OLD Town...
Sometime around 11:00 a.m. on Tuesday morning, I started thinking about the martini I was going to enjoy with Mrs. O after work--Ketel One (or Belvedere for a splurge), slightly dirty, with olives, served very cold. Throughout the day, the thought of that icy vodka slipping smoothly down my throat lingered like the barely salty after-taste of a perfectly made martini.
Just before I shut down my computer, however, I received a message from Mrs. O canceling our rendezvous. It could not be helped, but I was a little sad (as was Mrs. O). I was so primed I could not just abandon the plan to sit at a bar and leisurely enjoy that martini. And, what better for the single-girl blues I was feeling than making oneself available while enjoying fine alcohol?
I wandered the streets near Union Square trying to determine which bar would be best. Flatiron Lounge has wonderful cocktails, but I could not picture many single men wandering in to enjoy a drink alone. Same for the Raines Law Room. And Punch. Bar Stuzzichini held promise, but the bar was full, and the crowd was young.
I landed in Old Town Bar on 18th Street, which has been pouring drinks for thirsty New Yorkers since 1892. The bar is beautiful solid wood, and the interior has wonderful architectural detail like etched glass and brass railings that you just don’t see much these days.
The bartender did quite a fine job making my “slightly dirty” martini. As soon as my drink was served, a banker in his 50s standing to my left began to chat me up. Okay, here we go. Not what I had in mind, but I was there by myself so why not be entertained while I wait for him to show up at the bar. You know him--Mr. tall, handsome, in his mid-to-late thirties, in shape, definitely not lost, no girlfriend, baggage carefully stowed, has an appreciation for fine food and drinks, etc.
To start, the Banker failed at tall, handsome and in his mid-to-late thirties, and he was a low-talker making our conversation a little awkward. At some uncomfortable moment, my eyes wandered, and I noticed a sign behind the bar stating that Old Town patrons did not have the right to bore others with their conversation. He must have followed my gaze because he asked me if he was bothering me.
That might have been an appropriate time to say yes, but I decided the awkwardness of finishing my martini after telling the Banker I wanted to enjoy my drink quietly while I waited for him might be worse.
Instead, I changed the subject to food, a topic which I can discuss endlessly, perhaps at the expense of becoming a bore myself. I asked the Banker if he frequented the Farmer’s Market because he lived in the area.
The Banker became a little hostile. Oh, Union Square was a place you would not even step into when he was in high school, and now it’s filled with the Farmer’s Market.
I asked him if it wasn’t nice to have fresh local produce available four days of the week. He scoffed. What made me think it was really local? Oh, come on now, you can’t believe there is some kind of Farmer’s Market conspiracy where they import fruits and vegetables from far-away fields?
The Banker then admitted his real problem with the Farmer’s Market. He had a hard time getting to the subway in the morning because of all the rather large people who shop at the Farmer's Market buying bread and cookies and only staring at vegetables.
Yep.
He did.
He is a Farmer’s Market hater.
And he has anger issues with people who are overweight. (Do you see the random parallel with the take-the-doughnut-away-from-the-child guy?!).
Oh my.
He told me no one really buys the questionably local produce at all the tables filling up the square. I do. Lots of people do. I made it clear that I do not agree at all with his assessment of the Farmer’s Market patrons. Further, there are about ten subway entrances in a four-block radius near Union Square. For goodness sake, choose another entrance.
About that time, he changed the subject to sports about which I have no knowledge, and for which, no conversational tools.
How ironic life is. When I told Mrs. O about the incident, she said, ‘The most interesting things happen to you.’ Indeed. Though I’m not sure how interesting this is to you, readers. Ironic, though, you have to give me. You know how much I love the Farmer’s Market. I salivate just thinking about the produce and absolutely believe in its divine localness. I could start the church of the Farmer’s Market. If I may blogfess for a moment, I even have crushes on some of the farmers.
And, there I was at Old Town, being hit on by none other than a Farmer’s Market hater. I didn’t know such people existed!
The Banker also told me that a gang of deaf mutes used to hang out in Union Square in the 70’s. Heaven forbid you looked their way. They would mess you up. I mentioned to Mrs. O that I thought I should look that up before I put it in the blog. She laughed and said, ‘He was pulling your leg!’ Probably, but the thing about New York is you just never know!
I could not, however, validate his claim.
Stay tuned, folks! More random, ironic, crazy tales to come!
In the meantime, please feel free to leave your ideas for bars at which a single girl in NYC can meet him in the comments box below...
Sometime around 11:00 a.m. on Tuesday morning, I started thinking about the martini I was going to enjoy with Mrs. O after work--Ketel One (or Belvedere for a splurge), slightly dirty, with olives, served very cold. Throughout the day, the thought of that icy vodka slipping smoothly down my throat lingered like the barely salty after-taste of a perfectly made martini.
