On Saturday night, Adam and I tried to go a bunch of restaurants, all of which had an hour and more waits (sometimes, I’m like people! We’re in a recession!), and at some point, we were waiting for a table at Pastis.
I like Pastis a lot–it’s a fake Parisian brasserie and I think it’s considered very “New York” by non-New Yorkers, and thus, was overrun with tourists and Fleet Week sailors, hence the long wait–though I think it’s pretty much past its prime for New York foodies (It opened in 1999, so jaded New Yorkers are over it, of course.) I have a fondness for “fake” New York restaurants; I had drinks last week at The Rusty Knot, and I told Adam he would have either loved or hated it–it must have cost the owners a fortune to re-create what is essentially a 1970s Midwestern dive bar (complete with Christmas lights and tiki furniture), but instead of being populated by Midwestern hipsters, it was all first-year Wall Street men and their girlfriends, in chambray button-downs and linen sheaths. There’s an element of New York that is a simulacrum of its cinematic self, and I have a fondness for these places that try to give us a cinematic backdrop to live our lives, even if they’re more sets than reality.
Anyway, while I was waiting, I was knitting on my afghan square, and at some point, I was like, “Do you think me knitting is going to hurt our chances of getting a table?” Adam looked at me, wearing Crocs and a jacket from Forever 21, knitting, surrounded by soft shiny silk mini-dresses and linen blazers, and he was like, “Um, yes.”
(We ended eating at a diner with no wait.)