Mario and I sat at the Gray Dog on University this evening and drank tea while we talked about lemon cookbooks, citrus cookbooks, his sister, his niece, my nephews, cooking, romance, books, writers, tops, bottoms, Daddys, the problem with Daddys, and on and on. Also about how it takes a certain person who can tell you a certain thing, and other people can tell it to you, but you don't hear it unless it comes from that person.
Then we walked over to find the new Comme de Garcons Black store, (which is on 10th Avenue and 17th Street if you're looking.) They have about 50 pieces of clothing, all blacks and some whites mixed in. The men's section has fewer pieces, but they are all fabulous--if you are the kind of person who can wear that stuff, which I am not. (Though I really loved these flannel overdyed things which are right out of the future and also the now, know what I mean? Mario tried on an insane pair of dropped-crotch pants and we discussed how one could wear them. The salespeople, two of them, both adorably hip and skinny, helped describe how someone would wear these pants--how they were dress down-able, or up-able. How the wool has a certain sheen so it's "you know, more," she said.
Mario, who was my boyfriend once, talked with them about the clothes for a few minutes. I was reminded what it was like dating him--how this whole other language came out when he started talking clothes with other clothes people and how it made perfect sense to those who were speaking it. I've always been fascinated by inner-circle talk--the industry chatter of lighting designers, chefs, hairstylists, mechanics, piano players. All that stuff.
Then we walked down 10th Avenue to find Chef Morimoto standing on the sidewalk in a t-shirt and sweats, talking to a woman. Then we walked across the street to the new Colicchio and Sons (formerly CraftSteak) to look at the menu. It looked exciting--no more $100 steaks that no one is buying--more home cookin' with a few surprises, big flavors and classics shifted a bit. And then there was Tom himself, standing inside in his chef's coat, talking to some staff. The hostess stood watching us through the window, and I felt like if I had made eye contact, she'd have beckoned us inside and we'd have wined (or beer'd, as there is a whole new "Tap Room" menu as well) and dined ourselves silly. We didn't, but knowing that we could have--that was enough.