as i entered the 5th floor loft in chinatown, i rapidly shook hands and/or airkissed and/or hugged all of the kids in attendance for the little saturday evening dinner party/brouhaha. it was one of those friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend situations where nobody really cared who you were or how you knew the host, but rather focused on having a gregarious time with stimulating conversation.
at first, i hung out in the kitchen area, where i caught up with friends and watched in awe as the host and her boyfriend made pasta. for me, “making pasta” usually means boiling water, dumping in a half-box of noodles, the pot boiling over, me half-heartedly straining the burnt/undercooked noodles, and then dumping in a jar of overpriced bland sauce. my friends would describe my cooking as “crunchy”.
nay—these kids had some sort of medieval torture device in full swing, and were cranking out wide ribbons of pasta which were hung with care on a special rack, and would later become ravioli. i just stood there slackjawed, sipping my elderberry martini and gently prodding all of the new faces for bits of spice [background].
i slowly connected everyone at party to one another [friends from college, ex-roommates, etc.], aside for the one roommate who was erratically doing her own thing. very cute, very skinny, very energetic, i watched this blond gal shuffle around in the background nonstop for the first hour i was there.
she would rush from her bedroom to the bathroom, wearing only a slip. then she’d sing in the bathroom while putting on makeup, coming out 5 minutes later covered in dark eyeliner. then she’d come into the kitchen, make herself a strong martini, talk loudly to her mom on her cell phone, and then go out on the balcony and smoke. 2 minutes later, she’d come in and change outfits, putting on a leather bodice. then she’d shuffle across the loft to a sewing machine, light a cigarette, and start furiously hemming some trousers. then, back to the bathroom, where she’d wash her makeup off, giggling the whole time. then, back to her bedroom, where the door would slam, and she’d come out 60 seconds later with the sniffles.
the rest of us went up to the rooftop, to grill some steak and watch the sunset over manhattan. it was the first time since last autumn that it was warm enough to enjoy the sunset outside—spring had definitely sprung. i’m a sucker for sunsets and skylines and looking down on people, so this little rooftop moment was perfect.
heading back downstairs, i saw the girl was fixing herself another cocktail. i tried not to stare as she mixed her drink, but had to ask, “wow… a bloody mary!” she smiles, looks me right in the eye, pours us each a shot of tequila, and says, “it’s my saturday night ritual” as she slams her cuervo and toasts her bloody mary to me, as a chaser which she quickly attacks.
the dinner party was, of course, entirely civilized. très adult. we all sat around and “can you pass the ravioli please” and “ooh, these brussel sprouts are exquisite” and “wow, where did you get these place settings” as the crazy roommate kept up her nonchalant coked-up dance in the background. by the time she finally left around 11:30pm, she’d done a few more costume change-cocktail-sewing machine-phone call circuits, and it seemed i was the only one to notice.
don’t tell anyone, but i felt more at home with this courtney love in training than with the respectable couples who know how to make ravioli from scratch. plus, the girl was the only one who noticed and understood why i was wearing one yellow and one purple converse sneaker. thank you for noticing.
