As I flew down to New York town, some fair maids I did meet…
Being a fella who likes to play der Holidaytagensystem at work like the proverbial stringed instrument, I popped into the office on the morning of Tuesday 16th to punch the Mansfield card and set the old Outlook ‘Out-of-Off.’. However, that morn an office-wide power cut forestalled even my most humble professional ambitions.
“Mansfield,” the universe seemingly sang. “It’s time to do one.”
“Right now?” I whispered.
“Now,” the universe confirmed.
“I’ll be awfully early…”
“Potter about the terminals,” the universe intoned. “Try on some aftershave.”
“Righto, will do!”
And one I did do, down Fleet St. to the train station and then south to numinous Gatwick and my flight to distant NYC. Wherefore New York? For that was where the storied wedding of one Marcia Clark and one Sam Seaborn (of We go to a land down under fame) would be held, and somehow, by some excellent stroke of luck, I’d managed to snag an invite.
I was indeed ‘awfully early’ to head to the airport, but this was fine, as I’ve long made my peace with drinking alone. Thus, a relaxed span later, a gentle Australian lilt – if such a thing exists – woke me from a beery stupor:
“Hello, Tommy!”
It was The Jane Janey (formerly known on these pages as The WBB and La Mejor Novia del Mundo) who had snuck off from the city, strung out on lasers and slash-back blazers. Together we enjoyed a refreshing pre-plane cocktail, looking to find that optimal level of insobriety which obliged one’s eyes to slam shut just as the pilot fires up the airplane’s engines.
The airplane in question today belonged to the famously no-thrills Norwegian Air. My expectations were relatively low, but, as the flight went on, were mildly exceeded. I slept a good portion, woke to browse the film selection, then dozed again, confident I wasn’t missing much. And then we landed. All in all, ikke så ille.
But ah…JFK Airport. Now here my expectations were mesmerically low and were very much met: A ghastly place, with unhelpful staff and every queue much larger than the space apportioned to it – leading, inescapably, to regular bouts of ultraviolence.
One such queue was for the well-known yellow taxis, one of which The Jane Janey hailed (all while talking about Monroe and walking on Snow White). This chariot spirited us east-by-northeast, to and across the Williamsburg Bridge and then to Wildair restaurant, where we meet our old friends a Gay Arctic Monkey (Oz & Beetha) and Z-Unit (just Beetha). Here we enjoyed a pretty darn fabulous, tapasy, seafoody meal together, accompanied by a curious orange-tinted white wine with the Pi symbol on the bottle and a taste vaguely reminiscent of cider.
Post-meal, after the typically awkward experience of non-Americans attempting to navigate an American ‘tipping’ set-up, this newly formed quartet moseyed through New York’s East Village towards our home for the night. En route, we stopped, perhaps foolishly, for a dessert of ‘Stuffed Ice Cream’. While I’m moderately proud to say that I didn’t quite finish mine, I’m ashamed to relay that, yes, I ordered a ‘Cookie Road’ ice cream stuffed donut and, yes, I demolished the bulk of it in record time.
Our Airbnb, upon arrival, proved nice enough – airy and light, with functional (if somewhat cacophonous) aircon, an icy cold shower and a view across town of the Empire State Building. The toilet, however, was found outside the flat itself, on the floor’s shared landing…
‘An unnecessary precaution’, I reflected, while falling into an uneasy slumber. ‘The Eagle (yawn) won’t be landing until later in the piece.’
…they asked me back to see their place, just off 11th street.
Jet-lag, as is its wont, got me up at 5.30am, a little before sunrise on Wednesday 17th. Impatiently did I wait for the day to begin in earnest – for there was plenty on the menu today: We’d be going up to ‘The Top of the Rock’ and exploring the much-vaunted Tenements Museum – hopefully with plenty of good old-fashioned U-S-A calories ingested before, during and after these touristy interludes.
The Jane Janey was second up and, as New York’s a go-go and everything tastes right, we went to enjoy an early-doors (chai) latte in the Australian-owned Saltwater Coffee just around the corner. We then returned to rouse the crew, for the day was now very much ‘a-waitin’.
As a foursome, we walked across Midtown to the mighty Rockefeller Centre, right past the previously mentioned Empire State Building. [Top tip – try as you might, you can’t actually see much of the ESB from the top of the ESB itself, so go up a different skyscraper if you’re after the highest quality NYC vistas.] Before taking the somewhat trippy lift up-up-up, I inhaled pizza slice #1 of the trip from Roberta’s, burning my mouth off my face rather spectacularly.
