Malatesta
I hadn't seen OakGirl in roughly five years. One of the last times I saw her I was fighting for a hug goodbye from her crowded deck in La Jolla, Calif. It was the end of her beautiful wedding weekend and I wished her a happy honeymoon and that we would see each other soon. I've been to about fifteen weddings in the past seven years since college and hers was easily one of my top three favorite wedding weekends. I suppose I'm partial to the California wedding, but everything about it was fun: the guests, the parties, the location and most importantly the couple.
Losing touch with close friends is a reality I'm facing and having a hard time coping with in my soon-to-be third-life crisis. Perhaps it's that time of the decade. At the end of our teens we go through the anxiety of losing our high school friends. Two years short of 30, am I due to go through that same anxiety of losing friends, but this time losing those from college, and losing them to husbands and children? As I walked home the other night, saddened by the lack of voicemails and text messages I had received that day, I felt a heavy sense of loneliness. Maybe it's because 2008 seems like it's gotten off to a ho-hum start, or maybe because it's been nearly two years since I've met anyone who excites me in a way Swimster did four years ago this Super Bowl Sunday. Whatever the reason, it made me resolute in my efforts to try and reconnect with friends I've distanced myself from unintentionally over the past several months.
When OakGirl told me she was coming to New York for the big D's birthday I was thrilled that we'd be able to reconnect. OakGirl, like so many of my lasting friends, was also a swimmer. We were rivals in our 80s Speedos-fallen goggles-snotty-nosed-lycra caps phase of our careers, only to become teammates ten years later, once my family moved back from Europe. From the moment I met OakGirl, I wanted to be her friend. She was intelligent, confident, her laugh was contagious and I wanted to be in on whatever she was conspiring. Throughout high school, this usually involved snaring boys on the pool deck of our Connecticut swimming championships with our fast times and flirty smiles. We were pros and to this day we still get a kick out of certain names and certain "hot" teams we ogled over when we were supposed to be focusing on our swims.
The party was at a German bar Zum Schneider's, in honor of D's German ancestry, a few weeks before Christmas and OakGirl came to town with her husband. OakGirl, FoxyLady, BermudaBabe and myself all swam together for the same swim team in Conn., while OakGirl swam with her husband, Swimster and Warrior in college. Ah, it's a small swimming world after all...
Zum's is one of my new favorite bars in the city. It was crowded but not so crowded that you couldn't get service at the bar. The whole place was decorated with light-adorned garlands hanging from the walls for Christmas. They were a little rough on us about taking up too many tables, which I did not understand, but we made the most of it. Half of us sat against the window at a table and half of us took over the bar. I hovered over a table eating sausage-heavy plates and I decided I would come back on another occasion for a meal. D's night was about catching up with old friends and celebrating. Food was secondary, hence our grabbing a to-go slice of pizza en route to the next bar.
The rest of the night after Zum's is a bit fuzzy. But I do know when I said goodbye to OakGirl we mumbled about doing brunch on Sunday. That was extremely ambitious. When I woke up the next morning all I cared about was Gatorade, the couch and the mysterious bruise on my right calf. I spoke to OakGirl on the phone and she said not to worry, she would be back in the city in a couple of weekends.
On her next visit, OakGirl stayed with another one of our former teammates, FunnyGirl, whom I now swim with at the New York Athletic Club. We were in the locker room one day laughing at ourselves, 20-somethings, and still struggling through swim practices. We agreed if you asked us ten years ago if we'd ever become masters swimmers we would have laughed in your face with a bratty, "Yeee-ah, RI-yeet. No way!" And here we were smelling of chlorine, skipping sets for the hot tub and booking our social calendars around weekend swim meets.
"Meet us at Malatesta. It's around the corner from my apartment," said FunnyGirl.
"Mala-what?"
"Malatesta."
"Where are we going?" asked FoxyLady.
"Mal-something."
Weird. I'd been to FunnyGirl's apartment a handful of times and never heard of it, never seen it, never noticed it. And with "mal" at the beginning of the name I couldn't help but think of something bad or negative. Interesting name for a restaurant.
FoxyLady and I ran into the girls crossing Washington and we exchanged hugs movie-style in the middle of the street. It was our reunion, so what if we were a little overexcited? The last meal we all ate together was probably a pasta dinner or a bagel breakfast at YMCA Nationals in Florida in 1997.
We spoke to a server and the next minute we had the best seat in the house. There were two tables on a slightly raised level to your immediate left when you walk in. It was fitting, with our resident comedian, to be on our own mini-stage.
I was sucked in right away. The tables were covered in brown paper-- the kind Dad used to wrap my history and science books in in middle school-- and the specials were written on a clipboard covered in the same brown paper with a little clothespin attaching the menu to its board. They left carafes of water on the table, along with bread and olive oil and the menus were written in chicken scratch. I hadn't put anything in my mouth yet and I already loved this place.
"Good choice, FunnyGirl!"
Our server came right over and we ordered a bottle of wine and a couple of appetizers, thanks to FunnyGirl's suggestions. I kept thinking how lucky she was to have this jewel of a restaurant across the street from her apartment.
