Last night we returned to a favorite place for dinner -- Fish. Ed likes it because we can eat at the bar. There’s a Yankee game on, though no one really pays attention. In fact, the sound is muted. Ed will keep an eye if he needs the distraction, in much the same way that he prefers to have something to read at his side in case his mind needs some external prompt to stay active.
We both like the oysters there and it is a terrific deal: a half dozen plump blue points plus a glass of wine (or beer), for $8.
Notice the peanuts. They’ll give you all you want and Ed will surely get half his caloric input from the nuts alone.
I have a bowl of fish soup, he has the mussels and we’re happy. We’ll return there. We always do.
We’re staying just a few blocks down from Fish, on Bleecker – a street that surely defines the West Village. You could not ask for a better location (if you like the Village, and we do). You could ask for better quarters, I suppose, but I knew what I was in for. We’re in a brownstone – in a top floor apartment that hasn’t been rented. I could spell about a dozen reasons for why it hasn’t been rented – dirt being the least important. After all, you could clean the place (and to give Ed credit, he did go out and buy a sponge to at least wipe it down).
What can I say, It’s a place that maybe has seen better days, though Ed assures me that the building has a long history of neglect and that I am seeing it in a finer moment. Still, the windows don’t really close and floors that have holes underneath the radiators. There is running water, so that’s good. The view? Perhaps somewhere between West Side Story and Sesame Street, except without the color. The noise is definitely pigeon song. I have a city person's dislike of pigeons.
Ed brought an inflatable mattress, which is an upgrade over rolling out sleeping bags on the floor. The mattress leaks, but it carries us through at least half the night and after that – well, who cares.
In my carry on, I have managed to squeeze in clothes for six days of hearings and two week-end days of hanging out, plus the sleeping bag, a small pillow, and a towel. I think I am an accomplished packer.
Off to court now. If you think it’s kind of a late start, then you must not know that trials in New York proceed in this way: we start at 11:30 (or 10:00, or noon, depending on the proclivities and inclinations of someone or other), break for lunch at 1, resume at 2:15, always at 2:15 and finish sometime around 4:30.
So I’m on schedule. Though I’m in a hurry. There are a million places to pick up an espresso on the walk over. Choosing one will take time.