Muskit

We all know what it’s like to smell our best. Not to smell the best, but to smell our best. Our own, personal best. Like our true selves.

It’s not when you get out of the shower, where you’ve been using overpowering tea-tree oil shampoo, chemicals to burn the bacteria from your face, and Dr. Bronner’s that leaves you smelling, well, like everyone else who uses Dr. Bronner’s.

You smell your best when you smell like you. Maybe that’s when you get up in the morning. Maybe you were out drinking the night before. After you got off your shift in a restaurant with a wood-burning oven. Maybe you smoked some cigarettes. Maybe you then went and got tacos at a place that also serves fried food. Maybe that’s a little salsa roja in your hair. Maybe you then broke a sweat biking home. Maybe this is the third day in row that you’ve executed those exact same activities, without showering.

And that’s it. You are what you do. And you should smell like who you are.

But we all know those days, those days when your natural state just isn’t going to be appropriate. Maybe you have a job interview for a position with a salary… oh wait, those are extinct. It’s a freelance gig. But still, you might want to wash your hair, and un-wrinkle your slacks by hanging them in the bathroom while you run the shower on hot with the door closed.

Perhaps you have a date with that babe you met at your favorite late-night ramen joint, and you’re worried that if she runs her fingers through your hair and it looks like she manhandled the scallion pancakes, she might not wind up back at your place.

So you shower. And now you smell like Dr. Bronner’s and your roommate’s conditioner. How are you going to show your prospective employer or your foxy date who you really are? How are they going to smell it?

Never fear-- now there’s Muskit: For when you just can’t not shower.

Muskit is a highly un-scientific formula of all of the things that make sexy, cool, unclean humans smell just that: unclean, yet somehow sexy and cool. Each scent is based on our own trademarked “musk” scent… we can’t tell you what’s in it, but we’ll give you one clue: beard.

Start with basic Muskit, or try one of our unique blends:

• Tobacco and Cholula

• Flannel, whisky, and salt

• Garlic and yoga mat

• Umami Margarita

• Vodka, cherry chapstick, and mascara

• Sweaty sheets, bonfire and… is that urine? Probably not….

And be sure to check out our seasonal blend, temporally titled “Last Night”.

With Muskit, smell like the you that you’re supposed to be. Or at least the you that you were yesterday.

Alterations

It’s hard to find a cute bag that you can bike with. One that can hold the innumerable items that you require for your day, stay on while you ride, plus an accessible pocket for you bike lock (the frame attachment for my kryptonite lock remains on a Schwinn that was stolen from me years ago, goddammit). You need a bag that can still look reasonable when you go into a bar and have to stand without access to below-bar hooks. Or not take up a ton of space when you’re squeezed into that middle two-top on a date. One that can fit neatly under your seat at an off-off-off show down-down-downtown where your knees are already up against the back of someone else’s seat (OK, let’s admit it, you’re still in a bar, they’re just doing theater there that night).

But I found one! It’s perfect. It’s this weird faded black leather that still goes with gray or brown. The strap has a zipper down the middle so it can be worn across the shoulder, or as a backpack, or as a more traditional purse. The main pocket has zippers on either side, plus two smaller pockets, and then a large pocket on the back that is perfect to slide my lock into. I can fit my wallet, my makeup bag, the other little bag that I use for lipstick/makeup removing wipes/jewelry, my pencil case, my notebook, plus maybe a dress and some bike shorts, my bike lights, and my keys!

I got it for $15 at pretty good vintage store. When I bought it, one of the hooks that clipped a strap to a metal fastening was not entirely functional, but I quickly repaired that with a small key ring from the hardware store. It doesn’t even look weird.

So my bag and I biked, dined, and drank in perfect harmony for several months. I realized that the interior cavity was not actually separated from the two smaller pockets inside (which were also not separated from each other), but I turned the whole thing inside out and stitched that right up. My attempts at organization would not be thwarted!

Unfortunately I think maybe the makeup bag, other bag that I use for my lipstick/makeup removing wipes/jewelry, pencil case, notebook, dress, shorts, bike lights, and keys were maybe a little too much for the little bag. I mean, they all fit in there, no problem, but if I happened to carelessly put a too-bulky lip balm in the front pocket, the zipper would split open. Same for the secondary pocket. I could get the zipper back together after much back-and-forthing, but the fact is, without a more robust closure, this bag was just not going to hold what I wanted it to.

