Tijuana Bible, please.

After years of research - painstaking devotion really - I think I've finally found my favorite bar in New York City.

I know. Those are big britches to fill. But (lets just say)lots of cocktails, beers, shots, beer and shot combos, additional beer and bad decision combos, happy hours and late nights weighed into this final verdict.

Before I make any announcements I must also note that there's really a bar for every occasion in this great city. It's hard to pick one favorite because it depends on the drinker's mood, needs, company, etc. The great happy hour spot with frozen margs may not be appropriate for date night or I-have-friends-visiting night or We-just broke-up-and-I-want-whiskey-tonight night.

So when I say "favorite" I mean overall favorite- a consistently cool scene with a delicious beverage menu.

Drum roll puhlease, my favorite bar (at least for now) is Hotel Delmano in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.


Seems I had to travel to the far east (first stop off the L train from Manhattan) to find this wonderful little watering hole. Like all things in Williamsburg, it's pretty hipster. The bartenders are tattooed and stuffed into skinny jeans. I did spot a pompadour during my last visit. But, I promise the good makes up for the fedoras. And by good I mean cocktails. It's one of those schmancy mixologist bars where drinks are infused with elderflower, orange peels are zested and mortar and pestles are flipped around like forks.

The cocktail list is a little overwhelming (as everything looks fantastic) so I made the bartender pick my first drink. "I just don't like bitters" were my instructions. He served me an icy cold Cleopatra's Pearl: apricot and peach blossom liqueur, fresh lemon and Egyptian mint infused vodka. Tart, subtly sweet and crisp; it was a very good first impression.

Next visit, I demanded some tequila. The Tijuana Bible, specifically. Hotel Delmano doesn't put their cocktail list on the Internet and I'll admit my memory of this delicious spirit's exact ingredients is a bit fuzzy, but I can tell you it combined mescal, jalapeno and orange. The glass was lined in chili powder that may have burned a layer off my tongue but I was into it.


The bar offers a vintage Parisian vibe- dark wood, fogged mirrors, a long curvy bar cluttered with bottles, jars and blinking votive candles dripped over with wax. The DJ, on clunky turntables, plays old-timey French and Latin music. I was told a traditional Cuban salsa group sets up a few times a week too.


Hotel Delmano is cool but still cozy. Sophisticated but not exactly pretentious. The bartenders might take themselves a smudge too seriously, but the drinks they pour are impressive so I'll keep visiting. And you should too. For the sake of good research, of course.

oopsy daisy

It was around noon Tuesday when a dozen pink roses arrived at my desk at work. My stomach fluttered with nerves as the delivery man handed me the giant bunch in front of my coworkers. Excited and embarrassed, I never know how to react when a gift is presented to me in public. I get a little awkward.

A tiny card was taped to the arrangement. My heart thumped as I read it out loud to my curious coworkers.

"Vanessa, Happy Birthday. Love, John"

I'm seeing a guy named Jon- not John. I noticed the discrepancy but quickly assumed it was simply misspelled. He must have called in the order and the florist got it wrong.

I really wasn't expecting flowers. It was flattering and too much. I called Jon immediately.

"Hey there," he answered.

"Oh my God Jon! You're adorable. The flowers are gorgeous. You really shouldn't have. I can't believe,"

"Vanessa," He cut me off mid-gush.

"I didn't send you flowers at work."

Nervous pause.

"Ha, stop it. They're so amazing," I continued, awkwardly, my stomach dropping.

"What does the card say?" He sounded serious.

"It says Love, John"

"How is it spelled?"

"John but I figured the florist misspelled it and I umm, wait, are you messing with me?"

"I'm sorry gal, it's not me."

I rushed off the phone, yanked the tiny card back off my desk and re-read it.

"Vanessa, Happy Birthday. Love, Julian." It was clear as day.

Julian is my bosses name. He was out of town and sent me flowers for my birthday. He would.

Jeez. Louis. In my awkward haste, my crazy brain changed the name (that was, in my defense, very sloppy!). Still, I'm an idiot.

