Stand By Me

"Stand By Me," the 1961 classic sung by Ben E. King, seems to be a favorite, if not a staple, amongst older subway entertainers. I have heard the doo-wop group at my stop singing the tune many times as they try to sell the CD they've made, their a cappella beats filling the muggy station with a smoothness that makes the wait for the train just a little more bearable. Tonight on my train, there is a man singing an uptempo version of the song, tapping his cane along with the melody in a manner much faster than I think King originally intended. He sings and it's pleasant, and people give him a few dollars. 

I wonder why the subway musicians choose this song in particular; I'm pretty sure this is the one I've heard most often, out of any of the famous doo-wop classics.

"When the night has come and the land is dark, and the moon is the only light we'll see."

While I will admit the song now conjures up images of silver subway interiors and a barrage of disinterested passengers, it also makes me think of dark, starry nights and a couple holding each other close, dancing. I'm sure it's been a choice for many a bride-and-groom dance at a wedding. Yes, it's a love song, but it's also a song about support. I know the theme resonates far beyond subway performers, and I think it's a good choice for New Yorkers in general. Much unlike Manhattan, no man is an island, as the saying goes, and we all need some backup every now and then. It's nice to know that, even on this small tract of land swarming with people, there are those who are willing to make time for you, willing to stand by you and say, even when you feel like you're worth nothing, that you are worth their time. In a city that moves as quickly as ours, sometimes there is no greater compliment. 

In his 2012 New York Times article "The 'Busy' Trap," Tim Kreider talks about what he believes is the myth of busyness. We schedule and overschedule ourselves in hopes of giving our lives meaning when in reality, as he says, "More and more people in this country no longer make or do anything tangible; if your job wasn’t performed by a cat or a boa constrictor in a Richard Scarry book I’m not sure I believe it’s necessary. I can’t help but wonder whether all this histrionic exhaustion isn’t a way of covering up the fact that most of what we do doesn’t matter." We want to believe that we matter, and we don't want others to think we're meaningless, so we become "busy." It is, I believe, especially easy to fall into a habit of scheduling every hour of your day in a city like New York, where there is so much happening all the time. In the midst of all of this so-called "busyness," though, we doubtlessly make time for the people about whom we care the most. I find that when I give the excuse, "I'm sorry, I've been so busy," it means less that I haven't had the time and more that I haven't cared about making the time. We can make time for anything we want to, be it 30 seconds or 30 minutes. Standing by someone means taking the time to make the time. 

It means sitting in your friend's apartment on the Upper West Side on a couch covered in clothes because the hanger rod has broken, listening to your friend discuss an impending life change.

It means waiting outside a friend's dressing room at a department store in Soho and agreeing when they ask you to remind them not to wear lace-up shoes when you go shopping next time.

It means realizing you haven't seen someone in a while and having Indian food with them in the middle of their workday near City Hall. 

It means having a drink or two in the basement bar in the Financial District and reconnecting with someone who has been out working on their dreams.

It means scheduling a Hell's Kitchen brunch months in advance because you don't know the next time you'll be available and you want to make sure it happens. 

It means realizing that your loved ones are more important to you than any other "busy" you might encounter; you want to let them know that no matter how "busy" you might get, you will always be standing by them. And it's such an easy thing to do, an easy way to show you care, giving this gift of time we don't think we have. New York can be a lonely, isolating place, so knowing even in some small way that we are supported, that we're not alone, can invigorate us to take on another week, month, or year. Why would you not want to give someone such a gift? 

"I won't cry, no, I won't shed a tear, just as long as you stand, stand by me."

Paw Manhattan Visits Saks Fifth Avenue

This weekend, Maw and Paw Manhattan have come to visit from sunny Florida. The first day of their trip involved a torrential downpour, but also a visit to legendary department store Saks Fifth Avenue.