I had even made the mistake of putting a few items into one of the smaller pockets willy-nilly, i.e. not just putting them into one of my other little bags that I keep in my bag. Sure enough I got to work, the exterior zipper had split, and my favorite necklace was nowhere to be found. Catastrophe.

But I loved the bag! So I decided to see what could be done. I took it to a shoe/bag/leather repair guy. I asked him to please replace the zippers, repair the strap that was threatening to break (probably because of the weight of my bike lock…), and to also please sew up the interior pocket that I had neglected.

He looked over the bag. Turned it inside out. Looked at my seam work on the other two pockets. Said I had done a pretty god job. Checked out the zippers. Said no problem, $65. I said what if we leave off the interior seam? He said sure, no problem, you can take care of that yourself. $50.

I know this seems like a lot for repairs— $50 to replace two zippers and repair one strap.

But honestly, this bag had already proved itself as ideal. It was just a little wanting in the mechanics department. And I’d only paid $15 for it in the first place—for a leather, lined bag. So is $65 worth the bag that you really want, that you already know perfectly suits your lifestyle?

I said yes.

A few weeks later, boyfriend and I had a wedding on the books. It was going to be a bunch of his old friends. Some I’d met, some I hadn’t, but I wanted to make a good impression. Plus my wedding-attending days are just beginning, so each one is basically a very exciting chance for me to get dressed up (read: play grown-up).

It was going to be a pretty casual wedding, from what I understood. Additionally, I was going to be arriving directly from a trip to France. So if whatever I wore to the wedding were be something I could already justify having in my suitcase because I would wear it elsewhere on my trip… well, that would just be awesome. I was imagining a glorified sundress.

So the search began. I tried to borrow things from friends… there were options, but nothing quite right. Many sundresses felt too flimsy, many things that were too formal felt… well, too formal. Finally three days before I was set to leave for my trip I stopped into a vintage store across from where I do my laundry.

I’ve gotten some other great things from this store—the woman who runs it does an amazing job with selecting what she puts on her racks, I’m pretty sure she hand repairs everything herself. When something has a tag that says “as is”, usually I won’t even notice the issue, and she’ll just say “Oh yeah, there’s this stain here that I couldn’t get out all way…”. She knows. Because she handles every single piece herself.

So I tried on a dress at her shop because it was this amazing print—floral, I love boldly colored florals, this one was almost fauve-esque— and sort of water-color in style. I of course got the zipper stuck part way up because obviously I don’t have a way with delicate zippers, and rather than make it worse I figured I’d just come out of the dressing room and have her fix it.

She got the zipper unstuck—“Don’t worry, I’m pretty good with these things”—and then immediately said “That would be great on you, you’d have to get it altered.”

This woman didn’t try to sell me on anything, she acknowledged right away that the dress would need some work if it was going to “work” for me. And I loved that. She recognized a fixer-upper. She proceeded to show me how, because it’s a well-made dress from the sixties, there were several seams that could be taken in in order to achieve a precise fit. Fortunately the dress was too big, so we had material to work with.

I brought it to a tailor closer to my apartment who had done another (much simpler) job for me on short notice a few months prior. I showed him all the seams I wanted to have taken in, and eventually decided to have the whole thing made a little shorter as well.

I wore the dress out to drinks and dinner in France. Annika! Where did you get that dress?

At the wedding, Boyfriend’s very style-conscious friend told me that it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, and that it looked like it was made for me. “Well, I had it altered,” I said. “Ah, you had it joojed,” she said. “Very good.”

Sometimes, the perfect thing isn’t perfect when we meet it. I’m not saying that every challenging item is worth our investment and sacrifice, but not everything worth caring about is going to be ideal on first sight.

That’s not to say that our vision for something, or rather, the alterations that we would prescribe, are correct. It has to be a balance, honoring the original integrity of the piece. I mean, that’s why you liked it in the first place.

But sometimes it’s worth the time. Not just throwing out those pants because you’ve stepped on the hem too many times or worn a hole in the crotch. Not saying no to a second date just because he wore ugly shoes the first time you went out. Not deleting the entire draft of the play you’ve been writing for months because you can’t fix that one scene in the third act.

I guess the point is, if you really care about something, it probably merits some effort. And if “growing up” means thinking about things like… you know, the future, then maybe it’s time to acknowledge that some things are worth keeping around.

