Jia J.
Yelp
Your new roommate asks you if you've ever gone to a place alone, ordered a plate of pasta and some wine, and just enjoyed it. Suppressing an eye roll, you say of course, you've done a lot alone. Then, you think to yourself, 'was it PASTA, though?'
Meanwhile, there's a place 1.5 blocks down the hill from you. You've walked by i a thousand times, but when it was closed. Each time, you looked through the glass at the tiny honeycomb tiles on the floor and the wooden chairs propped upside down upon a well shined bar and told yourself that someday, you'd go.
On a Saturday, you wake up for the first time without plans, and have to confront backlog of mundane tasks, plus your existential loneliness. Wanting to curl up in bed again even if you're not much of a sleeper, you get up anyway and go through your errands. You make your own coffee and have it black on an empty stomach - in approximately 15 minutes, you feel like you're gonna make it in life and you're ready to do anything.
You go to the grocery and start walking back, and there's the place again, and it's open! It's 1-something on a Saturday afternoon but the space is not crowded. To your relief, the only Park Slope children here are halfway grown and decidedly unintrusive looking, sitting quietly and happily with their presumably single dad.
Tentatively, you step in. There are only a few couples in there, but the servers apologize that you can't take a window table in an empty area because it's for four-people parties in case such groups arrive. You briefly considering the tables that are still set up out in the 50 degree December air, but deciding to get locked in on the booth side of a long row of vacant tables for two.
You're surprised at how big the dining space is - at least twice as large as you thought it was. None of the envisioned intimacy is lost, however, and straight across you, bottles of various liquors up on the shelf wink back in kaleidoscopic relief against a burnished, filigreed wall.
The first thing the server does is bring you a clean, clear wine bottle filled with water. You're appreciative, and can't actually remember the last time an establishment, fancy or casual, in NYC or elsewhere, provided old world service with this simple and essential gesture.
The array of classic brunchtime cocktails are $8 - you're used to $16, so you get a Bloody Maria (made with flavorful tequila, not liver-pickling vodka) and unwind as you wait for spaghetti and meatballs. You're kind of afraid it'll be bland because of what one single Yelper wrote, but you prepare yourself not to mind. All you want is to be fed, and this standard dish will get the job done. Period.
The pasta arrives piled hot and deep, speckled throughout with dark ribbons of freshly chopped basil and paisley shaped discs of sauteed garlic. A reasonbly sized meatball is lodged in each corner of the dish. In the same move, the server puts down also sets forth a small bowl of pepper flakes WITH A SPOON, and a small bowl of non-clumpy powdered parmesan WITH A SPOON. Already drunk from the alcohol and the onset of bliss, you think about how you also can't remember the last time a place didn't forget to give you a utensil or some accompaniment.
You take a breath before beginning. The single dad walks by, locks eyes with you, and smiles. You smile back even if you're not looking for a zaddy and take a bite. The zing of tomato sauce! The roasted heartiness of garlic! The aroma of basi! The gratifying chewiness of perfectly cooked thick spaghetti! The savory and spice of the cheese and pepper flakes whose proportions you dictated yourself!! You spear a colorful half of an heirloom cherry tomato and pop it into your mouth. It releases a sweet, lively juice. You can't believe it - this may be the best spaghetti and meatballs you've ever had, but who will believe you?
You eat, never so happy to be alone while wanting to share this with someone. At the bar, a white woman slaps her Asian boyfriend's ass. 'You go, brother!' you think. The dad and his kids converse like equals, and you can't hear them. You don't remember being watched, but the server brings another bottle of water the moment you drain your cup.
After swiftly paying, you leave at your leisure, looking back with a smile.
Outside, the first breath smells like surf wax.
The second breath smells like dried leaves.
The third breath is exhaust from a leaf-blower, recalling to you summers on boats.
The fourth breath is snow that you wish could come, and now you're passing by the fire station, running under the engine's ladder because you heard somewhere that it's bad luck to walk.
The fifth breath before you return to your shabby walk-up reeking dully of other people's children and stale emissions from economical home cooking is that of a brownstone's woodsmoke.
It smells like burning money - in a good way, because you can get a contact high.
What did you just spend $32 on? A full stomach and a good memory.