We started with the grilled calamari over a bed of lettuce with balsamic vinaigrette
and the prosciutto and parmesan salad.
We were all fighting for every last bit of salad on both plates. I don't usually care for grilled calamari but this was excellent. The pieces weren't so thick that it tasted like you were eating something that was not meant for the dinner table. And the parmesan salad in the shape of a starfish up top was simple but great. The parmesan and prosciutto were cut in thinly shaved slices and the dressing was just light enough to taste both.
For the main dishes, FunnyGirl went with the spaghetti alla chitarra, or spaghetti with chopped tomatoes, chunks of basil and mozzarella.
I tried the tagliatelle al ragu, or pasta with tomato sauce and ground beef.
OakGirl tried the gnocchi.
And last but not least, FoxyLady tried the cheese ravioli in a pink sauce.
I'm sitting here on my couch, with a deep chest cold-- the kind you have to cough in order to breathe. I called out sick to work at 6 a.m. and I'm rotating between cocktails: Zicam and Airborne. Nothing's working. But I think if I had these dishes in front of me I would be cured. Much like I believe cupcakes could bring about world peace, I believe pasta could cure all diseases.
I did not try a pasta I did not like at Malatesta. The spaghetti had a robustness I'd never tasted before, except maybe at Babbo. The sauce was so perfectly made there wasn't a single drop of excess water that fell to the plate. It stuck like glue to every inch of pasta and the melted gobs of mozzarella. In all the years I've been eating pasta, how is it I've never tried pasta with melted mozzarella chunks? My tagliatelle was just as good as the best I've ever had at my family's favorite trattoria in Chatou, France. It had the perfect ratio of sauce to sweet meat to pasta. And as for the gnocchi and ravioli, my only complaint was there wasn't enough ravioli for me to have my own doggy bag and heat it up for lunch the next day. OakGirl looked like she was struggling with the gnocchi portion and I selflessly offered my assistance.
The four of us were giddy in each other's company. It was like we had too much to say and not enough time to get it all in. A lot has happened over the past few years and, as my roomie FoxyLady reminded me as we sat on the couch this week during a woes 'r us session -- what a difference a year makes. What's great about true friends, and what I realized in seeing OakGirl again, is that a friendship isn't measured by phone calls, texts, minutes or voicemails. It's measured by moments. A true friend is someone who you can lose touch with, and when reunited, you pick up where the last hug goodbye left off.
I got to see OakGirl three times in one month and we promised not to let it go years before seeing each other again. If you asked us in high school if we'd ever stop being best friends we would have laughed in your face and said, "Yeee-ah, RI-yeet." Ask me now, with miles between us, and I'll still say the same thing.
Losing touch with close friends is a reality I'm facing and having a hard time coping with in my soon-to-be third-life crisis. Perhaps it's that time of the decade. At the end of our teens we go through the anxiety of losing our high school friends. Two years short of 30, am I due to go through that same anxiety of losing friends, but this time losing those from college, and losing them to husbands and children? As I walked home the other night, saddened by the lack of voicemails and text messages I had received that day, I felt a heavy sense of loneliness. Maybe it's because 2008 seems like it's gotten off to a ho-hum start, or maybe because it's been nearly two years since I've met anyone who excites me in a way Swimster did four years ago this Super Bowl Sunday. Whatever the reason, it made me resolute in my efforts to try and reconnect with friends I've distanced myself from unintentionally over the past several months.
When OakGirl told me she was coming to New York for the big D's birthday I was thrilled that we'd be able to reconnect. OakGirl, like so many of my lasting friends, was also a swimmer. We were rivals in our 80s Speedos-fallen goggles-snotty-nosed-lycra caps phase of our careers, only to become teammates ten years later, once my family moved back from Europe. From the moment I met OakGirl, I wanted to be her friend. She was intelligent, confident, her laugh was contagious and I wanted to be in on whatever she was conspiring. Throughout high school, this usually involved snaring boys on the pool deck of our Connecticut swimming championships with our fast times and flirty smiles. We were pros and to this day we still get a kick out of certain names and certain "hot" teams we ogled over when we were supposed to be focusing on our swims.
The party was at a German bar Zum Schneider's, in honor of D's German ancestry, a few weeks before Christmas and OakGirl came to town with her husband. OakGirl, FoxyLady, BermudaBabe and myself all swam together for the same swim team in Conn., while OakGirl swam with her husband, Swimster and Warrior in college. Ah, it's a small swimming world after all...
Zum's is one of my new favorite bars in the city. It was crowded but not so crowded that you couldn't get service at the bar. The whole place was decorated with light-adorned garlands hanging from the walls for Christmas. They were a little rough on us about taking up too many tables, which I did not understand, but we made the most of it. Half of us sat against the window at a table and half of us took over the bar. I hovered over a table eating sausage-heavy plates and I decided I would come back on another occasion for a meal. D's night was about catching up with old friends and celebrating. Food was secondary, hence our grabbing a to-go slice of pizza en route to the next bar.
