Mari Reviews: Date Spots in NYC
Cervo’s:
My friend Susan and I once agreed that you can’t possibly have a non-romantic date at Cervo’s. This has since become a joke, because we’ve had so many non-romantic dates at Cervo’s. But, the sentiment stands: If you can manage to have a non-romantic date at the most romantic, shimmering, quickest-trip-to-Portugal restaurant in the city, it’s an instant dealbreaker. Because: who can possibly make Cervo’s lack romance?
Well, we’ve figured it out. I knew it was over with a guy when I felt no sparks at Cervo’s. He somehow made the menu seem uninteresting, the drinks bland, the marigold glow unphotogenic. How did he do it? It’s actually pretty impressive. Take the slick shine of the bar, the plates meant for sharing, the wine designed for sipping under the Iberian stars…and subtract the magic out of them. How could such a naturally dazzling place feel…cold? Prosaic? Stifling?
I thought maybe I’d imagined Cervo’s to be more wonderful than it was. But no. I went there with Susan a few nights later, and it maintained all the magic.
Rating: 6/10 with dates, 11/10 with friends
Yours Sincerely
“I think you’ll like this place,” the photographer said, as we linked arm-in-arm more so for survival’s sake than romantic. It was freezing, but we were determined to find a second setting for our first date.
“In the summer, the windows open up, and it’s sooo nice to be in here.” He smiled, “We’ll have to go in July.”
The next fall, I’m sitting with someone else, and it’s our first date and we’ve already been to two spots and the night can’t tumble out fast enough.
“Have you been here?” He points to Yours Sincerely, and I say, “Oh yeah, it looks familiar.”
It’s closing but he knows the bartender and we’re the only two people there, with cocktails in coupe glasses and our knees like magnets. “I love this place,” I say, high on rye and hope.
“Wait til you see it in the summer,” he says, “The window opens up. It’s amazing. We’ll have to come back.”
Neither relationship lasted long enough to see the summer.
Rating: 8/10 in the winter, but probably 15/10 in the summer, who knows
My apartment
Inviting a man over to my apartment feels like introducing 100,000 of my memories at once. Every corner is intentional; every wall tells a story. It means the world when he acknowledges this on some level; it stings when he doesn’t. It's not fair to expect someone to intuit so much or be so curious in a space, but a lot of dating expectations aren't fair and we indulge in them anyway.
Rating: 10/10 by myself, 3/10 when I'm anxiously gauging a reaction
The Theatre
We complained about having to put our phones in a secure pouch. We complained about the gum chewing from behind us. We complained about the security getting in. We complained about the line. We agreed that Act 2 could have been introduced with a bit more punch. We complained about the price of the wine at intermission. We complained about the limited bathroom stalls. Complaining was part of the lighthearted bonding, and even part of the overall appreciation. But lord knows we would have paid quadruple the ticket price with no complaints if we’d gotten to see the show again post-March-2020.
Rating: Hindsight is 10/10
The Cloisters
Memory is like fire: it reshapes the toughest realities into something delicate, and can remold an adornment into a weapon. Memory can also create flames and heat around a substance that isn't really there; I call this pre-nostalgia.
Pre-nostalgia is what I get when I think of the first snow of the season--the annual event that always breaks my heart a little with its tenderness. I imagine you and I finding out that our meetings are canceled and so on this indulgent snowy Tuesday morning we decide to take the multi-train trek to visit The Cloisters.
The museum is mostly empty so the thin blue light that slices through arched windows creates cool shadows from the statues and us. Even the sound of our breath echoes off the walls, but we find a hidden corner where we can laugh about that one bizarre painting.
It's time for lunch on Arthur Ave, but the restaurants are closed so a cannoli from the bakery with the flickering neon sign will have to do. We share it with mittened hands as snow collects around our ankles. We fall asleep on the subway home.
This hasn't happened and I already miss it.
Rating: TBD