Lover's Digest

From swanky, sultry midtown bars to East Village dives, this week was full of gastronomic outings, and one in particular reminded me that there was another snapshot brewing. An evening of bar hopping led myself and Jennifer (of Jersey Pie fame) and her out-of-town guest M into Sophie's on 5th Street near Avenue A. The profusion of twenty-somethings and lack of bar seating sent us right back out the door, but it reminded me of my last conversation, or rather discussion with Lost Artist.

It occurs to me now how many discussions took place over meals or drinks in some public venue or other while I dated Lost Artist. Dining and drinking out was a hallmark of our relationship. We talked occasionally about trying to curb our raging appetites, but it rarely happened. You may recall, the first entry to this blog was about the height of our overindulgent gastronomic experiences: the eight-course meal at Blue Hill at Stone Barns.

I was delighted to have a partner so willing, both socially and financially, to explore the unending gastronomic potentials in this crazy, edible metropolis. I was less than pleased, however, about the unexpected inability to digest that sometimes came with our outings. Perhaps it comes from my parents "not-at-the-dinner-table" philosophy or my training in Hatha yoga, which emphasizes the importance of eating in a peaceful state of mind. The theory resonates with my gut, which becomes impossibly twisty and turny if I become "emotional."

I can hear some of you male readers rolling your eyes. I imagine some of the ladies can relate. LA accused me of being over emotional when we split up. Perhaps this is so, but I think I prefer over-emotional to unaffected. I will let you decide for yourself whether the following would be considered potentially "emotional" topics. Here are a few examples of the discussions and the venues in which they occurred:

Great Jones Cafe, Brunch: I love you, but I'm not ready for exclusivity. (See The Fickle Flirt Drops In in the Digital Girl Archives)

Public, Brunch: So, where exactly do you see this relationship going?

French Roast, Dinner: You have bed bugs in your apartment because I bought a box spring on Craig's list several months ago and never told you when I discovered it was infested.

The first two of these discussions involved tears, it's true. The third was too shocking for tears. One cannot and should not have to defend oneself for shedding tears when emotions become so overwhelming they can't be contained in our small heads or hearts.

It was at Public that I finally confessed to Lost Artist that I couldn't eat and talk about emotional matters. I think if I hadn't said anything, he would have told me he wanted to stop seeing me while we ate breakfast at Ikea instead of waiting until after we had shopped for furniture for several hours.

I was the one who chose Sophie's as the venue for the last round. It was dark, almost empty, and they don't serve food. Liquor was a little easier to swallow while hearing the ways I failed to measure up to the ideal lover conjured up in Lost Artist's brain. Then all the reasons seemed horrible; now they seem ridiculous.

I am certainly not saying I think meals should be uninteresting or full of insignificant banter, but surely there are better moments to have discussions. That old cliche, "My heart was in my stomach" comes from somewhere. My parents knew it. The yogis know it. And, if my heart is in my stomach, how can I possibly eat?

There you have it, ladies and g's. Stay tuned!

P.S. - Highlights from this week: fancy cocktails with EB at the aforementioned swanky, sultry and gorgeous Bar 44 on W. 44th Street; drinks with Jennifer and M. at the wonderfully divey and nautical Fish bar both before and after tasty food at Simone; happy hour and scrumptious snacks at 5 Ninth with Mrs. O in the Meat Packing District; and hummus at the Hummus Place with a date following a new bourbon on the Upper West Side.