In the 1970s, Paw Manhattan worked at Saks Fifth Avenue, at 611 5th Avenue in Manhattan, selling men's shirts. He received a 30% discount on all merchandise and, he says, was thereby quite well dressed at the time. Today he is no different, in his classic uniform of button-down shirt tucked into dark jeans with a brown belt and matching loafers. Wisps of grey float by his ears and his bluish/greenish eyes swirl about the first floor of Saks, passing over colognes and lipsticks and handbags that weren't there before. Men and women behind the counters chat furiously with each other, some offer him spritzes of cologne he doesn't want. We're walking toward the elevator and he whispers to me, "I don't understand these haircuts on the men."

Paw Manhattan smokes cigar,
wears same shirt as Prince William

Save for the brief time period in the 1970s when Paw had a perm, he has never been much for trends, hairstyle or otherwise. In pictures from 25 years ago when he is holding moi as a baby Miss Manhattan, his haircut is the same as it is today when we are walking past the cosmetics counters. "What is that, a mohawk?" he asks, confused. "What's with all the hair on the top and none on the sides?" The visual conversation gap is understandable: the men working at Saks are, of course, of a rather trendy, outré variety--they wear skinny, knit ties and shiny, sheen-y suits--and Paw prefers to wear the same shirts as Prince William, he jokes. Paw is a traditionalist, a classic dresser. He has never seen the need to pay $300 for a t-shirt, like the ones they sell in the Dolce & Gabbana section upstairs, or have a brand name embedded on a wallet, of all things. "Why would I need to tell people it's Ferragamo?" he asks, looking at the leather goods in the men's accessories department on the 6th Floor. The wallet he is replacing today is the one he got on his honeymoon in Caracas, Venezuela with Maw Manhattan, a brown leather fold that's lasted him nearly 28 years.

There only used to be one floor for men's furnishings, he says, with a small department of men's shirts and shoes on the first floor. Now there are two floors, floors 6 and 7. The 7th has designer boutiques--Michael Kors, the aforementioned D&G, Ralph Lauren, etc. The 6th floor features those shirts Paw used to sell--walls of them, across from the wallets and jewelry, next to the ties. There's a man with graying temples helping Paw, and I wonder if Paw still worked here if that's what he would look like--suit, nametag, shiny shoes. I don't know if I have ever seen Paw in a suit. But instead of staying at Saks, Paw went to live in Israel for a while and worked on a kibbutz. He thought about becoming a dual citizen and joining the Israeli Defense Force. Eventually he came back to the states and started working in finance. He has always had good taste in shirts.

Eventually Paw finds a wallet he likes. It's black, not brown like he originally wanted, and is devoid of visible branding. A perfect Paw wallet. He wants to switch wallets right there in the store but Maw says he should wait, so he does. Back on the first floor, we head toward the exit, but Paw pulls me aside. "Come here," he says. "I want to show you where men's shirts is." He says it more as if he wants to show me where he came from, his old neighborhood, where he grew up. In many ways, this is exactly what he is doing.

We walk toward the first floor Chanel boutique. Women in black stand behind the counter while women in not black peruse their wares. There are bags in a variety of oranges and pinks and reds for spring. Bright white fluorescent lights beam onto grey carpeting and I see a few of those legendary gold double Cs out of the corner of my eye. "This was men's shirts," he says, pointing at one section of the boutique. "And this was men's shoes," he says, pointing at the other. I think of the shoe department I saw upstairs that was almost exploding with oxfords and wingtips and loafers, an entire room to this singular wall. I see Paw thinking how times have changed since he worked here. "We used to have a lot of celebrities come here," he said. When I ask who, he names Howard Cosell, the famed sportscaster--which is fitting because Paw has always been a big football fan--but doesn't remember anyone else's name. "You know, famous people," he says. "Actors, politicans." He stares thoughtfully at the space for a few moments. I wonder if he's just had a vision rush of perms and polyester and wide-lapel collars or if he's proud of how far he's come or both. Eventually he turns to me. "Ready to go?" And we walk out.

Pathways

To call Thursday morning dreary would be a compliment. I heard what would turn out to be warmish rain dripping out of the gray sky when I woke up at 7am, and it continued throughout most of the day. I would have to remember to bring an umbrella. Part of me wondered why I was doing this, urging me to stay in my bed, and the other part shoved me upward and into the shower, nodding sagely. I was excited, nervous, and tired all at once.

