Today was the eight month anniversary.
I used to look at people who celebrated 8-month-anniversaries in the same way I used to look hippopotamuses at the zoo, always wondering when they’d move from that pool of piss and lettuce.
Now I rather quite like them. Hippos too.
It’s the eight-month anniversary and I’ve sipped a half big ass bottle of wine- in other words, this’ll be a shorter post ya’ll.
Mermaid Oyster Bar: 79 MacDougal St, New York, NY 10012
So to surprise my supreme bloke I decided to take him where the waters fade and grow at the same time- he loves the merging of the West and Greenwich Village and loves oysters too; I love having a bank account I’m proud of while still being able to fling my debit card around like I’m Marie Antoinette in a pool of Bon Bons and P.F. Changs’ lettuce wraps.
So we went there. For HAPPY HOUR.
It’s gorgeous- I’m telling you. You walk into the place and it’s looking like a Beach House meets Pier One Imports- framed pictures upon framed pictures stacked on the walls- all of the same seashells, the walls are crisp and white and the candles are crisp and white and the chrome is as chromatic as can be.
I’m feeling like a Shiksa in a Chuck-E Cheese; but I quickly adjust as I realize that I’m no shiksa but really a big ol’ fan of oysters. A new fan, granted, but you don’t need to know that.
Lemme tell you.
They’ve got ‘Chef’s Choice’ EAST COAST (and West Coast) oysters for a buck each. You lay em’ out flat and you’re looking at 12 oysters for 12 bucks, 2 beers for ten bucks, and a paper cone stuffed with Old bay fries for a couple a bucks more.
You feel DECADENT.
The oysters come in a big tin bowl and everything, filled with ice.
It’s served with a some sort of sweet balsamic vinegar that meets thai chili and Jesus. Another cup has got some marinara in it. It tastes like marinara only in a sexy silver cup smashed into a sexy bed of ice, in a much larger, sexier bowl.
We’re getting meta.
Oysters were succulent and fresh and kinda had the consistency of biting into some asshole who was walking in the middle of the street- all satisfying and what have you. Only, it was fresh. And salty. And served with sexy condiments.
The bar actually serves up an incredible menu of oysters- featuring regional and continental oysters found in the deeps of their regions. For Happy Hour purposes alone, they only feature a very vague ‘East Coast’ and ‘West Coast’ selection for oysters.
Never the less, they are incredible. Though I have to tell you, up until today, I don’t think I’ve ever been able to describe just what an incredible oyster tastes like. i suppose it isn’t too slimy, and provides enough tenderness in the ‘meat’ of it all for you to dig your chompers into while still allowing your tongue to marinate in the salt and the water and the lime and the other flavors that make oysters so damn distinct.
The bay fries were so damn salty it was near perfection. My tongue was consistently warning me of a Nor’Easter on the horizon, but I shut it up with a couple sips (chugs) of Sixpoint Lager. Lord, the contradiction is so settling and my tongue is nesting in a blanket of hops and barley.
The lager is crisp and intimidatingly sharp. It really settles in the tongue as it disintegrates all remnants of oyster wanna-be slime and Old Bay seediness.
‘The draft beer is really great,’ my guy says, ‘it really cuts the flavor of the oyster.’
Our waiter jokes that the lager is a good choice because it cuts the clitoral taste of all the shellfish. He’s kind and gay.
We also had a lollipop of fried shrimp. It’s served on a dollop of savory dijon mustard and some overhyped coleslaw mixture. That stuff’s ignored, but the shrimp is tender enough to get me salivating for a couple more.
Our waiter give us some complimentary pudding. With frosting on top. it’s chocolatey. but it also comes in an espresso cup. So- it satisfies us only as a wanna-be amuse-bouche.
We tip the waiter and we head out on our way.
And we walk from West Houston to 11th Avenue and 52nd Street where we pretend to be a couple in search of a dog and sit in the small dog park. A man talks to us but gets nowhere.
And so, we head home and sip on some wine on the roof of his apartment overlooking some view of the Manhattan Skyline. ‘Some’.
We talk about our weekend in Philadelphia. I’ve never been and I plan to indulge myself to the end of days in WaWa and ‘water ice’.
Our bus leaves at 9:15 AM so I’m off to bed for now.
But, I’ll hit the world (all 80 of you) tomorrow.
Absolute best, sweet dreams- remember to brush your teeth.