After an invigorating Broadway jazz dance class and my second failed attempt to find the Brooklyn flea*, I made my way to Nowhere Land, an area of the city not defined with a neighborhood. Manhattan is a city of neighborhoods – some large (Upper East Side, West Village), some small (Nolita, Stuyvesant Town), but all essential to the city. Neighborhoods add the charm to this mass of concrete. They make it liveable…and loveable.
I was heading to Nowhere Land in search of this week’s brunch and found a great spot. Vinyl is a 30-seat, bustling diner with a retro look and hipster soul. I knew I was in the right place when I walked into the delicious smells of coffee and sautéed onions and the delicious sounds of the Scissor Sisters. I sat at the bar and struck up a conversation with a gay couple to my left. One of them was enjoying a hearty plate of eggs Benedict, but the other just sipped on a mimosa. “No breakfast for you,” I asked him.
“This is my breakfast,” he said, “bottomless mimosa.”
This was it. I had found that legendary tale of Manhattan brunches – the bottomless mimosa. For $15 I got myself a Latin Scramble and a champagne flute that never went empty. As soon as I got 2/3rds of the way through my glass, one of the five waiters would come by with a pitcher to top it off. After 90 minutes of slurred conversation with my new BFFs (Brunch Friends For-now), I decided to take a little walk. The rain had mellowed to a Seattle drizzle and I needed the air. I walked to the Hudson and traversed up along the water. The air had been cleansed by the two days of intense run and it almost seemed…fresh. I enjoyed the horizon, something you don’t see much in Manhattan and turned back in towards the city at the meat packing district.
The meat packing district (MPD) is eight square blocks of hipness. The streets are cobblestone, the buildings brick, and the retail expensive. If you’re not a gallery, designer, or buzz-worthy restaurant, well….you’re not here. I was feeling the confidence of 3-ish mimosas and decided to venture into an art gallery. The gallery was showing Warhol-esque pop art featuring legendary personalities like Alf and Pee Wee Herman. In the center was an over-sized bucket of paint, lying on its side with a huge puddle of acrylic red “paint” spilled across the room. The 5-6 people milling about all wore black and peered at the art through thick-rimmed glasses.
It occurred to me that this was a quintessential New York experience – viewing art that created a buzz after catching one at brunch. Dance, art, brunch, and getting lost in Brooklyn….sounds like a great Sunday in New York.
* Side note: The Brooklyn street grid is an intricate maze of angled street and dead ends designed to confused and frustrate the average pedestrian. I’ve not stepped foot in that borough without becoming completely, utterly, and hopelessly lost.
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