The rest of the night after Zum's is a bit fuzzy. But I do know when I said goodbye to OakGirl we mumbled about doing brunch on Sunday. That was extremely ambitious. When I woke up the next morning all I cared about was Gatorade, the couch and the mysterious bruise on my right calf. I spoke to OakGirl on the phone and she said not to worry, she would be back in the city in a couple of weekends.
On her next visit, OakGirl stayed with another one of our former teammates, FunnyGirl, whom I now swim with at the New York Athletic Club. We were in the locker room one day laughing at ourselves, 20-somethings, and still struggling through swim practices. We agreed if you asked us ten years ago if we'd ever become masters swimmers we would have laughed in your face with a bratty, "Yeee-ah, RI-yeet. No way!" And here we were smelling of chlorine, skipping sets for the hot tub and booking our social calendars around weekend swim meets.
"Meet us at Malatesta. It's around the corner from my apartment," said FunnyGirl."Mala-what?"
"Malatesta."
"Where are we going?" asked FoxyLady.
"Mal-something."
Weird. I'd been to FunnyGirl's apartment a handful of times and never heard of it, never seen it, never noticed it. And with "mal" at the beginning of the name I couldn't help but think of something bad or negative. Interesting name for a restaurant.
FoxyLady and I ran into the girls crossing Washington and we exchanged hugs movie-style in the middle of the street. It was our reunion, so what if we were a little overexcited? The last meal we all ate together was probably a pasta dinner or a bagel breakfast at YMCA Nationals in Florida in 1997.
We spoke to a server and the next minute we had the best seat in the house. There were two tables on a slightly raised level to your immediate left when you walk in. It was fitting, with our resident comedian, to be on our own mini-stage.
I was sucked in right away. The tables were covered in brown paper-- the kind Dad used to wrap my history and science books in in middle school-- and the specials were written on a clipboard covered in the same brown paper with a little clothespin attaching the menu to its board. They left carafes of water on the table, along with bread and olive oil and the menus were written in chicken scratch. I hadn't put anything in my mouth yet and I already loved this place.
"Good choice, FunnyGirl!"Our server came right over and we ordered a bottle of wine and a couple of appetizers, thanks to FunnyGirl's suggestions. I kept thinking how lucky she was to have this jewel of a restaurant across the street from her apartment.
We started with the grilled calamari over a bed of lettuce with balsamic vinaigrette
and the prosciutto and parmesan salad.
We were all fighting for every last bit of salad on both plates. I don't usually care for grilled calamari but this was excellent. The pieces weren't so thick that it tasted like you were eating something that was not meant for the dinner table. And the parmesan salad in the shape of a starfish up top was simple but great. The parmesan and prosciutto were cut in thinly shaved slices and the dressing was just light enough to taste both.For the main dishes, FunnyGirl went with the spaghetti alla chitarra, or spaghetti with chopped tomatoes, chunks of basil and mozzarella.
I tried the tagliatelle al ragu, or pasta with tomato sauce and ground beef.
OakGirl tried the gnocchi.
And last but not least, FoxyLady tried the cheese ravioli in a pink sauce.
I'm sitting here on my couch, with a deep chest cold-- the kind you have to cough in order to breathe. I called out sick to work at 6 a.m. and I'm rotating between cocktails: Zicam and Airborne. Nothing's working. But I think if I had these dishes in front of me I would be cured. Much like I believe cupcakes could bring about world peace, I believe pasta could cure all diseases.
I did not try a pasta I did not like at Malatesta. The spaghetti had a robustness I'd never tasted before, except maybe at Babbo. The sauce was so perfectly made there wasn't a single drop of excess water that fell to the plate. It stuck like glue to every inch of pasta and the melted gobs of mozzarella. In all the years I've been eating pasta, how is it I've never tried pasta with melted mozzarella chunks? My tagliatelle was just as good as the best I've ever had at my family's favorite trattoria in Chatou, France. It had the perfect ratio of sauce to sweet meat to pasta. And as for the gnocchi and ravioli, my only complaint was there wasn't enough ravioli for me to have my own doggy bag and heat it up for lunch the next day. OakGirl looked like she was struggling with the gnocchi portion and I selflessly offered my assistance.
The four of us were giddy in each other's company. It was like we had too much to say and not enough time to get it all in. A lot has happened over the past few years and, as my roomie FoxyLady reminded me as we sat on the couch this week during a woes 'r us session -- what a difference a year makes. What's great about true friends, and what I realized in seeing OakGirl again, is that a friendship isn't measured by phone calls, texts, minutes or voicemails. It's measured by moments. A true friend is someone who you can lose touch with, and when reunited, you pick up where the last hug goodbye left off.
I got to see OakGirl three times in one month and we promised not to let it go years before seeing each other again. If you asked us in high school if we'd ever stop being best friends we would have laughed in your face and said, "Yeee-ah, RI-yeet." Ask me now, with miles between us, and I'll still say the same thing.
649 Washington St., at Christopher St.
212-741-1207
212-741-1207
posted by Mona at 2:00 PM
1 Comments:
I feel the same way about our friendship (and I feel honored to make it onto your blog!).
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