I texted Jon an apology and explained who the flowers came from. Always a good sport, he laughed it off...and surprised me with gorgeous yellow tulips later that evening.

Silver lining to my ridiculous mistake: finally, something to blog about.

Sorry Friends

I owe most of my friends an apology.

Lately- while traipsing through some relationship troubles- I've been an awfully high maintenance friend. You know, the kind of pal who answers the standard "Hey, how's it going?" with a 10 minute monologue ending in some panicked version of "...and I just don't know what to do."

Yeah, it's not pretty.

At the end of an especially confused rant over the phone last week, a friend who's known me more than half my life casually replied: Is it possible you just stirred up some drama because things were quiet?

I paused. Sucked some tears back in and thought about it.

Maybe.

Later, I shared this thought with my new roommate.

Maybe, she agreed. We decided to explore the theory.

She asked me if I've ever really dated. I quickly nodded yes. Of course I've dated. I'm 25.

She wasn't convinced. I offered a quick synopsis of my past.

I moved to New York newly single after a 4-year relationship. I dated the very first guy in the city who asked me out for a couple months, another for a few more, then jumped into a 5th year with the ex. After it ended again a couple of 3-6 month "relationships" followed- some more serious than others but all exclusive.

That's dating right?

Wrong. Apparently, that limbo NY girls know well- where you hang out with someone constantly, don't see other people but don't use a title-doesn't count as dating.

As a result, my roommate assured me: Vanessa, you have never really dated.

Really dating, I learned, should be casual. It should be with multiple men at the same time. You don't invest emotionally. And, most notably, it offers a healthy does of entertaining drama- aka: a horrendous first date, a really good first kiss, wondering if he'll call etc. It's fleeting, unpredictable, commitment-free fun.

Under that definition, I suppose I haven't really dated. Most of the dating I've known has always been just a quick segway into a serious (or pseudo-serious) relationship.

What's so wrong with that? I instinctively defended my serial commitment.

Potentially a lot is wrong with it, my friends advised. Dating- under the definition above- teaches you a lot about what you want and what's good for you. Every interaction offers it's own lesson, for better or for worse. Most importantly, it can help you develop a sense of independence that's difficult (but not impossible) to foster when your committed/leaning on a boyfriend. You must learn to make yourself happy. It's nobody else's job.

And, of course, there's that dose of drama that most of us crave- the dating push and pull that eventually gets old but, at the right moment, can be absolutely exhilarating.

I guess I haven't dated much. But, is it possible (returning to my friend's theory) that I just pushed away a perfectly perfect mate because I haven't met my quota of dating drama?

I'm still at a firm maybe (and a hopeful no).

Whatever the answer is and regardless of what happens, I'm grateful for friends who put up with me- single, dating or otherwise.

In advance, I'm sorry friends.

Abuela Zuckerberg

My mother and grandmother are on Facebook.

My grandmother's not only on the book- Abuela Zuckerberg is wildly active. She comments on every status update, every uploaded photo, every wall post. Everything. These comments are never fewer than three sentences long and unfortunately for any friends who innocently "liked" or commented before her there is always a follow up, or four.

I joke but it really doesn't bother me. She lives in Argentina and if it wasn't for this knack for technology (Facebook, Gchat, Skype) we wouldn't be able to communicate weekly like we do.

Mom uses Facebook less often. She's had the same profile picture since she joined- on a boat, in a leopard print blouse, tipping a ship captain's hat. She'll occasionally thumbs up a Republican fan page or write on a younger cousin's wall in all CAPS because she can't figure out how not to. Mostly, she uses it for stalking. She recently called specifically to let me know that my boyfriend- who she's never met before- needs a haircut. And, a few weeks ago, her status for at least three days was simply "Trici Garcia", my older sister's name. Unlucky for Mom, the status update field on Facebook happens to be a confusing couple inches below the search field, so her attempt to snoop my sis was accidentally blasted onto our feeds.
Mom's Facebook activity is far less endearing than my abuela's, but I can at least count on it for entertainment. And isn't that what Facebook's all about? A little stalking, a little judging and pure unproductive fun.