Notes from Underground

Or My Life in Nightlife

Fashion Week

 

Restaurants love opening during fashion week. Especially places that fancy themselves fashiony and want to attract a fashiony crowd. Personally, attracting a fashiony crowd sounds like a bad way to run a restaurant to me, but I guess that should have been my first hint that [MexicanRestaurant] was more beast than restaurant.

We still don’t have uniforms, so I show up wearing the same thing I wore for the Fancy Tequila Dinner. Much to my surprise, some fashiony gentlemen are there to adorn me, because they are displaying their line at the party, and I need to look like I am in some way affiliated.

They ask if my name is Russian and comment on my insoles, revealed when I take off my boots.

It’s a men’s clothing line, so our options are sort of limited. They have me try on a striped button-down. I look like a five year old wearing my dad’s nightshirt. But they didn’t call me big foot in the fifth grade for nothin’, so we find a pair of shoes that work, and they tie a sort of belt-type-thing around my waist, over the shirt I had shown up in. They all take a step back and look at me with their chins in their hands, and their expressions say that I’m that short, frumpy work of art that’s just not quite coming together.

“Yeah, that’ll do,” they say, and walk away.

Other First Hire, however, is completely outfitted, and though he is griping, actually doesn’t look half bad.

AGM is there and she looks simultaneously fashiony and awesome in some blue transparent-net-dress-thing.

We were supposed to be open as a restaurant by now, but so far it’s just been training— the date for friends and family keeps getting pushed back. I hear murmurs about an issue with the liquor license, but nothing concrete. GM jokes that every night of fashion week we should just pay someone to stand outside and say that we’re closed for a “private event”. Not a bad idea.

Anyway all I know about this event is that we’ve got a bunch of models and donated alcohol. Go!

Oh and that Lady Gaga is rumored to show up.

In the kitchen, Chef explains what each tray of canapés is. I’m not terribly familiar with the food yet, as we’ve only had one tasting, and most of the ingredients are foreign to me. This isn’t Mexican food like I’ve ever seen before— what I would have thought was an empanada is in fact a quesadilla. Things like gorditas, flautas, and tostadas all appear to be part of a greater category called antojitos… he keeps talking about epazote and huitlacoche but I have no idea what those are… there’s not much time, the food is hot, and Chef’s accent and eccentric English make it difficult for me to grasp his explanations over the din of the kitchen. So I pay it forward and mumble some things that sound vaguely like what he said as I offer up my tray, and smile politely in the face of people’s confused stares.

There is a line of male models posed along one wall sporting the fashion label’s latest looks. I’m passing canapés amidst a flurry of camera flashes, and one of the designers pulls me aside to request that I make sure the boys get some food. I’m about to drop them a tray of something-that-I-think-are-gorditas when I spy Cute Scruffy Investor, formerly known as the one in the Henley tee. I ask if I can get him anything and he says yes, he’ll take a Brave Man. I know enough to guess that that’s one of our pulque cocktails, so I drop the tray of probably-gorditas in the PDR for the boy models and rush off to the bar.

Encountering AGM on the way, she asks why I’m not passing food and I explain to her about Cute Scruffy Investor. “Ah, yes,” she nods wisely, “that’s his drink. Just make sure he has one in his hand at all times tonight. In fact, maybe you should cocktail for awhile. I’ll tell Other First Hire to worry about the food.”

After bringing Cute Scruffy Investor his tomatillo-pulque-brave-whatever-the-fuck I walk around with a tray of other pulque cocktails, which were briefly explained to me by the surly bar manager, after the story about how his father taught him how to make pulque when he was a child. Cool. Pink is watermelon, yellow is corn, white is jicama, and green is tomatillo. Got it. Gracias.

“Excuse me, what is this?”

“That’s the Two Rabbits. One of our pulque cocktails. It’s made with jicama.”

“Oh, um… so what’s this one?”

“That’s the Inebriated Monkey. Also one of our pulque cocktails. With watermelon.”

“I’m sorry, pul-what?”

“Pulque… it’s… um, it’s made from agave.”

“But is it like, alcoholic?”

“Yeah… these drinks also all have tequila in them.”

“Oh! Great. Thanks.”

But after doing a lap my tray was still full, so I just stood in a corner, hoping someone would lighten my load.

After standing there for a few minutes with an increasingly weakening forearm, I heard someone whisper my name from inside the coat check.