I hadn't been in a high school in many years. I often have, shall we say, mixed opinions about teenagers. I remember vividly being one, and I was worried I would be staring into bored faces, bodies wrapped in crossed arms, begging me to just leave them alone. I was sure they would roll their eyes at me, they would give me attitude, they would talk back. But as I walked to the train, I shook it off. I had insight to offer. Or at least their school social worker thought I did. Geez, Elyssa, I thought. It's just a career day.

I was headed to a career day at Pathways to Graduation, or P2G as it's known. P2G is a New York City public school that's been set up for students who have dropped out of high school and are looking to earn their equivalency diplomas--their GEDs, or TASCs as they're now called in New York State. The students come from all across the five boroughs, are ages 17-21, and have likely experienced numerous hardships throughout their lives, their school social worker says. I remember myself at 17, and the idea of dropping out of high school was way beyond my maturity level. I can only imagine what these kids have seen or felt to even take on such a decision.

At 9am, I open the door to P2G. The first thing I see is a bulletin board showcasing of students in the acting program, then another board with a collage of students who are bound for two- and four- year degree programs. A police officer sits at the front desk and asks for my ID. I am approved, and I sign in. The walls are a bleak beige and deep hunter green, white where the paint has chipped away. On one floor, one of them has a drawing of two birds, one in flight.

I'm led downstairs to the basement cafeteria area, made brighter by a mural in a rainbow of colors topped with the word "Community." A cluster of professionals sit amongst the tables, munching on complimentary bagels and orange juice. Among us are an economist, a costume designer and stylist, a newspaper production manager, firemen, and more. Some wear suits, some wear jeans and buttoned-up shirts. I wore heels today so I can have some semblance of authority, since I often get mistaken for an 18-year-old myself.

I overhear the social worker talking to some of the day's speakers; she says she hopes students turn out today. "They have a tendency to not come when it's raining. Or snowing. Or when it's perfect beach weather," she half-laughs, mostly wishing they would just come to school all the time. "The weather has to be just right." They nod, understanding. It's not really about the weather.

We're brought up in groups to different classrooms. I, along with a technical theatre professional, the aforementioned newspaper production manager, and two electrical engineers, enter an English and Literacy classroom. Literacy, because some of the students don't read at a high-school reading level. There are posters of emperor penguins and bengal tigers drawn by students, each detailing facts about the animals, probably for reports of some kind. Words like 'jubilant' are written in thick black letters on index cards and pasted up on the wall. A white board is encircled in orange paper rickrack. We are seated at chairs in front of the white board, with a row of desks in front of us; that's where the students will sit.

One student sits down early. Her hair is in a black and auburn braid, and she wears a plum long-sleeved shirt with jeans and muddy hiking boots. Resting her elbows on a desk, perfectly filed nails resting on her face, she's talking about taking the latest TASC exam. It's made up of five sections: Reading, Writing, Math, Social Studies, and Science. It was harder than the last one, she says, but I think I did okay. I hope I passed. Their teacher explained to us earlier that the TASC exam is now more difficult than the GED test used to be, but the accepted passing grades are lower. He doesn't know yet what it will mean for his students. They need to pass the TASC to earn their equivalency diplomas.

Facing the students seems a little bit of a 'head-to-head' scenario, but the teachers and social workers inform us regularly that it's just supposed to be casual, that our being there will give them the opportunity to ask professional questions.

Many of them do. They raise their hands and ask the engineers how circuits work, what shows the theatre tech has worked on, what publications I've written for. What our career paths are. Whether or not we have four-year degrees, or if they're needed for the kind of work we do. One girl has a lilac manicure, bejeweled with glittering stones, and her nails press up against her pencil when she takes notes. Some of the students are animated and excited about the different kinds of work: "That's so cool!" "I wanna do that!" One of them says to me, "Wow, so do you get to take pictures of models and stuff?" Another asks, "Do you get to write your opinion a lot?" I do sometimes, I laugh.

One girl scoffs, "I'm not tryin' to hear that!" when one of the panelists recommend not having a plan B, to just chase your dream career--she thinks he is referring to a different Plan B, and soon realizes what he means.

