The best way for class to be over is, it’s over and you know you’re skipping the next one that starts in ten minutes, and you go outside Philosophy Hall, and you look around and you think, “If I were two French people, where would I—” and there’s Maud and Gab having a smoke on a concrete bench over on the side. Soon, dinner plans are set, the downtown train is pulling up as we hit the platform, and we’re combing the Upper West Side for teatime treats, c’est l’heure du goûter quoi. My fancy raspberry jelly donut at the Levain Bakery was lame, but Maud’s chock-a-block cookie was tasty, and Gab’s dark chocolate chocolate chip cookie was some kind of merveilleux.
Because we are lucky, we got to grocery shop for dinner at Fairway. Now this girl likes a supermarket, and my Steve’s C-Town for Savings down the street is nothing to sniff at, but, man, Fairway is somethin special, and it brings back memories of when Kate and I lived in Harlem the first year I lived in New York and we used to go to Fairway, and memories of living with Kate are always a great thing because Kate is the kind of girl who makes it so that television snacks are, like, artichokes and homemade mayonnaise, and she is the kind of girl who, when you say, “Let’s make some brownies,” and offer to go out to get a box of brownie mix, will shake her head and say, “Brownies are so easy to make anyway, there is no need to do it from a mix.” Then she will say, “Here,” and show you the recipe for Katharine Hepburn’s brownies, and then, as she is melting the chocolate over the stove (the chocolate in a little pot, and then that in a pan of water, because of course you don’t put it directly over the flame), she will tell you about how chocolate is made and how that relates to how it melts, and all too soon all you are aware of in front of your eyes is rich, satiny, dark brown swirls like desire.
As we weaved our way through the post-work crowd and lost each other and found each other and lost each other again, Fairway, ever-faithful, did not disappoint—except for the egregious lack of Count Chocula in the cereal aisle. I was trying to explain Count Chocula to Gab: “Il est un vampire, et il est fait du chocolat...” The boy, and this is why we like him, was sold.
We trawled Times Square as the sun set, carried along by the madness that never fails to somehow catch me, mouth open, head tilted up toward the neon landscape. Past the party-flavor pink-and-blue NYPD stand and the glitterfabulous razzle-dazzle “Chicago” sign, Maud led us to the Hershey’s shop, where we were confronted, the moment we walked in, with that singular plasticky smell of compound chocolate. Nyup, nyup, nyup.
On the 7 train to Tom’s, Maud said, “I know what is going to happen is, you’re going to stand around talking, and I’m going to end up cooking everything.” “Well,” I said, in my defense, “this shouldn’t be news to you.” “Well,” she said, “you should be glad I still think it’s funny.” Ah, touché. (That’s French.)
After the tastiness of smoked trout and beets and spinach and tomatoes (Maud cooked while I stood around talking), there were smokes and wine in the dark garden out back. We were well-fed and happy with the knowledge of ice cream in our future. “The thing is,” Maud said, “life is good.”
We went in to watch the lookalike candidates on the presidential debates after, Tom talking to the television, and giving it the finger. Then we tried to watch the like six thousand cable channels, but there was nothing on.
“Well,” Tom said as we left into the nippy air and quiet streets, the streetlights glowing orange, “I really think this has to be the end of your birthday.” And I guess he was right, because a week of birthday kind of is plenty.
But then I got home and there was a package from Hong Kong, and Brams had sent me a bag shaped like a panda’s head. Panda-head bag is a dome-shaped affair with sad bean-shaped black patches marked with silver rivets for eyes—so you understand that the bag is already, in itself, a miracle of bag-making.
But then there’s the tag that’s attached to the handle: It’s got a photograph of a guy and a girl, the girl’s in a red T-shirt and jeans and sneakers, the guy’s in a button-down shirt and darker jeans and sneakers and, on his wrist, a silver Rolex-y thing, and he’s got his arm around the girl, and they’re posing in front of a Chinese mountain landscape, whatever, and they both have panda-head bags for heads. And the girl is carrying a panda-head clutch. That, people, is the glory of Hong Kong, and that is the glory of Bram, and that is the glory of birthdays. And I want to say that this is the last you’ll hear about my birthday this year, but the thing is, you just never know with me.
