New York is a mistress of disguise, and just when you think you get comfortable with something (a restaurant, an apartment, a man) it changes right before your eyes. In order to keep up with her, you have to keep the pace yourself or get trampled and left in the dust. It’s evolution. It’s survival of the fittest. It’s Darwinism of the Heart.
I would change. I would not be kept in the past. And hopefully I wouldn’t be transformed into a shitty Starbucks version of myself just because the world wanted it that way.
Susanna Pizzeria
Categories: Italian, Pizza
Neighborhood: Greenwich Village
If one thing is true, it is that there is absolutely no shortage of pizza in the West Village. There’s pizza of every single type that can please every sort of person: thin cracker-like crust, deep dish, rustic Italian style, cheap dollar slices, whole pies, brick oven, and a million others. I’ve had them all. Much like anything else in life, I like to give everyone a chance. Life is too short not to taste every flavor available, and it would be a shame to miss out on the perfect slice just because you always go to the same pizzeria.
In this way, men in New York City are like pizza. I have tasted each and every one of them. There is certainly no shortage of every flavor of bachelor you could ever imagine here. There’s junk food men that cost a dollar and taste the same, men who are artisanal and elitist, and men who taste good but leave you with a terribly upset stomach shortly after indulging in them. If I were a pizza, I have to assume that I would be a pie from Susanna Pizzeria.
This is sad, because I’ve always considered this place to be a hopeless loner that would never last on the Manhattan pizza circuit for long. It’s always empty, and it just has this kind of sad, desperate vibe about it.
Breaking up can be absolute murder on your self-esteem. Especially when your ex is a blood-hungry emotional vampire that can only be sustained with your tears and completely sucking you dry of your self-respect. That being said, I always felt sorry for Susanna. I felt like it deserved a chance. As I walked around my neighborhood feeling like the most single person in all of Manhattan, my heart nearly broke when I passed this pizzeria and saw that it was still completely empty. So I went in. “You and I are going to be okay, Susanna,” I said to myself. Then I panicked because I realized I had become the type of person who talks to themselves in public. “Shut up and order a pizza,” I said. Thank God there was no one around to see me convincing myself that I wasn’t about to totally unravel.
This had become my new life, and it startled me. I hate going to dinner by myself. I always have such a hard time because I feel like I should be doing something, so my first impulse is to get on my stupid phone. Then I try to avoid that because I hate being the type of person who has to always be on their phone. I harden my resolve and just sit and look around, almost as if to say, “Look, I’m fine just existing in the moment and not being connected to the whole of the world.” It’s a complete lie, and it makes me uncomfortable, but I force the restraint on myself anyway. I just sat and surveyed the empty room and patiently waited for my pizza.
Immediately, I began to wish that I were at home, lying in bed scratching myself and watching crappy television, eating a pizza from Domino’s. I felt like a fool sitting there in the empty room, even though I knew that it was all just an act of kindness to make Susanna feel not so hopeless and alone. Selfish old me, I just wanted to eat my pizza in shame behind closed doors. Because eating pizza alone is sad. A slice—sure, that’s fine and acceptable for the bachelor on the go. But a whole pizza? It just didn’t feel right.
So I ate the whole thing as fast as I could. This was not a hard task; I had not eaten a single thing all day and I was starving. Plus, it wasn’t even that large. Plus, it was freakin’ delicious. Or was it? Was I just convincing myself that this pizza was indeed worthy of love, or was I genuinely satisfied with it despite all of the other pizza options available to me but a stone’s throw away? Now it had become personal—if I didn’t eat this entire pizza by myself, then I was letting Susanna down. She didn’t deserve that. She deserved a chance to stand up to all of the other pizza people on the block. And by God, the pizza was actually good!
Men and pizza. Pizza and Men. Both will ruin your life if you have too much of them. They’ll make you fat and slow you down. They always seem like a good idea, but sometimes you really just need a salad. I’m glad I gave Susanna Pizzeria a try, if only to prove to myself that I was going to be okay in a sea of other options, even if the other options were actually better. I decimated that pizza, left the waiter a 50 percent tip, and walked home. Was my mind blown? No. But I walked home proud, knowing that I was still going to give everything a chance. I was still looking for the perfect pie and the perfect man and maybe neither of those things even existed, but I was going to take the virtuous road to get to either of them anyhow. It’s New York City. We’re famous for this stuff, but people get so caught up in the “Famous Ray’s” and the “Famous Ben’s” and famous whatever that they overlook the little guy.
I’m still looking for the perfect pie. I think I’m on the right track.
Tue Thai Restaurant
Category: Thai
Neighborhood: West Village
I was changing. I couldn’t help it.
I thought it was something I could stifle, and that it would just go away if I ignored it long enough. Much like many of my problems in life, I had always believed that if I just pretended it wasn’t there, then it would just work itself out in the end, and as a result I would be “changed.” The thing is, I’d have happily stayed the same person I’d always been if not for my broken heart. In a corny, Hallmark way, it’s exactly as they say: it’s always darkest before the dawn.