Many of them don't. Some of them stare at us with those bored eyes and pouting faces that suggest they would rather be absolutely anywhere else. Some of the students slouch backward and text throughout the entire presentation. At one point I whisper to one to put his phone away and, magically, he listens. I felt like a stuck-up school marm and I hated it a little bit. Praise be to the teachers who do that all day.

Some of the students are very taken with two panelists in our room, who have both experienced addiction and incarceration. They ask what made them want to quit drinking and what made them want to finish school. Their stories are inspiring--they completely rebuilt their lives. Just cut out the junk and have a goal and work hard and it's never too late to finish school, they say. They are completely right. I hope the kids are really listening and not just patronizing them. Later at lunch, I hear some of the kids talking about these panelists, admiring them for what they've been able to do, and I feel relieved.

Kids are filling out firefighter interest forms while eating their sandwiches. Some talk about the panelists, but many don't. I go over to a table to get myself something to drink, and one of the students comes up to me. She's the one from before who asked if I get to take pictures of models. "I was just wondering, so, like, how do you get into doing photography? Like, how do you become a photographer? Do you have to, like, go to art school for it and stuff? 'Cause I love taking pictures of my niece and I just get so bored sitting at home. I wanna do something, you know? I wanna take pictures. How do I do that?" She listens closely to my answer, we talk about portfolios, we talk about art school, we talk about community college, we talk about how she can get involved, what she can do, how to rent a camera, how you can learn to use a camera, and how it takes a lot, A LOT of work. But after we talk she seems hopeful, motivated. Her eyes sparkle, and she smiles and says thank you. I smile, too.

(Mostly) Naked Boys Dancing

I'm pretty sure this is NSFW, though I guess it depends where you work...

This past Saturday, I watched men take off their clothes for three hours. 

I was at the Third Annual New York Boylesque Festival, presented by nightlife impresario Daniel Nardicio and Thirsty Girl Productions' Jen Gapay. Once a year, the festival presents the finest in male burlesque performances from across the country and the world--Canada, Austria, Japan, England, and of course the good ol' USA. 

In case you need a refresher, "burlesque" as it was originally used in the 1800s means any form (play, novel, poem, etc.) that makes a traditionally serious subject appear ridiculous. The basis is, of course, in comedy. Burlesque performances, which developed a bit later, incorporate that idea and swirl in striptease for a cocktail of bawdy, hilarious delights. 

So yes, I did in fact sidle up to B.B. King's in Times Square with AS (many thanks to Daniel and Jen for having us!) for an evening, hosted by the raucous drag queen Sweetie, of boys bumping and grinding to everything from Dean Martin to The Beatles to Barry White and then some. One by one (sometimes four-by-one!) they took the stage and strutted their stuff, an artfully tossed jacket here, a sexily (yet not unironically) removed sock there. 

Even as I write this, though, I wonder what it means to sexily remove a sock, perhaps one of the least sexy items of clothing there is. Does one slide it off gently with one's fingers, or grab it roughly with one's teeth? Oftentimes watching a burlesque show is a surface tour of the carnival of sexual/comedic preferences and experiences--what is sexy to one person is decidedly not to another, just as what's funny to one person is not at all to another. I love how these two entirely subjective qualities intersect in burlesque, and it's great when, as an audience member, you find a performer who "speaks your language" and has the same outlook as you do. As the audience, you are captive--you think, "this makes me really uncomfortable!" or "I LOVE this!" and you end up learning about yourself and your own preferences throughout the course of an evening. And people say it's just stripping...*scoffs*

I had seen boylesque performances before, peppered throughout the fall's New York Burlesque Festival (which features mostly females), but never a show of just all men all the time. I figured it would be pretty much the same as the female performances?

