Back when I visited NY in January one of my best pals Mark and I got to spend a night placating clients (for me former clients) and thereby raising some hell in the meatpacking district. Nothing too crazy but just hitting some of the old haunts from back in the glory days of our romps in Manhattan. After diffusing a situation that nearly led to a bar-room brawl in one of the clubs, Mark and I got down to brass tacks. Mark insisted that it would mean a great deal if I came to his wedding in September.
As with any great friend I would have loved to come but with being unemployed and right in the middle of stint two it just wasn't fiscally feasible. Being the tremendously loyal and standup guy he is, he immediately offered to front me the money indefinitely. I could see it really meant that much to him so I accepted. Eight months later almost to the day I was on a flight from Bucharest to NY to see my old pal walk the aisle. Ten months ago I started Wanderlust and embarked on this adventure. It seems like only weeks and yet it seems like years. Strange, the passage of time.
I touched down in JFK. Immediately I felt uneasy. I'd come through this airport, this terminal even, numerous times in the past. Probably stood at these very custom desks. But each of those times I was coming home. I was at the end of my journey. Here, I was just a visitor. A vagabond passing through. It was an odd feeling. I felt like a tourist who had somehow been implanted with a local's knowledge. I made my way via the well worn route- Airtrain to the E to Penn Station, losing no time at metrocard kiosks.
Penn Station is where it really hit me. I stepped into the Amtrak Terminal and there it was, right in my face. This is no longer my home. I am again an outsider. I've come and gone through that exact terminal probably 50 times, but it was all I could do to keep myself together. The crush of people, the throbbing hurried mob pressing through entryways like blood cells forced through arteries and then exploding in every direction like a hornets from a shattered nest.
I moved as quickly and concisely as I could to my destination: the NJ Transit terminal to buy my ticket down to the shore. The plan was for me to head directly to the rehearsal dinner in Allenhurst. The lines for the automated ticket booth were repellant. Luckily, I was armed with the parlor tricks of a local up my sleeve. I headed for the manned ticket booths. Those things turn over at an astonishing rate. I had 20 minutes until my next train departed. There were 25 people in front of me. I had my ticket and was on my way in 9 minutes.
The train ride down was uneventful. I had to connect at Long Branch, as one always does, and after about 4.5 hours from the point of touchdown at JFK I was standing on the platform in Allenhurst. The restaurant was only a few blocks away- down one of the main streets past some multi-million dollar houses. A block or so away I stopped and changed into a nicer shirt and withdrew my suit-jacket (which was noticeably wrinkled but less so than I had anticipated).
When I walked in the front door of this "classy" joint, and I say "classy" because it's NJ. But it is actually classy, yet it's also "classy" in a tacky 80's mobster sort of way. You'll understand in a minute. Unfortunately words don't describe the looks of horror, disgust, and concern I got from the host staff when I walked through the door carrying my jacket and with the giant backpack on my shoulders.
It went something like this: "Yyyyyyes?" "I'm here for the wedding. The Marsella wedding." "Uh, one second. Shelia!?" "Yes?" "Yes, I'm here for the Marsella wedding. Do you have a coat check for this bag?" "No... follow me. Come on, let's go." So now me, a bit taken aback, threw on the jacket and carried the sack following her into the main part of the restaurant. The look of confusion from the other patrons was nearly as awesome as the look from the hosts. We pass by a band and I do a double take. Have I suddenly been transported into the set of Goodfellas? Are we at the Suite Lounge? These guys were rocking do-wop and just killing it.
