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. It has been years since I first visited this little France tucked under a sweet 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, afraid of the memories and my tie to this place breaking into pieces like a fragile crystal glass. I guess I 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 below the ordinary green sunscreens and floor-to-ceiling windows. I can’t stop smiling. I am full of excitement for no apparent reason. Everyday has a different reason to pull you to this place and you can never expect the ordinary. Yet, it is Saturday lunchtime that exceeds all the expectations.

I make my way out of the cab. All my companions look like they jumped right out of a designer catalogue. Girls dazzle with their shampoo commercial-ready hair, guys stand bold with their carefully ironed shirts and blazers. We are ready for action. The treasure glimpses at us from the corner. People are overflowing from the tiny door. Everyone looks tired of waiting for a table. Just like soldiers who will never give up to win the war, we walk with determination. Knowing there will be at least an hour wait, I smile.

I make my way around tall, thin, beautiful models escorting old, but sleek playboy millionaires. Some come with their Bentleys, some look like they just landed with their private jets and some just came back from their skiing trip. Luxury items of distinction are comfortably displayed. They are a part of our everyday life on 63 and Madison.

I say goodbye to rich couples who have just finished their quiet lunch and started making way to the young socialites who are ready to party while late lunching. The extra large paintings on the walls greet me while I check out the tables. I see people walking by staring 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 throw myself to the bar, grab as many glasses as I can carry and a bottle of rose. Outside my crowd is ready to block the freezing weather with furs and cashmeres. A few glasses of wine help to make the wait easier.

Just when the lights start to dim and the music starts to get louder, we settle down at our table. Tuna tartares, mushroom risottos, poulet cajuns, lobster salads and a few orders of French fries accompany the ridiculous amount of wine we consume. Noone can touch the food anymore, the wine starts to feel like water and the music starts to make its way through your body. All the girls start to look even more beautiful. You can no longer sit. You want to be on higher ground. You want to salute this amazing crowd. Chairs and tables fill up with Americans, French, Greeks, Turkish, Indians and Brazilians. The napkins become bandannas. Even Roberto Cavalli and Ivana Trump can’t resist the energy in this place. They can no longer resist their amusement. They start laughing and clapping.

All of a sudden, a birthday song pops up. The whole room starts chanting for that one special person. It is the birthday of your dreams. I am no longer a guest at 63 and Madison. Two French angels give me the sign and I jump behind the bar, guiding the chanting, sweating, dancing, laughing crowd that totally responds to my music. We are the Love Generation. We are the Children of the Sky and we are Rio de Janerio. The chocolate mousse is no longer necessary as nothing tastes better than where I am. I can never leave 63 and 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.