"Ladiez" Who Breakfast

Breakfast, I find, is underrated. Breakfast food is not, with its cult following for dinner and Ron Swanson's penchant for the stuff alongside pretty, dark-haired women. But getting up to go meet someone for breakfast, on a weekday, before 11am is hardly a social thing people do--at least in New York, where sleeping in often feels second only in luxury to cocktails at The Carlyle. This is mostly because people have these "job" things I keep hearing about where they have to go into "offices" at a "certain hour," whatever that means. But as full-time freelancers SJT and I do not have those, so Thursday morning we met for a meal that was solidly, decidedly breakfast: 9am at Buvette in the West Village (they do open at 7am Mondays through Fridays, now but my initial thought upon hearing that was, "Well, let's not get crazy.") Once we confirm our plans SJT texts me, "Ladiez who breakfast!" It does feel quite glamorous, doesn't it? Like we have membership in some exclusive club only a rich husband can buy.

I've written about Buvette briefly before, the petite small-plates French restaurant in the West Village, but neither of us had ever been for breakfast. The place is a madhouse for brunch on weekends with a mob of people waiting out front, and neither of us wanted to chance that. So we chose an early hour, early enough where we could have a leisurely breakfast and still have plenty of time for a work day afterward. I was happy to wake up at 7-ish to get there in time, too; excited even. It was a far cry from my forcible mattress detachment that happens when I'm in the midst of Fashion Week. Or, interestingly, what would also happen when I first moved to New York and had a 9-5 job; it was often punctuated with the whine "I DON'T WANT TO GO TO WORK!!!!" ripping itself almost involuntarily from my lips every morning. I want to hover above that girl groaning her way out of bed like the blue fairy in Pinocchio, wings a-twinkling, eyelashes a-batting: "Shhhh, my child. There is another way life can be lived! You can actually love what you do for a living!" And, magically, here we are now (I love shooting Fashion Week, it just makes me batty and tired, as it does everyone).

The morning commute, though I've done it of course since becoming a freelancer, still boggles me and my thought process is regularly How do people do this every day? May RuPaul bless and keep your hearts and souls on this train that is practically exploding with people.

I walk across Washington Square Park to Grove Street, and find SJT waiting in front for me. Even at 9am, the place is packed and we have to wait a few minutes for a table. It's enough to acknowledge that fall is finally upon us, a brisk chill of wind running through my clothes as if to say, "Nah girl, it's not summer anymore. Try a leather jacket over that asymmetrical cardigan tomorrow." It's invigorating nonetheless, and shortly we have our seats at a little marble-top bistro table in the corner. The lights are bright, the counter is bustling, and our little paper menus are stamped with today's date. I decide on a poached egg with lentils and kale. Fun fact: I am a slut for a poached egg. I find them to be the most glamorous of eggs, the way they sit neatly in a little cloud before you slice into their soft white flesh and shiny, runny yolk falls everywhere. I will order them whenever they are available, and sometimes when they're not. SJT chooses the Frits a la Americane, sunnyside eggs with bacon and sage.

Our selections arrive in the teeny manner I have come to adore from Buvette--a petite plate for he and bowl for me, but both brimming with food. My poached egg, in all its glamour, rests atop a stew of kale and lentils, all sprinkled with a light dusting of grated cheese, accompanied with two thin slices of grilled French bread gently glossed with olive oil. I slice into my egg with the corner of the spoon I have been given, scooping up yolk and kale and lentils and cheese all in one bite, and it is divine. A pop of salt from the cheese, a chewiness of kale, a softness of egg, and I am in love. I alternate between spoonfuls into my mouth and onto the magically crunchy on the outside, soft on the inside slices of French bread. There is salt and crunch and smoothness and I wish I had the words of a proper food writer to describe it all.

We linger over breakfast, taking our time and making our way through our small plates, chit-chatting about travel and work and travel again. It makes me realize that I don't know the last time I truly went to a place and ate capital-B Breakfast like this. I often can't force myself out of the house before noon on the weekends and a weekday breakfast is usually me huddled in front of a bowl of cottage cheese or oatmeal with my computer open, still in my pajamas, glasses perched on my face--it is a sight  significantly less glamorous than a poached egg, specifically the poached egg I had at Buvette. This one was an inspiring enough meal to make me want to do breakfast again, not just there but anywhere, this simple luxury for which it is without a doubt worth getting out of bed.

Top Great Moments I Didn't Write About But Should Have: 2015 Edition

As ever, a list of some of the great moments from the past year that I didn't get a chance to write about as they happened.

To compile the list I usually go through all of my social media platforms from the entire year and I pick out the moments, later finding images and doing research (into my own life, which is strange and revelatory each time) about each to make sure they're accurate. The process usually takes longer than a) I think it will and b) than most of my blogs do, but it's the only year-end, or rather year-beginning, list I do so I might as well go big, no?

