Hat's Entertainment

Went to a restaurant last night with a couple old buddies, both from the buy and the sell side. Was very relaxed, maybe 10 minutes of biz in a 3 hour meal, which is a fucking homerun. I have said it before: When I was trading, I was at my desk from 6:30’ish to 4:30’ish every day… Never left for lunch… Never left for coffee. So if you were a customer or a competitor, you had ample time to talk shop with me during those 50 hours every fucking week. To then go out to a restaurant and start to discuss markets and levels and fucking Europe is unnecessary and rude. Lets chat about appetizers, and baseball, and that time you did too much coke and arm-wrestled a homeless guy.

But back to the dinner.

We went at a place on the Lower East Side… Or “LES”, as it is now called. I went to high school in the mid-80’s in the “LES”, but back then it was a real POS. I can’t believe how that neighborhood came back. My school was on 2nd and 2nd, and it was all crack vials and junkies sleeping in garbage back then. I was walking to the subway one day after school, and I stepped in a pile of bum vomit. Got so angry, that I threw my book bag and it landed in a pile of bum shit. Vomit to shit. I then went to a bodega to buy a seltzer to try and power wash the effluvium off me, and I rewarded myself with a snack of a Yoo-Hoo and a Chocodile (which is/was a chocolate covered Twinkie). Spent 10 minutes leaning against a fire hydrant to hose down. Resumed my walk to B’way and Lafayette. Opened one end of the Chocodile, and took a bite. Pulled the rest of it out of the sleeve, and saw there was already a bite on the other end.

So for the private equity guy, who just bought a charming little loft on Rivington, just know that this little scene is the definition of your neighborhood in the 80’s… And I blame David Dinkins (obviously), even though he didn’t take office until 1990.

But back to the restaurant.

The restaurant was located inside a hotel, which doesn’t seem to bother anyone anymore, so I am not gonna complain. The menu is filled with offerings that seem like they might make you more angry than full, but all in all, it was delicious. They did a millefeuille, which I always had as a layered pastry, but their version was a savory layering of trumpet mushrooms. The oysters were great, but tough to fuck up oysters, as long as they’re fresh. Had a nice Cote de Boeuf, which they brought out to us before they cooked it for some reason. I asked if I could molest it a bit, and they wouldn’t let me, so we all stared at a raw ribeye for a couple seconds, and then they brought it back to the kitchen to prepare. In retrospect, it was the right call for them not to let me handle the raw meat, because I am not sure what I would done with it, but whatever it was, it wouldn’t have made it any more appetizing for the people I was about to share the meal with.

Enough about food.

So the maitre’d was a gay gentleman with a very sharp hat. Not sure what the official style of said hat was, but it looked like a fedora with a very wide brim, that went straight out from all sides… No curling around the edges, like you would see on a cowboy hat. And what made this hat extra special was that in order to contrast the black felt and brown leather band, there was a shocking red and orange feather that shot out from the rim. Feather had to be 8 inches long. Really was a perfect fashionable gay man’s hat. I loved it, and respected the shit out of it.

Conversely, there was another Cee-Lo-Green-looking man walking around the restaurant in an open kimono, which I found tacky and over-the-top.

Anyhoo… As dinner went on and the drinks continued to pour (there was a wine-icorn sighting at one point), I inevitably invited the hat over to our table and I asked to try it on. Similar to my request to fondle the ribeye, I was denied by the staff for a second time that night. And again, I don’t think it ultimately would’ve done he or I any good to swap hats, so “Bravo!” to the staff for keeping me in check.

What this gentleman did do was get me a cowboy hat from the back, which he not only allowed me to wear, but allowed me to keep. Which, at the time, I found incredibly generous, but now I realize I spent 2 hours eating in a hat from the Lost & Found… Which is kinda like eating a Chocodile some disgruntled line worker already “quality tested” back at the Hostess factory.

Is everybody still with me, here?… Because I am all over the fucking map between the LES, and food, and gays, and hats… And I am nowhere even close to being done. But stay with me, please.

So I casually ask the gentleman with the hat his name. To which he replied something that sounded like, “Hymie.” Which I remember being a derogatory and disparaging name for Jews… Like “Mick” or “Wop” would be for Micks and Wops.

Then I recognized that this fellow’s olive skin and Spanish accent probably meant his name was actually “Jaime”, which is Portugese for “James”, I believe. Which made a TON more sense, because the chances of me sharing a hat with an olive skinned gay Jewish fellow are pretty slim, and if that unicorn did exist, he would be eligible for a SHITLOAD of financial aid, if he chose to go to college.

So Jaime and I were flirting a tad, and he said how even though I looked good in hats, he thinks I should wear a hat with a smaller brim. I said, “Why, Jaime?… Does a smaller brim frame my fat face better?”

And he said, “No, silly… The wider the brim on your hat, the gayer you are.” Which I didn’t know was a thing. And it might not be. I don’t have anyone to ask, really… Other than my new friend Jaime.

So I say back to him, “Well then, Jaime… There was a 2 week period back in summer camp AND a one night stint years later in prison where I shoulda been wearing a fucking sombrero!”

And then we all laughed, did some shots on-the-house with Jaime that tasted primarily like pineapple and absinthe, and then the rest of the night was a blur.

Would write some more, but meeting a new buddy downtown to go hat shopping.

Take a report.

-Large