Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Olla Podridas

Etymology: Spanish, literally, rotten pot.
1 : a highly seasoned stew.
2 : hodgepodge.

So says Merriam-Webster.

It pretty much describes the past week for me.

Dinner and theatre last week with my friend Arthur, visiting from San Francisco. An odd evening. Neither one of us was sure we'd ever see the other again. Arthur's been ill, and after undergoing two rounds of chemo, is starting a third round in June. Due to his weakness and shortness of breath, we picked a restaurant that was both close to the theatre and his hotel, thereby pretty much guaranteeing an inferior meal. Does anyone have a really good theatre district suggestion? Tim and I eat with a fair amount of regularity at Chez Napoleon, but that's pretty basic, albeit Gallic fare. I mean something festive. We wound up at Thalia, which is around the corner from the Eugene O'Neill Theatre where Sweeney Todd is playing. It was noisy and emphatically nothing special. The check was close to $130.00, and both of us basically had salads, entrees and a shared dessert. It's not the money, but I would like to at least enjoy the meal. At least we were able to talk.

The play, on the other hand, gave great entertainment value. I'd seen the original grand production back in 1979, and it took a few minutes for me to scale back my expectations and enjoy the charms of this chamber performance. But I did, indeed. All in all, a great evening of music and theatre.

The following night, I had my first real session with my new trainer, the Nazi. Suffice to say, I'm getting back in the saddle, and I hope to see some improvements in the coming month or so.

I had a four-day weekend, and spent all of Friday and a good deal of Saturday hoeing out my apartment. My kitchen alone required a cleaning worthy of Augusten Burroughs. I got rid of books and periodicals, as well as no end of crap I'd stored that had been accumulated by my ex. All gone. After scrubbing the floors, I extended my arms in Maria von Trapp fashion and spun around once or twice. Alright, once. I'd actually forgotten that I have a decent size kitchen by Manhattan standards. It would be pretty wonderful, if I actually ever turned on my stove and cooked. But I don't.

Friday night, arriving at Tim's, I went to hug him, only to be told he had a miserable cold. Grrr. And he had to work all day Saturday. And Sunday. So much for our weekend. We had a quiet night. I went back to my house and cleaned all the following afternoon, with a few breaks to run around Union Square in search of some decent running shoes that won't bankrupt me. No luck there either.

I picked Tim up from work at 9:15, and we walked through insanely crowded Times Square over to the afore-mentioned Chez Napoleon, where we indulged in a few cocktails, some simple cuisine and a post-prandial eau-de-vie apiece. We had a couple of drinks in the neighborhood, which was refreshingly quiet due to the holiday weekend. There were more sailors on the street in Hell's Kitchen than gay boys.

Sunday I hit the gym again and headed over to the Dugout. I got to meet up with a battalion of bloggers who were traveling a circuit that included Bingham Cup rugby games, the Eagle and XXL. Frankly, I was jealous of their itinerary. I consumed a copious amount of diet beer and conversed with friends old and new. My dear friend M. even made a rare surprise Dugout appearance. I was hopeful that we would all head up to the Eagle for our bi-yearly visitation, but that was just not to be. Tim was exhausted. He suggested a stop at Ty's. With the heat and the over-crowding and the fact that he was tired from seven consecutive days of work plus a head cold, he became quickly short tempered at the bar. And suddenly, so was I. We managed to have a rare rip-roaring fight while hailing a cab and went home, both of us cross and sullen.

I hate the morning after a fight. I crawled out of bed so Tim could sleep in, undisturbed. We'd pretty much made our peace, but we were still walking on eggshells. We spent a quiet morning gradually getting back to some semblance of normalcy, had brunch at the Noho Star and looked in some of the neighboring furniture store for some nice storage pieces for my newly enormous kitchen.

So much for my exciting week. Feh. I think the rotten portion of that definition is most apt here.

7 Comments:

Blogger Joe.My.God. said...

I'm dying to tell everybody about your jukebox cribsheet.

Oops!

11:37 PM  
Blogger circleinasquare said...

His WHAT?!

12:28 AM  
Anonymous Mike P. said...

Awwwww.
I would have loved to have seen you and Tim on Sunday @ The Eagle.
It's been a while.

Hopefully I'll get to see you guys This Friday for GB/NYC 3 @ Barrage.

You better come.
That's an order mister...

um...

sir.

;)

10:58 AM  
Blogger David said...

Maybe I'm just no gourmet, but I've only had dinner at Thalia once and thought it was fabulous. Plus I've always felt there were tons of good restaurants in the Theatre District, though mostly on 9th Ave, was that too far? But good to me may not be good to you.

I also was very disappointed by Sweeney Todd, so there you go.

11:18 AM  
Anonymous Foxy said...

Angus McIndoes, 44th Street I believe.

6:24 PM  
Blogger Mr. H.K. said...

Hey, I was at Barrage on Friday, but I didn't see you there...

Were you??

3:08 PM  
Blogger farmboyz said...

(Crib sheet??)

The fight dynamic is so personally perpetrated. When C and I fight, I am loud, vocal and over-it in ten minutes. He, on the other hand, needs more time, and is more likely to process his anger in silence, which, were I not aware of his methods, would provoke another Vesuvian eruption on my part. With luck, the years lend skill to those who survive. We did Spain for two weeks with only one very brief squabble about some worthless trick in Madrid. We have learned that the fight never seems to be worth the price.

10:42 PM  

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