SomeFrills

Two weeks ago I went to a fancy restaurant in NYC for dinner, and another for brunch. I don’t know if it would be considered a cop out to list this under “new places visited in 2012,” which doesn’t include NYC because I’ve lived by the city my whole life, BUT, I have not ever previously eaten in one of those fancy NYC restaurants without some sort of Restaurant Week special prix fixe.

When you go during Restaurant Week, it’s like they’ve thrown open the doors to Narnia, and we’re all filing in together. The waitstaff understand and snobs’ll tell you it’s “not the same,” but for those who’ve never tasted a Turkish Delight from inside the Wardrobe (or in general), isn’t it delicious regardless? Even if the food and servers stay constant, the ambiance changes with the additions of others who, like you, pray they don’t break anything or spill or take the wrong glass because there are 12 on a table for four. There’s less pressure to be “fit in” because the homogeny is broken, and there’s suddenly a place for everyone in the patchwork. Outside of that week, however, you’re braving that weird world alone and hoping Aslan might swoop in and pay the bill while you’re not looking.

We went to Le Cirque, which was pretty delicious and had amazingly decadent desserts, but some of the most gaudy china that was oddly reminiscent of the sort of designs you’d find in your Chinese grandmother’s cabinets: line drawing of monkeys with multi-colored gemstones scattered across the surface.

And like said grandmother’s dining room, there were rules to be followed at Le Cirque. Grandmother would insist upon the eldest male eating first, and younguns keeping the tea cups topped off; Le Cirque had extra suit jackets and ties for the men who didn’t have them. I refrained from inquiring about extra heels and fancy jewelry for women who weren’t personally endowed.

Some people say the fancy dress and excess silverware is “part of the dining experience,” and I guess it is. The food wouldn’t be less good in comfortable clothes, but you would lose the feeling of making it to the grown-up table where, for reasons unknown to me, they can’t just reuse the same fork between courses by wiping it off on a napkin. The decadence and extra dishwashing are built into the price of the meal.

So I think, yes, this should be considered a “new place.” Sure it’s a restaurant, but It’s not a normal dining experience. What do you think, ya or nay to fancy restaurants as a whole ‘nother category of experience?

Last Saturday night, I went salsa dancing. There also played bachata and merengue, and I step-step-step-not-step-step-step-step-not-stepped or side-hip-side-hipped a little to all the above.

It was my second time salsa dancing, ever. The first time had been my friend M’s salsa group’s holiday fete in December. Saturday she was performing with her group that night after taking the LSATs in the morning. If she can LSAT and then remember choreographed routines, I figured I could remember the step-step-step-not-step-step-step-step-not-step. Biologically, I know I have hips and my hearing is pretty good so all ingredients were present for decent salsa dancing.

Except a sense of rhythm.

And following ability.

I’ve always been very vocal about my lack of psychic ability, but in partnered dancing I always seem to think I “know” what my partner wants me to do. My success rate is probably on par with your average psychic, so maybe I shouldn’t discredit my nominal 3rd eye.

But that eye helped me see something Saturday night: sometimes it doesn’t matter if you suck, as long as you have fun.

No, really, I swear it was as true vision.

Last time M sat with me, and we caught up over red wine in between dances (mostly when she took me out on the dance floor), but this time she had to rehearse. Before disappearing backstage, she introduced me to some of her regular salsa companions. These were Latina women, around our mothers’ age, who had been dancing salsa, bachata, and merengue their whole lives.

They knew not only the steps, but also the rhythm and the culture around the dances. L only did the bachata with certain people, ones she felt comfortable with, because it was such a sensual dance. J made the collegiate female duck face when she danced, but she talked about wanting to learn “styling,” also known as “what the heck are you supposed to do with your hands when they’re not holding your partner’s??”

After talking with them, I found myself watching the other dancers for footwork and flair, and appreciating not only the sparkly dresses but also the quick footwork and that breath-taking moment when a perfectly matched couple takes to the floor and sails through a dance with theatric twirls, a dramatic dip, and matching smiles.

And I realized what it was they had that I didn’t (aside from salsa ability, and rhythm, and sparkly dresses): they had fun. These were spontaneous match-ups, some between regular group members, but others between complete strangers. Someone had said “do you want to dance?” and someone had replied in the affirmative. No one knew what the dance was going to be like, but, judging by their faces, both dancers were having fun finding out.

I think that the next time I go salsa dancing I’ll be out on the dance floor, partner or no, I’ll have to make it a point to just step-step-step-not-step-step-step-step-not-step and turn. The smile is requisite, and technically I’ve got all the other parts (feet, hips, and ears).

My latest adventure was carefully planned, in advance, and vetted by experts who were board-certified in that sort of thing: I had two of my wisdom teeth removed.

This was, without a doubt, my most heavily researched and well-planned endeavor. The only hitch was when the oral surgeon’s scheduling system cancelled me after my 24-hour courtesy call. Luckily they “squeezed me into” my original appointment time. The best laid plans of mice and men, right?

Side note: do mice make plans? You’ve got to figure that with all the research labs they assist in, a Pinky and the Brain situation ought to have happened by now. (For the record, it’s a reference to a poem Burns originally wrote in Scots. And now we’ve both learned something nicht.)

The downside to research is that, well, there is a lot of information out there. Google “dry socket,” and you’ll learn of the terrifying condition the hygienist warned me about 5x. I wasn’t brave enough to look at the image results, but let’s all hope it is nothing like the backs of my mouth currently.

Before I’d had it done, or even scheduled, I’d taken an informal Facebook poll of people’s experiences getting their wisdom teeth removed. Answers ranged from “I swelled up like a less furry extra from Alvin and the Chipmunks” to “I ate a cheeseburger the next day.” My takeaway from that was that informal Facebook polls are just as good as WebMD when it comes to scaring fraidy cats like me. WebMD may have the board-certified doctor advantage, but these Facebook people? I know them; clearly these disasters strike anywhere!

Eventually, after taking a couple more in-person polls and consulting with two oral surgeons (my dentist’s recommendation wasn’t in my insurance plan), ultimately I had to just let go of “preparing” for wisdom teeth removal and just trust my body. We fell asleep during a really difficult root canal, so I felt okay only taking local anesthetic and closing my eyes.

Only time will tell how the recovery is, but I was off Tylenol by the second day and I’ve reintroduced some solid foods such as pizza, grapes, and chicken wings. I’m also pretty sick of chocolate pudding. As long as obsessively looking at my teeth holes in the mirror is a normal part of post-surgery recovery, I should be okay.