Arrived in NY with Gary on 5/28. Took him to as many places as I thought he’d find interesting, but oddly enough his favorite place was Bryant Park. I think he might have liked Central Park a little more because it has a less 'city-surrounded' feeling, but by the time we finally got to Central Park, it was so hot, muggy, and miserable that day that we turned around and headed back out, looking for a nice cool restaurant to relax in.
And about these restaurants: What is it with the non-committal service around these parts? Every place we went into – with the exception of the cute Irish pub next to our hotel – contained waiters and waitresses who simply did not seem to care whether we ordered or not, or whether we really meant it when we asked for a dessert menu, or consider the possibility that perhaps we might want to spend the rest of the day (or night) somewhere other than the restaurant, waiting for our check. It was very odd. But a refreshing experience in Eamonn’s Irish Pub and Grill on 45th Street (http://www.eamonns.biz). Perhaps it’s my red hair (obviously fake) and freckles (obviously real) that got us the “special” – or what I’d call ‘normal’ - treatment. Who knows?
Perhaps New York is so bustling with energy and life and “Achieve! Achieve!” everywhere you go, that when people finally make it into a restaurant, it’s expected to serve as a kind of oasis – a food spa of sorts, where you eat an unhurried, leisurely, nay - prolonged - dinner, contemplate the thought of ordering dessert and maybe mention it to a passerby, but perhaps not – perhaps you’ll wait for all of your food to completely digest before deciding… but God forbid anyone should rush you or act as though you’re taking up space.
That feeling is already well reserved for the Manhattan streets, where I was once jostled so hard that my Starbucks hand went flying to the other side of my body and I nearly smacked my entire Grande Vanilla Latte into le Grande Central Station. Luckily, I had a nicely-secured lid on the cup, so only a gulp or two was lost. Otherwise, I might have gone all New Yorker on that guy. “Hey! I’m walkin’ here…”
That feeling is already well reserved for the Manhattan streets, where I was once jostled so hard that my Starbucks hand went flying to the other side of my body and I nearly smacked my entire Grande Vanilla Latte into le Grande Central Station. Luckily, I had a nicely-secured lid on the cup, so only a gulp or two was lost. Otherwise, I might have gone all New Yorker on that guy. “Hey! I’m walkin’ here…”
