[Pink Pig Time Machine by Wilfrid: June 17, 2010]
A lousy journey home from London, the flight being held on the runway at Heathrow for a very long time. I see that I had started on Proust. Not to show off, but I had finally discovered that the way to get through Proust was to take volumes on transatlantic flights. You can read a lot of pages in seven hours.
I edged wearily back into Manhattan life, enjoying an exhibit of Patti Smith drawings and paraphernalia in the upstairs gallery of much-missed Gotham Book Mart. By the weekend, June was busting out with a vengeance. It topped one hundred degrees in Central Park (as I write, a cold breeze blows through the window) and a long, hot walk led me to Jimmy's Corner for refreshment. Plus ça change - the Mets beat the Yankees in interleague play, and I was forced to deliver the time-honored line to an over-excited Mets fan, "Talk to me in October."
Still hot the next day, and a bar crawl was called for. The 169 Bar on East Broadway, with its vintage martini sign; Whisky Ward; Iggy's. Finally, on Sunday, out to dinner. Verbena on University Place, where Pure Food & Wine now is, was the choice, but it was such an oppressive night that the air-conditioned interior got the vote over the garden. This was a nice, middle-of-the-road place: duck confit ravioli with wild mushrooms; roast chicken with polenta; a few chocolates to finish. And suddenly the storm broke.
It rained all day Monday. I was sick. I sat in bed watching television news stories about troubles at the Puerto Rican day parade. Then I watched Bull Durham. Pretty much it for the week. Next time, Union Pacific.