It was Bald Girl Server, who had somehow gotten on AGMs bad side and was therefore relegated to taking coats for the evening. She had a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “You know what helps me when I’m passing drinks? I just stand there and think about something really nasty that I did in bed. Your tray will be empty in one minute. Try it.”

I went back to my corner and followed her advice. God damn it, she was right. As I walked back to the bar to replenish my tray, I caught her smiling at me knowingly.

When I went to bus the plate that I had left for the boy models, I caught one of them stuffing the last probably-a-gordita into his mouth. He was all alone in the PDR, probably eating his feelings. Or maybe just hungry. I laughed. He laughed.

The space got more and more crowded to the point where it was difficult to move. But boy-oh-boy did I keep Cute Scruffy Investor supplied in Brave Man Cocktails. He was nearly drowning in Brave Men. So much so that he may have even tried to remember my name at one point.

I was keeping half an eye open for Lady Gaga, but she was nowhere to be found. However, AGM did send me to insure the contentment of several VIPs on table four. The group, which included Rose McGowan, complained that they had been unable to battle the crowds at the bar. I fought through hell and high-water to bring them their cocktails in a timely fashion. “You’re a star,” Rose thanked me upon receipt of her vodka tonic. You hear that, everyone? Rose McGowan says I’m a star.

Passing back by the PDR I caught the lone hungry model solo-eating again. I laughed. He laughed. We talked about how he is from Australia.

But my time to chat is limited because now things are really getting out of control. I feel like I’m playing the Sims: Restaurant Edition and I can see everybody’s anger levels rising as their booze level falls because the bar is so slammed. I cut through the kitchen because I can’t carry a tray through that crowd, and I find two other servers sharing a bright pink cocktail which I identify as the Inebriated Monkey.

“Whatever,” Sassy Server says, “we fucking deserve it, putting up with this shit.”

She hands me the mug and I drink, it’s sweet but probably would be refreshing if it were cold. Unfortunately it is not.

The boy models have now been liberated from their post and I find the Australian one back in the bar. There was just enough tequila in that cocktail to make me think it’s a good idea to talk to him, so I saunter up. “Still hungry?” I put on my best flirtatious affectation. “No… but can you bring me a glass of water?”

Ah. OK. Walking away I realize that there are two kinds of customers: Those who see you as a means to an end, and those who see you as a person.

Sassy Server catches my eye as she heads back into the kitchen with three tequila shots and I follow her.

Just as I put the empty shot glass in the dish pit, AGM rushes through the door, her arms full of glasses, eyes panicked. “Go bus every glass you can find. Everything.”

I rush into the bar and am nearly run down by a bartender carrying maybe ten bottles of tequila into the basement. The others are anxiously pulling everything from behind the bar. Guests are milling about confusedly, drunk but concerned.

A slightly wobbly girl grabs my arm while I’m filling my tray. “Why can’t we exit?” she demands.

“Excuse me?”

“Why can’t we go outside? What’s going on?”

“I… I don’t know anything about that. I’m sorry.”

Sassy Server comes back into the bar from the dining room, muttering something like “Do we even have our fucking liquor license?” under her breath as she passes close to me.

I flee the scene and start grabbing glasses that have been left in the staircase. From above on the street I see red and blue lights and hear shouting. AGM comes down through the staircase, seems initially angry when she perceives somebody in the staircase, but then sees my tray. “Oh thank God, that’s a good idea.”

“Do you need me to do anything else right now?”

“No… just… what you’re doing. And don’t let anybody up these stairs.”

“OK… and, um, why exactly are we doing this? I mean… with the bar, and the bottles, and….”

AGM inhales, sizes me up through narrowed eyes, and then exhales wearily.

“Don’t repeat this. It’s just that… we may or may not have secured our liquor license at this point…”.

“Ah. I see.”

If you have ever had a nightmare about being trapped in a Mexican Labyrinth… well, I have lived that nightmare.

Worming my way through the crowd trying to clear the evidence of just how much potentially illegal alcohol these people have consumed this evening, I overhear murmurs of “What the fuck is going on” and “I don’t think I’ve ever been told I can’t leave a venue…”.

One of the bartenders loads me up with the last of the bottles and sends me downstairs into the basement. On my way back up I find Sassy Server freaking out in a corner at the top of the staircase. “Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

“I… no. No idea. I… I think the police might be upstairs.”

“Do we have our liquor license?”

“I don’t know. I would assume so…..”

“Because if we don’t, then we could all be held responsible for serving alcohol without a license.”

“Yeah.”

