Paprika--Manhattan

(212) 677-6563

I used to live around the corner from Paprika another lifetime ago, and never remembered the place which doesn't mean much as New York is constantly changing, for better or worse. We went there on a double date as my wife's maid of honor has a new stud, and we had to go to do the typical nice-to-get-to-know-you-yet-judge-you-when-you-leave-the-table-to-sneak-a-cigarette dinner. Right before I ate a pork pie at this grimy meat pie place across the street and was fucking glad I did. Not only did it allow me a beer or two to ease the pain of having a double date, but I also ate some food that was edible.

And how happy I was for that edible meat pie. Firstly, and this should have been a warning sign, we had reservations but they sat us after waiting ten minutes at an awful table. How awful? The table didn't have any wine glasses because they'd run out. This should have, and would have sent me into a frenzy, or at least back over to the pie place because there's nothing worse than waiting for a wine glass with a full bottle of wine already on the table. Especially since when glasses actually arrive it's approximately 180 degrees having just come from the final rinse cylce on a Hobart 66. Which is exactly what happened.

Dinner was okay in that most of it wasn't memorable. The only thing I jotted down was that my meal was disgusting. And it was. Once again I should know better than to order a seafood pasta special seasoned with lemon. Lemon, the smoke screen of rotten seafood. This pasta dish was so lemony that it tasted synthetic, like the cherry flavor in bubble gum. And the angel hair had glued itself together into one big clump of soft starch. While I was cutting through my Angel Hail clump, I had the pleasure of getting to know someone while at the same time hanging out with people I've known for ten years. Thank God the food was so lousy, because in comparison that aspect of the night was quite enjoyable.

Without a doubt the best part about Paprika was leaving. We were spit out right in the East Village, which on a Friday night is quite a place to be. I was instantly nastalgic, and this reminded me that the city is much bigger than my little feifdom in Brooklyn. Not that any of you care but we ended up in some LES bar listening to a saxophone cover band. And the bar had clean glasses for our wine.