In Pursuit of Nextness

There is no better time of year than Christmas to remind us that getting what we want is not all it's cracked up to be.  Most of us learn at an early age the magic of anticipation, the wild fantasies that surround those things that are just out of reach, and the eventual anticlimax of holding the object of our desire in our hands and finding it to be disappointingly ordinary.  In the end, that toy that we dreamed about night and day turns out to be just a toy with a finite range of functions and limited possibilities.  Within days, we're writing our wish lists for next year.  Because, when it comes down to it, the fun was actually in the wanting and not the having.

During a recent visit, RG said something that struck me:  "Next is the best place to be."  A simple thought made more poignant by its timing and its truth.  If wonder and optimism are our measuring sticks, then the best present the Christmas season brings is the gift of anticipation.  Germane to anticipation are the thrill of hope and the purity of unsullied expectation.  Until tomorrow arrives, nothing can prove that it won't be better than today.  And, as New Years Eve approaches, it occurs to me that, as a society we innately know this -- the night before the new year is the biggest party night of all.  We celebrate our nextness and the possibilities it brings.  For all of the control of our universe we attempt every other day of the year, on that one night, we revel in the joy of not knowing what comes next.  On that night, tomorrow could be anything. 

Anticipation, our sustained interest in what will happen next, is what makes the world go around.  It keeps us moving forward in our studies, our careers, our travels, our hobbies, and our relationships.  One of the things that makes being single so appealing to me, especially in a city like New York where possibilities pass us in the street in throngs, is that feeling of anticipation -- every morning I step out into the city may be "the day," every new bar I try at night might be "the place," and every new person I chat up on the train may be "the one."  One by one, my friends couple off, and I remain single, only reinforcing the fact that I am next, that my shiny new toy is just around every corner.  I have met a lot of men this year that didn't turn out to be the end-all, be-all.  And I couldn't be happier.  In disappointing me, they've each perpetuated my nextness.  Built my anticipation.  And affirmed my fantasies that there is something amazing out there meant just for me. 

But, if anticipation is the silver lining of being single, does it disappear once you're not?  After all, you've got what you want, you've hooked your fish, he's in the bag, dreams become concrete, and she's standing right in front of you.  Yikes.  But, fear not! The best thing about anticipation is that it can't be caught.  No sooner do we reach one horizon than another rolls out in front of us.   Answering the question of "which one?" only leads to deeper and more complex questions about "who?" that will hopefully take a lifetime to sort through.  Wondering what else there is to discover about a person is what draws us together.  Conversely, feeling that you've got a person entirely figured out is what allows us to fall apart.  I think this is where most of us get into trouble.  Whether the problem is a waning zeal for discovery or a want of things to discover, reaching the promised land and settling in leads to complacency.  And, especially in relationships, things can begin to feel stale. 

The truth is that we are all deep wells of thought and being.  Theoretically, there should be no end to reach in any of our personalities (if only because experience is constantly changing our perspectives and evolving our characters).   So why do we become complacent in relationships?  Short answer: I think that, while as a people we know the value of anticipation, it's easy, as a person, to forget.  Long answer: We fall short in one of two ways: (A) We're lazy when it comes to exploration.  (As it turns out, anticipation takes work to perpetuate.  Curiosity and wonder are wheels that we must make the effort to turn at times, and once many of us feel we've reached an oasis, we peter out.) (B) We're lazy when it comes to evolution.  (We get into ruts and fail to make the effort to do things and create experiences that enrich our mind and our spirits.  We stop chasing things that have the capacity to change us.  We stop thinking.  We stop doing.)  And, in either case, we stop pursuing.  Whether we seek a deeper understanding of others or of ourselves, without pursuit, the concept of "next" cannot exist.

So, as the New Year comes upon us, and we look forward to the ensuing 365 days, don't let the anticipation of what's to come end on New Year's Eve.  Resolve in the new year to pursue.  Plumb the depths of others.  And, become someone worthy of pursuit, yourself.  Develop your interests, sharpen your skills, think and feel deeply, observe, opine, take initiatives, practice kindness and curiosity and introspection.  Be a person in whom there is always something else to discover, and you'll find that people will pursue.  When it comes to relationships, the onus is largely on us to create our own "nexts," to continue to seek what's next in others and to take the initiative to seek what's next in ourselves.  If we do, then we'll roll into 2011 not in helpless anticipation of what the world will bring to us, but empowered by the anticipation of what sort of "nexts" we will find.

As always, to the extent it's New York City you hope to discover, here are a couple of "nexts" to get you started:

Against the Grain
East 6th St. between Ave. A and Ave. B

This place is an annex to the restaurant/winery, but is definitely not an afterthought.  It's small and cozy and features local artists' work on the exposed brick walls.  But the best part is the awesome collection of craft beers.  The bartender was awesome and knowledgeable, gave us time to get through our tasting flight of six quality brews.  On a Sunday night we pretty much had the place to ourselves...eventually even the bartender joined our little party.  Come to this place...you can't help drinking just one great beer after another.

Rai Rai Ken
East 10th St. between 1st and 2nd Ave.
Tiny with a capital "T" but Good with a capital "G".  Located in the heart of Little Tokyo, this isn't your standard college ramen.  A handful of noodle bowl options, rice, and dumplings -- you can't go wrong.  It's all cooked right there behind the noodle bar by real Japanese guys who barely speak English.  It's a little dark, cramped, and papered with Japanese script.  And, according to RG, who studied Japanese, it feels a lot like the real thing.  I can see stopping by here every once in a while to get your Japanese fix.

It's a Resolution Revolution!

"He conquers who endures."  (Persius)


I love talking on the phone with my long-distance girlfriends because, in order to cover all of the events that have transpired between the last time we talked and now, we end up condensing weeks of triumph, disaster, and debauchery into one concise nugget.  Looking at everything like that, all lined up like a roll of Life Savers, it is easy to begin to see patterns.  JI and I were on the phone last night, rehashing the last couple of months that got away from us.  Of course, at least a third of the conversation was dedicated to the trials and tribulations of relating to the male population.  And, at some point, we both began to see a familiar pattern emerge in my dating life...one that we have seen in the lives of quite a few of our girlfriends in the past.

