I came to the city with myriad expectations about the progress of my career and my opportunities to develop as a person. But, perhaps most secret (and most of all), I came with the expectation that somewhere is this mess of faces and feet, of steel and granite, there is someone out there who will make the world a softer place. What a cliche -- coming to the big city to find love. But, in some way, we all hang our hopes for our other half on this place. And why not? It harbors the single largest collection of young, good-looking, interesting people on this side of the Atlantic. As investments go, the Big Apple is not a bad one. It is the gold standard of civilization. The melting pot of humanity. And, for me, the single largest man store on the planet. Let the retail therapy commence.
And, believe me, I have been shopping around. One month in, and I have been on dates with the cavorting Brit who wasn't quite as charming as his accent, the baby-face doughboy who just wanted so desperately to be taken seriously, the ex-depressive television writer, the overly-sensitive religious academic, the Napoleon Dynamite-esque website owner who hadn't worked a day since he was 15, the 22-year-old college grad with the sweet little face, the designer-turned-businessman-turned-real estate developer who must have lost my number, the tortured artist, and the hottest man I have ever seen up close who definitely won't call me back simply because it's just not mathematically possible that someone that hot would date someone like me. (Not that I am not attractive, but this guy would have put celebrities to shame.) The collection is growing. And yet, almost all of them have a common theme: the fake goodnight kiss.
We reach the foot of my stoop, or the street corner where we part ways, or the door of the taxi that will whisk me back to the East Village, and they all smile, lean in, plant one right on my lips (sometimes a little too enthusiastically) and say "Let's do this again next week" or something similar. Now, I am no dummy. I know very well that each of these dates was either awkward, or forced, or lack-luster, or bizarre, or slightly sad. I know if I want to see that person again. Sometimes I do. Most of the time I don't. But, either way, the practice of the fake goodnight kiss is deceptive. Obviously, if I want to see the person again and they engage in the fake goodnight kiss, I am disappointed when they never call or, god forbid, stand me up the next time. Worse than that, if I don't want to see them again (and of course receive the goodnight kiss out of sheer politeness), then I spend the next week worrying that they will actually follow through, and that I will subsequently have to play the bad guy and let them down. (Or, more likely, just ignore their calls or texts.) But, STILL -- each fake goodnight kiss leaves me with at least a week of angst either way. This is very bad manners, boys!
In all of my outings with each of these potential suitors, I have only experienced ONE goodnight kiss that was not fake on either side. ONE first date that turned into a second and a third. And to get to that, I had to wade through the crap -- the whining, the posturing, the lying, the boasting, the bull shit -- of over half a dozen fake goodnight kisses. Please, only kiss goodnight if you actually liked the person and if you have the honest feeling that he or she actually liked you back. We all know when it sparks or it sputters. Or better yet, don't even kiss goodnight on the first date. Then, if he does call (and she does answer), it is a pleasant surprise for them both.
As for the one that made it past, the goalie...we'll see how that turns out. In the meantime, I'll leave you with a few of the hotspots I happened to hit on my way into the NYC dating pool:
WXOU Radio Bar
Hudson between W. 11th St. and Perry
A cozy neighborhood bar with neon radio signs and an old-fashioned jukebox where I met up with the television writer, who I dated for a while before he found someone more retro, more hip, more WXOU than me.
Niagara
Corner of E. 7th St. and Ave. A
The vintage rocker joint with arcade games and spinning vinyl where I ran into the 22-year-old and his friends. They were not only convinced that I was from the South, but that I could be no more than 23 years old. Oh, boys...
The Frying Pan
Pier 66 (W. 26th St. and Westside Hwy)
Who hasn't been to the frying pan. Stopped for a beer here on a perfect day, during an imperfect date. But, nothing could detract from the glory of the Hudson on a bright day with a breeze (not even the uncomfortably close way he positioned his chair, so that I occasionally had to touch his sweaty arm). I can't imagine day drinking anywhere else.
The Smith
3rd Ave. between E. 11th and E. 12th St.
I met the baby-faced boy here for brunch and a stroll around town one sunny Sunday afternoon. It was a very informative tour of NYC, but I just wanted to pinch his cheeks the whole time. Great place for brunch, though.
Schiller's Liquor Bar
Corner of Rivington and Norfolk
Another great brunch location. Of course, don't plan on going with a lovelorn painter who wears sweaters on the hottest day of the year. He'll order eggs, bacon and toast, and some how manage to not eat a bite, while you feel like a heifer with your bagel with tomato. Oh cruel world...
Nurse Betty
Norfolk between Rivington and Delancey
Sat outside of this tiny little place with the Brit a few weeks back. We opted into Nurse Betty when we tried The Back Room (a hidden little gem of a 1920's speakeasy located next door) and found it empty on a Sunday night. I'll admit, the bartender had a British accent, so the beer tasted better automatically. But, the spot was quiet and cozy all the same. (Although, it probably get packed at peak hours.)
Simone
Corner of 1st Ave and St. Mark's
I took the sensitive religious academic to this place -- my favorite neighborhood spot. Only upon arriving and order a glass of wine, did I discover that he was serious when he said he doesn't drink. At all. He did, however, cop to smoking a lot of weed. So, two strikes, you're out my friend. But this place has a nice sidewalk seating area, wide open windows, good bartenders, and a great goat cheese salad.
Yaffa Cafe
E. 7th St. between 1st Ave and Ave. A
Eclectic to say the least. Caught a quick dinner here with the baby-faced boy after he agreed to keep things platonic. Our waiter was cute and nice, with this weird gay-Israeli accent. And the veggie-goat cheese wrap was satisfying. The guac was shit, though.
Dumpling Man
St. Mark's between 1st Ave. and Ave. A
Dumpling. Just dumplings. Hope you like dumplings. Napoleon Dynamite took me here (and let me pay my own way, thanks for nothing) to eat possibly the yummiest dumplings ever. This was after he ate tapas at some Spanish place and before the cupcakes and coffee in Brooklyn. The boy liked to eat. What a bizarre and random date with a bizarre and random dude.
Zanzibar
Corner of 9th Ave. and W. 45th St.
It might have been Hell's Kitchen, but it felt like the Meatpacking District. Classy vibe, inconvenient seating, good spirits, and a bunch of apps that I didn't get to eat. Tip for the gents: if you ask a lady to drinks after work and keep her there for more than 2 hours, order some food, you fool!
The Perfect Pint
E. 45th St. between 2nd and 3rd Ave. (closer to 3rd)
Two of my potential suitors actually brought me to this place. Cute Irish pub, with four different floors to accommodate a dinner crowd, a corporate event, and a bunch of drunken idiots all on one place. They have a rooftop space that they spritz with misting fans and decorate with beer paraphernalia (the garbage cans are reformed kegs and the door handles are tap handles). It's got an authentic thatched roof and all of the bartenders are actually Irish. Supposedly, the Guiness tastes better here than other places, because it flows so freely...
City Winery
Corner of Varick and Vandam
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