Just before I shut down my computer, however, I received a message from Mrs. O canceling our rendezvous. It could not be helped, but I was a little sad (as was Mrs. O). I was so primed I could not just abandon the plan to sit at a bar and leisurely enjoy that martini. And, what better for the single-girl blues I was feeling than making oneself available while enjoying fine alcohol?
I wandered the streets near Union Square trying to determine which bar would be best. Flatiron Lounge has wonderful cocktails, but I could not picture many single men wandering in to enjoy a drink alone. Same for the Raines Law Room. And Punch. Bar Stuzzichini held promise, but the bar was full, and the crowd was young.
I landed in Old Town Bar on 18th Street, which has been pouring drinks for thirsty New Yorkers since 1892. The bar is beautiful solid wood, and the interior has wonderful architectural detail like etched glass and brass railings that you just don’t see much these days.
The bartender did quite a fine job making my “slightly dirty” martini. As soon as my drink was served, a banker in his 50s standing to my left began to chat me up. Okay, here we go. Not what I had in mind, but I was there by myself so why not be entertained while I wait for him to show up at the bar. You know him--Mr. tall, handsome, in his mid-to-late thirties, in shape, definitely not lost, no girlfriend, baggage carefully stowed, has an appreciation for fine food and drinks, etc.
To start, the Banker failed at tall, handsome and in his mid-to-late thirties, and he was a low-talker making our conversation a little awkward. At some uncomfortable moment, my eyes wandered, and I noticed a sign behind the bar stating that Old Town patrons did not have the right to bore others with their conversation. He must have followed my gaze because he asked me if he was bothering me.
That might have been an appropriate time to say yes, but I decided the awkwardness of finishing my martini after telling the Banker I wanted to enjoy my drink quietly while I waited for him might be worse.
Instead, I changed the subject to food, a topic which I can discuss endlessly, perhaps at the expense of becoming a bore myself. I asked the Banker if he frequented the Farmer’s Market because he lived in the area.
The Banker became a little hostile. Oh, Union Square was a place you would not even step into when he was in high school, and now it’s filled with the Farmer’s Market.
I asked him if it wasn’t nice to have fresh local produce available four days of the week. He scoffed. What made me think it was really local? Oh, come on now, you can’t believe there is some kind of Farmer’s Market conspiracy where they import fruits and vegetables from far-away fields?
The Banker then admitted his real problem with the Farmer’s Market. He had a hard time getting to the subway in the morning because of all the rather large people who shop at the Farmer's Market buying bread and cookies and only staring at vegetables.
Yep.
He did.
He is a Farmer’s Market hater.
And he has anger issues with people who are overweight. (Do you see the random parallel with the take-the-doughnut-away-from-the-child guy?!).
Oh my.
He told me no one really buys the questionably local produce at all the tables filling up the square. I do. Lots of people do. I made it clear that I do not agree at all with his assessment of the Farmer’s Market patrons. Further, there are about ten subway entrances in a four-block radius near Union Square. For goodness sake, choose another entrance.
About that time, he changed the subject to sports about which I have no knowledge, and for which, no conversational tools.
How ironic life is. When I told Mrs. O about the incident, she said, ‘The most interesting things happen to you.’ Indeed. Though I’m not sure how interesting this is to you, readers. Ironic, though, you have to give me. You know how much I love the Farmer’s Market. I salivate just thinking about the produce and absolutely believe in its divine localness. I could start the church of the Farmer’s Market. If I may blogfess for a moment, I even have crushes on some of the farmers.
And, there I was at Old Town, being hit on by none other than a Farmer’s Market hater. I didn’t know such people existed!
The Banker also told me that a gang of deaf mutes used to hang out in Union Square in the 70’s. Heaven forbid you looked their way. They would mess you up. I mentioned to Mrs. O that I thought I should look that up before I put it in the blog. She laughed and said, ‘He was pulling your leg!’ Probably, but the thing about New York is you just never know!
I could not, however, validate his claim.
Stay tuned, folks! More random, ironic, crazy tales to come!
In the meantime, please feel free to leave your ideas for bars at which a single girl in NYC can meet him in the comments box below...
damn farmer's markets. prevented me from living my life in u sq, buying my local produce from whole foods (though those were probably false advertising and just brought in from california and mexico and priced jacked up for no reason). The market did nothing but make me (heaven forbid) take crowded nyc subways or worse, walk to another subway station entrance!
ReplyDeletehe should solve that problem by moving to CA where he can drive everywhere and not have too many people on the street- and indeed can believe the produce is local (but he would probably convince you that it is all from Mexico, for what true American would actually care about local produce or growing/buying/selling food locally)