“Which would be bad. Like, really bad.”

“Yeah.”

“So, I’m asking you, do we have our liquor license?”

“I… I don’t know.”

Five minutes later I saw her with her bag, the other girl following.

“Guys, no one is supposed to go outside…”.

“I don’t give a fuck. This is so ridiculous. Whether we have it or not, I’m not gonna stick around to find out. Either way, we’re so far over capacity… Honestly, I’ve been waiting tables for ten years, and I’ve never seen such a shitshow.”

In the back server station I find Other First Hire downing a shot of tequila. “Dude, come on," I start to lay into him, "we’re supposed to be getting rid of all of that stuff.”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

AGM comes back and says that the cops are gone. People start trickling out. Somebody taps me on the shoulder, I turn around to find Rose McGowan. She is miniscule.

"Oh, yeah, it's OK," I tell her, "you can exit now."

"No, just..." she fishes in her purse. "You were helping me before. Here." She hands me a fifty dollar bill. Nice.

Back in the bar I find the Australian model.

“More water?”

“No, but… well, my friend wants your number.”

Ah ha. Maybe I am a person.

“Which friend?”

He points down the bar to one of the boy models who looks like he just may be over twenty-one. Boy model clearly knows what conversation we’re having, he smiles sheepishly (read: adorably) and waves.

“Well then, tell him to come ask me.”

Australian Model motions at Boy Model to come over.

“This is Boy Model, Boy Model, this is…”

“Annika.”

“Hi.” He has curly hair and what promises to be a sick body under the artfully-half-buttoned shirt the designer had dressed him up in.

Six months later he was still texting me, and still in my phone as Boy Model.

The only thing is, I was wrong about the whole over-twenty-one thing.

After an hour I'm still cleaning up. The liquor has been restored behind the bar. As it turns out, because we weren't charging (everything was paid up front by whoever was throwing the party), we were never really in danger of having a liquor license issue. But we destroyed all the evidence in the interest of playing it safe.

“Where’s Other First Hire?” I asked AGM when the place was mostly closed.

“I sent him home…he didn’t seem like he was helping much.”

“Fair enough. How much longer do you need me?”

“I think we’re done here. Do you have plans?”

It was three in the morning, so my only plan had been heading back to my twin-sized mattress on the floor.

“Not really…”.

“Cool. Let’s go drink upstairs.”

[Mexican Restaurant] is next door to a speak-easy style bar, operated by the same owners. AGM led me up a back staircase, and we emerged behind a gorgeous marble bar covered with antique-style bottles filled with what appeared to be potions.

Cute Scruffy Investor was lounging on a divan, and Male Co-Owner was smoking a cigarette in a wing chair. Mustachioed bartenders in lab coats were breaking everything down. A large doorman in a black overcoat came in from the street, locking the door behind him. AGM pulled up two leather ottomans for herself and me next to Male Co-Owner.

“So?” she asked him.

“She was here,” he replied.

“Oh yeah, I know. She was so incognito. I loved her dress.”

“She was fucking here.”

“Wait,” I interjected, “Who?”

“Sefani Germanotta,” Male Co-Owner replied, “Lady Fucking Gaga.”

“What?” I was astonished.

“Yeah, crazy, right?” a shorter guy who seemed rather underdressed for the evening had joined us. “Hi,” he shook my hand, “I’m I.T. guy. I live upstairs. And I do the computers for [Mexican Restaurant].”

AGM lit a cigarette and leaned back against the elaborately upholstered wall, removing her shoes.

“I didn’t realize we could smoke in here.”

“Eh, you can smoke anywhere after hours.”

Male Co-Owner stood up and started doing a sort of jig.

“Stefani Germanotta. Lady fucking Gaga. Was. In. My. Restaurant!”

“You did it. Congratulations. Now all you have to do is show up for your court date.”

“Court date?” I asked.

“Male Co-Owner gave the police a bit of a hard time…”.

“It was worth it,” he smirked.

AGM went up to the bar and poured us each a glass of wine. We toasted.

“Happy Fashion Week.”

Notes from Underground

or My Life in Nightlife

Down the Rabbit Hole

 

The Initial Descent

It was just under a year ago and I was sleeping on a twin-sized mattress on the floor of my new apartment in Bed Stuy. Roommate was set to arrive in a few days from the Boys Camp where he spends his summers (as the music director, not as a boy), but for the time being I had the place to myself.

