During the holiday season, Barfly frequently finds that we are jealous of non-city dwellers. Yes, we have our loneliness, bitterly mumbled Christmas carols, and "figgy pudding" (can anyone recommend a reliable figgy dealer?). But, glorious suburbanites have all of the above and strip malls. Conspicuous consumption tastes even more delicious when you're 30-deep in a register line at Kohl's (25 of which are expatriated Indian housewives with kohl's cash tucked into every fold of their Santa sari.)
The other evening we longed for a taste of this suburb holiday spirit. We decided to jingle over to New York's own gentrified strip mall - Restaurant Row. There surely would be some suburban tourists with polyester Santa hats to keep us company. And if not, at least we could afford ourselves some mediocre Italian cuisine at one of the dumpy dining establishments. Their stale foccia is a sophisticated New Yorker's version of fruitcake (the fruity chunks replaced with dead baby roaches).
We almost ended up going to Yum Thai as we thought it would be fun to convert the heathenish waiters to Christianity, i.e. threaten to call the I.N.S. if they didn't take a Jesus pledge (plus we love spring rolls). But, as we walked down the street we heard the tinkling of a piano. Christmas music spilled out of one dilapidated looking bar. The sign read Don't Tell Mama and illuminated our way like the star of Bethlehem. If only those poor Thai waiters would get a glimpse. God help their damned Buddhist souls.
We sat at the bar in a room full of tourists. Our Christmas wish had come true. We may not be able to revel in the Muzak at Kohl's but we sure as hell could enjoy the singing waiters and piano player at one of the most non-New York institutions that exists: the piano bar. The only thing better? If they plopped the manger down in midtown and trotted out the little drummer boy for all to hear. Even that wouldn't be able to capture the true spirit of the suburban holidays. They wouldn't be selling anything.
Caught up in the spirit of giving we've decided that everything gets a glorious 5 olives (!) on this Christmas Eve. Yes, that includes the singing waitress with the corncob hat. Five olives to the fact that she was wearing an oversize sweater to hide her 1) immaculate pregnancy or 2) impetus for New Year's resolution. We call her Patty - and would like to wish her a very Merry Christmas indeed. You might want to cool it on those Cosmos Patty, because whether its #1 or #2, you've got problems.
To the rest of you, we suppose you get 5 olives, yada yada. . . Happy holidays, blah blah blah. . . All this "joy". . .how exhausting. Do we really have to do this every year? Though, those Kohl's cash coupons do make all this baby Jesus humbug seem worth it. They've got Vera Wang designing pillows now. Five olives indeed!
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