Of Mice and Pony

I know better than to raise an eye to the skyline while in the city. I have seen the beautifully decorated ceiling of Grand Central Station only in pictures. I know this much. After many a trip I still may not know whether I should exit onto Lexington or 42nd to shave a right turn or two toward my destination in SoHo, yet I have come to acknowledge that if I wave down one of the psycho yellow blurs that dominate the roadways of the city that I do not "own" that cab. Even the tame can be feral, and in the city one must be primal.

Instincts have lead to much adaptation in the New Yorker. One denizen I have known in a former incarnation as a yokel in our youths has begun teaching me the hunting, the eking out, the survival strategies of this one wild island. These skills are artfully and individually honed. Let me tell you, the meek will not a bagel receive.

Take for instance, two delis. To the admiring, unassuming early-morning hungry-man they would appear to have the same varied sundries, one an approximate of the other...save the continent of the proprietor's heritage. Not so, says the distinguishing South Houston-ite. One is desirable solely for the bagel, where the recipient must know afore ordering (with no visual cue or clearly posted protocol) to quiet oneself on the particulars of preparation or "shmear" options. It will, God willing, come as it may. One way. Not the other. Coffee is taken from the adjacent deli. prepared and served by self, cream offering God willing.

Yes, one must lose themselves into the mist of uncertainty and embrace the primalities that the vast labyrinth of places sought, shunned and stayed clear of. On my last trip, just this month past, my survival instincts were put to the test in such a way as I could look back on the crucible with angst and consternation or pride and personal growth. I knew this then, and searched my baser needs to answer the enigma.

The four of us, two by two, city mice and country mice, stood shoulder to shoulder awaiting a table. Cloudy mirrors and lengths of brass, this hipster haunt was a destination. And we were destined to wait. As country mice, my consort and i fall victim to one of our many pastimes. Standing patiently for our name to be drawn in the great lotto of dining tables. The city mice stirred.

It was to pass that the 1.5 hour approximated wait served to our party by a darkly bedecked and complexioned host would not do. Would not suffice. My hosting steward and I would venture forth into the night to garner a better offer, at the bequest of our dinner-dates. Prompted on cell phone functions, and pointed in the an appropriate heading, we set out into the night, a table was our fleece, our chalice to hold above all else. We were to be Lewis and/or Clark, whoever would happen upon an open table within a four-block radius. And we were ready to take the quest. Or at least feign a try rather than while the time away gazing in like Tiny Tim at the platters, plates and glasses passed. Wishful.

I have never seen a meth-amphetamine-addicted person. Until that night. The cursing was a tell-tale. The frothing was hard evidence. As my compatriot in this fellowship of open-booth-seeking made the call to arms, the dinner-bell-ring to our significants, still ogling the fed and hearty, signaling a wellspring of seats not two blocks west of our previous locality, I was treated to one of the many side effects of city living. The train-wreck-rubberneck-that is inspired by the open ragings of the lunatic elite that is ever-present in major cities. I will grant this, I was inspired by this particularly "touched" woman's sense of indignity and the courage she embodied, as she spat insults, saliva and acrimonies as the tattoo parlors brightly lit windows...a thin glass layer shielded the gathered occupants whose incredulity grew in direct relation to the gathering of spittle and absurdities that rained across the neon-lit window.
To make matters approximately more unsettling, the woman had just walked out of the very establishment that we had deemed an opportune end to our February night sojourn. It did not bode well, however it did have an open table. Hers?

And so we were met, shown to our table, and comfortably attended to. Though the bottle we selected was not readily chilled, though the entree I salivated for was sold out, the syncretic overtures and simple charm of The Pink Pony, the coffee shop/book haven cum French-Moroccan taste-haven easily and modestly displays its assets. From classically prepared Escargot in garlic and parsley to the Eggplant Napoleon, whose sautéed vegetables barley and green curry sauce transcended the lowly and oft under appreciated station of vegetarian menu fare. From our plush, not posh, round booth at the back of the restaurant, replete with bookshelves and mirrored walls, the mice ate well and comfortably in the care of the Pony. Lest we overlook the F. Scott Fitzgerald's grand message regarding reserving judgment, we did well by not letting the bohemian, coffee house cover, nor the babbling brook of insults issued by the angel-dusted harpy dissuade us from seeing for ourselves what lay inside. Hunger and situation also played a role, but doesn’t it always.