I had been running around with a Pseudo-Rock-Star who had blacked out on our first date. But he was pretty cute and I was severely rebounding so I let it slide.

A friend from Oberlin had offered to refer me to his former employer who was opening a new restaurant. At this point my serving career was approximately six weeks long and confined to Cambridge. However, I did know how to shuck my own oysters. Probably one of the few tangible skills I acquired the entire time I was there. That, riding a bike in city traffic, and being able to talk loudly without losing my voice.

Joking. I’m joking! Grad school was an infinitely valuable experience. I would never have achieved such a finely developed sense of cynicism without it.

Anyway I needed a job. And I wasn’t going to get one in a restaurant without a reference. Sign me up!

I emailed Female Co-Owner of Mexican Restaurant, who in her response requested that I send a resume and PHOTO to the General Manager. I barely had time to acknowledge that this was a strange request before I got an email from GM telling me to just come in with my resume.

Later I learned that this practice of asking for photos for serving jobs is, while commonplace, actually discriminatory and illegal. But as an actor I was like, oh, you want my picture, cool, headshot of full body?

GM said to come by any time between three and five. I said I’d be there at four, but of course at this point I was terrible at navigating the city, and what’s more, this restaurant was in Chinatown. Chinatown! Who (besides those who live there) knows their way around Chinatown?

So I’m booking it down Canal, and then I turn onto… Mott? But then… wait… how did I get back on Centre street… fuck, this is Broadway again, OK…. Finally I find the tiny little street that leads to the even tinier street, but where #11 should be there is no door. Only a concrete staircase. And a sign advertising a Vietnamese restaurant. An extremely attractive guy in a Henley tee with rolled up sleeves emerges carrying a ladder and places it on the stoop of #9, also unmarked. Signs of life. OK, I figure, down the rabbit hole it is.

At the bottom of the stairs there are two doors. Behind door number one is a bicycle and some cardboard boxes. I open door number two. Straight ahead of me is a wall. I feel like I’m trapped in the labyrinth in King’s Quest VI.

But wait! If I look to the right there are some tables that look like they could be part of a restaurant. If I look to my left there are… people! And a bar! OK.

The bar is detailed with brass plates and poles. A man in a white labcoat is cutting open a box of produce on the tile floor, while another guy in a vest yells at him in Spanish from behind the bar. Another extremely attractive scruffy guy is attending to some construction issue in the corner, while talking to a smaller bespectacled guy with a bowtie.

I clear my throat. “I’m looking for GM?”

They all stop and look up at me, but only one says anything. “I’m GM, can I help you?”

“I’m Annika, Oberlin Friend’s Friend? Sorry I’m late, this place is kind of hard to find…”.

We sit at a booth. I give GM my resume, which I took the liberty of attaching to my headshot.

“Ha. Are you an actor or something?”

“Female Co-Owner asked for a picture in her email, so….”

“Wow, master’s from Harvard.”

“Um, yeah, sort of….”

“Yeah, no, that’s a good program. I’m an actor too. I have a theater company.”

“Oh really? Awesome. Anything I would have heard of?”

“Our last production was a couple of years ago… how long have you been in New York?”

“Um, a week as of yesterday.”

“Oh wow. So this would be your first New York serving job?”

“Yes. As you can see from my resume, I don’t have a ton of restaurant experience, but I learn really quickly….”

GM laughs. “Don’t worry. I mean Oberlin Friend recommended you and obviously you went to Harvard, so I’m sure we’d be happy to have you.”

Does that sound like I’m hired? To me that sounds like I’m hired….

“I don’t know how much Oberlin Friend told you, we’re going to be doing authentic Mexican food, and then the bar is going to focus on tequila, mezcal, and pulque. We’re the only restaurant in New York, maybe even in the country, I don’t know, to serve pulque.”

“Wow, that’s amazing. Why does no one else have it?”

“Because it’s disgusting. Have you ever had it? Do you know what it is?”

“Uh, no, I guess not….”

“It’s fermented agave. It tastes like snot. It’s foul.”

Wow, what a resounding endorsement….

“Well, anyway,” he continues, “we’ll definitely be in touch.”

The cute Henley guy from upstairs has joined the other scruffy guy in the corner, and now yet another scruffy thirty-something jogs across the tiled floor, wallet chain dangling out of his pocket. They’re multiplying.

