October 1 – Day 25: Pizza and No Pizza (But Chicken and Brisket Make a Good Substitute)

Since I didn’t set my alarm, I was surprised at how late it was when I woke up. Even though I didn’t have a busy schedule, I wanted to be sure I was home in time to watch the Dodger game after running my errands. Pidge had suggested I go to a sports bar to watch the game, but the only one nearby (or the only one I know of, anyway) was incredibly noisy and crowded, so I decided not to.

I walked up to Macy’s, and the trip itself was so uneventful that I don’t remember much of it. (There was some kind of Dunkin Donuts booth near the Flatiron Building that was featuring coffee, donuts, and “dry shampoos;” I didn’t get the connection.) A Monday afternoon in early autumn isn’t prime time for tourists where I was. (Oh, to be sure, there was the usual gang of slow-walkers and lane-crowders, but nothing terrible.)

I got to Macy’s and realized that, for all its history, it doesn’t really seem like a unified department store anymore; the first floor, anyway, is a series of small kiosks and designated areas for luxury brands. It’s more like a mall than anything else. I wasn’t sure where to go, but figured if I could make it to the escalators, there’d probably be some sort of guide, which indeed there was. According to this signage, men’s denim was located on the third floor, so up I went. Something I found interesting is that, for all I’ve been reading about brick-and-mortar retailers having trouble finding employees, Macy’s is lousy with them, leaving people who actually (seem to) have nothing to do. (There were three people at the Sunglass Hut booth who seemed desperate for a customer.) The store even has human concierges at the tops of the escalators to help people find what they’re looking for.

I got to the third floor and looked around a little while before discovering the denim, all of which came in ridiculously small sizes (like 28/28) or mediums at best. I am anything but small or medium, so I figured I just wasn’t in their denim demo. As I looked around at the surrounding merchandise, though, I realized I had ended up in the ladies’ denim department, and suddenly the sizes made sense.

I went back to the escalator and was given the impression that what I really wanted was the fourth floor, so up I went again. Still nothing. I checked again and, nope, it was three I wanted, so back down, this time looking for the men’s department, which turned out to be in a sort of annex on the other side of a wall. Finally! Plenty of what I was looking for.

I shopped around, found four or five likely pairs, and went to the dressing room to try them on before discovering something I’d never run into in a dressing room: a line. I waited a few minutes until one opened up, went in, tried on all my choices before realizing that the first pair I’d tried was the best, and left the others in the designated area (which was a veritable mountain of denim).

I proceeded to the register—which was fully staffed, unlike so many stores in San Francisco—and paid for the pants (which were $22 under the marked price!). The cashier turned away for a moment, and was baffled when she turned back and saw there was no receipt. She tried a few things on the register and got nothing, so figuring the sale hadn’t gone through, we tried it again, and the same thing happened. She consulted with two (!) of the other cashiers, one of whom asked me if I’d gotten an email receipt. I checked my phone, and I hadn’t. They were in the middle of trying to print one up when both of the charges suddenly came up in my phone. They issued a refund for one of them and I was on my way.

My second stop of the day was Joe’s Pizza in the West Village. Thanks to Mark Evanier’s blog, I’ve been exposed to One Bite, a website and app run by Dave Portnoy (aka “Davey Pageviews”), who’s determined to try every pizzeria in New York that sells slices. I learned last night that Joe’s is one of his favorites, so I figured I’d better try it for myself. I walked down to the Village and nearly missed it, but was able to order a slice and a bottle of water. The pizza was as good as advertised, nice foldable crust and good proportions of sauce to cheese.

 "Eat at Joe's," indeed ...

From there, it was a relatively quick walk home, where I watched the Dodgers play the Rockies for the National League West title. By the fifth or sixth inning, it was pretty clear that the Dodgers were going to win, and deciding I’d like to watch the victory with some other people, I went down to The Hairy Lemon, the noisy and overcrowded sports bar on Avenue B. I figured that it wouldn’t be too bad, even if it was 6:30 on a Monday night. When I get there, though, I wasn’t even sure I was in the right place. 