The views up top were, it has to be said, spectacular – though the roasting heat meant that the fairer-skinned members of our party were unable to stay in direct sunlight for overly long. Yet there was ample time for us to grab some choice snaps and go butterfly spotting. A Gay Arctic Monkey, for example, seemed more struck by the fluttering yellow red admirals (on reflection, they may not have been red admirals…) which came by to say ‘Howdy’ than he was by the wildly impressive architecture which surrounded us:
“I never knew they could fly so high,” GAM would trill.
“Yes, yes…damn but my mouth hurts…quite…”
“So high, so high they fly!”
“Riiiight…have you noticed the Chrysler Building mate, just over there?”
“…but look how she flutters by…so pretty…pretty little flutter-by…”
“The poor sod’s got heatstroke, let’s get him downstairs.”
Back at the bottom we tied a gastronomic ribbon around our Rockefeller visit with a tasty round of frankly quite superb ‘Miami Vice’ bagels from Black Seed. This proved important fuel for wandering round beautifully air-conditioned shops that afternoon. I, myself, have never seen the attraction in going around and purchasing things, but I wasn’t here to cause a fuss, so along I went with my acquisitional companions.
GAM and I eventually split off from the ladyfolk, across to the neon coolness of the seven-floor Nike store. Here I tried my damnedest not to look shocked and appalled as GAM pulled on a selection of increasingly ill-advised and colourful garments.
“What do you think of this one?”
“Er…”
“It’s yellow – just like the pretty flutter-by!”
“You sure you’re feeling okay?”
“I’m getting it.”
“Righto.”
Purchases made, we all reconvened for refreshments in a baking hot Bryant Park, before subway-ing it over to the old tenements, not a stone’s throw away from Tuesday night’s Wildair.
[I should note at this point that, while it’s nice and cool once onboard, the New York subway is bad. The trains are infrequent, the tickets rarely work, and it laughs in the face of ‘contactless’. It seems a system unchanged since the seventies, and it made this fellow feel mighty blue on at least a couple of occasions. I can now see why the poet Seinfeld once wrote, ‘If you’re in your thirties and you’re taking public transport, you’ve gotta ask yourself some questions.’]
At the Tenements Museum, much lobbied for by Z-Unit, we opted for the ‘Hard Times tour’ and joined a group wandering through a mostly unchanged turn-of-the-century apartment block. Inside, we cooked at a fan-assisted 180 degrees, while Lynn, our fearsome guide, fielded questions in the style of a mildly despotic politician. Plenty of things which one might’ve (incorrectly) assumed where knowable, were proved to be complete mysteries, and ‘No one can know for sure’ quickly became a favourite catchphrase. GAM was a particular victim of the Lynn ire:
“So how would this electricity meter have worked then?”
“Oh, no one can know for sure.”
“Ah, okay – I only ask as I work for the third biggest energy supplier in…”
“You got heatstroke, kid? Read my lips: No. One. Can. Know. For. Sure.”
“Hey, who d’you think you are, speaking to my boyfriend like that?
“No one can know for sure.”
All in all, a truly wonderful woman; long may she reign.
We retreated from the white-hot heat of learning to ‘The Grand Daddy’, ironically the only joint in the immediate vicinity without working aircon. The next spot, the Spring Lounge, proved much more to our tastes, and here we enjoyed some pretty good beers and some pretty problematic debates.
A spot more Soho-area shopping-cum-browsing was, apparently, again a necessity, before we sourced some high-quality cocktails in a bar called Attaboy – a seriously trendy joint hidden behind a closed-down tailors on Eldridge Street, don’t cha know. We were joined at the table by a friend of Z-Unit’s, as well as some cask-strength firewater – one of GAM’s cocktails, in fact, made for him off-menu by a tame mixologist, was so potently undrinkable I felt the need to warn the waiter:
“It tastes like burning topsoil! Has anyone ever died drinking this stuff?”
“No one can know for sure, sir.”
“Waaaah-hey!”
Feeling quite boozed, we managed to shed the newcomer and march, once again as a tight four, to Vanessa’s Dumplings – a cheap and popular place which chiefly served dumplings, made, no doubt, to the recipe of a dame named Vanessa. Here, admittedly while I drunk the rest of the wonton soup straight from the container, The Jane Janey (lives on her back; loves chimney stacks) began throwing food at me (she’s outrageous, she screams and she bawls!). Either way – time, we thought, to go home.
