It’s the first awful night of the year. Freezing, pouring rain, biting winds, can’t get a cab trying to make my way uptown to a Daisy Mays’ 46th & 11th ave location that couldn’t be farther from the subway. My umbrella breaks. I step in a puddle. I’m under-dressed.
It’s times like these that I want to tell New York to go fuck itself.
I’ve spent a lot of this blog romanticizing this town, and for good reason- I love it. But for every triumph, honor and majesty it bestows upon you, it will also piss in your mouth every chance it gets. It’s a real cunt like that.
Like how I somehow inexplicably have 1 dollar and 37 cents on my metrocard right now. How THE FUCK DO YOU GET 1 dollar and 37 cents on your metrocard?
That’s a cunt move NYC.
Or like when I was lost in Crown Heights for 2 hours because Orthodox Jews couldn’t speak English to me, so I tried desperately to use the little Hebrew I knew to ask for directions to the subway. But instead ended up shouting to every person I met “WHERE’S THE TRAIN IN MY ASS?”
That was a cunty move NYC.
Or because I had to pay a brokers fee for my apartment, even though I got the apartment from my friend and I never actually met the broker.
Cunt move NYC.
Because a week doesn’t go by where I don’t step in turd or vomit or gum.
You’re a total prick NYC.
Or like when I moved into my first apartment, a shitbox loft bed off Craigslist, nestled between the highway and the projects just so I could be on the same subway line as my girlfriend at the time, only to get dumped within the month of moving in and then being stuck there.
Of course you would do that, dick.
And the irony is not lost on me NYC how I’ve owned 4 bicycles, and the first 3 got stolen within a month of getting them… but when I decided to buy the most impenetrable lock and chain on the market for my 4th bike, I lost the keys to the lock in a cab and now the bike sits safely outside my window everyday, never to be used again.
Wipe that smile off your face, shithead.
Because you make me paranoid every time I have an itch that I’m infested with bed bugs.
Come on ya cunt.
OH! And why did you move all the good girls out to Brooklyn?!
Tonight is one of those nights where the city seems to be conspiring against me. But I’ve got reservations at Daisy Mays barbecue joint for their award winning whole pork butt, pulled & smoked, (FYI- It feeds 6 easy, with a bunch of sides included for $150, but you gotta order it in advance) so I’m determined to not let the city get me down. I’ve got some serious eating to do.
I finally get to the spot and I’ll be honest, the place is pretty disappointing to walk in to. The front is just a takeout counter, and the back is a sparse, unattended length of mess hall style tables. There’s pretty much no service to speak of, and even though we made reservations they still had us wait around for 20 minute for no reason in particular before we could sit down.
The apps come, and I’m really trying to get into this meal, but they’re sort of disappointing too. The mac and cheese tastes like it’s straight out of the Velveeta box.
The cole slaw is a soggy mess, like it was prepared days ago. The BBQ sauce is freezing, it’s literally come straight from the fridge.
The Texas toast is a sponge of butter. The mashed potatoes are a finely pureed sponge of butter. (These are delicious sponges obviously, but more butter than is necessary anywhere).
The group of twelve aholes at the table next to us order the whole roasted pig.
Poor little guy. He probably only moved here cause he heard of some cool opportunity waiting for him in New York. A job working in advertising or a theater program accepted him or something. But when he got here it fell through, and then he was stuck having to pay the high costs of living and no one else looking to hire. So he did what so many desperate pigs end up doing- Slathering themselves in BBQ sauce and spreading their legs for Wall street douchebags.
But that’s New York. It’ll build you up, then tear your asshole open and feed it to bankers.
When the waiter won’t give me tap water, and says they only serve bottled water I’m ready to just go jump off the George Washington (the Brooklyn Bridge by the way is not nearly as scenic for suiciding this time of year).
But then the main course comes out.
It’s tender and moist. A rich smoky flavor throughout. It’s punctuated by pockets of crispy skin that pack an extra kick of smoke. It’s the kinda food you love on its own, and love with other things.
We start mixing it with everything on the table, and all of a sudden the cole slaw comes alive! The texas toast turns into a genius open face sandwich! The mashed potatoes are like engine oil in a pork-fueled Ferrari! We order some of their more interesting sounding sides, like their bourbon cooked peaches….
Well shit. They’re fucking delicious. And the rich, sweet fruity flavor pairs unbelievably well with the smoky, salty pork butt. Pretty soon I’m making crazy sandwich contraptions out of everything on the table and loving every minute.
So this meal proved me wrong. It seemed like it was going to be a real cunt of a meal. Difficult and surly. Overhyped and overpriced.
But once I accepted its faults, it was obvious what all the fuss was about, and I loved it.
Just like New York, that spectacular cunt.