Around 10:30 pm last Sunday, after a shopping run, we stopped by the closest thing this neighborhood has to a hip coffee shop (as opposed to the Starbucks that opened a block away & the many Colombian coffee shops that have weird pastries, a cheerful vibe & surprisingly vile coffee). The coffee shop has a Bengali owner & some of the employees are from Bangladesh as well. They serve wine & beer (bottled, small breweries) as well as coffee, plus European sodas, organic cookies, & snacks -- about what you'd expect, chosen half for the flavor & half for the affectation. It's a pleasant enough place, provided one doesn't show up at family-friendly hours (yes, a child must be allowed to express his creativity by running around the room screeching, but the temptation to stick a foot out as he passes by for the third time howling at 120 decibels is very hard to resist, & those parents sue), & the coffee isn't bad.
This night, it was quiet; the coffee shop is right near the main South Asian shopping strip & there were a few young desis having coffee & faffing about with their iPads, & the owner -- from Bangladesh, remember -- was behind the counter.
I got my coffee, engineer got a lemon soda, & we plopped down.
In came a group of three young Bengalis. Two of them, totally FOB*, hung behind slightly & did not make eye contact -- they seemed so tense that I thought for a moment they were about to rob the place. The leader, however, strolled up to the counter & inquired whether his friend Mr. Ahmed was there. No, Mr. Ahmed had just gone home. The two behind began to look even more nervous. One of them bolted for the bathroom. The leader, in a lovely Brit-accented upper-class Bangladesh voice, said rather grandly that he would like a glass of white wine, & in fact they would all like a glass of white wine. Urgent whispered colloquy with #2. No, no, said the leader, this is New York you are in now, not Bangladesh, of course it is fine! & some more presumably comforting words in Bengali. #2 calmed down a bit. #1 emerged from the bathroom & started to photograph everything in sight, especially the owner pouring glasses of white wine. The leader explained to the owner that his friends were new to NY (no kidding) & described what they'd done that day. Apparently they began with brunch at noon. They had some drinks with brunch. Then he took them to a bar. They had some drinks. Then for lunch they had Thai food. With wine. Then they went to another bar, I think, & then to Mezcal to have Mexican food & "mezcal cocktails." They could smoke there (it took me a moment to understand -- of course it would seem odd to be able to drink but not smoke in a restaurant). But then he took them to a cigar bar across the street -- he himself, he added, did not smoke, but they did -- & they might have had a bit to drink there too, I don't recall. Then they went to a place that specialized in macaroni & cheese, & had macaroni & cheese & champagne. (By now I was quite able to understand why #1 had dashed for the bathroom; even my digestion, not to mention my liver, would have had trouble.) And now, he said with a flourish, he had brought them here.
Well, of course: the piece de resistance was alcohol served by an actual native of Bangladesh.
Muslim country, no booze ... .
All this was quite easily audible (to me anyhow -- engineer missed the lot & probably wouldn't have seen the point anyhow), since the leader was clearly a bit drunk himself & rather loud. I was in actual physical pain trying to suppress the giggles.
Forbidden fruit: it's what's for brunch (& dinner, & snacks ...). But brunch food, Thai food, Mexican food, mac & cheese, cigars & loads of alcohol?
If only the combination -- or the guilt -- did not come back to haunt them Monday morning.
* Fresh Off the Boat. It quite took me back. Years ago, when I married #2, the Village Idiot, my parents didn't show up (his parents were in Pakistan), so we had a party for family & friends a few weeks later at a Pakistani restaurant, a smallish place (with excellent kebabs) with, of course, no liquor license. But my father insisted on bringing in some beer, despite my frantic shushing, & the Village Idiot's eldest brother was delighted (he liked to drink quite a bit on the sly) & got absolutely knee-walking, hooty-owl drunk in front of everyone. The V.I.'s younger brother had arrived from Pakistan only a few weeks earlier, & had a look of the utmost horror on his face the whole time (mixed with glee when he realized that this was going to undermine the tyranny of eldest brother). We didn't dare have any, of course, & an uncle was rather depressed that his young sons were present so he couldn't indulge (I should have hidden a bottle back in the bathroom for him), but the V.I. managed to wrestle a couple of leftover six-packs from eldest brother, who had plans for them, for the afterparty back at the apartment.
V.I.'s younger brother, as it happened, was the local gun-runner & general tough guy back in the village (he'd been shipped off to NY after some sort of Incident -- the body count was not zero, I believe), but alcohol? Shocking.
No comments:
Post a Comment