And hooray, Sammy, my dear Marcie; oh you New York girls, can you dance the polka?
Great success, on Thursday 18th I woke up at seven, jet-lag defeated at my feet, begging for mercy.
Sans Z-Unit, who was making herself look divine for a glamorous work meeting, we enjoyed a light breakfast at Saltwater Coffee (who seemed to find us less amusing than they had the previous day). We then all checked out of Flat #1 and headed up through the summer rain to the Upper East Side and Flat #2 – a grander, more spacious affair, with inside toilets and all the mod-cons.
Bags dropped and keys secured, we bid ‘ta-ta for now’ to business-mode Z-Unit and then wolfed down an only marginally necessary slice at Gotham Pizza, en route to the Guggenheim. Now this right here was a properly impressive museum. While not all the ‘art’ was to this bloke’s taste (and if it were, then what a terrible collection it would’ve been!) there are some splendid pieces, and the building itself is an undisputed masterpiece in its own right.
Cultured up to the eyeballs, the three of us then jogged down to just outside the mighty ‘Met’ to meet The Satsuma (formerly known as The WWG and El Peor Novio del Mundo). With this untamed Australian now in tow, we walked across a shadow-dappled Central Park to the famous Ray’s for yet more pizza. One day I’ll have had my fill of this prince of foodstuffs; but it was not that day, my friends.
With the husband and wife team of The Jane Janey (let yourself go, oh-whoah!) and The Satsuma off back to the flat to get the newcomer settled in, I strolled downtown with a Gay Artic Monkey, firstly through Central Park and then along Seventh Avenue, to take in the wildly chaotic Times Square. At one point during the perambulation I ditched GAM abruptly and without warning, for reasons potentially connected to the previous night’s wonton soup – no can one know for sure. Either way, we did eventually reach Times Square and then the nearby Juniper Bar, which was an odd spot, teeming with rather severe waiting staff.
Here, of all the bars in all the world, we reunited with Marcia Clark and Sam Seaborn, the bride- and groom-to-be, for many drinks and much reminiscing. Arriving shortly after us, The Satsuma laughed loud at the classic Seaborn gags and The Jane Janey, sitting like a man and smiling like a reptile, introduced her diabolic friend Lucifer Jones into our NYC proceedings.
The only minor fly in our companionable ointment was that Graeme Gage (of the Graeme Gage Quartet) managed to miss Sam and Marica by, as The Satsuma might put it, ‘a bee’s dick’ – the pair having a train to catch, and the Gage plane having been just a wee bit too tardy. He, like The Eagle, would have to wait until the wedding day itself to give them the old GG magic.
With Mr Seaborn and Ms Clark safely on the train upstate, and with our party getting a little Hank Marvin, Lucifer Jones suggested ‘Black Ant’ for dinner. Credit where it’s due, it proved to be one of her rare good ideas: very tasty Mexican food indeed, washed down with pitchers of margaritas. Here too, for the first time in many moons, we broke bread with Richo Richardson, another old pal from varsity. In short, dear reader, the party had begun to ‘kick off’:
Black Ant was followed by ‘Burp Castle’, with delicious beers and a pleasant, soft quiet only occasionally broken by Lucifer Jones and a cacophony of resultant ‘SSSHHHHH-ing’. Burp Castle was followed by ‘Sake Bar Decibel’, where we drunk (unsurprisingly) quite a lot of sake, where we met shady, nerdy NYC ‘weebs’, and where I found my uncanny cartoon doppelganger posted on a toilet wall. Sake Bar Decibel was followed – for me, Richo Richardson, The Satsuma and (sigh) Lucifer Jones at least – by ‘Lovers of Today’, where we indulged in a final, completely unnecessary pre-bedtime cocktail. A serious evening then, and the New York festivities were only just beginning!
And when I got inside the house, the drinks were passed around…
Almost a lie in on Friday 19th, my friends! Very much almost nearly a lie in. A good thing too, as a couple of us were feeling a wee bit dusty after the previous night’s overindulgence.
It is decided by the tyrannical leadership that today we must walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, despite the wild and merciless heat. Z-Unit and I were…unsure about this ruse, but were outvoted/shouted down.
Sensing the dark hand of NYC local Lucifer Jones behind this (who, laying the pitchfork aside, had left the firepits to join us for the day) the fine lady Z and I formed a single-issue political party, dedicated to halting the nefarious spread of her antipodean influence.
