snow and the city

People who grow up in cold climates can tell when snow is coming. I can tell. The air becomes kind and warm relative to the chill and then without any herald, the snow silently swoops down and makes Manhattan clean.

I missed my first snowfall here because I was indoors on Broadway. I had unsuccessfully tried to find the Bella Muse card stand on Spring Street so I had gone to the Muji store to get some knick knacks for La Crevette and stumbled upon a newly opened samples shop. The longer it snowed, the more clothes I tried on. The more clothes I tried on, the more clothes I tried not to buy. Two dresses, three tanktops, one missed snowfall.

In search of a pretty Valentine to send to my friend Dale in Honolulu, I went to Pearl River Mart to find something delicate and colorful. The Chinese are deft with paper. I saw lanterns and streamers and found the perfect card for my adopted Hawaiian Daddy.

When it's cold, people who spend their afternoons shopping on an empty stomach look for comfort in noisy French brasseries. At Balthazar I encountered the opportunity to speak French, a great dinner and one of the most fascinating conversations I've ever had the fortune of overhearing.

It was still early when the dining room began to fill with an erudite older crowd. Tall, greying men. Women with frosty blonde bobs. As I waited for a spot at the crowded bar, I stood next to a seated couple, Cranky Man and Emphatic Lady. They were in their late 30s, touching each other as they cupped their slowly draining wine glasses. They were both dark haired, Emphatic Lady's long and laying against her back. Cranky Man wore a grey scarf and a perturbed expression. She gushed.

"I love being with you. I only want to be with you, baby. I love when you make love to me. Our love is amazing." She grabbed his arm. I think I may have hiccuped. I was startled by the frank and forward love arrows she shot at this man. I reached for my Blackberry and took notes. Did love like this truly exist? How rare and exceptional. I almost began smiling to myself at the folly of the infatuated. She had the effervescent fervor of a hormone-ravaged teenager. Cranky Man had surely lucked out to find a disproportionately more attractive woman who was so indefatigably enamored with...

"I can't believe you fucked that guy! Did you just need to get laid or something?!?!"

The typing stopped. Emphatic Lady laughed it off. She seemed to enjoy making her man jealous. But I soon found out that he was not her man when her retort came in the form of "I can't believe you brought your WIFE to my house!"

The typing resumed. People are insane when it comes to adulterous sex. I was waved to my seat by a French waiter with an angular face and a small tight ponytail of dark blond hair. It was two chairs away from the cheating Bickersons and I could no longer discern their inappropriate sentences.

For my dinner, I ordered a Balthazar Bar Steak cooked rare which was served with perfect french fries. The steak was a piece of flank which was quite chewy. The Steak Frites is a different cut which I will try another time. The beurre maitre was delicious, a melting pat of herbed butter that slithered along the sinews of the meat. Emphatic Lady would have enjoyed watching it.

For dessert, I had what will be a dessert I shall always remember. Apple and Frangipane tart. The crust was a crisp, buttery phyllo dough shell with a layer of mild frangipane. The apples were just sour enough and bruleed dark and caramel. On deck, a simple but pure vanilla ice cream. Below deck, a Calvados foam. Crunchy, soft, sweet, acidic, warm, cold, creamy, apple. It was incredible and exemplary.

A stylish girl sitting to my left asked me how it was. I was effusive like a mistress. We started talking and I got my first email address from a stranger in New York City. She's a former Donna Karan designer starting her own clothing label. I told her I had two hands that needed to be put to work doing anything not involving answering a phone or scheduling a meeting. Or compromising a married man. Ick.