pasta, near raids, and inclement weather

We started our Friday night with a nice pasta dinner and ended it huddled in a vestibule at 2:00 am.

We had walked past this cute little Italian place on Hudson a couple of times, but we had never been able to get a table. It’s a fairly tiny place (although I’m sure the proprietors prefer the term “cozy”), and there have always been people loitering around outside, waiting for a table to become available. We were finally able to get a table last night, although we quickly realized why: when every corner in NYC feels like the Seventh Circle of Hell, no one wants to eat hot pasta in a “cozy” storefront.1

After the pasta had been consumed but before our skin had melted off, we headed over to this bar in the East Village to check out this DJ who is buddies with a friend of ours from law school. The entire experience was a little strange, from the bouncer was greeted us with a “can I help you?” to the fold-up beer pong table occupying prime real estate in the bar, but the most bizarre part was when they cut the music and the bartender shouted at us to stop smoking for ten minutes,2 pick up any cigarette butts we saw on the ground, and to leave if we were underage. We were all strangely excited — I’ve never been in a bar that has been raided! We spent the next twenty minutes turning eagerly to the door every time it opened, but, alas, there was no raid.

We had already spent a good portion of the evening shouting at each other, so we decided to head to a more laid-back bar — but McSorley’s was closed. That was more or less the moment when the sky opened up completely and began pelting us with rain, forcing us into doorjambs to hide.

1 If you’re curious, see my Yelp review of Pepe Verde .
2 There is no smoking in NYC bars. (Is there still smoking in bars anywhere?)


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