The walk across this famous span, however, actually proved to be quite a pleasant experience. Given the mission-creep endemic in ‘The Anti-LJ Club’ – i.e. with Jones scepticism already well-wedded to a reactionary anti-bridge sentiment – the quality of the views alone proved fatal to the nascent cause: A Gay Arctic Monkey, who had briefly become a junior member, went as far as to heave his membership card into the East River; and even faithful Z-Unit toyed with resigning from her position of Club Treasurer. Lucifer smiled her devil smile, and the warm breeze spirited the slightest hint of brimstone to my trembling nostrils.
Aforementioned bridge took us to the unoriginally named ‘Brooklyn Bridge Park’, where we paused momentarily, taking in the vistas and hiding in the broken shade. We then headed across on the subway to Williamsburg, for hip and happening vibes and a very enjoyable spot of lunch at a joint called Allswell.
Much like a casual visit to one’s local mosque, that afternoon saw the gentlemen and the ladies part company for a time; though unlike said casual visit to said local mosque, the fellas in the group went off for beers. The location this time round, the rooftop bar of the Whyth Hotel – an implausibly hot suntrap with views right across glorious Manhattan. The clientele here were amongst the campest in the land, and much mirth was gleaned from conversations which touched upon a night “like, best described as ‘Super Mario Sunshine meets Luigi in the K-hole’,” and on their respective discontent with their respective jawlines. The lives others lead, my friends.
The girls joined us soon after for cocktails and views, before the bill had to be paid and our group’s paths diverge: The Jane Janey (she love him, she love him, but just for a short while) was off to see yet another New York pal; Graeme Gage was already away on a mysterious rendezvous; and Lucifer Jones needed to go make sure Astaroth & Azazel had remembered to feed wee Cerberus.
[Confession – the rest of us didn’t go straight home, as we’d planned. We (The Satsuma, Z-Unit, GAM and I) stopped instead at Emack & Bolio’s and ordered a selection of ice-creams which could only be described as ‘extra’. My waffle cone was made, for example, chiefly of Oreo cookies. Madness.]
Dinner that night was to be at La Mercerie – a genuinely ace French restaurant, seemingly placed at the intersection of a smart Parisian café and a particularly high-end furniture store. ‘Come for the flatware, stay for the food’ etcetera, etcetera. While it was passing odd that furniture shoppers occasionally sauntered past our fine repast, the service was exceptional and the food rich and fabulously tasty. A grade-A start to the evening, I’d wager.
Once we paid the ever-so-slightly ruinous bill of fare, we went around the corner to Sel Rrose, where at long last The Eagle landed, bringing our team up to full strength. Cocktails a plenty, a late dinner for the feathered one, and a wildly eclectic playlist made for a very high time – a very high time followed up by a brief but enjoyable dance at Mercury Lounge, a nearby Indie bar with DJs of limited ability and a clientele as white as the driven snow. ‘Whitey’s on the moon’, as they said in the late sixties. ‘Whitey’s on the moon.’
…the liquor was so awful strong, my head went round and round.
Saturday 20th July, 2019: It’s wedding day, my friends – and it’s an absolute fooken scorcher!
It’s important to eat heartily pre-wedding, so it was (substantial) bagels for breakfast from nearby ‘Tal Bagels’, before a horribly, awfully, hellishly hot journey up to Fordham University in the Bronx. Besuited in Harlem Train Station on the warmest day NYC’s seen in seven years may well be the most miserable I’ve ever been – a literal hades on earth, with one working ticket machine and no working fans.
This sweaty trial, however, proved to be the day’s early and absolute nadir. As soon as we staggered across the college’s green and leafy campus and bundled into the welcoming cool of the comely university church, everything got significantly more pleasant. The ceremony proved an agreeably liberal mix of Catholic and Protestant, with the best lines reserved for Rev. Lothrop, the father of the bride: “I prayed for the sunshine; the Father here brought the heat!” Boom, and if you will, boom.
Once the thing was done and dusted and Mr Sam Seaborn and Miss Marcia Clarke had become Mr Sam Seaborn and Ms Marcia Clarke, we were all bused upstate, without too much incident, to a midway Crowne Plaza Hotel, where we hit the bar and waited for the wedding party to finish off their wedding party duties. Then it was back onto the buses which ferried us, this time with a good deal more incident (minor crashes, major wrong turns, etc.) to the reception proper at Falkirk Estate & Country Club.
