One of the things that makes Fozzie a good boyfriend is his complete lack of resentment at traveling to Brooklyn to be with me. He lives in Queens, after all. In Astoria, Queens, which means he's forced to take the
N train from the last stop (or, I suppose, depending on your point of view, the
first stop) on the line to Union Square, where he transfers across the platform to the
Q train, on which he rides some unconscionable number of stops to arrive for a two-block walk to my apartment.
Sure, you could argue that my willingness to go to the wilds of Astoria makes me a good boyfriend, too, but for now we're focusing on
this side of the coin, so back off.
This week, our date night was moved from its usual Friday night slot to Saturday, the better to accomodate our Sunday morning plans. More on that later.
So anyway, on Saturday night, he dragged himself from his little Fozzie Bear Den in Astoria, and came to crash in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn, with me. We'd planned an evening of burgers at our favorite restaurant in my neighborhood, followed by a walk over to Cobble Hill to see what was playing at the cinemas.
Ah, the best laid plans, my friends.
Turns out "our" place — Helios — was either closed permanently or for renovation (that place was always just too invitingly empty; there was no way it could last very long), so our quest for a burger ended up taking us far afield, indeed.
I struck upon the genius idea of stopping in at the
Font of Dionysus and soliciting suggestions from the Purveyors of Liquid Happiness there. Chief among those suggestions was Red Cafe, a place several doors down from The Font, and one in which I'd had more than one really good meal.
Alas, that was not meant to be. The Red Cafe was chock full of people, and the server did everything he could — short of coming right out and saying "fuck off" — to convince us that our eating there was not in the stars. Despite the fact that there was one empty two-top and one two-top on the way to finishing its evening, the pretty, vacuous server-boy insisted that those tables were going to be put together for a reservation for four. When Fozzie asked if we might eat at the bar, server-boy was confounded and insisted he'd have to check with the chef. Rather than bite his head off, which was, sadly, my first instinct, I summoned an imagine in my head of
The Waiter, tried to retain my
wa and quickly exited the building before turning into The Asshole Customer From Hell™.
The second most prominent suggestion from the Purveyors was a place I'd heard of but, sadly, had
no idea how to find. And much like a testosterone-ridden boob unable to read a map and eschewing helpful directions from strangers, I was
hardly going to ask.
So we wandered 5th Avenue in Brooklyn until we came upon
Bogota Latin Bistro. This joint, too, was crowded beyond belief. I'm continually amazed that I moved away from my neighborhood for all of eight months and suddenly 5th Avenue is turned into Williamsburg. Go figure.
In any case, despite it's packed-ness, the manager & host of Bogota tried to give us a good idea of how long we'd wait, took our names, and pointed us to the bar so we could relax. The whole operation had this creeping feeling of being
this close to being completely overwhelmed by the crowd that was packing the place. The host forgot to put our name on the list, and Fozzie had to remind him not just of our names but — and for this, I admire him, since I'd have just fumed and been bitter — that we were
second on the list.
Once we were at our table, we understood why everyone was wandering around in a daze. We were seated next to a table of at least twenty-five people, and every waiter on the floor looked like they were gobsmacked just trying to deal with it. I hardly blame them. Back in the Stone Age, when I was a waiter, the very thought of a table of more than four people could cause me to break out in a sweat. Of course, I was a
terrible waiter.
No, really. Ask anyone.
Anyway, our waiter was also serving the Table o' Madness, so the evening didn't exactly scream along like poop through a goose.
That having been said, the food was really good. I'm going to definitely go back and give the place another try, or several tries, and hope that my next visit doesn't coincide with the arrival of a party more numerous than the stars in the firmament.
Needless to say, our evening was running behind schedule, so it looked like our movie plans were going to suffer.
All worked out, though, as we returned to my apartment and Fozzie selected a movie from my
vast DVD library. We watched
The Daytrippers, which he'd not seen, settling in on the sofa for a lovely evening.
I love that movie. Everyone in it is amazing, and the film is a nice tribute to New York City before 9/11 — thought it's painfully obvious that the film's budget forced them to shoot at hours when no one was around; the New York of
The Daytrippers, as Fozzie pointed out, "has no one in it."
The film's remarkable in that it's got a bunch of then-unknown New York stage actors in it: Parker Posey, Liev Schrieber, Stanley Tucci and an hilarious cameo by future Oscar-winner Marcia Gay Harden.
Oh, to have their careers. Even one of their careers.
Pardon me, I went to The Dark Place™ for just a moment.
I'm back.
Anyway, the next morning, we roused ourselves for a walk in the rain and had brunch with a dear old friend of Fozzie's, The Blonde Bombshell™. TBB has known Fozz for, I think, at least seven or eight years, and they've been working hard at reconnecting for just about a year now.
I think she's delightful. She's smart. She's funny. She's truly pretty. She's tall and striking. And she can get me discounted product from
my favorite skin care store. What's not to love?!?
The walk in the rain was occasioned because there's just no easy way to get from my neighborhood to hers. TBB™ lives in Cobble Hill, another delightful little enclave in Brooklyn.
Fairly promptly for us, we arrived at TBB's suggested rendezvous,
Patois. It's a delightful little Bistro on
Smith Street. The brunch menu was fairly broad — I had steak & eggs and Fozz and TBB had the frittata.
Tres yummy.
And the bread, coffee & tea and mimosas were included. All you can drink.
I was sloshed at noon.
After a little shopping for Fozz' school needs (about which I grew increasingly impatient... sorry Fozz! I hadn't yet explained to him that I'm not a very patient shopper — seriously, my style of shopping is best described as "the surgical strike" ), we trundled back to my place and succumbed to the exhaustion of our full morning.
And took a refreshing nap.
At 1 p.m.
After having been up for, oh, four hours.
Did I mention I was drunk on the free mimosas?
After the nap, I gave Fozz the boot and sent him off to study. Unfortunately, the languor had set in, and I was useless for the rest of the day.
Which is why I love me some weekend.
I discovered over the weekend who one of my unknown visitors is. Are? Is?
Fuck it.
Fozz clued me in that a certain friend of his was reading, which explains my occasional visitor from Greensboro, NC. I thought perhaps it might be the parents of
The JayBird of Happiness, but I was wrong, wrong, wrongitty wrong.
So a big fat "hello" to Fozzie's friend from Greensboro, who shares, coincidentally, the first name of The Blonde Bombshell. Little did we know that since Fozz is so busy with law school, his friends have to check up on him through me.
Another satisfied customer here in the blogtastrophy, ladies and germs.
Case in point: At the height of my D&D obsession (I was, of course, the 
The Jaybird of Happiness will be visiting in early November, directly after I return from my in-lieu-of-a-holiday-visit visit with my mom.
