Hello?
Feeling a little cloudy, lately. Foggy, or whatever you want to call it. It’s been a while, but let’s see if I remember how to do this.
Deborah and I were walking around Williamsburg after work last night — she needed to pick up some yarn from the yarn store to feed her knitting habit — and decided to get something to eat afterward. “How about Diner?” I suggested — a rehabbed Kullman Diner car in the shadow of the Williamsburg Bridge that I used to go to all the time until I met Deborah. Around the time we met, Deborah was hired as a bar tender at Diner but bailed on the job at the last minute, choosing to take something closer to where she was living at the time, instead. She was always afraid of running into the the guy who hired her and having an awkward moment so she never wanted to go there. That was years ago, though, and Deborah was willing to give it a go. “Do you think it’s early enough to beat the crowd?” I said.
“I doubt it,” said Deborah, somewhat relieved, perhaps, to have an excuse to go somewhere else. “It’s already seven o’clock.”
“Let’s see.”
She was right. You could see the old style Diner seething and humming from a block away. Opening the front door was like peeling open the lid on a tub of nightcrawlers. “No fucking way,” I said, and turned around only to be engulfed by a gaggle of yupsters anxious to add their beards to the tangle of facial hair already inside. Their momentum nearly pulled me into the plasma of yellow light, but managed to swim against the tide and make it to the safety of the sidewalk. “Oh well, so much for that idea. Where to?” I said.
There’s a fancy restaurant next to Diner (same owners, I believe) called Marlow and Sons. Neither of us had ever been there before, but we knew it expensive. It was a Friday night, though, and we hadn’t been out in ages, so what the hell.
We were offered a choice of two tables, one in a back room that was humming at near capacity, and a small table in the window. “Let’s sit in front,” said Deborah, “the back looks too cramped.” Unfortunately the front didn’t turn out to be any more comfortable. The table was only 2 foot square at most, squeezed between the front door and a another small table where a couple sat engrossed in romance. I offered to take the corner and we sat down. The hostess brought us water and menus and told us the waitress would be around to tell us about the specials shortly.
“I’m not really feeling this place,” said Deborah, pulling the tale towards her to give me more room, while at the same time sliding her chair in to avoid getting knocked as someone walked in the front door. “What do you think?”
“You want to leave?”
“I think so, yeah. How about you?”
“Let’s go.”
We apologized to the hostess and were back on the street, the elevated J train clattering overhead.
Deborah made the executive decision to simply go home and order a pizza. As we walked to the bus stop, we passed by Dressler, an even more expensive, even fancier restaurant. We made reservations for there once, but canceled for one reason or another. I can’t remember why, though it was probably because neither of us felt like spending a hundred bucks on dinner at the time. We didn’t feel like spending a hundred bucks last night, either, but even if we did, judging from a quick glance in the window, we wouldn’t have gotten a table anyway.
How ’bout that recession, eh?
We waited for the bus across the street from Peter Luger — a famous steakhouse that’s been around since the nineteenth century. A line of limos and taxi cabs picked people up and let people out like roller coaster cars at an amusement park. As I stood watching a waiter in a white shirt and black bow tie take an order, Deborah looked down and found a set of keys on the sidewalk. A guy standing nearby, waiting for the bus with us, was listening to his iPod. Deborah jangled the keys to get his attention. “Are these yours?”
He pulled his headphones out of his ears. “Oh my god. Those are my apartment keys. You saved my life.”