I thought long and hard about the rut I was in and why I was in it to begin with. I was downtrodden and broken, homesick and ill at ease. I was bruised, and battered, and withering like a grape into a raisin, and this made me realize that all I ever wanted was … someone to just do something. All I ever wanted was someone to say that they saw me, and cared about me, and wanted to help. This city chews boys like me up and spits them out every day, and without a little help from the rest of the world (friends, lovers, strangers on the street), it can be unbearably lonely. I wanted to help myself out, and I realized that the only way I could do this was to start on the outside: help someone else.
I painted and I wrote and I filled myself with delicious health food. I took walks and I saw movies and I sat in the park and felt the sunshine on my skin. It was all good and healing, yes, but I wanted more. I wanted to take this feeling that I had to the next level, and hoped that I could save a poor wretch like me from feeling like they were all alone.
What is it with gays and Thai food? I’ve always been a fan of a cheap lunch special, and Thai food is always the most affordable and somewhat healthy option a guy can choose. Chelsea and Hell’s Kitchen are littered with them, one after another, and each one is basically the same. It’s as if there could be one long kitchen running the span of the avenue behind the walls that just has several little outlets. Regardless, it’s just always what I want. They know what they’re doing, and I take myself to lunch at several Thai places on a weekly basis.
My favorite is Tue on Greenwich. This part of the neighborhood speaks to me on so many levels, and it always just feels special for some reason. I go there the most, and these days I go alone. I sat there today, without a book for a change, and just watched my surroundings. As I happily took to my curry, I noticed a young man walk in and sit down by himself. He was a waif of a thing carrying a big book bag, and he was wearing a shirt from Trader Joe’s. I figured he must be a bag boy either on break or on his way to work. The young man was obviously looking in my direction from across the way, not in a sexual way, but in a way that conveyed “Hey, I’m here, too. I’m having lunch by myself, and that’s okay.”
I watched as he tore into his pad thai like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Between bites, he would
look at his phone, smile, and then resume his binging. I wondered if people ever looked at me when I was out to lunch with myself. I wondered if anyone ever looked at me and wondered how my day was going.
On my way out, I stopped at the host stand and spoke to the young woman who was polishing menus. I explained to her the best I could that I wanted to buy the young man in the corner his lunch. She didn’t comprehend at first, so I told her the honest truth: I just wanted to do something nice for someone today. She looked at me as if I were crazy. It wasn’t like I was buying a stranger a Porsche or anything—I just wanted this young man to know that there was kindness in this cold, hard, unforgiving city. If I could make someone happy today, then I knew that I was going to be okay. The best feeling in life is knowing that your destiny is one hundred percent in your own hands. I knew that I could find my own joy by bringing joy to someone else, even if it was only over cheap pad thai. I’d made it my mission to save myself by being the best person I could be. There are so many things I am not: wealthy, fit, selfish, vain. I had to focus on the things that I did have, and that was the ability to make others know that they are loved. It’s not much, but it’s what I have to work with. I may never be a wildly successful author, and I may never have the body of a Greek god, but I will always, always have the ability to make someone smile.
I paid my check and the stranger’s, and then walked out the door without even turning to look back. I felt light as a feather, and I floated my way back home feeling like the happiest boy in all of Greenwich Village.
Sundaes and Cones
Category: Ice Cream & Frozen Yogurt
Neighborhood: East Village
As the snow came down, I stopped in the middle of Saint Mark’s Place—yes, the middle of the street—and wondered what I was doing.
The cars at the stoplight stared right at me as if they were the bulls in Pamplona bracing to take off and hunt me down like prey. The term “deer in the headlights” suddenly became apparent and frightfully true. As yellow turned to red on the crossing signal, I scurried my way to the other side as the cabs sped forward, honking their horns and swiftly swerving to avoid my untimely demise. Safely on the other side, I exhaled and continued on my way to Sundaes and Cones.
I began to wonder how I had become the type of person that goes out to have ice cream by himself for breakfast. In the snow. On a weekday.
I guess I was just feeling sorry for myself. In the wake of being the happiest person in the world last summer, I had let myself slide into a creature of pure impulse. If anything could make me feel as slightly happy as I did back then, then I pined and begged for it. I used to go to Sundaes and Cones with Him, and it was an almost spiritual experience. I remember how I ravaged the cup of taro root ice cream with Him sitting so close by my side on the bench outside. Our knees were touching, and even though it was starting to get cold outside, I felt warm with content and the heat coming off of his body, which I loved every nook and cranny of. This also conjured images of the Christmas card he gave to me over a late-night date at Coppelia before I left for California. On its front was a picture of two ice-cream cones making out with each other; the inside read “You Make Me Melt.” Then, in his child-like handwriting, “The fact that we’re still trying to make it work speaks volumes of how True this love is … I’m committed to moving forward with you in a loving, caring, and honest way.”
