonald's that turned out to be one block from our hotel. In the opposite direction.
And of course, THEN next thing I know it's 7:30 a.m. and I come to, CNN blaring, my face lying on the pillow next to a massive battlefield of dead ketchup packet soldiers on the nightstand and am thankful that I am still drunk, the smell is SO. HORRIFIC. And this from the woman who would sooner cut off her running water than go without ketchup.
When Harry and I finally got ourselves together around noon, we mapped out our afternoon and headed straight for Kleinfeld's so that I could live out every lonely white girl's dream and gawk at bridal consultants I've seen on TV. And in fact, not only did I get my random tourist shot out front, I also managed to be TWO INCHES from Nicole on two separate occasions. I also saw Debbie and Sarah and the blond lady with the super short bangs.
We followed this with a sadly unsuccessful trip to Chinatown. I was only propositioned -- "You want Gucci, you want Fendi, you want Prada?" -- two whole times, and neither time did they have Coach bags. Adding to the weirdness was that the hustlers this time around were young black guys. What happened to the little spindly looking old Asian dudes? The industry has changed since I've been gone.
Leaving Chinatown empty-handed (mostly because it was too GD hot to turn around and try to double back for another go), we headed for the West Village and the glory that is Magnolia Bakery. We got lunch at a little pub first and then got in line at Magnolia. This banana pudding goes beyond smack-your-mama. This is like, sacrifice your first born kind of good. Harry and I split the 16-oz., but I think we could've easily put away one tub each. If I lived in that neighborhood, I'd get the stuff every day and call it breakfast. Bananas, right? HEALTHY.
Before we headed back uptown to get our bags from the hotel and put me in a cab for LaGuardia, I needed to visit the little room. Across the way from where we'd been sitting, enjoying our Magnolia Bakery goods, was a little public restroom inside a children's playground. We venture in.
I open the door, and yeah, it smells. But bathrooms tend to smell, especially public bathrooms, and as long as it smells like tinkle and not the obvious second choice, I'll probably live. Plus, it looked pretty clean. So I walk into the lone stall, I close the door, turn around and assume the position over the toilet and what is staring me in the face from the opposite wall but a huge, dried-up mess of smeared doodie.
And directly underneath it, on the floor, its crusty counterpart. At that point, all I could do was laugh. And I did. At the poo. Out loud.
A few hours later as I sat in the terminal waiting to board my flight home, feeling rode hard and put away wet, I thought, so this is how we end things, New York. Poo smeared on a wall and an 11-hour hangover. THE END.
cheers,
elizabeth
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