Now it’s a strict policy of mine to enjoy weddings to their fullest (as was doubtless at least partially conveyed in my earlier account of the nuptials of our fine Aussie mates, WBB and WWG). Accordingly, my subsequent accounts of said shindigs are regularly found wanting in both the structure and the detail departments. This here retelling, true to form, is no different. There was, in no particular order and with no particular punctuation, a great deal of the following:
Food, food, piles and plates and platters of a whole universe of fabulous food, with open bars and hotdog stands, and with pastrami and prawns and delicious pulled porks, and beers switching to shorts and longs with ginger ale meeting thirsty lips, while canapes are slung about and hands wrung and sweet speeches made and laughter and early-doors dancing, and wines arriving with jests and smiles, both fizzy and flat, red and white and pink, and more speeches and sweet sentiments and moon rivers and rockets soaring high and the food keeps arriving, each morsel tastier than the last and then the tastiest morsel of all arrives at this time, as the tenacious MC kept saying, ‘At this time’ the bride will do this, and ‘At this time’ the groom might do that, and then we’re back up to the bar and out on the terrace and at this time the searing heat of the day has abated in the dusk and the fireflies dart and the music swells and suddenly, at this time, it’s time to go, off to the buses with us all, our stomachs full and hearts still fuller and the sprawling manor behind us fades into the stately New York darkness.
There was lots of singing sur l’autobus de retour – that much I remember, through a haze of softly spoken words and gentle gestures and pleasant, transient companionship. Once Crown Plaza-ed, we, the foreign clan, decided against the distant train, opting instead to wait our turn for lengthy, peaceful taxi rides back home.
Upon arrival, the foolhardy and the brave sunk a final round of recap beers – it had been one hell of a wedding, after all, and there was plenty for us to discuss and digest, late into the humid night.
Yes away, Sammy, my dear Marcie; aye you New York girls, you can dance the polka!
My final USA day, Sunday 21st, was ushered in without much warning by a peeved cleaner knocking upon our door, apparently expecting us out 15 minutes previous. A swift and hasty and melancholic packing session later, we were all out on the streets, feeling, shall we say, ‘interesting’. A Gay Arctic Monkey and Z-Unit had left at sparrowfart am, and The Jane Janey, scratching in the sand and not letting go of his hand, was now dragging The Satsuma to that most dreaded of all Sunday pastimes – brunch.
That left Graeme Gage (sans quartet), The Eagle and I to fend for ourselves for a wee while. The first stop, accordingly, was The Eagle’s (s)wanky new eyrie in Soho, where bags were dropped, and where cold water was poured upon faces and beaks. We then strolled, like the mad dogs and Englishmen we were, across to Katz’s Delicatessen in the midday sun. Here, The Eagle and I started things off with completely gratuitous chilli dogs before (just about) taking down between us a massively vast Rueben sandwich. Graeme G. ordered a quartet of potato pancakes, which, to this day, strikes a fella as a curious ol’ order and no mistake.
Across next to Queens, for the final act of this particular Yankee stage-play. We kicked things off at ‘The Gantry’ with starter beers and a nice, relaxing cool down, and then it was onwards to ‘Fifth Hammer Brewing Company’ for the official post-wedding beverages. Sam Seaborn, his parents, his best man and, most importantly of all, his brand-new bride were all here, along with assorted other family and friends. Aye, it was warm in that open-air hangar, but the beers were fresh and assorted and free-flowing, and the conversation tippity-top.
A ‘hardcore’ of this group began to emerge; one which included The (now returned and thoroughly-brunched) Satsuma and Jane Janey – who, incidentally, says she’s a beautician and who’ll sell you nutrition. This fine cohort popped next door together to ‘The Gutter’, a bar/old-school bowling alley, for pitchers of lager and markedly edible hotdogs: that is to say, a wonderfully fitting NYC swansong for this ol’ lump of coal.
The Satsuma and I, after many a tearful goodbye, had ‘at this time’ to pick up our bundles and hop on the slow train to JFK. Once at that pauper amongst airports, there was time sufficient only to sink a couple of Terminal One Tsingtaos, before falling asleep as soon as we’d been shown to our seats dans l’avion.
We only discovered that our departure had been delayed by two full hours when our wheels hit the Gatwick tarmac, such was the depth of our post-NYC somnolence. Not that this postponement mattered a fig in the wider scheme of things – for I would have much greater reasons why I failed to make my France-bound flight, a half dozen hours later…
But that my friends, is a lamentable tale for another time…for now, let me simply luxuriate a while in a wildly successful New York jaunt. A short trip, true, and inordinately dear, but truly, truly one for the ages.
Could it have possibly been bettered? No one can know for sure.
T.H. Mansfield 