Nay. Incorrect. Nope. In fact, in my humble opinion, they were better! Campier! Sillier! Funnier! After seeing bald, sexy men with unusual sideburns swallow balloons whole (I'm looking at you, Albert Cadabra! Bravo!), viewing six-feet-five-inches of man extract his torso from a metallic blue corset while wearing matching sky-high platform shoes and hot pants all the while cocking an eyebrow or balancing a fake parrot on his chin (the delightful Mr. Gorgeous), and hearing a rightful trash-talking the Disneyworld that New York has become (the incredible and legendary Tigger!), I know why I like it better, too. The boys, overall, have a greater sense of the ridiculousness of what they're doing. 

Sometimes the ladies forget to be ridiculous and just go for sexy instead. To me, that ridiculousness is the primary difference between burlesque and what happens in a strip club ("Ya gotta make ya strip special!"--forgive me for citing this video again, but it explains the difference so well!). I find there's so much more enjoyment in burlesque when people don't get lost in their own sexiness. I'm bound to think you're sexier if you can make me laugh, boylesquers and girlesquers alike. There's more power in flirtation and, the idea for which burlesque is historically known, the tease. 

I love the idea that the festival has a full ownership of the word "boy," too. "Boy" is silly and lighthearted and evokes the original parodic intent of the form, but it doesn't discount the commentary that burlesque can be. And really, "manlesque" doesn't have much of a ring to it. 

Something else I loved about the show is that the body positivity that rings through the female performances carried over into its male counterpart. Burlesque today, no matter the identity of the performer, has never been about shoving a visual ideal down one's throat--people of all shapes and sizes and ages and ethnicities perform because, really, as long as you love your body everyone else will, too (isn't that the way it should always be?). 

Many kudos to Daniel and Jen for putting together an evening of diverse, quality performances to stimulate the brain, the eye, and whatever else they had in mind. And if you want to check out some amazing burlesque shows, keep yourself posted on Jen Gapay's Thirsty Girl Productions site here (Jen was recently voted the #1 Most Influential/Non-Performing Woman in Burlesque, so you know it's legit!). 

Take a look at some of my pictures from the night below!

Albert Cadabra

Tito Bonito

Mr. Gorgeous

Mahogany Storm

Tigger!

The Cast of the New York Boylesque Festival

SNEAK PEEK: Lobster de Mayo!

It's not every day I open my email to find an invitation to a lobster and tequila tasting event.

But about a week ago, there it was, a press release and ticket offering moi, Miss Manhattan, to attend the first ever Lobster de Mayo. Put on by New York City lobster wholesaler Homarus and hosted by The Food Network's Katie Lee, the event will be held on Saturday, May 10 at the elegant Capitale in the East Village and will feature chefs from divine restaurants like ABC Kitchen, Gramercy Tavern, Empellon, Jean Georges, and many more (you can purchase tickets to Lobster de Mayo here). Portions of proceeds will go to the charity City Harvest, which helps New Yorkers facing hunger.

I could hardly believe my eyes. As a child, I once made my mother a Mother's Day card saying I loved her more than lobster which she knew was quite a lot. And tequila and I have been great friends for many moons.

I said to SD, "How do you feel about lobster and tequila and enjoying them while wearing cocktail attire?"
"Do you even have to ask?" she said. My sentiments exactly.

Homarus, named for the genus of the American lobster (Homarus americanus), has a 24-hour Maine-to-restaurant delivery process that's revolutionizing the industry. Previously, there was 100+ year old tradition featuring a ton of checkpoints and multiple middle men, but Homarus is in full control of their operation: for example, the company's founders, Jordan Elkin and Brian McGovern, pick up the lobster themselves and deliver it to each restaurant.

The company's logo is the blue lobster, said to be a one in a million find. Or, as the company's website says, "too much awesome." I personally think it's "too much awesome" when people break off on their own and wind up making not only a successful company but changing their industry entirely. I can't wait to see what they have in store at Lobster de Mayo. And with that being said, I had the chance to talk to Jordan Elkin about the upcoming event. Learn more below!

Miss M: What inspired you to come up with the event?
Jordan Elkin: This year will be our five year anniversary of when we started our business and in those five years we just hit I think 300. We were thinking of doing something special including our restaurants and ultimately to include their guests, so we thought about doing a nice big lobster event. It's a whole Cinco de Mayo idea. I don't think anybody really does an event this time of year, right before the summer, so we thought it would be a nice event to get people excited about lobster but also for the summer.