Luckless

They say bad things happen in threes.

Last week I found myself ranking all of the recent unlucky happenings in my life, trying to figure out exactly which qualified as the official three.

Every time I'd pick a third, another whooper would give it a run for its money.

In two short weeks:

I took an icy fall on a snowboard and sprained my tailbone. (I'm still sitting on a foam donut at work.)

My debit card's pin number was stolen by some evil scammer in Amsterdam who cleaned out almost $1,000 from my checking account, on rent day.

I came home to (brace yourself) a swarming fly infestation caused by the crazy old ladies who live/may or may not be dead in the apartment upstairs. (The exterminator got rid of them but I spent at least 30 hysterical minutes swatting at black clouds of bugs cursing the day I ever moved to this god-forsaken filthy city.)

Then there was my lost iPod, the un-returnable kitchen table I ordered online that arrived in 4 broken pieces, and, most upsetting of all, my love life got real wobbly.

I debated writing this post. Nobody likes a Debbie Downer and we're all dealing with our own strains of misfortune. I realize a broken butt and biblical plague hardly qualify as blogable. But, I'll admit, this loss of mojo has me a bit out of sorts. Mostly because I'm usually a pretty lucky gal.

I'm that obnoxious friend who wins raffles, runs into Madonna at the grocery store (true), scores last minute tickets and pretty frequently stumbles into great opportunities/free stuff.

Sure, I'm no stranger to the occasional funk but it's really been a while since I've taken so many punches, one after another.

After a quick visit to Tampa last weekend, I boarded the plane for New York reluctant to leave Florida's sunshine for my black cloud in Manhattan. Even after landing and pushing my suitcase through the taxi line at La Guardia, my stomach tied itself into a knot. Slouched into the backseat of the cab, I tried to psych myself back up. Then, we turned onto the Triborough bridge. The Manhattan skyline- giant, glittering in the mid-day sun, pouring over the river- grabbed me fast. It yanked me out of my slouch by both shoulders, shook me and slapped me around a little. That's where I live- in the middle of that beast. As we sped toward it, I finally relaxed.

Unlucky in New York is still pretty damn lucky.

Three Year Thing

New York was supposed to be a two to three year thing. I would get the big city out of my system then bounce. I was sure of it.

During my first couple years here I had trouble committing to anything that seemed to dig roots. I let winters pass without an expensive "real" coat, sure I'd make a move before the season rolled around again. I never upgraded from a set of ugly plastic drawers in my bedroom. Why spend on furniture I'd eventually lug cross country? I constantly imagined myself elsewhere- in Boulder, in Tampa, in DC, in Chicago, even Buenos Aires.

At the beginning of the month my roommate moved out, leaving me with an apartment that looked like it had been robbed- next to no furniture, not even a spoon to my name. She had furnished our tiny two-bedroom years before I got there and of course boxed it all up for her new place when she left. I needed a new everything. Plastic furniture was unacceptable in my bedroom; It would be blasphemous in our living room.

Alone, sitting on the floor of my empty kitchen the day after my roommate moved out (and a few days before my new roommate moved it), it all finally hit me.

I had spent the last 24 hours punching my credit card number into furniture Web sites, clicking yes to everything that would make my abode livable again. I never hesitated. In fact, the idea of finally making an apartment my own excited me (even if it is exclusively furnished by Ikea and Craig's List).

Through all the transition it never occurred to me that I could just get up and go- toss those plastic drawers and leave NYC, like I always planned. Really, it's been months- maybe even a year- since I've even thought about getting out of the city like I constantly used to. Instead, three years after moving from Florida, I find the idea of permanency here comforting. I'm eager to commit and grateful for the attachments I've already made. I'll paint my walls, splurge on a dresser, maybe even fall for someone here. I don't mind the ties.

I plan to stay awhile.

