HOT DOG HOCUS POCUS

OK…I checked my notes, and could not find any thing about NOT including family anecdotes in this blog.

So, although NYC seems so far away after only two weeks, I had to share our night out revolved around my little brother’s birthday!

He, after accommodating an entourage of family members for his birthday—trying to coordinate a large table in Manhatttan on a Saturday night for parents, cousins, 3 crazy wives of varying degrees, and 3 children under the age of 11—we ended up at Joe’s Italian East Side Restaurant (or something like that), largely because of the meatballs that were featured on Drive throughs, Diners and Dives (or something like that) and because they had a vegan menu (For crazy wife #1)

Drama ensued, as it always does when my family congregates—too much noise, shouting at the waiter, mumbling under the breath, one correcting another’s behavior, more mumbling, someone dipped their bread in somebody elses sauce, the heavy drinker who is no longer drinking yet kept making comments like “can you put some vodka in that”, more corrected behavior, more mumbling, food flying as “some of us” speak with their mouth full—you get the picture? Not even close you do!

Two hours later–after two whiny kids were removed (one who actually reached tears—mostly from all the spittle-spray—flying his way [side note– crazy wife #2 theorized after “dad and the boys” left, that dad was pinching son under the table so he could use the tears as an excuse to “get the kids back to the hotel”. As I said..just a theory]

Anyways…after all was spit and done, and after the always necessary strategizing– the cool kids (My brother, wife-Kathy, cousin-now-NYC restaurant manager-Nate, and I) snuck away from the bedlam—“hug, hug, kiss kiss, this was great”—and booked it deeper into the East Village. (I can say “East Village” without fear, because my brother won’t read this blog—as he is too busy managing crazy—but otherwise, he would likely correct my definition of neighborhood. He WOULD roll his eyes up and say something like “No dude, that was the Lower East Side. The East Village begins north of…”

But here’s the punch line. Dave is always finding cool, hidden gems in the City, the places YOU would never, ever see, if you didn’t have a brother living in Manhattan. We walked for 10 minutes (tops) past packed bars and bustling streets, and into (“wtf?”) a hot dog “café” of sorts. Down 5 stairs…double line…packed with 20 somethings ordering a variety of the only thing on the overhead menu—Hot dogs. What’s he up to now? Criff’s Hot dogs? “Dude, we just ate dinner”

As we followed reservedly, Dave led us to the left of the back of the hot dog line—to the phone booth. (Old school style, collapsing door) We stood in a short line by his side, as he collapsed the door and picked up the receiver. He dialed. He said something into the receiver and…….voila! The opposite wall of the phone booth popped open and we were led directly to a plush-velvety booth, in low lighting, with cool music, and surrounded by 50 other “in the know” cool-like that cats—sipping on crafted cocktails like Spice Trader, Rosemary’s Society, For Peat’s Sake and Mezcal Mule.

This secret space, known as “Don’t Tell” was the perfect way to end a long and hectic day—tucked into a corner, protected from crowds and more noise by a 5ft door-woman who protected the password and turned one unreserved guest after another away and back into the hot-dog jungle. Finally and completely relaxed, happy to be tucked into a quiet, dark and sexy corner with each other and no “noise”, though obviously not hungry, we looked over the menu anyway. Hotdogs.