I tore through Crown Heights like a hurricane last night with my roommate and our neighbor Chris (who I am refusing to address as "pool god" as he has so requested). After four days of being cooped up in our apartments, we were ready to do some running around...literally.
First, dinner at Mayfield, yet another new restaurant on Franklin & Prospect Place that was featured in Eater, a nice database of delicious places to eat. We demolished a dozen oysters, and the scallops melted in your mouth. All two of them. We decided ordering more food was secondary to the necessity of venturing over to Vanderbilt to check out the scene over there.
The first place we checked out was Soda Bar complete with a bartender in a straw hat, a table of Irishmen in the corner, and a giant, walking fern that smacked us in the face as we walked in. Those leaves are like razor blades. I yelled out, "What is this?!? Fern Gully?" and the server turned around, smiled, and walked away. She had no explanation as to what her costume was supposed to be or why she was walking around with gigantic daggers shooting out of her back. The place was filled with round tables in the front, and true to Brooklyn form, there was a door in the back that led to another section of the bar. I felt like I fell down the rabbit hole and came out in a dingy European bar with couches and lounging areas. Careful though, you never know what you'll sit on if you attempt to claim a spot. I don't even want to ponder the possibilities. The bathrooms were an adventure, let me tell you. The door had a sign saying "doesn't lock" so my roomie had to stand guard. After careful hovering, I went to flush and almost overflowed the toilet. Let this be a lesson to you that you 1) never sit down on a toilet seat in New York City, and 2) take caution when trying to flush in a bathroom with red lighting. It's deceiving.
Chris can talk to anyone, as well as make anyone laugh. He sat right down at a table full of Irishmen and just started chatting them up about sports and the homeland. Table full of men laughing like good friends, I don't know how he does it. I know what you're thinking, Genevieve. No, none of the Irishmen were hot. Moving on.
We walked down to Branded Saloon. We certainly stood out by not dressing up because it seemed like everyone was in costume, and there were no slouches. I saw a giant man dressed like a woman in stilettos (pretty sure it wasn't a costume though), skinny men dressed as lumber jacks in plaids, a bartender in tight softball pants...wait a second. The bartender bought Chris a shot. A guy said he loved my shirt. We may or may not have wandered into a gay bar. There was live music in the back, and the dude was wearing a shirt with mesh sleeves...
Either way, we danced our faces off. Chris went around tugging on people's costumes and freestyle rapping to some awesome 90s song that of course all 3 of us knew every word to at the time but I can't remember for the life of me what it was. Does anyone remember anything from the 90s anyway? Something to do with baggy pants, velvet, and maroon lipstick, none of which manifested last night. Place was small but, true to Brooklyn style once again, had a separate back room for bands. We stayed up front and drank much better draft beer and hung out with an astronaut, Mrs. Mia Wallace, a dude wearing a mask from the movie Legend or Eyes Wide Shut (very creepy), a male angel, and an 80s band member. So much fun!
Suddenly, we realized with urgency, we HAD to play pool. Had to. Our desire was so great that we half ran the million blocks back to the bar by our apartment. En route, I climbed on a gigantic boulder, my roomie cracked jokes, Chris dropped a beat, I stomped it out, and we walked across Crown Heights spitting raps about doing laundry, astronauts, and football. Ludacris would have been proud. I'm surprised we didn't get assaulted.
You can guess what happened when we got to the pool tables. I wrecked it with my impeccable skills, too bad there weren't more people there to see it. Chris was lucky enough to beat me once, and my comeback win the second game spared me from doing two loads of his laundry this week. I have enough problems doing my own laundry, let alone any else's. I wash everything in one load too. Hot-cold. All of my whites are gray. It's amazing I know how to dress myself.
3:30 a.m. rolled around, and I hated my life (but not as much as right now, the following day). I don't remember the last time I stayed out that late. Wait a minute, that was last Saturday. I swear though, it had been months before that. Too busy running around the state and recovering from teaching. Lots of sleeping, very exciting stuff. I've had my fill of late nights, which is problematic since my birthday is coming up here and I'm beginning the last year of my 20s, which I am ecstatic about. I thought I was supposed to be wrapping up my years of making bad decisions! I guess I can wait until I'm 30 to give myself a hard curfew. Until then, it's game on.
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