We all seem to have run into this series of men who are super interested in us for a month or so, and then seem to rapidly fade away into oblivion.  "I don't get it," I tell JI, "I feel like I am getting duped every time."  I'd love to say that it is as simple as misreading signals or even being fooled, but even JI (the eternal skeptic) agrees that all outward signs pointed to "Yes" in most of the cases.  No, she says, it's the instant gratification that New York City affords that is to blame for the ridiculously short shelf life of affection.  A man can sit on his ass and order anything his heart desires, and it will be at his apartment in under an hour, she points out.  We can work remotely, order in, take out, talk on Facetime, and shop online.  We can even have laundry detergent and beer delivered to our door.  Practically everything is digital, instantaneous, and convenient.  So, how can we expect men not to want the same prompt result from women that they get from the barista, the delivery man, or the Flavia machine?

We are a generation of hyper-accessibility and rapid response.  A casualty of our times.  Could it be that we have forgotten what it means to work for what we want?  Everyone is familiar with the phenomenon, come the first of the year, when suddenly it is impossible to get a machine at the gym because everyone has made their New Year's resolutions to get fit.  But as January turns into February, the boom subsides, and by Valentine's Day, we're all fat and happy again.  It's like we expect simply making the resolution to precipitate the change.  When it doesn't, we lose interest. 

Losing weight doesn't happen over night.  In fact, very few things in life happen in an instant.  Love in particular.  When it comes to dating and romance, it is possible for relationships to ignite spontaneously upon meeting.  Like JK's current relationship: one minute they didn't know one another, and the next minute, they're planning a life.  Fireworks.  A chemical reaction.  The Big Bang.   But these relationships are very, very few and far between.  Usually, things take a little more time to develop, feelings take more effort to sort out, and "you and me" slowly evolves into "we."  Especially as we get older and have more history to wade through, relationships are less likely to be ready-made.  We are already comfortable with our identities as single people, independent, self-sufficient, happy in our own skin.  We've got to make the decision to invest in a person, and then work to earn our return.

Like going to the gym, being in a relationship with another person will take a while to change us.  We've got to keep going back to the treadmill before our skinny jeans start to fit again.  Similarly, just because we meet someone we like and decide to give it a go, that doesn't mean that we will be comfortable in a relationship right away.  Like anything, it takes some working out, going back again and again even after the excitement of prospective change wears off.  No wonder few of us have the patience and determination it takes to stick it out past month one.  It's a shame, really.  Because, while February and March can feel anything from mundane to gruelling, come April, you'll have a really beautiful result.  (Whether you're loving or lifting weights.) 

I wish I knew how to change us.  I wish there was a magic formula for fortitude.  Unfortunately, I can't and there isn't.  Results are three parts desire and one part decision.  We never know how the "desire" part will pan out.  All we can be certain of is that, if we want something badly enough, we are going to have to work for it.  We have to make the decision knowing that what follows might be difficult.  That being said, while it won't yield a payoff tomorrow, the resolution is the first step.  So, let's not diminish the importance of that step.  After all, all of the other steps need that first one to follow. 

Ultimately, we can't know when we start the journey whether we'll have the perseverance to end it.  But, that is not a reason not to try.  In the spirit of the season of new beginnings that is upon us, maybe we should all just resolve to take a first step.  To decide something.  To begin.

With all that work ahead of us, it might be nice to fall back into instant gratification every once in a while.  Good thing that New York City is not short on places like these, that are sure to yield immediate results:

Bubble Lounge
West Broadway between Franklin and White Sts.

Instant class.  The atmosphere in here is sexy and sophisticated.  Plush seating, deep purples and golds, and champagne everything.  It's a nice spot for a date or a small group of aristocrats like ourselves.  Plus, bubbles are fun.  Who doesn't like a nice champagne cocktail?  The only down side was that service was slooooow.  Don't go here if you've got a deadline.

Chick-A-Licious
E. 10th St. btw 1st and 2nd Aves.
Instant dessert.  I came here after dinner with my aunt one night.  She wanted cheesecake.  I wanted French Macaroons.  Theoretically, this place should have had all of those.  But, it was 10 p.m., and they had run out of pretty much everything.  She did get her cheesecake, which came in miniature size and was ordinary at best.  And I had to settle for a cupcake of some kind, which was tasty but nothing compared to Butter Lane, which is only a few blocks away and fantastic.  All in all, if you need a fix, stop in.  But, if you really want a great dessert, go somewhere else.

Common Ground
Avenue A btw 12th and 13th Sts.

Instant home.  If bars were comfort food, this place would be your mom's mac and cheese. Couches, books, and board games abound.  The girls and I played dirty-word Scrabble and Connect Four by candlelight.  And the bouncer bought L a drink for her birthday.  The vibe was relaxed and friendly.  Not an overly-aggressive pick-up artist in sight.  All the drinks you know and love, and space to reserve in the back if you've got too many friends for your own good.

675 Bar
Hudson and W. 13th St.
Instant flirting.  Yes, this bar is in the Meatpacking District, but it's not what you'd expect of the area at all.  Walk down the relatively non-descript looking stairs into the basement bar-come-wine cellar.  To the left, an open area with couches, a pool table, and a bar long enough to find a place to sidle up. To the right, a hallway of cozy nooks, exposed brick, dim lighting, and books and games.  Perfect for a birthday get-together, which just happens to be the reason we were there.  The crowd was all young professional types, and the gratification is instant if it's fraternization you're looking for.  The only downside -- at 9 p.m. this place already had a line.  The bouncer was only letting people down selectively, even though the place was far from crowded.  Eventually, it gets packed, but I had to question the artificial crowd control.

On Hope and Heartache

Here's the thing about living and loving in New York:  There are days that you feel invincible, one with the city, its energy, its possibilities.  You walk down the street and think (no -- everything in your being screams) with absolute certainty, "This is the life I was meant to live!"  And then there are days that make you question everything you think you know.  You have a life of living and learning behind you, and you think that you have pretty well figured out how to sort out the joy from the sorrow.  And then something you had pegged as joy deteriorates rapidly into sorrow.  Before you even know what is happening, a part of your certainty is undone.  And you are reminded that there are too many people here, to many hearts, and too many minds to ever be certain of anything, even your own heart or your own mind.

I had my heart broken for the first time in a long while today.  Funny really, because these days that is not an easy thing to do.  I approach most romantic prospects on what some would call "the defensive."  I have too much experience to believe that there is any ending but heartache (ah, there's that skepticism).  But, there is also that eternally optimistic (read: foolish) part of me that lives to hope.  So, while it was not easy (and was perhaps against my better judgement) I allowed myself the luxury of hope.  As a lawyer, my profession relies substantially on drawing distinctions and constructing arguments based on what we know and why this case is different, why this situation is so special that it should fall outside of the law.  Sometimes, despite everything I know about people, I am able to convince myself that this one, this one, is different or special or uncommon.  (And maybe I am right, in every way but this -- the leaving, which is so exhaustingly common.)  Perhaps I am too good at my job.  Or perhaps I am foolish.  Or perhaps I am simply human. 