When people arrive at the event, what can they expect? I walk in, I open the door...and then what?
They should expect some great music, some champagne, some tequila cocktails, some tequila shots, and there's gonna be two different lobster dishes prepared by each of the participating restaurants. They can be spicy, mild, hot, cold, there's so many different ways to prepare them so they should be excited for a lot of lobster and a lot of tequila.

I read that you worked in real estate and you worked at Shake Shack. What was the transition like from those jobs to a full-blown lobster wholesale business?
Me and my partner Brian had the idea to open a lobster roll concept and while we were developing that concept, I took some time off [real estate] to work at the Shake Shack. The transition from real estate to the Shake Shack was pretty different [laughs]. No more suit and tie, that's for sure. I don't think I could ever go back to a suit and tie. It's totally different work. It's using your hands and a lot of it is using your head.

I love the lighthearted nature of your website. Do you also translate that into your work, and do you plan on translating that into Lobster de Mayo?
We have some ideas that are still coming together, but the good news is we're relatively young, we're a wholesale seafood business, and a lot of the work we get because we genuinely get along with chefs. We understand their ties in the business. It's so high pressure working in a New York City restaurant that it's more convenient to be good and consistent with what we supply that they really appreciate it. That to us translates into a working relationship and then a friendship. Most of the people we deal with are my age, they're below thirty.

What have been some highlights and some challenges you all have faced when putting Lobster de Mayo together?
The highlights would be that the restaurants we work with want to participate and they go out of their way. The event is going to be taking up their free time, and they have so little of that so giving that to us is very important. It means a lot.

On the challenging side, it's the day before Mother's Day. I think there are going to be a lot of upset mothers with hungover kids for Mother's Day [laughs]. We knew the event was before Mother's Day but we didn't think about mothers being upset. So hopefully sons and daughters will invite their mothers  to the event and that's how we thought it would solve that problem. Everybody can be hungover together!

What made you decide to partner with City Harvest?
I see their trucks always on the road, which means they're busy. Most of my chefs that I work with are on the board and I work with them on other events. We reached out to them and they were very accessible. They replied right back, and then in less than a week we had an agreement. You can buy tickets to our event on their website, on our website. It's not only just a great cause, but a great partner to work with.

What are you going to be doing during the event? Are you going to be running around, or are you going to be enjoying yourself?
I'm probably going to be worrying up until people start coming [laughs]. My biggest hope is that we get nice, sunny weather. Once people start to come in, hopefully I'll be able to enjoy myself like everybody else.

Three Days of Spring?

I'm looking out my window right now and it's a veritable Disneyland of springtime: birds chirping, sun shining...all I need now is some squirrels to help me get dressed and I'll feel like a regular Cinderella. I know it's not just the Florida girl in me who thinks IT TOOK SO LONG FOR SPRING TO GET HERE. New Yorkers have been complaining about it for weeks, as we complain about almost every weather situation that's not spring or fall. What on earth was this miserable cold in the middle of March? What's with all the rain, Mother Nature? But now it's almost like homegirl's done with her mood swings and we get to have a real spring.

It's 70 degrees-ish and sunny today, so beautiful that I am begrudging myself for being inside and writing. The plan today is to walk as much as possible, perhaps the exact opposite of what the last four months have been. Knowing what our "fall" was like this past year--short, just barely leather jacket-y enough to walk around and see those leaves change--I'm worried spring will be the same. But, as Maw Manhattan always says, just because something's around for a short time doesn't mean you shouldn't enjoy it!

The speed at which the months have passed by is amazing--imagine, we are already a third of the way through this year. The Tribeca Film Festival is on its way, the Vulture Festival is coming up, as are weekends spent on my rooftop and also at Coney Island, Brighton Beach, and Manhattan Beach. I'm already booking events well into June. All I feel are possibilities, for the first time in weeks. That's such a spring cliche, I know, but after what seems like 5 months of winter, it's nice to see a little sunshine and feel a little warmth, you know?

