Saturday, March 29, 2008

Everyone Was Looking at My Legs

I had to go out tonight. Everyone had been looking at my legs today.


I’d decided to wear the red-and-black fishnets, the ones from this picture which had gotten so much attention already. Walking down the street, I had women and men stop me to tell me how great my hosiery was, and even more that just stared.


I’d had my heart set on seeing Dark Fair at the Swiss Institute so I waited in line for a while outside, slowly realizing I was dressed too nicelycompared to all the hipster folk I was surrounded by. When I finally got in, after at least a half hour wait outside, I immediately played pinball and wondered why I was there. There didn’t seem to be anytihng else to do.


After I left, after a bit of SoHo walking about which resulted in nothing, I went to Mercat so  I could just sit and drink. Fortuitously, a party rejected their shrimp order, so I got to eat their head-on prawns in olive oil and peanuts. After that, my appetite was whet enough to order the sauteed brussel sprouts with chestnuts and serrano, while a free order of pea shoots with pine nuts and golden raisins appeared from a waiter who felt sorry for me being alone.


After also getting a free bite of the duck with the roasted pear with cinnamon and chocolate, I was really starting to think it was MY NIGHT. When I got the bill, I was only charged for 1 wine out of three.Still, I kind of felt like I was cheating on Bar Jamon. I ordered Mercat’s version of pan con tomate and kind of liked it better. And I liked the txakoli better than the albarino.But the guys there weren’t as cute.


I did meet two other patrons and followed them next door for another drink, but the one I didn’t want wanted me, and the one I did want wanted someone else. Such is life. Typical of the way things always used to go, and the way I once refused to go again in the future.


So I thought I might try to withdraw from Bar Jamon this weekend, but now I feel even more strongly about going...


Earlier in the evening, while strutting my stockinged legs and sore heeled feet through the cobblestone streets of SoHo, a guy stopped to ask me if I’d been stood up. His accent threw me off and I thought he was asking if I was trying to stand out.


I suppose I was.