We arrive at a table and behold- it's actually the wedding party. "Set your bag here." Done and done. The first person I saw was the bride, Heather, and we embraced with a hug. "Mark's over there- that's your table. Go get some food." Heather never beats around the bush. Done and done again. Went to my table and got a big ol hug from my good buddy Mark. He introduced me to his family at the table and it was a round of jaws-on-the-floor as Mark told them I had just flown in from Bucharest. Sometimes the life of the Universal Traveler is pretty dern impressive. ;)
I'm probably ragging on the 80's mob-esque a bit too harsh because Mr. C's Beachside Bistro throws down some serious grub. The soup was one of the best I've ever had, the salad outstanding, steak was fantastic. I was hungry but the food here- wow. Not surprising that the food would be fantastic with Mark and Heather planning it. The remarkable moment of the night, however, came just as desert was being served. We were suddenly ushered out first onto the patio and then to the street by a uniformed officer. It was at that point we noticed smoke. Apparently the basement of the restaurant was on fire.
The next thing I know Heather is directing us all to the bus and we're on our way back to the hotel. Or in my case, on my way back to the hotel... for the first time. On the bus Mark's dad Phil was really getting into the 60's music the best man Todd had blasting through the bus. Several times he burst into dance in the aisles.
Back at the hotel bar I got to meet Heather's father and have a round (or several) drinks with him and hear some of his hysterical stories from his travels. Eventually it was the parents of the groom, the father of the bride, father of the bride's friend, and myself holding down the Hilton Garden Inn bar in Point Pleasant, NJ. Haha. Figures. Around 1:30 I called it a night- Heather's dad and friend were still going strong.
The next morning I got up and took care of priority number one: ironing out my sad excuse for a suit. Crushed at the bottom of my pack for over two months it was almost irreparably wrinkled. I say almost because what the suit didn't realize was that it was up against a veteran road warrior. Retired, maybe, but my teeth aren't dull yet. Whipping out one of my favorite tricks, I grabbed a small hand towel, filled up the iron and utilized the "steam-through" technique to bash that unwieldy wool into shape.
The reason this particular trick works so well- it allows an aggressive iron without letting the iron directly contact the fabric- and singe the wool. It's a unique skill set but hey, I'm a bit of a modern renaissance man. I also used the spare time to sew up my destructing cargo shorts. Yea, I can do that too. Was kind of a big deal in home-ec. I paid a visit to Mark who was in the process of putting his daughter Ava down for her nap so I headed downstairs to find some grub.
On the way out of the hotel I was intercepted by Mark's parents who insisted I join them at their table. Evidently if I was with them the breakfast was on the house. They claimed me as their adopted son for the morning and implored me to take advantage. I have to say- the Hilton Garden Inn breakfast is really good. Mom- I tip my hat to your crew. I had an omelet, sausage, biscuit, bagel, oj, and a coffee. Now THAT is a breakfast. But since I had it basically at lunch time it satisfied all my criteria as it technically wasn't "breakfast."
The remainder of the afternoon was spent hanging out with the groomsmen preparing for the wedding. I had some great pictures from that period but, again, I'll get to that later. Finally it was wedding time. We all got suited up and hit the lobby where we encountered Mark's mom with little (but rapidly growing!) Ava.
Not to be outdone, and at the immediate behest of his daughter, it was Mark's turn for the Ava photo opp.
The wedding was at a yacht club about 10 minutes from the hotel. The ceremony was to take place outside on a patio overlooking the channel and the boats. It was really romantic. Had pictures... Anyway, the ceremony was "scheduled" for 5:00 but actually went off right around 6:00. It was my kind of ceremony. Nondenominational. Short. Sweet. Let's make for the cocktail hour.
The cocktail hour. Oh baby. Perhaps the best one in the history of weddings. There were 5 or 6 food stations plus waiters coming by with 12-13 different hors d'oeuvres. There was an ice-luge cocktail bar for martinis as well as a regular bar with 5 draughts, 15 or so bottles, several wines, and probably 50 bottles of liquor. HOW COULD WE ONLY HAVE ONE HOUR HERE!?!?
