Anyway.
In an effort to make-do with what I have, I shall now re-cap my NYC trip with what few pictures I do have to share. Hopefully, you'll find these stories (and photos) somewhat enjoyable. PS: some of the pictures aren't that great because I tend to refuse to play around with the camera's settings just to take a perfect picture. Blah-blah, I know. Whatever.
Shall we?!
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Friday, March 6, 2009. At around 11am-ish my friend, Aydee, and I descended from our 36th-floor hotel room down to the hotel lobby to make our way to the South Street Seaport (Pier 17, near Downtown). The Seaport was merely a 10-minute walk from the hotel. Thankfully, the weather was decent, so we weren't in danger of freezing our bums off. Once we got there, we went through a few shops, and I was able to pick-up a couple of little things to bring home to Lexi (you gotta love random gift shops that sell Hello Kitty products).
When we finally got hungry, we started to walk-up to different restaurants to check out what was being served. Since it was a Friday --a Lenten Friday-- we had our restrictions: no meat. For me, the restrictions went a bit deeper since I also gave up fried food. So that narrowed our choices down to almost nothing. We were tempted by a random deli-style buffet spot, but the instant sight of the gloriously-fried orange chicken made us hiss like vampires that just came across blood. (OK, that means vegetarian vampires like Edward Cullen. Yes, I went there.) So after practically running out of that joint, we found ourselves outside of The Blarney Stone (121 Fulton St., Downtown) --a no-nonsense Irish pub that was a perfect mix of dank, dark, dingy, yet full of Northeastern Irish American charm.
Ironically, they didn't have much to offer for the practicing Catholic in terms of food. And even more ironic was the Latino "cook" behind the counter taking everyone's orders. After looking at what was available, I came to the conclusion that all I could really have was a plate of rice and beans. In an instant, the friendly cook was shoveling copious amounts of rice onto a plate, and then spattered an equal amount of red beans (my choice) alongside it. That was lunch for about $3. Aydee decided to go for a pre-mixed house salad for about the same price. It was "roughage" that she was looking for at this point. So we took our trays and walked over to an empty table for two. The table's legs were obviously un-even, and the slightest move caused a considerable amount of shaking; enough so that our plates could have easily slid off. But we didn't care. We were starving, and we were elated because of the Blarney's $5 Yeager Bombs! Yes, it was the weirdest "Irish pub" lunch of all time: house salad, rice & beans, and Yeager Bombs... two rounds of them.
An Irish Pub Lunch: Rice & Beans, and a House Salad
Yeager BombsWe were prepping ourselves to make Happy Hour at The Skinny Bar & Lounge (174 Orchard St., LES) in the Lower East Side. HH at this spot starts at 5PM, and lasts till 9PM; a true God-send. We hopped in a cab, and made acquaintances with the driver, Ben, who had been driving a cab in the city for only about six months. An immigrant from the islands, he asked us about our nationality. When he heard us say "Filipino," he was all up on the political history of somewhat recent times: the fall of Marcos, the rise of Aquino, the People Power Revolution, etc. The scene was literally ripped off an episode of Taxi Cab Confessionals.
We weren't sure of the exact spot of the place, so Ben dropped us off at Canal and Orchard, and we walked north on Orchard toward Stanton. Orchard is a quiet, business-lined street. I was actually quite smitten as I heard a shop-owner call out to a patron at a rival shop across the way, "I've got the same items... but better and less expensive!" It was a fine NYC moment... for me, at least. When we crossed Delancey, I saw The Skinny ahead, where HH heaven awaited us.We entered the empty space, music blaring in the background. A lone bar-tender, who we later found out was named Hillary, was prepping the bar for the night. It was already 5:30PM; a half-hour into the night's HH. We went right to work, and ordered the first round.