That being said, here they are. Enjoy!

April
Broadgay
The first time I saw it, it was a tiny little note on my Facebook page, but I don't think I made anything of it. Like everyone else, I get a lot of invites to a lot of events (and I send a lot of them myself). But then it was a link sent from HanOre via Facebook messenger. Did I want to go see a Broadgay, comedically staged, all-gay male retelling of an episode of Sex and the City? While I'm not the biggest Sex and the City fan, I live for a good gender bending every day of the week, not to mention one of my favorite performers and writers, Joel Kim Booster, would be playing Samantha. Yes. I was in.

Brandon Scott Jones as Carrie, Julio Torres as Miranda,
Sam Taggart as Charlotte, Joel Kim Booster as Samantha

Not too long after, Joel had tagged me on Facebook: the show's producer/director Bowen Yang needed a photographer for the show. Was I interested? I was! So HanOre and I arrived early to the Jerry Orbach Theatre and got amazing seats, from which I sat and photographed the show. I laughed so much my stomach hurt and eyes hurt as Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha--played with wonderfully over-the-top commitment by Brandon Scott Jones, Julio Torres, Sam Taggart and of course Joel, respectively--ran through the black box of fictional New York, brightly colored purses swinging and flowered brooches growing by the minute (Carrie's flower pin grows so big by the end of the show it is smacking people in the arms and chests, but still with perfect comedic timing). I was hooked. I think people forget how much work it takes to make good comedy--I've always believed that anyone can make you cry, but not everyone can make you laugh.

I had the pleasure of photographing the second Broadgay in August at Littlefield in Brooklyn, as well, with the same results. I had to, at points, prevent myself from rolling out of the chair and clutching my stomach in the beautiful agony of laughing so hard. And if you are in New York on February 25, 2016, there is no place else you should be than at Littlefield for what will likely be yet another evening of Broadgay brilliance. Tickets are only $8-10, and can be purchased here.


June

MV holding up RD's brownie birthday cake

RD's Birthday

If you told me I would end up behind a tree in on a weekend in June to celebrate RD's 30th birthday, that would have been okay with me, honestly. SA and MV had planned the event, a surprise party unofficially called "RD's Dirty, Flirty, Squirty 30," for months, making sign-up sheets for bringing things, sending out e-vites, securing a plot of land in Central Park with the Parks & Recreation department (!), assembling RD-related bingo, making bagged lunches for everyone (!), buying decorations, and so much more. They really did an incredible job, too, because when he showed up and tons of his friends were jumping out from behind a tree yelling surprise, he had absolutely no idea. We sat in the park all day until it got dark, laughing and talking and playing games, eating sandwiches, sipping from juice boxes, and occasionally snuggling with a giant inflatable stegosaurus someone had brought.


August 
Medieval Times

I would say I have a love/hate relationship with Middle America, but it's mostly just a hate relationship. Typical suburbia--with its chains and parking lots and manicured gas stations--is the stuff of my nightmares. So when we were going to out to Medieval Times in New Jersey for SA and MV's joint birthday party, I was skeptical to say the least. I knew it would be rife with screaming children and tourists at the worst, historical inaccuracies at best, phrases like "ye olde" tacked onto things that wouldn't be invented for another 500 years, like plastic cups, photo booths, and light-up princess crowns. I was not wrong on either account, and when I walked in I needed a drink. It was...a lot of stimulation, a lot of light up swords, a lot of The King's Olde Photo Shoppe. But after ye olde chardonnay in ye olde plastic cup, I was having a great time. I cheered loudly for our knight in the jousting tournament, I happily dug my hands (because there was no silverware in medieval times, apparently?) into the giant turkey leg offered to us, I booed the bad knights, cheered for the good ones, and ambled through the torture chamber with glee. I chuckled at the placemat that begged me to call 1-800-WE-JOUST if I wanted more information for my corporate retreats. I left full and happy and just a little drunk, passing out on the air mattress at SA's house, the reigns of my urban snobbery loosened, at least for the evening.

September
Buvette
The first time I went to Buvette, it was a hot Saturday night in early September. I had been working all day and needed desperately to get out of the house. I texted SJT: Did he have plans? Miraculously, he did not, and we resolved to meet for dinner. I had heard about Buvette on more than one occasion, and it was supposed to be excellent: French tapas and small plates by chef Jody Williams hailed by regarded publications like The New York Times, Conde Nast Traveler, and Bon Appetit. Surprisingly, the menu is reasonable, as well. Would SJT want to give it a shot with me? He did.