 It was about this crowded.

Seriously, I stepped in and had to back up into the street to make sure it was the same place that was so crazy Saturday night. There was one couple by the sidewalk and one guy at the bar. Other than the bartender, that was it. They have about 20 big-screen sets, all of which were turned to sports channels—car racing, golf, the MLB Network—but none of them to ESPN and the playoff game. I asked the bartender where the baseball game was, and he asked me which one (like there was more than one being played). I said Dodgers/Rockies, and just then, it came on one screen at the left side of the bar. There was no sound (guess they didn’t want it to interfere with the crappy disco music they were playing), but it was on. I settled in on a stool and, after a couple of minutes, got the radio broadcast on my phone, which was (unfortunately) anywhere from 30-60 seconds behind the telecast, so there was a bit of a disconnect.

It turned out that the other guy sitting at the bar was rooting for the Dodgers, but he left before the game was over (I hate having to note that cliché), so when they won, I had no one to celebrate with. In fact, everyone was so preoccupied with setting up a band for Monday Night Football that I may have been the only person who noticed.

I came back home and picked up my pants in order to take them to the laundromat and wash them and break them in. I went to my original laundry (using up the last of my quarters), then came back home.

I’d gotten a weekly recap email from One Bite earlier today, and it praised a place called Sauce Pizzeria that I’ve been walking by for a couple of weeks without going in. Davey gave the pizza a 9.1 (he rarely gives an 8, let alone a 9), so I wanted to hit it for dinner. I walked over and, even though it wasn’t even 9:00, and they’re supposed to be open until midnight, there was a sign on the door that they were closed because they’d “run out of dough.” (Huh? How does that even happen?) I’ll be back; I just don’t know when.

I was still hungry, so I decided I’d hit Dave’s Café again and get their burger, but as I was walking there, I passed a place called Mr. White. I must have passed by it twenty times over the past few weeks, but had never noticed it until this afternoon. I looked at the menu and saw that they feature Southern cuisine—especially fried chicken and brisket—so I was sold.

A guy came up to me as I was looking at the menu, and, since it was mostly empty (one couple at a side table), I asked him if they were still serving. He said yes and I went in. He asked me if I wanted a table or to sit at the bar. I chose the latter, and he went behind the bar, got me menus and a set-up, and introduced himself as Jeff, the owner, Mr. White himself.

I ordered a glass of a very good pinot noir, and he asked me if I knew what I wanted. I said that his menu was a real Sophie’s Choice for me because I couldn’t decide between the fried chicken and the brisket. He thought a moment and said “what if I do a combo plate with a chicken breast and two pieces of brisket?” I said “done and done.” 

 Yeah; I'd already take some bites.

As I waited, we talked some (he had nothing else to do) about his restaurant (they’ve been open since February), where he’d worked, and why I was in town. I plugged the show (which he and his wife, Kelly—who was also there, sitting at a sidewalk seat talking on the phone—won’t be able to see, since they’re at the restaurant every night), and we just had a nice conversation.

The food was very good—the chicken had a nice crispy crust and a nicely moist inside and the brisket had just the right amount of fat. The mac and cheese was okay, but very melty. The Mexican corn on the cob was good, and even the yams they brought me by mistake were good—and I hate yams.

While I was there, it was pretty apparent no one else was coming in—not much foot traffic tonight—so even though the posted closing time is midnight, they basically shut down at about 9:20. We kept talking, and Kelly joined us, bringing a plate of oysters over—which I passed on, since there are culinary lines I will not cross. Jeff kept pouring me wine to the point I had to cover my glass with my hand, and if he hadn’t had to attend to closing the place down, we’d probably still be there. I left about 9:50, though, came home, and caught up on the blog, since I figure that, now that we’re getting into tech rehearsals, the last thing I’m going to want to do when I get home is write.

My call for Tuesday is 4:00. The load-in was today—meaning the set pieces and props were put in place, the lights were hung, and possibly some of the cues built. We’ll do a walk-through of the space tomorrow, then start re-staging and working with the tech elements before breaking at 11:00.