With apologies to Neil Simon, Arthur Hiller, Jack Lemmon and Sandy Dennis…
I can’t believe it. I cannot believe I spent what was supposed to be my birthday weekend dinner in that fucking dive. I know that it’s the first time you’ve be in the Big City in years, but what in God’s Holy name possessed you to turn down the idea I had and pick that festering boil on the ass end of the culinary tradition of New York restaurants? My plan was fairly simple, really it was. I was even giving in on my pain in the ass culinary pretentions. A few drinks before dinner, then, since you’re such a broadway buff and just moving (back) into the area after such a long time away, a wander through the theatre district before dinner on Restaurant Row. You know, so you could actually look at the menus before we picked a place, just so I wouldn’t be making the gauche move of stomping all over your tender taste sensibilities.
I should have figured things were not going to go well when you guys showed up wearing jeans and flannel shirt sweater. Yes, I know I tend to over-dress for occasions like thisk and I understand if you guys might want to be slightly more casual, but those shoes are one step up (and it’s a really small fuckings step) from hiking boots.
Two couples, three of us friends lo these many years since college, started the tour on West 44[sup]th[/sup] with a few drinks. What could be simpler? It was wonderful. I mean, it’s only been a six months since we’ve seen each other and being together again brings up so many really good memories. Although, as I pointed out, it’s somewhat disturbing to realize that at some imperceptible point in our lives we’ve managed to transition so smoothly from a bunch of drunk college students to a bunch of drunk serious professionals talking about tax deferred annuities that we never even noticed until now. But that’s just a minor little bitch. We were having a good time reminiscing and talking and catching up. After marinating ourselves to the proper degree, a walk outside through the myriad of theaters on the way to Restaurant Row seems a wonderful diversion.
Once we actually arrive there, (yes, I know, I probably should have found it a little easier than I did but, being part of the “Bridge and Tunnel” crowd, I do fairly well finding my way through the wilds of Manhattan) a wander up and down the block is in order. I’ve never actually eaten here, you know guys, this is an adventure for all of us, my normal haunts are about ten blocks north in Midtowns or (rarely) downtown. I do, however, have leads on a few decent restuarants around here, and I lead you right to one, eventually.
Unfortunately for me, the allure of good Italian food that seemed to excite you to such a degree before we left home didn’t seem to linger. You got distracted by the sounds of swing music eminating from a few doors away. Even after I suggested dinner at a real restuarant followed by a few after dinner drinks up the street to give you your music and dance fix, you weren’t convinced. So, instead of pissing in everyone’s Cheerios for the evening, I (somewhat) graciously folded my cards and trudged up the street, following the oh so seductive strains of canned swing music.
I realize that being a dance therapist makes you unusually attuned to dance and dance music in all it’s many forms, but did you ever consider that not everyone else might want to eat their dinner in 4/4 time? yes, it wa scute when you started shifting your and wiggling in your seat before the appetizers arrived. But, sorry to burst your balloon, I don’t want to sit on the “balcony” and watch 40 people receiving their (as advertised) free swing dance lessons whlie I’m ordering dinner. When I go to dinner, particularly in New York, I don’t want to have a fucking floor show. I want good food. I want great food. I want food that I can’t make for myself. I don’t want a tired old half inch steak that hasn’t been trimmed correctly and shows absolutely no goddamn sign of the “Herb crust” the waiter thought was such a special addition. I should have known that the food was going to be pathetic when I saw the prices. It’s obvious that they’re not spending the paltry money on the ingredients. Why should they, when they get $12 per person just to walk in the door. Yeah, that’s right. I paid almost $50 for the four of us, just so I could have the privilege of eating a shitty steak, coconut shrimp with a dipping sauce that was so complicated that you had to open a goddamn jar of orange marmalade and pour it into a bowl. And it was crappy marmalade at that/
Oh, and by the way, when a white accountant type gets up in front of the microphone and does some sort of psychotic Harric Connick Jr./“Blind Melon” Chitlin’ hybrid stage voice and blows a harmonica for 3 songs out of every set, it’s not swing. It’s not good blues either, but it’s not swing music for fuck’s sake.
No, it’s not a big deal, compared to the shit that happens to a lot of us day in and day out. But it’s still chaps my ass when I have to sit and eat a shitty meal because my best friend’s brand new bride decided she wanted to eat somewhere where she could hear all that swinging music.
On the bright side, they pour an honest drink at Swing 46 but even with the quantities I’ve poured down my throat in an effort to keep a smile on my face throughout the night, I’m starting to sober up. It’s time to go to sleep.