Tuesday, June 24, 2008

and yet, no mario...

Those of you in my inner circle received an excited text yesterday, announcing that I was in brand new clothes on the Upper West Side, having tomato soup alone in a classy joint and chatting with the hot French bartender.
1. Yep. You're my inner circle.
2. I was on the Upper East Side. You'd think I'd know this. I regard myself as the human compass.
Anyway, here's what I wrote in my journal:
I'm really quite delighted with this new ensemble, even though I could've bought it at Market and Powell. I changed in the dressing room, hoping no one would notice that I emerged, not in the sweaty silk top and what my mother would call "travel pants", but in what I now regard as something far more acceptable. Shit, I was walking around feeling like a sad, under-dressed extra in Sex in the City. I'm now, newly dressed, sitting at some French joint having tomato soup at the bar and I can report that the bartender is hot.
His celebrity equivilent is...oh shit, Ryan Gossling. Taller, a little bigger, but otherwise, Ryan! Oh sweet Jesus in heaven, there's some mens up in New York. (ewwwww, I actually wrote that. Sick!) He's French, it appears. French and hot? Shit, very French. And very hot. And very ESL. He is currently surrounded by three supermodel hostess/waitresses pretending to laugh at his jokes, he's THAT precious. He is, gasp, wearing several friendship bracelets. And yet, he owns it.
I'm not saying I want to sit across a dinner table from him, speaking slowly, using hand gestures. I'm just saying I want to run my fingers down his naked French back.
Wow, he's really Gossling-y and really French-y.
Ugh, the French.
If we were on a date and got mugged, he'd probably throw me in harm's way and run.
Kidding, historically educated hippies. Kidding.
3:10pm: Golly, he's speaking in French to two dudes next to me. It's fabulous! He just gave them directions to Central Park.
Oh yes, Je parlez.
I am now noticeably smiling.
I think I may love him.
And his bony, judgemental Euro-mother.
And his bracelets from 1992.
And his mistress.
Holy shit, he just b(r)ought me a glass of wine with a confused, yet knowing smile.
Um, oh my god.
What does this mean? (At this point, I wrote OMG! on repeat for like, 8 pages. Then I gave him an appalling tip and raced out of there. I'm a dork with no self esteem/game. Sue me.)

Still, from this experience, I mustered the confidence to meet strangers (aka: Andre's fabulous and friendly friends) for drinks before dining alone at the bar of Babbo. It's something I always wanted to do and quite frankly, it was fabulous; not really because it's a big, fancy restaurant, but because I sat there, in the Village, in my outfit and earrings, with my wine and my charcuterie, chatting with Ken the bartender, entirely alone...and I looked up and saw myself in the mirror and was all, "Hell muthafucking yeah, bitches..."


Brett said...

Now that you can do a morning after post mortem, any regrets?

Be_Devine said...

I'm so glad you decided to go meet Andre's friends!! Sounds like you were fabulous and had a fabulous time.

Anonymous said...

I am in France and the French bartenders aren't that nice at all. I wish my Paris adventures sounded like Sports NYC adventures. Le Sigh.

Spots said...

Brett: My only regret is perhaps, maybe, depending up the other option, my first course choice. Otherwise, none.

Brian: I'm so glad you egged me on!

Sweet Melissa said...

Beth!! You promised not to have any fun without me! How could you?

Heheh. Glad you are feeling fabulous. Still need you to return immidiately!

-La Missus

Becky said...

Love it!

Becky said...
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