After the cocktail hour we went upstairs for a four course meal that included a palate-cleansing sorbet and, of course, an unlimited full bar. To top it off Mark had come up with an absolutely incredible playlist for the DJ, mixing in some Rat Pack and classics in the early going and ramping up to dance music at the end. I had so much fun I don't think I even tried the cake. Our cake turned out to be shots of Sambuca black. It was definitely the most well done and one of the most fun weddings I've ever been to. I just dont ever, ever, want to know how much it cost. My wedding will be nowhere near that awesome. I did get this nice shot of Mark and his lovely bride on their first dance:
Back at the hotel one of my friends and former work colleagues JR acquired a case of beer from the bar prior to closing and a good number of us sat out on the patio drinking to the moon. Great great wedding. The next morning we had a big wedding party brunch and then packed it up for the bus ride back. Heather was gracious enough to sort me out with the "sight-seeing" bus that was taking her family and friends through Manhattan and eventually back to Jersey City, NJ.
It was pretty funny- most of the people on the bus were getting off at various locations. Heather's friend Hannah was off at 14th. Heather's dad and friends were getting off downtown at Nassau Bar (love it!). Heather's mom and Aunt wanted to shop on 5th Avenue. I was lucky enough to get dropped off at 63rd and 5th Ave- only 2 blocks from the apartment of one of my best buddies, and constant inspiration, Kevin. In all, I think maybe only Mark made it back to JC. Haha. Again, phenomenal wedding.
As awesome as the wedding was, it was equally awesome to see my good buddy Kevin again. It didn't take long for us to decide a course of action: Lansdowne Road, our favorite game-day haunt, for a little of the old ground n' pound. It was (American) Football Sunday after all. When we arrived, much to our chagrin, the place was packed with Jets fans. Needing a bit of time to shoot the breeze without hearing "J-E-T-S Jets Jets Jets" every 2 minutes, we made a break for another favorite- Pony Bar just up the street.
My how the times have changed. When we used to go to Pony bar, and by "used to" I mean less than a year ago, they had two massive chalk boards on which they would write the beer name, brewery, size, and alcohol content of each beer on draught in an appropriately colored chalk as to whether they were regular, high alcohol, or cask. Now, its some sort of new-fangled TV monitor system that provides the same information but in a rainbow of colors that no longer pertains to the taps. How the hell am I supposed to know which tap is which? Or identify the nitrous tap with the nitrous beer? Bollacks to your progress!
My crumudgeonly behavior aside, the beers were as top-notch as usual. And Kev and I found a very interesting dynamic with the two bartendresses. One absolutely loved us- constantly mixing it up and indulging our schtick. The other one, hated our guts. She poured me a half left-over beer! It was like Jeckyl and Hyde. You didn't know which one was coming to fill your order. God help you if you got the surly burnt out world-hating husk of a woman version.
After a few pints we headed back to the safe haven of Lansdowne and were able to carve out our favorite seats as the early games ended. Tragically for me, my streak of poor Steeler performances in Lansdowne continued with the Black and Gold falling late to the despicable Raiders. But that didn't stop us from having a blast. James from work stopped by with one of his friends, as did Megan, as did JR and his girlfriend (after sleeping off the effects of the wedding). No sleep for me though- not for the 2012 European Drinkathlon Champion!
Later that night Kev took me by Lillie's II. A bit of brief background: Lillie's is a bar on 17th street off Union Square West that has been one of my favorite bars in NYC for years. It's done in Victorian styling and serves some outstanding (mostly European) beers on draught. For example, it's one of the few places you can get Duvel Green or Blanche de Bruxelles on draught in the city. And they have an ever changing host of others. But the other thing they are famous for- in my mind at least- is their legendary ham and cheese sandwich. Best in the city and it's not even close. Here's a stock photo of the Union Square Lillie's to give you an idea:
This new Lillie's up near Times Square is an almost exact identical replica of the first. It's freaky actually. However, it lacks one crucial component: the ham and cheese sandwich! What the hell! New menu my ass! That's the problem with NY- especially if you get ingrained and then go away for a while. All of your favorite places die off or change drastically. You come back and pow! It's a new city. That's why I love McSorley's. It will never change. And Nassau. I pray you always stay the same. We need a few stalwarts.