The night passed on, and we were pacing ourselves nicely. Drink after drink, shot after shot. Then just before 9PM, we closed out our tab at a beautiful $40-something, which was great considering we had been drinking non-stop since about 5:30PM. We tipped Hillary nicely because she gave us Washington Apple Shots (w/Maker's) on the house. And because of that nice tip, she gave Aydee and I another on-the-house shot: Birthday Cake Shots. It made my night, but ruined Aydee's. She headed to the bathroom, and after about 15 to 20 minutes of being in there, I went to check-in on her. NOT a good sight (this is why you eat rice & beans before drinking, and NOT a salad). I left her for another 10 to 15 minutes before grabbing the rest of our stuff, and going back into the bathroom to make the necessary assist. The bar had filled-up by this time, and I was trying to avoid any awkwardness with the line at the bathroom (PS: the locks on the bathroom doors did NOT work...).
You can use your imagination to deduce what took place then. I had to pseudo-sober myself to help Aydee out of the bar, and back into the streets. Luckily, we found a cab. I didn't get this driver's name, and I was urging him to hurry us back to the hotel while my friend gagged and dry-heaved (thank GOD she only dry-heaved!) all the way back. I brought Drunky McPhee up to the hotel room, and wished for something good to happen. After realizing that she was going to be OK (in other words, after she was passed-out), I headed back out, still pseudo-sober, and started towards the ATM. But my cell phone stopped me. I answered, and I was happy to hear a familiar voice on the opposite end.
CARRIE: Wen, we're coming up towards the hotel right now.
WEN: (looking around franctically) Where? Where are you?
Once I caught sight of Carrie, with Gina in tow right behind her, I let out a sigh of relief. As they crossed the street to where I was standing, another overly-drunk guy was stumbling all over the place just a few feet from me; he almost ran face-on into a street sign. This sent the three of us into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.
WEN: I'm so glad to see you guys! I felt so alone just now!
GINA: Oh my gosh, we missed the party. You're drunk!
WEN: And Aydee is passed-out!
ALL: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAH!
And SCENE.
We went upstairs to drop off their bags, and to check up on our drunk friend. She had party-fouled and threw-up a little on the hotel's comforter (Sorry, Millenium Hilton!), so we stripped the bed, got her some water, and strategically placed her
lying on the bed with her head propped to the edge. A trash can was placed right underneath her head. When we knew she was OK, we went back out into the night, and took a cab to the East Village to meet up with our friend, Laya.We were hungry, and and I was still drunk --although being in pseudo-sober mode I had made myself believe that I was actually sober. There was still 30 minutes before the clock struck midnight, so we quickly found a spot: Simone Martini Bar (134 First Ave. @ St. Mark's Place, East Village). The place was packed, but we were seated after a few minutes. The decor was a mixture of cheesy Russian "Amber Room"-like sculpted ceilings with Asiany lanterns and Buddha heads scattered all over the place. It was kitschy, yet sceney. The place reminded me of what would happen if West Hollywood's Bar Lubitsch had spawned off-spring with Hollywood's Geisha House, but less polished. Still, the air of the place was chill, loud, yet comfy. It felt like "home."
Because it was technically still Friday, we ended up ordering Lent-friendly. Carrie and I both got tuna salad sandwiches, and Gina ordered the Quiche Florentine. Oh, and we ordered a round of drinks. Halfway through that drink, I realized that I was still drunk; tanked almost. But as the night plowed on, we ordered yet another round, which was good for Gina and Carrie, but not-so-good for me. But I held on like a champ, and didn't allow myself to fall victim to the spirits of the bottle. Graceful drunkenness is something that I do best (most of the time).
When Laya could sense that Carrie and Gina were growing more and more tired by the minute, and after my friends called me out for slurring (and my eyes rollin' back to my head), it was obvious: we were done. Laya walked us towards the nearest train station, but only after we stopped at Ray's Pizza (2 St. Mark's Place, East Village) to pick-up some pastries: bread pudding, cheesecake slice, and a brioche bun. It would've been nice to order pizza, but we obviously weren't thinking right.
At the station, we hugged Laya "good-night," then hopped on the train back downtown. Within the hour, we were safe at the hotel, and were soon drifting asleep to the sounds of Aydee's worship session with the porcelain god.
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***Photo of Simone shop front by Tracey Donvito; from Wikipages
***Photo of Simone interior by Lauren Klain Carton; from "New York Nightlife"
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