I had only one in the last eight years and that was two months ago and the olives were disappointing.
So after a long week, the Mariner said he'd take me out on a real date and get me a good martini.
The fancy bar next door that disguised itself as the neighborhood "Cheers" seemed the best bet.
And it was.
No TV. So you could actually look around without a lot of hyperactive flickering lights of the eight billion different sports events and commercials that shot out of multi-screens in other bars.
Good jukebox. O.K., it probably wasn't a jukebox; it was probably a satellite prepaid, preordered music selection being piped in over a computer but SOUNDING like someone really hip was standing over a glass cover, perusing the names of 45's (those are vinyl records, just in case you didn't know) and then popping in quarters and dazzling everyone with such good taste.
Bar food. So what if the chips were handmade and personally seasoned with spices that you don't find in glass jars in supermarkets and yes there was mint artisan jelly on the lamb sliders. (Already there are two many words in those sentences to deny hipsterness but those sliders tasted good.)
And the martini.... dirty as all hell and three FAT olives that rounded out dinner.
Except... Even though I ate all the olives, I could barely make a dent in the martini itself.
Except... A gaggle of adorable (they were laughing and giggling and really having fun) young (they were under 40) tourists (shopping bags of stores I don't go to) came in and sat next to us and asked us to take pictures of them with their phones.
Except... when I asked to take their picture with my camera....
...and they asked what I did and I told them... they got all excited oh that's so cool and oh a New York writer that is so interesting!
And I remember when there was nothing cool about New York or being a writer or being interesting.
Suddenly becoming a tourist's memorable moment of meeting an authentic old part of the city , I had no choice but to gulp the rest of my martini.
MY PRIVATE CONEY presents IT WAS HER NEW YORK, the short stories that accompany the work-in-progress video and photo collection of the same name (myprivateconey.com - media link - IT WAS HER NEW YORK). The stories and the media explore the tender rubble that holds both my mother, Florence's and New York's soul as one disappears into old age and the other into gentrification. All are real observations and/or experiences with very little tall-tale telling.
Except when it makes the story better.
Please visit myprivateconey.com for additional information and sample works.