This dichotomy of skepticism and hope is not an easy act to balance.  There is always too much of one, not enough of the other.  Of course, if they are present in the same amounts, then they wash one another out and you feel nothing.  Sort of a double-edged sword.  When it comes to living in New York City, it is easy to err on the side of hope.  The city, with its constant capacity to surprise is, in its own way, predictable.  What makes it so easy to embrace the chaos of the city is that it, maybe ironically, feels like home.  Familiar and unconditional.  When it comes to loving in New York City, however, many of us opt for skepticism.  If only because we know all too well that, as constantly as the city surprises us, it also disappoints.  And all the more shame on us if we voluntarily reached out, allowing disappointment to fill our empty cup of hope.

So, then, who do I blame for my heartbreak?  The heart breaker for disappointing, or myself for providing the opportunity?  My girlfriends, my loving, supportive, funny, wonderful girlfriends of course blame the "villain" or the "dunce" (whichever seems to better fit the circumstance). Bless their hearts.  I never cease to be amazed at the diatribe of invectives they seem to conjure from thin air when the moment comes to shore me up against the ache that follows absence.  But, I am not convinced that all of the glowing thoughts I had about a person in the morning could all be proven so horribly wrong by midnight.  After all, I am the one who flipped the switch from skeptical to hopeful in the first place.  I am the one who left the light on for disappointment to find me.

After the initial shock wore off, I took a walk around my neighborhood.  Maybe it was the cold or maybe it was the city itself, but something in the air stirred me during that walk.  New York City, still vibrant and alert at 1:00 in the morning, couldn't help but remind me that the city keeps on going, even when time seems to stop.  Skepticism, on the other hand, is a static state that allows us to exist somewhere between pessimism and optimism, where we sometimes want to believe but never allow ourselves to dream.  Hope, however -- the city and hope have something in common: they constantly renew themselves.  They keep on going right over disappointment, right over skepticism, right over heartbreak.  No sooner do these things present themselves than the perpetual nature of the city and of hope remove them to the past. 

Do I regret hoping?  No.  Do I blame anyone? No.  Would I do it all again?  Yes.  And I will -- I'll inevitably do this same thing a hundred times over.  Because, although no amount of experience or skepticism can make me certain of my choices, my hope renews.  It cycles around to its origin and begins again.  I can't regret renewing hope any more than I can regret the sun rising.  It puts heartache in the past and illuminates this city full of possibilities in my future.  And, although I am reminded that I can never be certain of anything I think I know, I can be certain that what I don't know yet will be beyond my imagining.  Or, at least, I hope.

Would You Be My Missed Connection?

I read the "missed connections" page on craigslist.org. 

There, I said it.  I hate it, but I love it.

Judge as you might, there is just something about the idea that under the still surface of mundane daily life there hums an electrical current of secret attraction that intrigues me.  It accentuates the possibility that, at any given moment, we may be brushing past our destiny (if one believes in such things as destiny).  It creates the opportunity for second chances.  I wonder how often those second chances actually materialize, though.  Just because we stare at cute members of the opposite sex across the subway car doesn't mean that they are staring back.  It seems to me that the only thing more unlikely than mutual attraction is that he or she will actually ever find your posting on craigslist.  And, even if they do, it only serves to prove that you were too lazy or spineless to take the risk of approaching and being rejected face to face. 

In the end, the "missed connections" page winds up just below toddler leashes on the list of ideas that seem like genius solutions to common problems but, in practice, are actually kind of depressing.  But there wouldn't be a market for it if there wasn't a problem to begin with.  Which really begs the question:  what keeps us from making all those connections in the first place?

There are plenty of rants on the "missed connections" page by girls wanting to be noticed, lamenting the general malaise of the male population when it comes to approaching women.  But, there are just as many rants by men about how women don't make themselves approachable.  I have news for these folks -- these most likely aren't really "missed connections."  That guy probably didn't approach you because he didn't feel compelled.  And that girl didn't make eye contact with you because she's not interested.  I would hazard a guess that half of the connections on craigslist are less "missed" than they are avoided.

As a single girl in New York City, between my commute, running errands, and meeting up with friends (read: normal, ordinary stuff), I see at least twenty good looking guys on a normal day.  With all of whom I'd be happy to strike up a conversation.  So, why don't I?  Honest answer: apathy.  A lot of decision-making is a function of constant subconscious cost-benefit analysis.  I like this sweater, but do I like it $100-worth?  Eh.  That guy I just passed is cute, but is he turn-around-and-flag-him-down cute?  Again, eh.  Not likely. 

There are definitely times when someone warrants more than an "Eh", however.  What we do with those people separates the mice from the men.  When we are presented with merit and opportunity and a split second to react, do we choose action or inaction?  I have no idea how many men think about stopping me in the street or in the subway or on line in a store.  But, I do know how many actually do.  (Surprisingly more than you think.  I can remember at least three or four in the last six months.)  And, I can honestly say that actually taking the initiative to strike up a conversation causes a guy's stock to skyrocket.  The guy may not be dashingly handsome, but the pure mettle such a move demonstrates makes him seem more attractive.  That being said, he may only be inching upward from relative obscurity to tentative admiration.  I still might not give him my phone number.  But, he got a whole heck of a lot closer than the guy who walked past without even smiling!

From time to time, I will even feel the overwhelming desire to reach out to a stranger, myself.  To say, "That's a nice suit."  Or to comment on the sweltering heat in the subway.  Or to ask his opinion.  Or for directions.  Or where his accent is from.  Or to generally express my enthusiasm that someone so handsome has crossed my path.  Sometimes that's where it ends -- just a compliment or a comment.  And sometimes, someone actually takes my card and calls me back.  We can't expect to win every time we step onto the field.  But, we don't thwart defeat by not entering the fray; rather, we guarantee it.  Rejection is a natural counterpart to risk. 

E recently told me that he doesn't generally approach women because he doesn't want his intentions to be misunderstood.  He doesn't want to come off as "the creep" trying to pick up ladies at the bar.  Understandable.  (For various reasons, I view this as a positive thing.)  But, on a purely conceptual level, what does it matter what they think of your intentions?  You know what your intentions are.  Your actions will prove that out, if you're given a chance.  And, if they do think you're a creep and give you the cold shoulder, then whose loss is it anyway?  Whether you make yourself the creep or the wallflower, you'll probably never see that person again either way.  The only thing that separates the possibility of success from the certainty of failure is the decision to act.