The next day was an administrative day. Kev and I ordered some food and I dedicated the rest of the afternoon to laundry and other tasks while he went to visit his daughter Sophia. Eventually I acquired a Chipotle burrito which was just another reminder of things I miss about NY. That night I met Kev and Ginsberg downtown for a drink at 85 West. Ironic since it's right across the street from where I used to live.
Again- amazing how things change so fast in NY... in addition to Thunder Lingerie being closed, the Pussycat Lounge is now permanently shuttered and, much to my extreme horror, it looked like the infamous Rector Deli Bar was shuttered as well. I'm praying the latter was just an early closing since it was Monday. Alternatively, the W opened their outdoor burger and beer garden and the Marriott is undergoing extensive renovations that have closed off the rear of 85 West. The good ones die, the garbage multiplies. Bleh.
We extricated ourselves from that excrement. Onward to maybe the best beer-orient bar in NY, Marshall Stack. Situated in what once felt like a very seedy area down on Allen, even this neighborhood is going all commercial. When can we get some NYC riots to take things down a notch? What was once an abandoned derelict-looking storefront across from the bar is now a freaking Red Mango. Barf. To my much needed relief the Stack hadn't changed a bit- still all cash, Sittin on the Dock of the Bay still available on the jukebox, still proferring a bizarre array of snacks Ginsberg swears are microwaved.
I had some very tasty beers there including a black saison and a belgian sour. But I won't bore you with all the beer lingo. Megan stopped by and, like a trooper, went out with Kev and I for a nightcap. Poor Ginsberg had to repair to his newly minted wife or face the wrath of a rebute. We strolled around the LES for a while before finally settling on this basement bar called King's Cross. As we went in I checked my pocket. Had all of my items.
I actually loved King's Cross. Just seedy enough but with a good vibe and great prices. Plus the bartender was really knowledgeable about cocktails and trends (something entirely absent in Europe). As much as it pains me to say it, America (especially NY and some other big cities) are light years ahead of Europe when it comes to beer and cocktail innovation. Wine I can't speak to. Anyway, the bar was cool but there were two maybe slightly-over-seedy cats near us at the bar.
Anyway, I didn't think much of it. We had a good time, said our goodbyes, left the bar, and hopped in cabs. As soon as I got out of the cabs at Kev's I checked my pockets: Black Jack Johnson was gone. And with him, all of the pictures of Mark's wedding. FREAKIN HELL MAN! There were only 3 possibilities in my mind: (1) it somehow fell out of my pocket at the bar (unlikely but theoretically possible); (2) it was stolen in the bar or outside by the cab; or (3) it fell out of my pocket in the cab home.
I called the bar immediately and ruled out the first one. The third one seems highly unlikely considering I was riding in cabs all night and it hadn't popped out yet. The most likely scenario is that someone lifted it off me. I usually keep the string hanging out of my pocket for easy access so it's possible someone (maybe shady guys at the bar) just gave a solid tug and it was theirs. Who knows? At the end of the day it's my fault but it wasn't like I did anything reckless to lose it. Just one of those things you can't control. Sometimes you eat the bar...
So Black Jack Johnson ran away from me mere hours from getting the remainder of pictures uploaded and, more importantly, returning with me to Europe. Kev came to my rescue in a huge way and lent me his camera. But now I'm terrified of losing that one! But, for the third straight time, I'm back to Europe with a new camera. Sigh. I liked BJJ- and I had him protected for 3 years at a handsome fee. The protection plan doesn't do you much good when the camera disappears. It's only money but... ugh. If I was stupid and left him somewhere, then that's on me. But here- I suppose maybe my karama is out of whack to the negative. Time to set myself straight.
