Lunch At The Sylvia

September 8th, 2009 | No Comments

July 09

More wine! Already drunk on sunshine, it almost seems appropriate to be so audacious and commanding of a perfect day. Almost – it isn’t quite noon. Jeff Buckley’s “Grace”, a defiance of the fear of death, provides an added boldness. The cigar also helps. My yoga teacher will offer a practice for protecting oneself from any surrounding negative energy by instructing you to channel a while light through the top of your head, and projecting a gold shell around you. My cigar is my gold shell. With it I feel bullet proof. While the smoke does provide a visual shell of sorts, it is more about the fact that you can’t really DO anything while smoking a cigar. The person smoking a cigar at a wedding is the one who remains at one table for hours, with conversation coming to him. Smoking a cigar necessitates holding court, as it were. More wine!

Rock star seating has always been important to me. I traveled Europe with the sole purpose of securing the best table for every meal. The most complete immersion into the culture of a city is to translate the foot traffic of its locals through a bottle of wine. This can only be done by perching yourself on a patio chair seemingly reserved for the elite, or the voracious. You are close enough to touch the players, but still retractable from the random improve of the city when it lurches forward.

From this box seat I can enjoy chubby Persian men in oversized sunglasses parade the beach in semi-formal attire. Resident performers, who inexplicably balance rocks the size of Bolivian papayas into four-foot high structures, answer the same question for the 371st time today. Militant rollerbladers curse the patrons of the sidewalk hotdog vendor, who spill onto the wrong path (rightfully so!). The summer heat negates enough clothing that even the unattractive warrant a second look. I should have brought a larger cigar.

I had never noticed before how for the first minute after the sun slips behind the top of the islands beyond the bay, that there remains an isolated forest-fire glow. A mental stutter step that the sun might peak back again occurs, as does the one collective pause on the seawall as the crowd takes in the underestimated ritual. Does the old man share the same thoughts about the sunset as the young couple, or is that just me composing their soundtrack for them?

If I told you the ending of a book, would you read it? Other than the specific details of the summer attire of the cute girls at work, or exactly how many inane things my antagonist co-worker will say each day, I already have a prophetic knowledge of how my job will proceed in the months to come. I want to live a story that makes me keep reading.

Time for a new career.

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