Finally. Back to the blog.
I may have gotten back from New York on Sunday, but I feel like I’ve barely been home, much less had the time to, like, do anything.
NYC was great — we did all the things you do when you’re a tourist. Carriage ride in Central Park (Yes, it was cold. Thank goodness DD is warm to cuddle up to!) Pilgrimage to the World Trade Center site, which was actually largely disappointing. A quick stop by the Stock Exchange.
And a long dawdle through Tiffany & Co. in which nothing was purchased but everything was ogled.
We also hit a Broadway play, but in one of our few non-tourist moments, we opted to avoid the musical scene. I’d seen all the musicals I wanted to since so many have made their way to Detroit recently. And DD? Well, he’d prefer a play without all the singing and dancing. So he asked his friend who is one of those trying-to-be-an-actor types and he gave us a stellar recommendation, August: Osage County. It’s got a Pulitzer and a Tony, and frankly, it’s hilarious. Basically a story of a disfunctional family coming together in the wake of the father’s disappearance, it’s easily relatable to anyone with parents. Or sisters. Or aunts. Or a family of any kind really.
Our other non-tourist activity for the weekend was a little jaunt to the West Village for dinner at Kingswood, the current employer of DD’s friend. Something has to supplement the acting income.
Anyway. This place had a mushroom risotto that I can still taste. No joke. I asked DD’s friend to bring some back the next time he visits the D, it was so damn good. The menu was pretty sparse, as I’m sure all trendy and hip New York hot spots are, so I chose the salmon. It was perfectly flaky and all around good. But not as good as that risotto. The chocolate tart came close, but I truly think the risotto stole the show.
One thing that struck me about the restaurant was the crowd. Lots of women, with only a few couples or mixed groups in attendance. And the women were decked out. A girl’s night in the D, at least for me, consists of jeans, a decent top, and maybe some heels. Maybe. If I’m feeling adventurous. Here? They donned their cutest tanks, frilliest blouses, and Seven jeans. Heels were the norm.
Hey, it’s New York. Here in Detroit, we’re much more low-maintenance. We don’t have cabs to take our heel-clad selves door-to-door. As much as I love the ability to wear tennis shoes to dinner and go without make-up on a daily basis, looking at all these put-together girls made me wish I put a little more effort into my appearance. That I could make my hair just as bouncy, my eyes just as bright, and my shoes just as high.
But then I’d have to learn how to walk properly, because heels? Make me trip.