Bringing Pickle Back

I'm a sucker under peer pressure. Really, the after-school specials of the 90s were lost on me. I can be talked into just about anything if "everybody else is doing it." Blame it on indecisiveness or a lifetime fear of being pegged the party pooper, I'm usually eager to just go with whatever a more opinionated person wants. Luckily, this gets me into a lot more good than it does bad.

Perfect example: Pickle back Sunday

The Jets made it to the playoffs this season so, of course, I spent my last two Sabbaths watching the games/day drinking. As soon as I got to Whiskey Brooklyn, the bar where about 10 of my friends were gathered, I was offered a spicy pickle back.

"A what?"

Pickle back: a shot of Jameson chased immediately by a shot of pickle juice.

"Eh, I'm good. I don't really drink Whiskey." (I, somehow, after 4 years at a #1 party school can't really hold my own around liquor)

"Yeah, but you drink pickle backs. Trust me," my friend signaled for the waitress. "You have to. We're all doing it together."

As soon as she uttered the magic words I was in. Only a party pooper would decline a group shot. Within seconds, a full tray of shot glasses- half brown, half ninja-turtle green- hit the table. We toasted to the Jets and down that pickle back went- a shot of whiskey followed by a shot of pickle juice.

The salty pickle juice (and really, it's exactly that- the brine from a jar of pickles) masked the Jameson completely. And this particular pickle back, since we ordered it "spicy", packed a sinus-clearing punch. The Tampa girl in me made a quick association. It kinda tastes like a Cuban sandwich. (Gross sounding, I know; But, in the moment, pretty delicious).

My alcohol enthusiastic group of friends aren't the first to throw these back. In fact, after a little Googling, I learned whiskey and pickle juice is basically the new whiskey and Coke. It all started at Bushwich Country Club, a hipstery dive bar in Brooklyn. McClure of the famous McClure's Gourmet Pickles (all the rage among NYC foodies) was storing some of his stock in the bar's basement. One fateful night a daring bartender took a swish of pickle juice after a shot of whiskey. The pickle back was born, and I'm grateful for it.

This unlikely combo became the official beverage of my playoffs (seriously). And although the Jets lost last Sunday, the discovery of the pickle back made us all winners....that is, until Monday morning.

She get it from her Grandma....

We got there around 10:00pm Saturday- tucked into a line about 25 people deep outside Public Assembly, a mini-warehouse turned bar/music venue in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. The bouncer nodded for my ID and asked what we were there for.

"Uh, the neighborhood watch meeting," my boyfriend* tried to keep a straight face as he responded. It was the secret code we were given in the secret email that revealed the secret location. The bouncer waived us in.

It was dark. Music was blaring. At least 200 people were gathered around an empty stage. A countdown flashed on a black screen. We had about 15 minutes left.

We were all excited. We knew what we were there for. It wasn't a neighborhood watch meeting- whatever that is. The countdown ran out to zero. The crowd- now pushing 300- roared like it was New Year's Eve.

A late twenty-something British man walked on stage in a trench coat. He told us we weren't safe. He told us the streets of Brooklyn were crawling with thieves. Then he started to unbutton his trench coat. "But you're not really here for a watch meeting." The crowd cheered. "You're here to change your life." The crowd cheered. "Do you want me to change your life?" The crowd lost it. He ripped off his coat and finally revealed what we were all waiting for.

"You're here to play Underground Rebel Bingo!"

We were.

We were holding magic markers and bingo cards. There was a bingo machine on stage. We wanted prizes.

But it wasn't your Grandma's bingo.

Two girls- one dressed in not much more than a corset, the other with a diamond-studded bra hanging out of her dress, both in neon wigs- bounced up on stage. They started to fondle the bingo balls and call out letters and numbers with rhymes too raunchy to repeat. The rules: If you win, scream bingo, fight through the crowd, launch yourself on stage and hug the announcer. If you call a false bingo you get ridiculed by the entire audience. The prizes: an iPod speaker that looks like a guitar amp and a giant panda bear suit.

Rumor has it, Underground Rebel Bingo started in a church basement in London. After it became wildly popular with the Brits, the man in the trench coat decided to ship it to Brooklyn.

