Wednesday, February 11 / Jimmy's No. 43 (7th and 2nd) / 10:15pm
Wednesday night is quickly becoming my favorite since it means a mid-week escape to Professor Thom's to drink cheap beer and watch the meaning of life that is LOST. Last night the upstairs bar-cum-giant-living-room was so tightly packed that I had to perform gymnast-like moves just to reach the bathroom 10 feet away from my highly-coveted couch spot (Blythe and I arrived at 6:15pm to wait in line for prime real estate upstairs for the 9pm show... true fans we are.) Methinks, the best part about this evening is discussing the intricate philosophies deeply hidden within the twists and turns of the beloved show with the type of stranger that instantly becomes a friend for whom you would die in battle...LOST has powers that permeate far beyond the television screen, dudes.
The sole challenge of watching Lost at a bar with a sea of fellow followers is the ensuing problem of dinner. Let's go back to elementary school, here: if I have to get to the bar at 6pm to be first in line for the 7pm opening of the upstairs for the 9pm showing of a one hour show, when--WHEN--do I eat dinner? Remember, I'm the kind that plans my days around my meals, hence, my dilemma on Wednesdays. Sure, I could eat at the bar, but soggy nachos and a couple of waffle fries will not compliment the glory, the power--no--the magic of LOST. It's is like a fine wine. One must pair it with an equally stimulating dish so that the tongue may be just as satisfied as the soul.
Blythe and I decided to test out this theory last night after the show, although we snacked a bit on the dozen cupcakes I bought at Butter Lane prior to the bar (I thought our group would fill the entire couch room like last week, but somehow only Seth showed and I'm guessing his presence was strongly a result of my bringing cupcakes, the best in NYC, but that's another blog...)
We strolled through the spring-like night down to 7th where, nestled below ground level, rests the most charming of spaces for a late night snack and nightcap. Walking into Jimmy's No. 43 is like time traveling (Definitely a LOST side-effect) to a pre-war English seaside pub where townsfolk couldn't be kinder and the food couldn't be more homey. I wanted to order my drink with a cockney accent "Oy, I'll 'ave a 'alf a orda o' chips an leave tha dingy bits on tha side, yea? An don' be skimpin' on tha ale neither! I likes a niyce froffy top on eet." Instead, I ordered a scrumptious Grenache/Syrah while Blythe perked up to her usual questioning (observing her in the zone is one of life's cheap thrills) : "Umm, what is this Argentian wine like? A cab? Oh, it's spicey? Hmmm... well how about this Montepulciano d'Abruzzo? Is it more like a--a what?--oh it's more like a South American cab. Okay....well.... hmmm.. so what would you think about.. hmmm I'm just not sure, um I guess I'll go with the Argentinian one then--oh wait that's the spicey one, right? Okay no, no, I'll go with the Montepulciano d'Abruzzo. Yes, that's the one I want. Thanks you! (high pitch and sing songy)."
After that cheerful process (no lie, the waitress stuck around and discussed with us the different point of the wines like it was her only job in the world), we decided to split the Shrimp and Grits (darn Southern girls) with Smoked Bacon and Parsley. While we waited, mouths salivating, for our grits, we time traveled to a bygone era of film noir, Model T's and handsome fellas like Jimmy Stuart and Bing Crosby. When we arrived, I was wearing bright red lipstick and a petticoat. Blythe had her hair curled, Judy Garland style. We crooned sugar sweet melodies with our guys and sipped, ever-so-delicately, smooth martinis after de-gloving our porcelin perfect hands. Only when we caught a wiff of buttery grits, did we bid our dream goodbye and haul butt back to the future. Our eyes caught up with the smell and we were immediately and completley consumed by the beauty and the simple grace of shrimp and grits. And then we consumed it.
With no resemblance of our 1940s selves--most likely because we weren't really around then; fooled you didn't I? (Evil laugh) Haha, I knew it!--we dove into our bowl and promptly devoured every last morsel. The grits represented the perfect ratio of creamy to chunky with the slightest but yummiest interruption of saltiness from the bacon; the shrimp were like miniature fiestas that piqued the simple flavors of the grits to a higher level of being. Never before have I tasted shrimp and grits that were simultaneously so delicate and so full of flavor.
Icing on the cake: our amazing waitress drew a heart around our total and when we handed her two cards she asked, "Halfsies"? We think she might have thought us a couple, but whatever, we went with it. We subsequently drew hearts around our signed tips as if to say, "Those grits were bloody brilliant an' we coold live off 'em if we 'ad to. Cheers, yea."
Suffice it to say that I was one happy camper following a night of visual, intellectual and culinary delights. My good friend, indulgence, showed up for a fantastic Wednesday night.
This is one theory I intend to test, taste and time travel back to for many Wednesdays to come.
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