After finally finding a tailor whom I hope is doing an excellent job on hemming my pants, I decided to finally treat myself to an authentic NYC experience: the Cupcake. I walked into Crumbs on 3rd and E 79th and my eyes feasted upon the delightful number of choices available to me. The guy behind the counter asked if I knew what I wanted but I wasn't ready. I wanted to savor the moments of decision making. I rarely indulge in these types of treats. I'm trying to lose weight as I feel my own personal battles with weight need to be waged in order for me to tell patients the same. I eventually settled on Dulce de Leche to harken back to a time I spent living in Texas where Dulce de Leche is a standard desert on every menu.
I sat down at my little corner table and just smiled to myself. Here it was: my first cupcake as a New Yorker. A special moment. A wonderful moment and in the end, that singular moment of delicious anticipation where I held my fork ready to make the initial cut into the cupcake was all there was for me.
Because at that moment, two of perhaps the worst children I have ever encountered came into Crumbs. These two boys were around five and seven years of age and came barreling into the shop a good minute before their harried mother came in after them. The commotion. The screaming when the younger boy discovered his favorite cupcake was sold out for the day. The elder's protests when the younger tried to touch his chocolate bar. Because, yes, when your children are already running around like wild banshees the best course of action is most definitely to buy them each a 500 calorie cupcake. While the mother stood in line, the boys played a game of Simon Says wherein the elder child had the younger perform tasks in order to have some of the previously mentioned candy bar. Tasks like crawl on the floor or roll on the floor.
My cupcake lost all joy for me. The moments of silent enjoyment lost I threw away my cupcake partially eaten as the children now having their cupcakes took turn picking off pieces to throw at one another at the table next to me. The mother mouthed her apologies to me for her sons' behaviors and I nodded in a friendly "ain't no thing" style.
The whole experience proved to me why I should never be a mother. Because I would be mentally fuck with those children. I'd let them run around and do their thing. Then, when I got those cupcakes for them, I'd make them throw them away uneaten for the complete and total disregard of their mother, their environment and any proper rules of conduct in the public sphere. I'd drag their little butts home and send them straight to bed (after a thorough scrubbing in the bath from the whole rolling on the floor thing) and their cries would bring me joy. JOY!
I decided to go to a grown up place where I'd be able to have a moment of piece- a completely different NYC experience- a martini.
I got this lovely drink at Spice, a Thai restaurant at at 1411 Second Avenue at the corner of E 73rd St. It was a Pineapple and Ginger Martini and it was the bees knees man. The ginger kept the pineapple from making the drink to sweet and gave it just a bitter enough taste to remind you there was alcohol in the cup. Loved it, loved it, loved it. Definitely going to return to try the food out too.
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