A rave-like Bingo with a secret location and panda-themed prizes- my prediction is that it will catch on fast with the hipsters out here. BINGO!


*Still deciding how to introduce him/refer to the new him on the blog. But yeah, boyfriend.


NOTE: Picture stolen from the New York Times coverage of another Rebel Bingo night.

Hungry Bear

Remember that Sex and the City episode when everyone gave Miranda crap about moving out of Manhattan to Brooklyn? The girls were horrified. A cabbie wouldn't even drive her there.

I watched that show religiously (because I'm a warm-blooded American woman) and therefore arrived in New York with that same Manhattan-or-bust prejudice tucked in the back of my brain.

No matter how abusively high the rent, I was determined to find a home in Manhattan- downtown Manhattan if I could help it. Lucky for me, I landed in the East Village first. Now I live in the West Village (a couple streets down from Carrie Bradshaw's stoop, actually). Long story short, I've remained a total Manhattan elitist. It takes a lot to get me out of my superior borough. At least, it used to.

Turns out (brace yourself) there are two things that can get Vanessa out of Manhattan often: a cute boy and good brunch.

No real shocker there, but let's focus on the brunch.

Where: Enids in Greenpoint, Brooklyn
Commute from the West Village: About 30 minutes by L-train and bus
What I ordered: The Hungry Bear

I was sold on the dish before I read the description. If my appetite in the late morning (after a drink or four the night before) had an Indian name it would absolutely be "Hungry Bear." This $11.00 dish, voted most popular by Yelpers, includes a homemade biscuit sandwich stacked with sausage and a poached egg, smothered in gravy and sprinkled with paprika. I chose "cheesy grits" as a side. The egg was plump then oozy, pairing perfectly with the sausage and almost frothy gravy. The cheesy grits were creamy and layered with just enough saltiness. And best of all, we were able to order our own French-pressed coffee. It was exactly what any hungry bear or girl needs around noon on a damp January Sunday- the kind of start to the day that makes you wanna get right back in bed, but in a good way.

And it's not the first blogable restaurant I've visited in Brooklyn, the latest borough that cute boy I mentioned has inspired me to explore. Restaurants there (in Greenpoint and Williamsburg, at least) seem to have few things in common: they're cheaper, more casual and slightly less full of it than their Manhattan counterparts, but just as yummy.

I'll eat there. I might date a boy who lives there. But, move in to another borough?? That would take a bit of a Manhattan miracle

r.i.p christmas tree

It's the most wonderful time of the year-- and it's over.

Walking through my neighborhood Saturday morning after New Year's Eve, I couldn't help but find it all a little depressing. Mangled New Years hats floating in puddles of brown slush leftover from the blizzard, balding Christmas Trees abandoned on curbs, a barista at the coffee shop nearby ripping down paper snowflakes that floated in the window all month-- by next week even the after-Christmas sales will expire.

Sure, New York is cluttered, inconvenient and basically cracked out during the holidays, but wrapped in lights, it's all pretty magical.

So now we've just got plain ol' winter to deal with. No sparkle. No Sinatra's Christmas album at the grocery store. No gingerbread lattes at Starbucks. Just a city that gets dark around 4pm and cold, well, until April.

To protect against the post-Christmas blues, I decided to make a list of all the positive things that will happen during the next few frigid months:

1. With tourists cleared out, I can get a cab in midtown again.
2. No more whiney saxophone versions of (once enjoyable) Christmas songs playing on my coworkers CD player.

3. Martin Luther King Jr. Day off...because your boss sorta has to.

4. Upgrading to a bigger bedroom when my roommate moves out that features- wait for it- a real closet! (I've hardly survived 2 years without a proper one).

5. Valentines Day...because I'm a cheeseball

6. Snow days/ Snow ball fights

7. Weather related excuses to skip the gym (it's blizzarding) and drink hot cocoa (it's delicious).

With two winters behind me, I'm hoping 3 times a charm and a lady.

Merry Winter!