Jia J.
Yelp
The Williamsburg scene is liable to drive me to vomit or cry, especially at the end of the night. And I generally think that North Williamsburg is pretty much Bushwick; dirty, sketchy, depressing, and remote. Cash only establishments piss me off. On top of this, I'm a horrible dancer, especially if I can't hide behind making ironic and skilless gyrations to the beats of hip-hop. Yet, none of these conditions (plus the rain/hail of last Friday night) prevented me from having an unreal time at Maracuja.
I'm giving Maracuja five stars just for the bar and impromptu wooden dance floor, and the fact that food is involved at all only impresses me further.
A part of the awesomeness of the time I had here can be attributed to the fact that I was with a perfect mix of great people. Riding on a buzz cultivated much earlier in the evening, we kind of just wound up here.
I made a beeline for the bar, and was in that "surprise me" mood.
"Well," said the kind female bartender, "Our punch is really good." And it was, for being punch. It was $8 or $9 (it's all a blur), but with the strength of as many drinks as the dollars in its price.
Then the music began (or had it always been playing?). It was ALL be-boppy, diner-y, swing type stuff. Usually, places and/or deejays do this a little bit, but never had I been in a situation that was NOT deliberately themed towards this era that was so relentless in its musical genre.
At one point, my drunk ass went up there calling for hip-hop. A lady with gold between her teeth said, "No. No hip-hop. We NEVER play hip-hop. We HATE hip-hop." At first, I wanted to default by acting indignant for being thus rebuffed, but then something weird happened and I just got into it.
Yes, by refusing to change their song selection even one tiny bit, the Maracuja staff commanded all our respect and opened our minds to jiving to songs normally reminiscent of the most contrived Quentin Tarantino film soundtracks and possibly bar mitzvah reception repertoires.
I got into twirling around with my buddies, and following their lead in the dance moves of the '40s through '70s. Soon, I started feeling like I was a part of good old boy Americana, earnestly forgetting the reality of how I may have been marginalized or persecuted or simply not here during this era. I was having a fine time (and a lot of punch), and it was "a gas."
Mysteriously enough, I had no hangover the next day. I was, however, sore from head to toe, wondering, with a smile on my face, "Where WAS that crazy place?"
It was Maracuja.