I'm in for a big change in the next few months: I have to move! I've lived in the same apartment for four years, which I'm told is very unusual in New York, but still. As the warm weather rolls around and I want to roll around in it, it means I also have to start packing up my life and finding a new apartment. New York real estate is, as anyone will tell you, one of the worst things in the history of ever. Though, to be fair, it's probably a lot better than it was in the 1950s, when there was one moving day for the entire city. At least my roommates and I get to do this on (mostly) our own time. I have no doubt I will write about that experience as it happens; I'm sure it'll be one for the books--as moving always is, isn't it?--though of course I hope everything only goes smoothly (famous last words, I hope not).

Today I will walk to the International Center of Photography for their fundraiser photo book sale; I will bum around downtown and take pictures; I will be relaxing in a park or two and read my books; I will have thai food with AS and I will go to Brooklyn for JR's birthday. I'm just glad it's a season where I don't have to trudge through the snow to do all of it. So, on this beautiful spring day, from my warm Manhattan heart to yours, Happy Spring! It took long enough to get here, oy.

Would You Like Some Bacon With Your Bacon?

The evening began with a couple of dirty martinis, as most adventures do. AS and I were stationed at the Hudson Hotel for beverahhhhges amongst other stylish young people wearing androgynous ensembles consisting of black leather jackets and jeans or, not-so-androgynously, bandage dresses and high heels. There was also a proliferation of man buns, swirled masses atop the heads of men who just simply couldn't be bothered with their long tresses that day. I was invited there, to Henry's Liquor Lounge, for a series of jazz-esque performances that evening. We listened, bobbed our heads, admired lush leather couches and bright lights and persian rugs and man buns, and then we had enough and decided to eat some hamburgers instead.

But we got sidetracked. I mean, how could you not get sidetracked by a restaurant called BarBacon?

While I have never considered myself a member of the bacon cult, I have long appreciated it as the candy of meats and, certainly after a dirty martini, I enjoy it quite a bit. AS, my partner in baconry, both stopped in our tracks when we saw the name of the restaurant. Needless to say, we decided to go there instead. It also worked in the restaurant's favor that we didn't feel like walking in the wind and weird-misty-rain-but-not-rain anymore. So inside we went and, as a party of two, were almost instantly seated. Not bad for a Friday night!

The restaurant, which calls itself a gastropub, features dark wood paneling and a definite "bro" vibe, but as soon as our food came I didn't care about the latter. For a starter we had bacon salted tater tots. Upon tasting them, AS and I were both smitten: I don't know what or how bacon salt is, she said, but I need to get some. The tots were crispy and had that perfect smoky, salty, sweet bacon taste. We deliberately crunched and savored each delicious bacon-y bite.

Then the entrees came--mine, Shani's BLT, a BLT with avocado and a sunny-side-up egg; AS's was the BarBacon Grilled Cheese, featuring fontina and gruyere melted with bacon on a salty bread punctuated with golden raisins. My sandwich was melty and smooth, and made me decide I never wanted a normal BLT ever again. AS's was creamy and sweet, the raisins in the bread adding pops of sweetness in every bite. Both of our sandwiches featured thick slices of gorgeously red applewood smoked bacon. Even so, the restaurant was smart: the bacon was not so much the star of each sandwich, but the stupendous supporting actor, enhancing the rest of the sandwich with its sweet and salty crunch.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you wax poetic about bacon. Which is not something I ever really thought I would do.

Even the chips the sandwiches were served with had a smooth bacon flavor--not like a fake, corporate potato chip flavor that leaves your mouth salty no matter what. And the sandwiches also came with a pineapple cole slaw: neither AS or I are fans of cole slaw in general, but this, we found, was an exception we could get behind.

The restaurant offers bacon flights as well, where you can try all of the artisanal bacons they carry: wild boar, applewood smoked, maple bacon, lamb bacon, and peppered bacon. They also feature fine bourbons and craft beers.

The BarBacon website isn't fully functional yet, but they are on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and MenuPages if you want to see what other deliciousness they have to offer. Or simply stop in to the restaurant at 836 Ninth Avenue between 54th and 55th streets, which I highly recommend you do.