In a city of 8 million people, we have the distinct benefit of a seemingly unlimited number of opportunities to reach out.  Our basic anonymity both makes our victories seem more precious and rare and allows our foibles to melt into general obscurity.   Therefore, don't hesitate to act; we cannot be diminished by the chances that we take.  As William Hensley famously put it:  "I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my Soul."  No matter what direction we are headed, we have no hope of progress if we don't take that first step.




http://www.sophieblackall.com/


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Obviously, I have been too busy to write for a while, so I have a whole cache of great places lined up for review.  I'll start with just a few of the best here.  I highly recommend you take action on these spots.  Don't let them die in the grave of "missed connections."

Keybar
East 13th St. between 1st Ave. and Ave. A

The eternal hunt for the decent happy hour ends here.  Seriously.  For every drink you buy until 11p.m., they give you a ticket for a free drink (same price as the drink you bought).  This was especially awesome to R and I, who were drinking $12 martinis for $6.  The drinks were ok (not spectacular), but definitely good enough for $6.  The place got packed by 10 p.m., and it wasn't all that big.  But, everyone seemed pretty friendly, including the bar tender.  Not a bad choice for happy hour in the East Village.

Cafe Mogador
St. Mark's Place between 1st Ave. and Ave. A
Disclaimer: I have only had take out from this place.  But, it was so good, E and I ordered the exact same meal both times.  The atmosphere in the place (while we were waiting for our food) was cute and cozy with distinct Middle Eastern touches.  Their hummus/baba/tabbouleh platter is fantastic, with balanced spices and a sort of smoky flavor to the baba.  But, the basmati rice (that came with the chicken kebab) stole the show.  We had no idea where the flavors came from, but we couldn't get enough of it.  The restaurant was moderately crowded when we were there on a Saturday night, so I can only assume that others would agree that this place is worthy of a repeat performance or three.

Locanda Verde
Corner of Greenwich St. and N. Moore St.

Oh. My. God.  Andrew Carmellini, formerly of Cafe Boloud, opened this restaurant a while back (his first in New York) in TriBeCa.  The concept combines the homeyness of a "local" establishment and a commitment to fresh food (hence, the smallish menu).  I have been wanting to try it and took E's birthday as the perfect opportunity.  I cannot say enough good things about it.  First, it is flawless in design --both with regard to decor and use of space.  The dark, sort of rough hewn wine-laden Italian-ness of it all gave it a distinctly low-key feel.  And, apparently, the front of the restaurant serves coffee and pastries in the morning and doubles as dining space at night.  The wine list was all European, and our server knew exactly what wine to recommend (it was delicious).  But that's not the end.  We shared quite a few dishes, but the stand-outs were definitely the pastas and the dessert.  We ordered the orecchiette with duck sauce and broccoli rabe (savory and fresh) and the pumpkin agnolotti (sweet and buttery).  They could not have been more different or more delicious.  We literally couldn't stop talking about them even after they were gone.  The brussel sprouts with pancetta and pecorino outshone the scallops, for sure.  And the maple budino tasted like everything you love about Autumn.  Just....yes.

All's Fair in Love and Blogging

I suppose this day had to come.  One can pepper one's blog posts with tidbits about one's dating life, dating partners, and dating opinions for only so long before one is called to the carpet for something one wrote.  And by "one," I mean me. 

Whether it is the result of a personality trait of mine or a symptom of the relative anonymity the vastness of the internet affords, I try to communicate what I think without fear of judgment and to use adjectives and other generally descriptive language to effect that communication as effectively and precisely as possible.  For that reason, I anticipate a certain amount of dissonance from the public at large and from those I write about in particular.  Clearly, some topics have spawned debate.  I have even had exes contact me to comment upon or clarify something they read about themselves in my posts. 

Recently, however, someone contacted me about a description of himself in one of my older posts -- a guy I had gone on one, maybe two, dates with months and months ago (we'll call him Mr. X).  I had not exactly anticipated Mr. X ever reading what I had written about him, but I can hardly be surprised because, as he pointed out, I was quite careless about protecting him from it.  While I didn't exactly intend for him to read it, I suppose I was subconsciously ambivalent or perhaps even wanted him to read what I had written.  In a way, it was a mode of communicating feelings I had had about him but that I deemed neither worthy nor appropriate for communication at the time.  Needless to say, my description of Mr. X was not what one would choose to read about oneself in a public forum.

Because I am one who rises to the occasion for self-defense, what ensued was a lengthy email exchange that I will mildly describe as snide from both sides.  Unfortunately, as is commonplace in the world of the written word, a lot of the conflict hinged on interpretation of tone and intention.  I.e. I felt I was using descriptive language that best communicated my opinion and feelings on the topic; Mr. X felt I was unnecessarily harsh and demeaning.  The separation between what I meant and how he felt was a matter of degree.  (I apologized and admitted my language was insensitive, but my apology was on scale with my intentions not with the depth of his hurt feelings.  Therefore, the sparring had to continue either until he felt I had suffered in kind or until he tired of the volley.)

Now, I believe that there are two kinds of days:  (a) good days and (b) days when you learn something.  The day of the email from Mr. X was of the latter sort.  So, as usual, I got to thinking.  And, upon further analysis, I determined that Mr. X's issue, apart from the retributive instinct I saw kicking in, consisted of a two-fold folly on my part: (1) Much of his discourse consisted of chastising me for my choice to say what I did in a "public forum," and (2) the remainder of his anger was the result of what he characterized as "talking shit" about him.

The "public forum" aspect was a moot point, I argued to him.  While Mr. X was certainly able to recognize himself, he was at the time and remains to this day, for all intents and purposes, completely anonymous to the entire (very small) readership of this blog.  In fact, I doubt anyone reading this now is even aware of his existence in the world, let alone his association with me.  It was, after all, only one or two dates (that, I'll admit, I doubt I even mentioned to anyone until now).  In any case, there was pretty much zero risk of identification.

