Life goes on...

I’ve been driven out of the apartment by the heat. L continues his air-con experiments driven, I suspect, by his continued auditioning for a new girlfriend. But I don’t like working in an icy chill, so we have brokered an agreement: no air-con in the day unless the temperature tops 40C. (It’s due to be 37C/97F on Monday, so it’s not inconceivable.) So now I’m sitting in the garden of Yaffa Café on St Marks & 1st in the East Village with a Stella and my laptop.

It’s strange having another person living in the apartment. JD and I had our own particular rhythm, and adding a man to the mix, albeit one who is best described as a Labrador puppy, changes the dynamic. Still, his mild OCD makes him great on the clean and tidy front, so I’m sure we’ll get on just fine.

Last night we headed to Lil’Frankies in the East Village, always JD’s favourite, and now mine too. Seven of us dumped the cutlery in favour of fingers to better chew our way through fried courgettes and wheel-sized pizzas, topped with mozzarella di bufala and garlic butter laced mushrooms, washed down by four bottles of Dolcetta d’Alba. I am always happy when I am left in charge of the wine list, so I ordered this delicious red in honour of Miss P, who sells it in copious amounts to Mrs Mad back in England.

I turned down karaoke with the gorgeous T and K (my singing voice makes grown men weep and babies wail), and plumped for pay per view extreme fighting or some such with L & C (who I like more each tme I see him) – it seemed the lesser of the two evils. Fortunately, nowhere was showing the fight (SUCH a shame), so the three of us ended up slumped over the wide wooden bar at the Horseshoe (also known as 7B from its street location), a proper dive in the village, drinking Summer Ale and playing American/English: Compare & Contrast, as all good expats do when hanging out together.


Horsehoe bar pic New York magazine /nymag.com