You know, you’re wrong about me. I know what you say behind my back or even in front of my face in these weird languages that I know you make up just to talk about me. You say I’m one of these New Yorkers who says stuff like, “Oh, I never go above 14th Street” and looks down her nose (and don’t think I don’t hear you calling it “Jewy”) (you would add “schnoz” to that, too, if only you were sure that it meant “nose” and not “putz”) at people whose entry into the city involves a bridge or tunnel and mutters, “Fuckin’ bridge and tunnelers”, or, in an economy of syllablage because I’m too cool to exert myself more than is absolutely necessary, “Effin’ B ‘n’ Ts”, with the same sort of disdain ordinarily reserved for remarks about tourists or the poorly dressed (which often are one and the same).
True, I think this city is the bee’s knees and the cat’s pajamas and even their tuxedos and bikinis. True, I think if you can make it here you can make it anywhere but why the hell would you want to leave. True, I love this city with a Woody Allen ferocity. But I still know that there are some truly fabulous things you’ll miss if you take the attitude that if it’s not here, it’s just not worth it. And especially not worth travelling for, except if your mode of transportation doesn’t require you to avail yourself of a bridge or tunnel and you can fly at the drop of your hideous newsboy hat to Paris or Milan or Tokyo or whatever other city you think is even more beeskneesier than this one.
So now I present to you one of the best reasons to leave this city. One of the best reasons to not rent but actually buy a car. Which is this:
Pacific Rim Wrap
(Click to enlarge, to provoke salivation)
Ordinarily I turn up my schnoz (not having a putz, that is) at the mere mention of a “wrap”, so when my boyfriend ordered this at Blue Sage Grill in Southampton, Pennsylvania, two weeks ago, I thought I’d have to tell him, “It’s been nice knowing you, fella, but I’m taking the next barge to Breakuptown, U.S.A., population YOU.” (And here you thought I was going to say, “Our relationship is a wrap, chump.” See? You don’t know me as well as you think you do.) But this one? This wrap was music to my mouth! Oh! I mean, seriously, Oh!
So “O(h)!” that I almost recreated the scene I can’t stand from When Harry Met Sally. You know the one.
If you’re ever anywhere near the area, or even if you’re not, I suggest, from the bottom of my stomach, that you get you and yours over to Blue Sage Grill. (And if you think I haven’t already tittered and twittered over the word “rim” in the name of the wrap, you really don’t know me at all.)