And, in my estimation, "talking shit" involves an intent to publicly defame, which the anonymity aspect would negate as well, not to mention the fact that, though unfavorable, I believe what I said to be true.  (I have been informed that I came to this conclusion because I am a lawyer and too logical for my own good.)  So, (backtracking a bit) I guess the real issue for Mr. X was that I had a negative opinion of him in the first place.  (Busted -- my fault for putting it somewhere where he could see it.)  And, yes, negative opinions can sting especially when they touch on a sensitive topic.  But, come on, man -- we hardly knew each other.  Why does my opinion matter all that much?

Only Mr. X knows for sure.  But, in my experience, the opinions that matter most are the ones that come from someone in whom we have established credibility.  Despite only going on one or two dates, Mr. X and I did quite a bit of chatting, over the course of which it became clear that we got along well on a personality level.  As humans, we are all constantly in search of affirmation.  And, when someone comes along that validates us as people, we tend to accredit them with a certain level of authority on the topic.  Someone who likes us automatically becomes an expert on who to like.  But, if that now-expert then exhibits a negative opinion of us, what are we to do?

While the bad opinions of those of little consequence to us prove relatively easy to disregard, the bad opinions of those in whom we have vested some amount of authority can feel like an "F" to an overachiever.  This is especially true for those soft spots where we have only a tenuous grasp on our positive image of ourselves to begin with.  For instance, a stanger on the street might call a woman "fat" in a fit of frustration and be shortly dismissed by her as petty.  But, if her boyfriend were to call her "fat", it would feel like a kick in the gut.  It is the rare female who would meet that accusation with a polite "We'll agree to disagree."

In the end, the opinions of others only matter to the extent we let them.  The only truly consequential opinion is the one we have of ourselves.  So, the natural reaction when someone who we've vested with authority "talks trash" about us is to extricate ourselves from that authority.  It would be nice if simply saying "No, I don't care what you think" was enough.  But, deny as we might, the reality is that we do (or did at some point) care.  Instead we must either believe that we are, indeed, "fat" because the authority says so; or, we must decide that the authority is wrong, which means we were also wrong to place our faith in them to begin with.  Damned if you do; damned if you don't. 

In the end, the easiest and most effective way to remove our self-perception from the opinion of another is to denigrate that person until the credibility is figuratively beat out of him or her:  We were deceived as to his or her character.  We so innocently and optimistically trusted this wolf in sheep's clothing.  The offense!  The revulsion!  The villain!  How dare he think I'm fat when I am clearly flawless!  The fault lies with him! 

A simple difference of opinion is too benign an explanation for something so hurtful, so the only solution is indignance.

Maybe this explains the level of Mr. X's animosity toward me for believing him to be less than ideal.  Maybe it doesn't.  But, what it does do for sure is give me pause and a little more patience when it comes to the irrational reactions of myself and others.  After all, we're all just boys and girls flailing around the big, wide-open universe trying to find someone to love who loves us back.  Sometimes, we'll put our faith in people who let us down.  But, hopefully, that will only serve to help us appreciate more those who don't.

I celebrated my 29th birthday this past weekend, which served as a fantastic reminder that, while the world judges us harshly for the people that we are, our friends love us dearly for the people that we want to be.  Great moments and great memories were made this weekend all over town...

Sacred Chow
Sullivan St. btw Bleecker and 3rd

This is the third organic/vegetarian/vegan place I have been since moving to New York.  I'd say it's standard fare as far as this sort of joint goes.  The restaurant itself was tiny and cute, and the waitress was pleasant.  They had plenty of gluten-free options for L to choose from.  One of the nice things about it was the rotating specialty menu -- a different soup, side dish, and type of hummus every day.  The day we went was walnut pesto hummus.  Possibly the best hummus I've ever had.  Really something special.  This, like all places of this genre, is not for picky eaters. 

The Grisly Pear
MacDougal btw Bleecker and 3rd

There are two schools of thought when it comes to karaoke -- the private room school and the open bar school.  Some karaoke'ers prefer to rent the private room and rock out with only their nearest and dearest to hear.  Others prefer throwing their hat in the ring with the rest of us and belting out 80's classics in the wide open bar.  I generally opt for the latter, which is why I love the Grisly Pear.  If you are not prepared to hunker down for the long haul, appreciate the stylings of the local crew, and make a complete ass of yourself, then you are in the wrong place.  That being said, the karaoke is in the back.  So, there is also "normal" bar space.  But, if you're looking for a cozy, intimate, we're-all-friends-here karaoke vibe, look no further.  My one complaint: the DJ unilaterally changed the song order at his discretion, so you could end up waiting hours for your song to come up.  And, if you're wondering, on this particular night my song of choice was "I Touch Myself" by The Divinyls.  That song was made for karaoke.


Mole
Allen St. btw E. Houston St. and Stanton St.

I love mole.  The sauce, not the restaurant.  And,  have had gooood mole in Mexico and in Cleveland.  So far, I have not had good mole in New York.  I did not like this mole -- it didn't make use of all of the flavors typical in mole.  I am no food critic, so I can't aptly describe it, but it was missing something.  It was a little bitter, in fact, and not as spicy as it should have been.  The food, in general, however was pretty good.  Although, you can get Mexican food just as good for less money elsewhere.  I liked the small, crowded atmosphere.  And, the waitstaff bent over backwards to be accommodating, kind, and helpful. 

Esca
West 43rd St. btw 9th and 10th Ave.

E and I went to see Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson a couple of nights ago (which I highly recommend, by the way).  And, set out in search of dinner afterwards.  This place was not too far a walk from the theatre on W. 45th, and E had been there a couple times before with good results.  I have got to say that I loved this place.  Maybe it was the company or my good mood, but everything was perfect from start to finish.  The staff was knowledgeable and polite.  The food was tasty and unpretentious.  And the atmosphere struck a nice balance between sophisticated and rustic.  The menu was dominated by seafood.  We had a scallop trio crudo that was maybe the freshest raw shellfish I have ever had.  And the salt-crusted fish, baked under three pounds of salt and cracked at a table in the middle of the dining room was flaky and mild, just the way it was meant to be.  Granted, I had the benefit of being there with an expert orderer who chose our entire menu, but I would hazard a guess that you really can't go wrong even on your own.

How to Create a Happy Accident

Little known fact about me:  I love surprises of all shapes and sizes.  Whether I am being surprised or doing the surprising, there is just something about the unexpected that thrills me.  Appreciating surprises does signify a little relinquishment of control over the moment-to-moment operations of our lives.  (Which is probably why my friends with more control-freak tendencies don't appreciate surprises so much.)  But, I feel like surrendering control is one of the main reasons that surprises are so appealing.  In my humble opinion, nothing beats a happy surprise -- it's the adrenaline rush of letting go sprinkled with joy. 