“Oh, Chef,” GM catches the one with the chain, “This is Annika. And Annika this is our Executive Chef, and this is Investor (Henley guy) and Male Co-Owner, Female Co-Owner’s brother.” All three of them have that look that says “Nice to meet you but there’s no way I’m going to remember your name”. Oh well.

Upstairs on the corner of Street I Don’t Know and Street I Sort of Know, I call my Mom. “So, I think I got a job…. No, no, like a day job. Well, more of a night job, I suppose. At a restaurant. Yeah. Um… it’s a Mexican restaurant. In Chinatown.”

I guess I was wrong because three days later I got a group email from GM inviting myself and several other qualified candidates to a final interview with the owners. Ugh. One interview is always better than two. Just like hiding is always funny.

But! Tuesday morning I was roused from my sleep on my tiny twin mattress on the floor (which I happened to be sharing with Pseudo Rock Star at that moment, corpse-like physique, arms akimbo, still passed out in his tighty-whiteys) by a call from GM, asking if I could work an event that night. I took a minute to pretend to check my calendar before informing him that yes, I could make it. Great. But I still had to have a “final interview” that afternoon.

About twenty of us sat in the dark basement and didn’t say much. GM told us a little more about the project and brought us one by one for an interview on 16 (the VIP booth) with both Male and Female Co-Owner.

Eventually some conversation broke out when an ominous rumbling seemed too extreme to be blamed on construction. I suggested that it was an earthquake, but everyone looked at me like I was crazy.

“Ah, you’re the one that went to Harvard,” Male co-Owner said when I sat down in the booth across from them. I don’t misrepresent myself on my resume, I swear, people will believe what they want to. We touched on how great a guy Oberlin Friend is and my “style of service”. Female Co-Owner finished the conversation by saying that they’d let me know. There was an awkward moment when GM had to inform her that I had already been hired and was working the event that night.

“Oh, I see. OK, well in that case, yeah… just… wear black. Something cute.”

I was wearing a long black dress.

“Sure,” GM chimed in, “what you’re wearing is fine.”

“Yeah…” Female Co-Owner added, in a tone that indicated it clearly wasn’t.

“Oh, no,” I reassured them, “I wasn’t going to wear this.” I totally was.

Cut to me in a trashy-trendy clothing store with blasting house music. I found a little black skirt, black shirt with a cut-out back, and some cute-ish boots that I could mostly walk in. My limited serving experience had involved a treacherous staircase and I could never possibly serve in heels, I thought. Oh, if I only knew….

Above ground I notice that my twitter feed is blowing up. Fuck. That was an earthquake. Does anyone remember that day? Yeah all this happened on that day.

Fake It Till You Make It

Meanwhile back in the dungeon I am introduced to the guy I’m going to be working the event with that night, and GM informs us that we are the “first hires”. I think that’s kind of like making the dean’s list.  Apparently tonight’s event is going to be a five course tasting featuring different pairings with a featured tequila, and there should be “a lot of VIPs”.

At this point we commence a montage of me pretending that I know how to do things. We have to make roll-ups, so I cleverly convince Other First Hire to show me how to make roll-ups “his way”. In discussing how we are going to prepare for various courses, GM and Other First Hire talk about whether or not they’re going to “mark” courses. “Sure, yeah, that sounds like it would be helpful,” I chime in. I have never felt like such an imposter in my life.

The fancy tequila retails for something like $350 a bottle. I’m told that it’s a “joven” tequila… yeah I forget what that means. Anyway. A fancy lady in a fancy beige suit gives me some to taste and we talk about the “notes”. It tastes more like water than other tequilas which I guess for tequila is a good thing. Or a bad thing, depending on how you want your night to go.

GM, Other First Hire and I painstakingly arrange the room, but then some girls in six-inch glitter heels with their hair piled high on top of their heads come in and reconfigure everything. “I hate promoters,” GM mutters under his breath.

So I stand by the door with a cocktail tray of champagne flutes full of this fucking expensive liquid asking people if they want some when they walk in and basically running a constant internal monologue of “please don’t drop the tray please don’t drop the tray please don’t drop the tray.”

Nobody seems to know what they’ve signed up for. I say the name of the tequila when I offer it to people and they look at me like I’m crazy. “Oh, wait, it’s tequila? Yeah, no, I don’t want that….”