In any event, the camera is irrelevant except you had to read a lot of words (and I congratulate you in your resolve if you've made it this far) and I lost some good pics I was going to give Mark of him and his groomsmen and he and I during those anxious pre-wedding hours. As the French say, c'est la vie. Tuesday morning, my final morning in NY, Kev and I went up to 74th for a J.G. Melon burger, a proper burger, before I had to catch my flight back to Europe. It was great seeing so many old friends from NY. Hopefully I'll catch you guys again before Stint 3 (or is it 4?) kicks off next winter.
Next up: Munich for 3 days of Oktoberfest. Oh. Dear. God. I'm not sure I'm ready for that...
As awesome as the wedding was, it was equally awesome to see my good buddy Kevin again. It didn't take long for us to decide a course of action: Lansdowne Road, our favorite game-day haunt, for a little of the old ground n' pound. It was (American) Football Sunday after all. When we arrived, much to our chagrin, the place was packed with Jets fans. Needing a bit of time to shoot the breeze without hearing "J-E-T-S Jets Jets Jets" every 2 minutes, we made a break for another favorite- Pony Bar just up the street.
My how the times have changed. When we used to go to Pony bar, and by "used to" I mean less than a year ago, they had two massive chalk boards on which they would write the beer name, brewery, size, and alcohol content of each beer on draught in an appropriately colored chalk as to whether they were regular, high alcohol, or cask. Now, its some sort of new-fangled TV monitor system that provides the same information but in a rainbow of colors that no longer pertains to the taps. How the hell am I supposed to know which tap is which? Or identify the nitrous tap with the nitrous beer? Bollacks to your progress!
My crumudgeonly behavior aside, the beers were as top-notch as usual. And Kev and I found a very interesting dynamic with the two bartendresses. One absolutely loved us- constantly mixing it up and indulging our schtick. The other one, hated our guts. She poured me a half left-over beer! It was like Jeckyl and Hyde. You didn't know which one was coming to fill your order. God help you if you got the surly burnt out world-hating husk of a woman version.
After a few pints we headed back to the safe haven of Lansdowne and were able to carve out our favorite seats as the early games ended. Tragically for me, my streak of poor Steeler performances in Lansdowne continued with the Black and Gold falling late to the despicable Raiders. But that didn't stop us from having a blast. James from work stopped by with one of his friends, as did Megan, as did JR and his girlfriend (after sleeping off the effects of the wedding). No sleep for me though- not for the 2012 European Drinkathlon Champion!
Later that night Kev took me by Lillie's II. A bit of brief background: Lillie's is a bar on 17th street off Union Square West that has been one of my favorite bars in NYC for years. It's done in Victorian styling and serves some outstanding (mostly European) beers on draught. For example, it's one of the few places you can get Duvel Green or Blanche de Bruxelles on draught in the city. And they have an ever changing host of others. But the other thing they are famous for- in my mind at least- is their legendary ham and cheese sandwich. Best in the city and it's not even close. Here's a stock photo of the Union Square Lillie's to give you an idea:
This new Lillie's up near Times Square is an almost exact identical replica of the first. It's freaky actually. However, it lacks one crucial component: the ham and cheese sandwich! What the hell! New menu my ass! That's the problem with NY- especially if you get ingrained and then go away for a while. All of your favorite places die off or change drastically. You come back and pow! It's a new city. That's why I love McSorley's. It will never change. And Nassau. I pray you always stay the same. We need a few stalwarts.
The next day was an administrative day. Kev and I ordered some food and I dedicated the rest of the afternoon to laundry and other tasks while he went to visit his daughter Sophia. Eventually I acquired a Chipotle burrito which was just another reminder of things I miss about NY. That night I met Kev and Ginsberg downtown for a drink at 85 West. Ironic since it's right across the street from where I used to live.
