Over break, I got to drink at McSorley's, my favoritest bar in NYC. There's a waiter there -- umm, waiter is a generous term; he makes you drink faster if you're too slow, and plunks drinks in front of you and grabs money out of your hand before the beer stops sloshing in their glasses -- his name is Tommy. Tommy always gets me a table, no matter how large my party. One time, I asked why he never sat down and enjoyed a drink with us. He called my bluff, his own words, and in his lovely Irish brogue asked me out to a steak dinner. Tommy is at least old enough to be my father. It's been over two years since I've seen Tommy, yet last night, he remembered me lickety-split and had me in a seat before the warmth from his kiss on my cheek dissipated. Oh, Tommy.
No comments:
Post a Comment