A stroll to Tom's office by Madison Park was followed by a long walk down Broadway purely undertaken to work up an appetite. Fletcher was en route from London and had demanded that we go for a burger on his arrival but that wasn't going to be until late afternoon so I needed to burn off some calories to deal with the guilt of effectively having 2 lunches. Lunch 1 took place at Friend of a Farmer, next door to No. 71, trying to keep things relatively light (tricky as they were offering hearty delights such as beef pie) I ordered a chicken wrap. Forgetting this was America, I naively thought that this would be a singular wrap - oh no, silly me, of course there were 2 wraps, strangely accompanied by green beans with garlic. Not a bad wrap although I would have preferred melted mozzarella rather than the cool lumps they wedged in.
This I followed by a cig and another excellent cup of coffee from No. 71 before Fletcher arrived - not quite bushy tailed but then who the hell would be after enduring immigration hall, although apparently the fucker breezed through in no time. We hit the streets and I led him in totally the wrong direction - its a grid system, apparently you can't get lost, well I tested that theory. However, we rallied and made it to the Shake Shack. Apparently this place is so popular people queue for more than 2 hrs, Tom once phoned at 11.30am to order a takeaway and was informed he would have to wait until 6.30pm!
Luckily for us it was cold and about 3ish so there was only a short queue, the masses may also have been put off by the mentalist who decided to talk (shout) at Fletch and I as we munched on burgers and crinkle cut fries (obviously accompanied by a beer). He was cunning this nut job, to ensure he had our attention he gave us a copy of The Onion, we now owed him conversation. On hearing our accent we were asked if we were from Boston, no my dear boy we are not. Upon learning we were English we got asked questions such as whether we knew the Beatles; painful.
He launched into several monologues about how these were the best burgers in New York but that the beer was too expensive, he gets his own, no surprise his fav beer is over 7% and that he had already drunk his, I would imagine that was brekkie. He also suggested that the whole city produces better pizzas than England and that ones with Italian names such as James and Nick's (classical Italian names) would offer the very best.
All of this was accompanied by the crackle of his radio (playing some form of white noise probably to stop the corporations from enslaving him), a horrible laugh and constant asides about how he hated pigeons but not birds - we opted not to tell him that they pigeons also fell into this group he so admired.
Finally there was a loose invitation to watch the ball game at his place in the Bronx, we loosely declined and buried ourselves in that copy of The Onion. Elated to have met such an excellent character (he was wonderfully fat, bald on top but with long hair on the sides, and squeezed into a Yankees t-shirt depicting the old stadium, reminding him of better days) it felt only right to start drinking in earnest.
We headed off to the Side Bar to watch some of the game with pitchers of beer. I'm not sure they could have crammed more widescreen tvs into the bar, it was impossible to focus as they were showing different matches, they also had a healthy surround sound system which really leapt into life everytime there was an ad break to leave you swaying. I opted to focus on the beer.
Side Bar was followed up by a trip to an apparent recent addition to NY, Lillies - an Irish Victorian bar (it wasn't going to be an English bar was it). Here the boozing began in earnest s we met up with Ryan, Erin, Mark and Faz - they were heartily reducing the bar's white wine reserves. After a few beers we exited to spruce up for more boozing, returning an hour or so later, the gang were still in place but livelier than before.
Going out for a ciggie, Fletch and I met a chap who pointed out by dragging us to the window to see for ourselves that he was the only black man in the bar - it seemed he was correct, we were less sure about his claim that he was originally Welsh. He also wanted to buy us drinks on his credit card, "the more I buy, the more sky miles I get" and debt I pointed out, he wasn't after my dose of reality and headed back inside.
More drinks followed and the lovely Sarah Pfau rocked up; upon bumping into me outside during yet another ciggie break she pointed out that I looked tired and cranky, there was another adjective, I can't remember what it was, hammered would have been apt.
Fletcher started to flag, I slapped him about like he was my wife who had failed to get me some eggs. We then hit upon the idea of Espresso Martinis, a favourite, the staff didn't know what they were, I started bitching (with about 1 hrs sleep in 2 days I was getting horribly rude and obnoxious) and slating the staff, Fletcher took the superior tact of explaining what one was and filled with glee ordered far too many.
Pepped up with booze and a hint of coffee we went Meatpacking and hit Homestead, an excellent steak restaurant. I gave $20 to a waiter to get himself and I a pack of smokes, I helpfully hawked trade for the restaurant as I swayed outside, although the cover charge I was quoting for entry strangely kept people out. I also decided to give Ryan a lapdance, this wasn't met by approval, unbeknown to me I was actually in a family restaurant. I pointed out it was 11pm and I wasn't exactly tripping on Bugaboos. In between being an unruly drunken diner I did tuck into a sensational fillet served with a potato cake with a side of delicious creamed spinach. I thoroughly recommend a trip there.
Tiredness was really kicking in now (I'd slapped poor old Fletch hard at least a dozen times during the meal) but we weren't to be halted, oh no. We veered across the road to Pasteis, another lively spot. I tucked into G&Ts and much to my delight found we were in conversation with a gaggle of females but hang on a second, they were women, not lovely young New Yorkers but 40 yr olds from out of town who were talking about gardening. Time for a ciggie break, on my return, much to my dismay, I discovered that they were still talking about gardening.
I haven't come all the way to New York to talk about fucking gardening I ranted (on repeat). When finally asked what I did want to talk about I, slightly oddly, suggested anal sex. This was a no go but my insistence led to one of the oldies to flag up she was a nurse and we got to talk about which 'foreign objects' she had removed from patient's vaginas. People began to drift off, I treated Fletcher to a few more meaty slaps and then the group dispersed. I marched Fletcher off to Gaslight down the road for another drink, he was far from delighted.
We bumbled around until I caught Fletcher sleeping standing up - a talent but not one known to gain positive reactions. Reluctantly I slapped him into the cold air outside and waited for a taxi, this brought him to his senses, slightly. He noticed the bar and suggested we went in, I pointed out in my finest Anglo Saxon that we had just left that bar and slapped him into a cab.
Amazingly we slurred the correct address and found ourselves outside of Tom's apartment, I had the key but I couldn't operate the simple mechanics in front of me. Sleeping boy had a crack, he failed and doubtless earned another slap or two. Finally when it looked like we would have to sleep in the corridor or wake the disabled person who lives next to Tom (well actually he probably was awake, terrified that some drunken burglars were in the building) the Gods smiled on us and I worked the lock (it really isn't too hard). Fletch fell through the door and decided our luggage was his bed for the night. I imagine this earned him a final bitch slap for the night before he made it to the sofa, obviously he didn't get in the sleeping bag he had lugged all the way from home.
I lay on the air bed, reading Max Tucker, wondering if sleep would ever wash over my shattered drunken carcass whilst listening to Mario, still stuck in the heating system, bang around with that wrench of his.
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