Again- amazing how things change so fast in NY... in addition to Thunder Lingerie being closed, the Pussycat Lounge is now permanently shuttered and, much to my extreme horror, it looked like the infamous Rector Deli Bar was shuttered as well. I'm praying the latter was just an early closing since it was Monday. Alternatively, the W opened their outdoor burger and beer garden and the Marriott is undergoing extensive renovations that have closed off the rear of 85 West. The good ones die, the garbage multiplies. Bleh.
We extricated ourselves from that excrement. Onward to maybe the best beer-orient bar in NY, Marshall Stack. Situated in what once felt like a very seedy area down on Allen, even this neighborhood is going all commercial. When can we get some NYC riots to take things down a notch? What was once an abandoned derelict-looking storefront across from the bar is now a freaking Red Mango. Barf. To my much needed relief the Stack hadn't changed a bit- still all cash, Sittin on the Dock of the Bay still available on the jukebox, still proferring a bizarre array of snacks Ginsberg swears are microwaved.
I had some very tasty beers there including a black saison and a belgian sour. But I won't bore you with all the beer lingo. Megan stopped by and, like a trooper, went out with Kev and I for a nightcap. Poor Ginsberg had to repair to his newly minted wife or face the wrath of a rebute. We strolled around the LES for a while before finally settling on this basement bar called King's Cross. As we went in I checked my pocket. Had all of my items.
I actually loved King's Cross. Just seedy enough but with a good vibe and great prices. Plus the bartender was really knowledgeable about cocktails and trends (something entirely absent in Europe). As much as it pains me to say it, America (especially NY and some other big cities) are light years ahead of Europe when it comes to beer and cocktail innovation. Wine I can't speak to. Anyway, the bar was cool but there were two maybe slightly-over-seedy cats near us at the bar.
Anyway, I didn't think much of it. We had a good time, said our goodbyes, left the bar, and hopped in cabs. As soon as I got out of the cabs at Kev's I checked my pockets: Black Jack Johnson was gone. And with him, all of the pictures of Mark's wedding. FREAKIN HELL MAN! There were only 3 possibilities in my mind: (1) it somehow fell out of my pocket at the bar (unlikely but theoretically possible); (2) it was stolen in the bar or outside by the cab; or (3) it fell out of my pocket in the cab home.
I called the bar immediately and ruled out the first one. The third one seems highly unlikely considering I was riding in cabs all night and it hadn't popped out yet. The most likely scenario is that someone lifted it off me. I usually keep the string hanging out of my pocket for easy access so it's possible someone (maybe shady guys at the bar) just gave a solid tug and it was theirs. Who knows? At the end of the day it's my fault but it wasn't like I did anything reckless to lose it. Just one of those things you can't control. Sometimes you eat the bar...
So Black Jack Johnson ran away from me mere hours from getting the remainder of pictures uploaded and, more importantly, returning with me to Europe. Kev came to my rescue in a huge way and lent me his camera. But now I'm terrified of losing that one! But, for the third straight time, I'm back to Europe with a new camera. Sigh. I liked BJJ- and I had him protected for 3 years at a handsome fee. The protection plan doesn't do you much good when the camera disappears. It's only money but... ugh. If I was stupid and left him somewhere, then that's on me. But here- I suppose maybe my karama is out of whack to the negative. Time to set myself straight.
In any event, the camera is irrelevant except you had to read a lot of words (and I congratulate you in your resolve if you've made it this far) and I lost some good pics I was going to give Mark of him and his groomsmen and he and I during those anxious pre-wedding hours. As the French say, c'est la vie. Tuesday morning, my final morning in NY, Kev and I went up to 74th for a J.G. Melon burger, a proper burger, before I had to catch my flight back to Europe. It was great seeing so many old friends from NY. Hopefully I'll catch you guys again before Stint 3 (or is it 4?) kicks off next winter.
Next up: Munich for 3 days of Oktoberfest. Oh. Dear. God. I'm not sure I'm ready for that...
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