Sinanation

After all the long hours of table waiting, the desperate attempts to talk perfect French, the hugs, the handshakes and the eye contacts I somehow made my way through this small, but incredibly sophisticated French Bistrot. There was an initial “unspoken of” acceptance period glazed in nonchalant French attitude and superficial Uptown credentials. It has been unwelcoming at first: bitter, cold and cautious until we both warmed up to each other. It has been years since I first visited this little France tucked under a red brick British townhouse. It took maybe a million lunches and dinners after the first visit. Only now can I find the confidence to say that I finally became a friend or do I dare say a relative to this very selective family. I keep its name a secret with the guilt of being a little selfish and leave the adventure to you to find out how addictive this place is.

Wake a small child up and push him into a room full of presents and sweets. I am that child here. Each day has a different reason to pull me into this place and I never expect the ordinary from it. Among all the occasions, the roots of my obsession with 63rd & Madison lies within the Saturday lunchtime or as many call it “the happy hour”.

I make my way out of the cab. Girls dazzle with their shampoo commercial-ready hair, guys stand bold with their carefully ironed shirts and blazers: we are all ready for action. The hidden treasure, the bistrot of delicious food, the tiny restaurant with great music grins at us from the corner. Guests push in through the tiny door, hoping to grab onto the next opening table. We walk with determination like soldiers prepped up to win the war. I embrace the expected and smirk for the minimum 1 hour wait.

The room is filled up with tall, thin, beautiful models escorting old, but sleek playboy millionaires. Some arrive in Bentleys, some are fresh out of their private jets and others are sunburnt after their recent ski trip. Luxury items of distinction are comfortably displayed. They are a part of the everyday life on 63rd & Madison. Past 1.30pm, the young say farewell to the old couples who have just finished their quiet lunch. The floor now belongs to us, the young socialites who are ready to go wild while late lunching. The extra large paintings on the walls greet me while I check out the tables. People walking by stare inside, trying to figure out what this place really is and why it is so crowded. I am happy to be a part of the mystery. I get behind the narrow bar, grab as many glasses as I can carry and a bottle of rose. A few glasses of wine always help ease the wait.

Around 2.30pm, Just when the lights start to dim and the music starts to get louder, I settle down at our table. The most delicious tuna tartares, mushroom risottos, poulet cajuns, lobster salads and a few orders of French fries accompany the ridiculous amount of wine consumed. The girls become more beautiful than ever. I can no longer sit straight, hoping to be on higher ground. Chairs and tables flush out Americans, French, Greeks, Turkish, Indians and Brazilians. The napkins become bandannas. I jump behind the bar, guiding the chanting, sweating, dancing, laughing with the crowd that truely responds to my music.

We are the Love Generation. We are the Children of the Sky and we are Rio de Janerio. It is time to forget the chocolate mousse. Nothing tastes better than where I am.

A part of me belongs to 63rd & Madison.

This entry was posted on Thursday, March 13th, 2008 at 04:52 and is filed under DEBATES, IDEAS, ETC., EAT & DRINK, New York City, Restaurants. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.