I recently read an article about the pursuit of happiness whose basic premise was that, the more focus we put on attaining and maintaining happiness, the more unhappy we become.  By a combination of dashed expectations and performance pressure, the ambition to create happiness in our lives can entirely overwhelm and frustrate us.  In my estimation, by contrast, the happiness that truly makes us happiest is the happiness that happens when we don't expect it.  For me, there is just something about the notion that happiness can find me even when I am not looking for it that reassures me that the universe is ultimately good.

And, life has been full of surprise happiness lately.  From one friend getting a raise to another finding a great guy when she least expected, the good karma they projected into the universe has finally come back around full circle for them.  I, myself, have even been pleasantly surprised by the way life has worked out in my favor in the last month.  But, in thinking about it further, I begin to wonder whether all of these surprises are really surprises at all.  L's raise is, no doubt, less a surprise than a measured response to her superior job performance.  JK's unexpected romance is not so much random as the result of embracing life as it comes to her and not turning down to opportunity to open herself up to the people that step into it.  And, my own good luck can hardly be considered happy happenstance, as I literally chased it down in the street. 

Suddenly, our collective good luck doesn't seem so accidental.  That is not to say that good job performance, openness to new people, and relentless pursuit will necessarily yield positive results every time.  So, the surprise, I guess, is that the reward in these cases turned out to be all that we might have hoped but never dared to expect.  Still, I can't help noting, that the surprises, as unexpected and exhilarating as they were (and still are), are due in equal measure to each of our efforts to create the opportunity for surprise as they are to pure dumb luck.  I wonder -- While happiness may not respond to demands, perhaps it is slightly more receptive to gentle persuasion? 

Needless to say, I see the point argued in the article above, but I would like to add my own little caveat that, though happiness may flee from too rigorous pursuit, it would be foolish to think that we could expect happiness to enter our lives without opening our doors to it.  Keeping in mind that happiness is not exactly Newtonian (i.e. no action guarantees an equal and opposite reaction), there is no harm in creating space in which unexpected happiness might happen.  If we construct opportunities for happiness, when it does show up at our doorstep on a random Saturday night, we can be delighted at the "surprise".

Maybe my good luck has something to do with all of the openings I've been giving happiness lately.  In an effort to spread the joy around and to further aid all of us in our mutual quest to fortuitously stumble on to happiness, I have compiled a list of 15 New York City date ideas for the 2010 Fall/Winter season that either I or someone I know can vouch for as particularly wonderful opportunities for joy to surprise us:

1.  Brooklyn Bridge:  Walk across it.  A very simple concept with very promising results.  You can get anything from ice cream to coffee to a gourmet dinner on the other side.  In my experience, the romantic potential is high, depending on the risks you're willing to take.  It's a consummate New York experience, too, so take a camera.

2.  Apple Picking:  Or pumpkin picking.  Or cider drinking.  Or foliage gazing.  There are any number of cute little orchards and farms only a train (or bus) ride away from the city.  If you're lucky, you'll pick one with a wine store nearby (ahem ::Outhouse Orchards in North Salem:: ahem). I have found offmanhattan.com to be a useful resource for this and other types of countrified activities.  It gives the date a quaint, simple vibe.  And the train ride provides ample time for snuggling.

3.  Top of the Met:  Through late Fall, the Roof Garden Cafe is open at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  It provides a perfect opportunity to wander through ancient Egypt or the American Colonial period and wind up with breathtaking views of the city and Central Park, in addition to whatever weather resistant installation they've got going up there at the time.  Sunset on a clear day from the top of the Met is a perfect reminder that the true art of New York City is not just confined to its museums.
 

4.  Wine and Cheese from Grand Central Market:  Everyone loves wine and cheese.  And if you find yourself on a date with someone who doesn't, they better be lactose intolerant or vegan.  Otherwise, I've got to question your taste.  The majesty of Grand Central Terminal has the potential to perk up any date (especially if you are cute enough to introduce someone to the "whispering walls" in the basement).  But, wander the terminal to buy wine at Grande Harvest and fresh artisanal cheeses in the Market and take it only a few blocks over to Bryant Park, and you've got yourself a picnic of romantic proportions.  Just remember to purchase a bottle with a twist top and keep it under wraps in public.

5.  Off the Island:  Explore an outer borough for an afternoon.  There is no better way to bond than by the process of forging new inroads together.  Brooklyn is always a favorite and can be had for just a 15 minute subway ride across the East River.  There is no better place to hipster-spot and eat baked goods out of trucks parked on the side of the road.  Or venture over to Hoboken (the honorary outer borough), and treat yourself to Ralph's banana creme water ice and a stroll along the waterfront for only the cost of 10 minutes on the PATH.

6.  Be a Tourist:  How many of us live and work in New York City day in and day out but have never seen Ellis Island or topped the Empire State Building?  (Hand raised.)  The reason for that is obvious -- we hate lines and crowds and out-of-towners.  But, even if you cringe at the idea of fighting the foreigners at the Statue of Liberty, don't discount the charm of being a tourist in your own city for a day.  Suggestion: take a pedi-cab ride through Central Park.  Not only can you negotiate your own price, but they usually build in a cute little narrative about the bigger landmarks, point out celebrity residences, and pause for pictures.  If not for the pedi-cab, I would never have found out about weekend Salsa lessons in the Park.

7.  Ice Skating:  Rockefeller Center, Bryant Park, South Street Seaport, Central Park, Chelsea Piers -- the options for outdoor ice skating in NYC abound as soon as the air gets cold enough for a light jacket.  Maybe it's cliched, but there's a reason ice skating in NYC features so prominently in romantic comedies -- it's romantic.  And fun (or funny, depending on your abilities).  In any case, it gives you an opportunity to hold hands and warm each other up afterwards (::wink wink::).

8.  Chelsea Market and the Highline:  Who says dating is better after dark?  Buck tradition and schedule yourself a morning date.  Grab a pastry from any one of the fine bakeries in Chelsea Market (recommend the Cherry Cream Scone at Amy's Bread) and a cappuccino from Ninth Street Espresso.  Then, take your operation on up to the Highline (entrance at 14th Street) and soak up whatever sun is left in the season.  Word of warning: it can get breezy up there, so don't underestimate the value of an extra layer or two.  It's a nice little walk and affords you the opportunity to make allusions to what you'd do with a night in the Standard Hotel...

9.  Get All Dolled Up:  Fancy for the sake of fancy.  It's rare that we ever really have occasion to hit the town in our finest, so create one on your own!  Do it up right -- pick your date up in a taxi and whisk her away to the MOBar or The Lobby Lounge at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel.  Sip on fancy cocktails in your fancy clothes and trip the light fantastic in Midtown, like they used to in the good old days when men wore hats and ladies wore stockings and wooing was an art en vogue.

10.  IKEA Water Taxi:  There is nothing intrinsically romantic about a home goods store.  But, the novelty of a water taxi ride from Manhattan's Pier 11 to the Brooklyn IKEA just might lend a little credibility to the date. (Plus, it's free on weekends.) And, provided you're in the right company, getting comfy in the artistically designed IKEA showrooms can turn into anything from a giggle-fest to a serious discussion on contemporary home design.  It's something different, anyway.  And if you're feeling really adventurous, purchase a ridiculous kitchen gadget and challenge yourselves to go home and find a way to use it cooking dinner for each other.

11.  Brooklyn Botanic Garden:  It might be a garden, but it's open year-round.  Admittedly, the outdoor areas might get a little drab in the winter.  But, there is always something to learn at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.  Plus, even in the winter, a little natural beauty in Brooklyn can't help but bring out the natural beauty in all of us.  A good excuse for a stroll hand in hand if nothing else.

12.  Hiking:  Speaking of natural beauty, nothing seems farther removed from New York City than nature itself.  But, only an 80 minute train ride on Metro-North away, you can get both of your blood pumping on a hike of Breakneck Ridge in the Hudson Highlands State Park.  Don a pair of hiking boots or some broken-in sneakers and scale the rocky terrain to attain gorgeous views of the "other" New York.  There's nothing like a little physical exertion to set the mood.  Remember to bring plenty of water and a snack or lunch to share at the top!

13.  Cooking Class:  There's no shortage of cooking classes available in Manhattan.  But, Rustico Cooking is particularly accessible and specializes in Italian.  Who doesn't like Italian??  Rustico offers a range of classes from Beginner's Italian to pizza making to specialty sauces, mostly for under $100 per person.  It may be pricey, but knowledge is invaluable and you may just make an impression with how well you work with your hands (and follow instructions...::grin::).  If nothing else, you'll be able to whip up something delightful for the next date you want to impress.

14.  Window Shopping in SoHo:  Hand in hand.  Arm in arm.  Wrist-deep in each others' back pockets, junior high style.  There's no wrong way to window shop in SoHo.  Steer clear of the human press on Broadway, and you just might manage a private moment or two smelling candles or exclaiming over unique handi-crafts.  Plus, window shopping with someone expedites insight into their sense of style in a way that might otherwise take months to discern.  If all goes well, you can cap it off with a stop at Baked By Melissa and a stroll up to the iconic Washington Square Park.  But, the minute he picks up that rhinestone-studded Ed Hardy shirt, beat it out of there and change your number asap.

15.  Play Hooky:  Disclaimer --> I am in no way advocating shirking responsibility or subpar job performance.  That being said, nothing adds a thrill to a date quite like the forbidden fruit of playing hooky.  Call in sick (hey, it's a mental health day) and make off with your partner in crime.  Doctors have proven the mental and emotional benefits of playing hooky from work.  (If you don't believe me, check it out for yourself -- The Free Spirit Project.)  Of course, I recommend having little to no plan for the day, whatsoever.  Leaving the door open to possibilities and living in the moment leaves a lot of room for surprises.  But whether you use the day to explore the city or stay between the sheets, it's a universal truth that being bad just feels so good...it's science.

English physicist and novelist, C.P. Snow, once said, "The pursuit of happiness is a most ridiculous phrase; if you pursue happiness you'll never find it."  I tend to believe that there is some truth to that.  But, it's definitely not the whole story.  American poet James Oppenheim completed the thought when he remarked, "The foolish man seeks happiness in the distance, the wise grows it under his feet."  It is not enough to view happiness as a goal to be attained.  To do so sets happiness, like most goals, just out of reach.  Rather, make the possibility of happiness tangible and bring it into the present by creating opportunities for happiness to find you.

Mind the (Age) Gap

Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher.  Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins.  Madonna and Guy Ritchie.  Lucille Ball and Desi Arnez.  Older woman.  Younger man.  Clearly, it's not a new idea.  (At 26, Anne Hathaway was eight years older than her 18-year-old husband, William Shakespeare.)  But, recently, it seems to be almost en vogue.  For most of my life, I have lived by the rule that I only date men my age or older.  Men mature more slowly than women, so why would I subject myself to any more moronic a man than was absolutely necessary, right? 

My older-men-only rule has come under some serious fire lately, however.   First, because I met a few older men this year who called into question the assumption that with age comes wisdom.  In fact, after I kicked one prime less-than-honest specimen to the curb, he admitted to me that he had misled me because, at a full decade older than me, he was embarrassed that I had my life more "together" than he did.  While I applaud his (very tardy) honesty, it also served to impress upon me the hang-up most older men have with regard to the archaic image of the "man as provider."  Having spent some time lately with a few younger men, I have found that this idea that they must be the superior breadwinners in the relationship has seriously diluted over the last 15 years.  My (slightly older) ex-husband once told me that I was not allowed to mention my income (i.e. that I made more money than him), even when discussing our budget.   

However, an almost five-years-younger man I went out with recently expressed genuine enthusiasm at the thought of being a stay-at-home dad.  Society is ever evolving, so where is the wisdom in refusing to change our own ideas about archetypal relationship/family structures?  If anything, what the last few younger men have proved to me (by contrast with the older men) is that, with age, comes ego, if anything.

And why wouldn't it?  According to my friend Dr. M (a thoroughly macho man), men over thirty in a place like NYC develop a certain ego when it come to women as a result of having been messed around with during their 20s by women who are boring, manipulative, strategizing, self centered, and shallow.  By the time they reach 30, they are not only accomplished in their careers and financially stable, but they have tired of the games women their own age have been playing for the last ten years.  They just don't give a shit anymore, says Dr. M.  And by now, the 20-year-old women are also in their 30's, desperate, and baby-hungry.  What an opportunity for revenge -- especially now that the 30-year-old men can finally snag the 20-year-old women by playing the "wealth and power" card.  The older women may be more straightforward and mature in their third decade, but the older men are too fed-up to care.