Because Tom walked me down the midnight streets of Long Island City looking for a cab, and when we found one, he opened the door and put me in and said, “Happiest birthday ever,” and, really, this girl couldn’t disagree.
Because we are lucky, we got to grocery shop for dinner at Fairway. Now this girl likes a supermarket, and my Steve’s C-Town for Savings down the street is nothing to sniff at, but, man, Fairway is somethin special, and it brings back memories of when Kate and I lived in Harlem the first year I lived in New York and we used to go to Fairway, and memories of living with Kate are always a great thing because Kate is the kind of girl who makes it so that television snacks are, like, artichokes and homemade mayonnaise, and she is the kind of girl who, when you say, “Let’s make some brownies,” and offer to go out to get a box of brownie mix, will shake her head and say, “Brownies are so easy to make anyway, there is no need to do it from a mix.” Then she will say, “Here,” and show you the recipe for Katharine Hepburn’s brownies, and then, as she is melting the chocolate over the stove (the chocolate in a little pot, and then that in a pan of water, because of course you don’t put it directly over the flame), she will tell you about how chocolate is made and how that relates to how it melts, and all too soon all you are aware of in front of your eyes is rich, satiny, dark brown swirls like desire.
As we weaved our way through the post-work crowd and lost each other and found each other and lost each other again, Fairway, ever-faithful, did not disappoint—except for the egregious lack of Count Chocula in the cereal aisle. I was trying to explain Count Chocula to Gab: “Il est un vampire, et il est fait du chocolat...” The boy, and this is why we like him, was sold.
We trawled Times Square as the sun set, carried along by the madness that never fails to somehow catch me, mouth open, head tilted up toward the neon landscape. Past the party-flavor pink-and-blue NYPD stand and the glitterfabulous razzle-dazzle “Chicago” sign, Maud led us to the Hershey’s shop, where we were confronted, the moment we walked in, with that singular plasticky smell of compound chocolate. Nyup, nyup, nyup.
On the 7 train to Tom’s, Maud said, “I know what is going to happen is, you’re going to stand around talking, and I’m going to end up cooking everything.” “Well,” I said, in my defense, “this shouldn’t be news to you.” “Well,” she said, “you should be glad I still think it’s funny.” Ah, touché. (That’s French.)
After the tastiness of smoked trout and beets and spinach and tomatoes (Maud cooked while I stood around talking), there were smokes and wine in the dark garden out back. We were well-fed and happy with the knowledge of ice cream in our future. “The thing is,” Maud said, “life is good.”
We went in to watch the lookalike candidates on the presidential debates after, Tom talking to the television, and giving it the finger. Then we tried to watch the like six thousand cable channels, but there was nothing on.
“Well,” Tom said as we left into the nippy air and quiet streets, the streetlights glowing orange, “I really think this has to be the end of your birthday.” And I guess he was right, because a week of birthday kind of is plenty.
But then I got home and there was a package from Hong Kong, and Brams had sent me a bag shaped like a panda’s head. Panda-head bag is a dome-shaped affair with sad bean-shaped black patches marked with silver rivets for eyes—so you understand that the bag is already, in itself, a miracle of bag-making.
But then there’s the tag that’s attached to the handle: It’s got a photograph of a guy and a girl, the girl’s in a red T-shirt and jeans and sneakers, the guy’s in a button-down shirt and darker jeans and sneakers and, on his wrist, a silver Rolex-y thing, and he’s got his arm around the girl, and they’re posing in front of a Chinese mountain landscape, whatever, and they both have panda-head bags for heads. And the girl is carrying a panda-head clutch. That, people, is the glory of Hong Kong, and that is the glory of Bram, and that is the glory of birthdays. And I want to say that this is the last you’ll hear about my birthday this year, but the thing is, you just never know with me.
Because Tom walked me down the midnight streets of Long Island City looking for a cab, and when we found one, he opened the door and put me in and said, “Happiest birthday ever,” and, really, this girl couldn’t disagree.
posted by stellou at 6:33 AM
2 Comments:
Give us a pic of the panda-head bag!
Well it's just like I said.
Post a Comment
<< Home