Now everybody’s seated family style and those who are drinking are drinking really fast because the food is coming out really slowly. Every time I bus a plate back into the kitchen I can feel the frustration radiating off the line. But if my six weeks of serving experience prepared me for anything, it’s this: crazy mean chefs. I was so terrified of the chef at my restaurant in Cambridge I could barely form a complete sentence in front of him. The things that came out of this man’s mouth…. OK I’m done shuddering now.

One of the promoters beckons me over, pulls my ear close to her mouth and tells me to keep everyone’s glasses full. So I do a round and pour out one of the bottles (which is made of crystal, did I mention that?) but then Fancy Beige Suit Lady pulls me her way and mentions that we might be low on product so “pour light”. Cool.

The doors to the kitchen don’t swing yet, they still have handles. So I’m trying to open the door with an armful of dishes, half-way into the kitchen when I realize that Female Co-Owner is in there yelling at Chef about how the food is too slow. My hands are full and I can’t go back out, but I don’t want to go all the way in either. Female Co-Owner exits through the other door and Chef turns around exasperatedly only to see me lurking. He seems on the verge of yelling but then throws his hands up and just says, with an air of extreme disappointment, “Don’t be coming through here all the time.”

Oh God. The Chef hates me. The event that I’m working is a disaster. I can’t simultaneously keep everyone’s glasses full and “pour light”. I am so fired.

I really have no idea how we got through that night except that GM gave us some shots of tequila and everyone was pretty drunk by the time the entrees came out. None of the alleged VIPs showed up, but no one seemed to notice. Male Co-Owner was holding court down on one end of the table, with a girl on each arm of his chair. So he was having a good time. In fact everyone was so drunk and that a lot of them were leaving by the time the entrée course came out, so there were several untouched plates of red snapper in the kitchen. I found Female Co-Owner back there chowing down, and she handed a plate to me and to Other First Hire.

“It’s so fucking good,” she was praising Chef with her mouth full, then turned to us, “Don’t you guys think this dish is amazing? And it’s beautiful, too….” I guess she really was a fan of his, on some level. Why else would she have hired him.

I walked out with GM and Other First Hire. GM congratulated us on doing a good job. He and Other first Hire were headed to some club, turns out they were already friends from some other places they’d worked. I guess that’s why he was the other guy they picked. “Aren’t you going to invite Annika to come with us?” GM asked. Other First Hire stared bashfully at his feet and then tried to toss off a casual “Oh, yeah, wanna come?”

I looked at my phone, expecting to have heard from Pseudo Rock Star by now, but nothing. Maybe he would text me in a bit. I declined their offer and headed back to Bed Stuy to pass out in my tiny twin sized mattress on the floor, alone.

Extreme Smoky Eyes

 

People seem to be pretty into "Smoky Eyes" these days. I recently noticed some mannequins that had what looked like mascara (probably sharpie, in reality) smudged dramatically under their creepy plastic dead orbs. Even they looked alluring! Many cosmetics companies will offer kits that contain eye-shadows in graduated shades so that you can create your own smoky eyes. Top make-up artists have gone on record sharing their secret techniques in magazines or on style shows on TV.

I know you've all been anxiously awaiting my own extremely well-researched approach to this most fabulous of fads, fashionista and night life princess that I am. I will warn you, this method may seem intense as in reality it takes a twelve-hour cycle to complete, but trust me-- it's worth it.

Materials:

Gel eye liner (black or charcoal)

Liquid eye liner (black)

Mascara (black, and preferably of the cheap variety)

Chisel eyeliner brush

A fifth of your liquor of choice (I like to start with whisky and move to tequila)

Coffee (red bull works too… if you're like that)

Start around 11 p.m.

1. Make coffee

2. Add liquor to coffee (this is why I like to start with whisky)

3. Drink the above mixture while completing the following:

4. Line top eyelid with liquid eye liner-- you might as well do that drawn out cat-eye thing, everyone else is

5. Line bottom eyelid with gel eye liner using eyeliner brush. Use a lot-- remember, it's dark out, and you don't want to look like you didn't put your face on

6. Apply mascara to top and bottom lashes.

7. Use eye liner brush to apply more mascara to top lashes. Walk right up to the line of where it's starting to look "caked on" and stop. Go no further.

8. Do a shot

9. Go out for the night

10. Stumble into bed (your bed, someone else’s, a soft piece of floor… it doesn’t matter)

11. Wake up

12. Rub face as you are trying to figure out why your head hurts so badly

13. It is now around 11 a.m. and you have perfect smoky eyes. Don’t even think about showering, your hair looks better the day after you wash it anyway.