That evening, around 8:30, we strode into Buvette in the West Village and, another miracle for the evening, were able to find two open seats together at the bar. The doors were open inviting the still-summery warmth into the restaurant. SJT was wearing shorts, which made me feel glamorous being with him: only a certain kind of person has enough grace and style to make shorts look perfectly elegant while in what's considered a high-end (yet still low-key) bistro/cafe of sorts. Get on my high-end shorts and gold-wire-rimmed glasses and polka-dot tote bag level, his visage seemed to say to anyone in the vicinity.

We started with glasses of rose, then made our way through foie gras with cornichons, then tartinettes topped with anchovies (he) and walnut pesto (me) sharing bites along the way, and finally sharing a dense, rich chocolate mousse topped with homemade whipped cream for dessert. It was a perfect, petite summer meal Ina Garten would have loved. We ended the evening with cocktails at the Duplex, a gay bar not too far away on Christopher Street, laughing and singing Eve into the night. 

Hamilton
The Broadway show Hamilton is virtually impossible to get tickets to for the next millennium, probably, but by the good graces of SD, I was able to score a ticket via an offer at her company. I had been excited to see it for ages, not just because of its amazing press but because my dear friend SW was the show's Beatmaster and had been with the production from the beginning, when it was still called The Hamilton Mixtape and when it was first making waves at The Public Theatre. Most of our friends had seen it already, singing its praises over and over, and it was finally my turn. By this time, I could have watched clips of it online or heard parts of the soundtrack or what have you, but I very actively made the decision not to do any of that. I just wanted to walk in and have a story told to me. I was not disappointed.

There were so many things I loved about Hamilton, but my favorite thing was the storytelling. There aren't a lot of fancy set changes or anything, but you don't need them: just by the way the show is written and rapped through by its diverse cast, you can see and experience what the characters were feeling along the way. To quote The Producers, a Broadway show can have lots of "dopey showgirls in gooey gowns," but if you can tell an amazing story without them, the work you've done is that much more powerful. I could say so much more about it, but you should really just get tickets as soon as you can, even if the first available date is in 2017 (which, at this point, it might be). 

After the show, SW was kind enough to take time out of his evening to take me onstage, where I was able to see the set up close, meet some of his colleagues, and ask him infinite questions about the show. Kerry Washington was backstage casually talking to Lin-Manuel Miranda about how much she loved it. I got to see all the costumes lined up for props and changes, and some of the cast were onstage talking to their friends in their street cloth
es, that is to say their non-revolutionary gear. SW and I took the train uptown, talking more about the show. I feel privileged to have seen it, and my belief and hope is that it will change the face and focus of American theatre going forward.

October
Peaches

I began photographing concerts more frequently this year, and one of the best shows I saw not just this year but probably ever was Peaches as she came through New York's Irving Plaza on her Rub tour with Deap Vally. I've loved her badass, brash electropop ever since I heard "Fuck The Pain Away" for the first time, and when I had the opportunity to actually photograph her show I leapt at the chance. For just one person, she dominated the stage and put on an unbelievable show, complete with custom-designed costumes, salacious dancers and props, trips into the audience, and more. Not only that, but I was able to see the show pretty much from the front row the whole time, since after I was done shooting it (the first three songs only is pretty standard), I just stepped to the side of the stage. I was right in front of the speaker so it was definitely loud, but it was totally worth it. Check out more of my images from that night here on Impose magazine.

November
We're going OUT

SC and EH at The Ritz

My dear friend EH is a surgical resident at a hospital in New Jersey, and she's totally killing the game. She works hard, she's smart, and she also barely ever gets a weekend off. When she does, she likes to come into the city and blow off steam. Last time she came in, though, I dropped the ball: I was working weekends, waking up at the buttcrack of dawn to get work done, so I could just barely stay awake by the time evening rolled around. This time she came to visit I vowed things would be different. We. Would. Go. Hard. Maybe even harder than we used to in college, if that was still possible for two professional women in their late twenties? But I made her a promise, and I never, ever break a promise. The evening began with Turkish meze at Beyoglu on the Upper East Side, then a jaunt down to SC's apartment for pre-going-out festivities with B and R. Our festivities went a little longer than usual, and we didn't leave there until 1am, arriving at our destination, the delightfully trashy Ritz in Hell's Kitchen. We drank whiskey and we danced everything out--stress, work, bills, zits, dudes, you name it. That night there was nothing Lady Gaga and RuPaul could not heal. We shook til our bodies hurt and then we shook some more. All of us were a beautiful mess of sweat and alcohol. And we shut the club down, making our way across the street in what was almost a mass exodus to the Galaxy Diner. We ate french fries and eggs and R fell asleep at the table. At 5 am, we dove into a cab, shivering in the loud emptiness of the night and fell asleep by 5:30am. I had kept my promise.