I am beginning to think, however, that this may actually be to my advantage.  While I don't believe I qualify as a cougar just yet, I am old enough to have a whole decade of dateable men below me on the age-scale.  And, as I have been dipping into this pool of eligible bachelors lately, I am starting to notice the benefits of dating a younger man that earlier escaped me. 

I asked my Cleveland friend, JI, having just been married to a man a few years her junior, what she likes about being with a younger man. Among other things, she laughed and said that it only makes sense that she marry a younger man -- because women live longer than men, marrying a younger man decreased her chances of outliving him.  (This biological argument is, of course, countered by the fact that female fertility runs out quite a bit sooner than male fertility.) 

In all seriousness, though, younger men tend to have a slightly more flexible worldview (as discussed above with regard to relationship dynamics), which can be much more accommodating of the lifestyle of a career-focused woman.  Most of my girlfriends who are my age have been working very hard on their careers for a number of years, and are not all that excited to give up on all that sweat equity to make way for someone else's career ambitions.  It also doesn't hurt that, by 30, the career-focused woman is not that different than the 30-year-old man in that, not having been supported for the last decade, she is often more financially stable and less likely to choose a man for his ability to fund the relationship.

Plus, men in their 20s have more energy, are less jaded, and tend to be more active than men in their 30s.  These attributes lend a certain vitality to the relationship that keeps us women from stagnating, as so often happens when one is hitched to a husband who watches sports on the couch all weekend.  True, if men in their 20s today possess these general characteristics, then they probably did when we were in our 20s as well.  But, 20-year-old women are not really in a position to appreciate the positive aspects of the 20-year-old man, mainly because we were still all in a tizzy trying to find ourselves and control our environment at that age.

Women who have made it to 30 alive and single have often done so only by weathering significant storms on the relationship front.  Often we have had a few serious relationships (or marriages) by our age.  And while we may come to port a little emotionally battered, our experience has often made us less self-conscious and more emotionally stable when it comes to dealing with the ups and downs of a relationship.  We are less likely to be needy and more likely to be giving.  I can say from experience that I have changed more as a person in my 20s than I did during any other period in my life.  A few years can make a big difference in personal philosophies and romantic ideologies.  My 25-year-old cousin recently got engaged to his girlfriend, a woman six years his senior.  And while it took the oldest generation of my family a little time to get over the gap, seeing the two of them together makes the older woman-younger man phenomenon make sense.  The trials and tribulations (including a divorce) that she has endured have only served to make her deeper and more beautiful both physically and as a person.  And my cousin, with all of his youthful vim and vigor, is in a position not only to appreciate that about her but to express it with the energy and enthusiasm that she deserves.  While a younger woman still clings to the notion that love is the fancy, self-centered pink bubble that ends in marriage, an older one is more likely to have the perspective to know that marriage doesn't necessarily equate to love and to focus more on her partner than on herself.  (Plus, let's face it, we also have experience on other fronts that give all that 20-year-old man energy someplace to go...in the bedroom.)

Clearly, the older-men-only rule hasn't been working out all that well for me.  For years, it has seemed like I am just never on the same page with the men I dated.  When I was younger, I just couldn't figure out why they didn't seem interested in a relationship.  Now that I am a little older, I just can't seem to figure out why they do.  I have been theorizing lately that it must be because men and women age in reverse when it comes to relationships. 

Younger women often crave a committed relationship.  This might be due to societal pressure to get married and start a family, naivete about the nature of romantic love, or a basic insecurity.  In any case, most women I knew who were college age or slightly above had a pretty singular focus on finding the "one" and settling down.  As we have gotten older, those of us who have remained single have all but abandoned this former version of ourselves.  I would not say that we've gone so far as to be bitter or jaded, but we are definitely more realistic and less wistful.  We are less attached to idealized romance and more focused on just having fun.  If a relationship comes along, great, but most of my single girlfriends pushing 30 are just as (if not more) happy without one.  Marriage is not even on our radar.  Overall, we are as a group more adventurous, more easy going, and more willing to embrace the unknown.

The journey men take through their 20s and into their 30s seems to be the inverse of our own, however.  Many men in their early 20s are focused on their careers and establishing themselves as productive members of society.  They are still somewhat in "frat boy" mode, having fun with their friends and trying to figure out what women want.  This is all much to the consternation of women in their 20s the world over.  But, I have found that men, as they enter their thirties and find that they now have a career and stability, become more serious about finding a woman.  One of my savvy girlfriends analogizes men to taxi cabs in this way:  They drive around for decades with their lights off, closed for business, disappointing hopeful woman after hopeful woman on the curb.  But eventually, the day comes when they turn their lights on, ready to pick up a passenger, and the next eligible entrant is suddenly the "one".  At some point as they progress into their thirties, most men I have known turn their proverbial "lights" on.  And, maybe the reason so many of them seem to end up with cute, younger women is because those women are the ones who are ready to get in.  By the time the 30-year-old man turns on his light, however, the 30-year-old woman has left the curb in favor of hoofing it on her own.

This pattern is one of the reasons why younger men and older women are so perfect for one another.  In some sense, they are on the same page.  For different reasons, both are having fun exploring life, not viewing anything too seriously, and taking their time finding their way.  They stand to learn a lot from one another -- the older woman contributes her experience and the younger man his ebullience.  All things considered, it is not all that difficult to see that Ms. Hathaway was on to something back in 1582.  And with that, I hereby officially adopt an all-ages policy (within the parameters of what the applicable governmental bodies consider legal).  After all, age is just a number, and numbers have never really been my thing anyway.

My mother visited this weekend, which is fitting seeing as she happens to be a woman who married a (slightly) younger man.  I was busy showing her what it is like to be almost 30 in the city that never sleeps, which means there were a lot of repeat venues this weekend.  However, we did discover one new place, which will definitely never get old...

Cafe Orlin
St. Mark's Place btw 1st and 2nd Ave (closer to 2nd)

Hands down new favorite brunch in the East Village.  At this point, I have tried a number of "the best" brunch locations in my eclectic little neighborhood, therefore I tend to think I know what I am talking about.  So, believe me when I say that if you haven't had the Diana's Breakfast at Cafe Orlin, then you are seriously missing out.  I haven't ever combined hummus and eggs-over-easy before, but now am wondering how it took me so long to find this delightful combination.  Even the pita was better than average.  Mom was still raving about her meal hours later.  Plus, the espresso was exceptional.  The service was mediocre at best, however.  And, this is the only place I have been to in the East Village where screaming children were an issue.  But, I would venture to say that even that was worth it for the tabbouleh.