Sunday, January 25, 2015

Saturday's Cupboard.

This deluptuous Japanese place in Williamsburg is a dim and mysterious labyrinth. We traipsed through narrow corridors and up and down stairs on stepping stones between riverbeds of igneous rocks. It was like a moonlit stroll through the bowels of a fully kitted-out maximum zen walk-up, all low slung with chutes and bamboo ladders.

The waitress led us into a booth with walls floor-to-ceiling. She tucked us in there and rolled down a bamboo privacy shade. Karen, Anna, Tom and I enjoyed warm hand towels inside our own little cupboard. I suffer a fondness for a warm towel, especially when it gets dangled before me on tongs while I am nestled in my own cupboard. 

Moments later, the waitress whisked back. Zip zip, she rolled up our privacy shade, took our towels and explained that if we wanted anything, we should press the buzzer on the edge of the table. She stressed this. If you want anything from the broader world beyond your cupboard, ring for it.

Immediately after we placed our order, somebody had to go to the bathroom and we realized it was impossible to roll up the bamboo screen from the inside the cupboard. I crawled out and hoisted it up once I'd wiggled free. Then I reset it and crawled back in. This occurred several times. We developed a best practice process:
  1. One person at the end of the table slithers out.
  2. Zips up the shade.
  3. Tiny Tanks exits and searches for the bathroom by noodling around in stairwells and flinging aside curtains.
  4. Everyone crawls back in the cupboard.
The waitress was too kind to voice what was on her mind. She really really wished she could have trotted out a beautiful line such as: "I owe you an apology. Obviously I was unclear when I said, 'Buzz if you need anything.' It must have sounded like, 'Crawl under the mini-blinds and bang around looking for the bathroom.'

Also, I ate a long-ass chicken meatball using a small paddle.

It's always a fun night when you can debate topics fellow diners feel strongly about, such as:
  1. Men who wear gel nail polish like it's 1999 in Boca Raton. Fashion Do or Do Not?
  2. Fish Don't Bounce. Fact or Fiction?
  3. Skate Ramps in Drinking Establishments. For Patrons or For Show?

Sunday, January 11, 2015

The Shirt Bong

Photo Credit: Robert Altman
A swirl of fake fog slithers over the stage, lit by glowing blue lights. Under the cover of twinkly  dimness, Future Islands trots out and the crowd goes wild. We’re at Terminal 5, and our view is top notch from where we stand leaning against the balcony railing. Beside me, I hear Tom begin squeaking.

The squeaking does not concern me. I’m more fascinated by the lead singer’s dance moves. The man is a powerful dirigible. It would be something to get him into a cage with Shia LaBeouf for an interpretive dance-off.

 Meanwhile, Tom executes a set of eight little jiggles. Then he tells me he’s getting woozy and his chest hair might be a bit crisper than it was when we arrived.

Finally I notice the people sitting between Tom’s legs. They come to my attention mostly because they lit up a bowl three feet under my nose. 

I think these people, the ones comfortably curled between Tom’s legs smoking pot, crawled down there in search of the view. Of the stage. Presumably it is unobstructed from where they are nestled. Tom talks at some length about the pot smoke going right up his shirt and drying out his chest hair.

(Also, I'm in love with the bass player. )