And yet today, he was nowhere to be seen. Just another memory that I relished and hoped I could revive, like I was giving it CPR, by ordering both Him and myself ice cream. I ate my cup of taro root, and his just sat there melting. I prayed that at any moment he would walk through the door, and there it would be just waiting for Him. I knew it was foolish as I did it, but it didn’t matter.
I stood at the display case and stared intensely at all of the beautiful ice cream cakes. They were so artfully minimalist, and beautiful, and I thought about how easy it would be for me to eat one in its entirety. There was one in particular that stood out to me that was different from the rest. It was a small cake with green frosting that was made to look like grass, with patches of little green icing that looked like shrubbery. Dotted among the shrubs were little piles of brown fondant shaped like piles of poop. At this, I laughed.
I wanted this cake with all of my heart and wished that someone would buy it for me. I wanted this cake to be my wedding cake because it made all of the sense in the world. Life is shitty. Shit happens. Shit hits the fan, but thank God there is ice cream cake in the world. My relationship with Him was the absolute embodiment of this very cake sitting in the case before me. It looked very shitty—it really did. It was covered in poop, and probably not many people would consider it to be something worth having. But I knew in my heart that it wasn’t really poop—it was frosting. It was all just freaking frosting. Beneath that shitty visage that the world was tricked into seeing was ice cream. And cake. And I love ice cream and cake.
My birthday is in August, but I wouldn’t want this cake for my birthday. I really and truly believed that I wanted this to be the cake that the man of my dreams would let me have at our wedding. My parents would scoff, his would recoil in disgust, and all of our friends would think that we were the tackiest people in the world for turning the wedding our community fought so hard to make legal into a running poop joke. My grandmother would think it perverse and faint on the spot. But I would get it, and it wouldn’t be a joke to me.
Love is the hardest thing in the world to get right. It is not a piece of cake. It’s no walk in the park, and it hurts so badly sometimes that you can’t imagine going on without it. It’s shitty. It’s ugly, and its beautiful, and it’s more important that anything in the world. I wanted, so, so badly to eat this shit.
As I sat in the window with my two ice creams, I watched as the snow began to slowly subside. For a moment, the sky was filled with flurries softly floating about, but the clouds dispersed and made way for a brilliantly sunny sky. Finishing my cup of ice cream to the point of nearly licking the little cup clean, I looked over at the untouched scoop of cookies and cream that I had bought for Him. I had half a mind to take to it too and eat every last bite, but I suddenly thought better of myself. I threw it in the trash.
Cafeteria
Categories: American (New), Southern, Breakfast & Brunch, Diners
Neighborhood: Chelsea
“You think I won’t do it?” I asked as I looked up at him from my beer. I was surely a bit cockeyed, and I’d never had the best poker face to begin with. Bravado has, more often than not, been the villain that has forced me into many a complicated situation. I was suddenly terrified that he was going to call me out.
“No way,” he said, wearing a wicked grin. He’d known me for too long, and he knew exactly how to press all of my buttons.
“Fine,” I responded defiantly as I grabbed a menu off the bar. “I’ve done it before and I can do it again. Just because I’ve not done something in the past does not make me a slave to it for the rest of my life. I’m a new man. I’m reborn. I’m the phoenix from the ashes!” I began to feel my adrenaline pumping in my chest. Me and my big mouth.
It’s funny the way life works. I’d been a regular at Cafeteria since its heyday back in the early 2000s, and here I was sitting at the bar with a man I’d once courted romantically in this very room. This was a lover from centuries before Him. The setting had changed, and Cafeteria was no longer the feral nightlife monstrosity it once was, but then again, neither was I. I sat with my ex, who was now no more than a friend, and now felt oddly familiar with my old self. I’d not seen this brazen version of myself in what seemed like forever.
“Biscuits and gravy,” I shouted to the bartender, “with scrambled eggs and cheese, please!”
We were back on the whole “egg thing” again. I had successfully managed to go through thirty-one years of my life without eating an egg, and I was, for some reason, proud of it. It was almost like a badge that I wore, and it could almost be seen as a character trait. It
was just something I didn’t do. This was important, because as an artist and a generally free spirit, there was not a lot that I could say no to in this world.
Although I would like to chalk it up to some long-winded defense about how inherently disgusting the egg is, it’s only been fear that has kept me from eating them. Fear is the catalyst for stagnation, and stagnation had become something that I was not willing to tolerate in my new way of life. It was only a few months ago that I had attempted to eat an egg. I was in a fight with Him over something inane, I’m sure. He was mad, and I didn’t know at the time how to convince Him that I’d do absolutely anything in the entire world to let Him know how much I loved Him. So I went to the bodega and bought half a dozen eggs.
I scrambled them to the best of my ability, being as how I am neither a good cook nor do I know especially how to prepare an egg. With shaky hands, I took a forkful of the yellow mess, and with my other hand steadied my phone to capture a video of me shoveling it into my mouth as proof. My stomach began to rise into my throat, and I felt as if I would vomit at any moment. But I took the hefty forkful and chewed it until I could swallow it. This was perhaps one of the things I loved most about my time with Him: it challenged me and made me face my fears. Even if it was for all the wrong reasons.
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