I want a torrential rain. The kind that explodes out of an oppressively hot humid day, that soaks you within five minutes, and then is gone in 30. I want to walk in that rain, be cloaked in it, breathe it in.
Really, that's the big thing I want out of this upcoming trip to New York. I'm going for a friend's birthday, and I'm giving my weekend to her (gladly: it'll be fun and great and hopefully cathartic), but I want a piece of the rest of the trip just for me.
I want my rain.
Tonight my date and I were sitting in Hecho at the bar, and suddenly found a giant entire tuna carcass (the wet bartender thought it was mackerel, but I think he was mistaken) in the hands of the sushi chef in front of us. The evening had already been a little surreal, what with the pairing of tequila with sashimi, and an uni-squid combination of which my mouth wasn't sure what to make. I was already two margaritas and a bellyful of raw fish in when the chef raised his knife and started (skillfully) hacking at the gills and slicing away at the scales. It was fascinating and strange and probably a little disturbing to anyone who isn't a kitchen science geek like myself. I can see now why most sushi restaurants keep this part of the process hidden in the back kitchen. But I'm glad this one didn't.
The food and drink here was pretty good, pretty expensive. If you want to go, I would recommend it, but if you're squeamish I would say you should avoid sitting at the sushi bar. Just saying. You never know when the next fish show will happen.
And now, Jeff Buckley, covering the Smiths: