A Secret Weapon in the Battle of the Panties
“Panties drop, from hood to hood, block to block…” Coolio, ‘1,2,3,4 Sumpin’ New’, 1995.
Sure, Coolio, it was easy for you to make those panties drop. What lady’s panties could withstand the downward gravitational pull of your heavy-lidded brown eyes, your now-spent millions, the crazy appeal of your upstanding dreads? But you know, Coolio, it’s not so simple for everyone else. What if the fine men of New York are having a hard time making panties drop? They have no rap-tastic stylings with which to woo the ladies. What is to become of them?
Had to Move is here to help. Men of New York, I have a new secret weapon for you. It will magnify your game. It will assure your advantage in the battle of the panties. It is called Milk & Honey.
Last night I was walking to my friend Eric’s house after a reading given by our friend Will. Eric had promised me a homemade grilled cheese; we were both sorely in need of something to soak up the beers sloshing around in our empty bellies. On Eldridge Street on the way home, we bumped into a chap named Sam wearing a vest and a hairdo that was some kind of hybrid between a mullet and a Mohawk. A mulhawk if you will. Eric and Sam exchanged greetings, and eventually I inquired as to how they knew each other. Eric said, oh, Sam is a waiter at this bar that I go to all the time. Which bar? Milk & Honey. And we were standing right outside.
Of course, I had heard about Milk & Honey. You have to have a reservation to go. The phone number is secret. The door doesn’t even open from the outside – you have to be buzzed in. I always thought it sounded pretentious and lame. But Sam seemed really cool so I suggested we pop in. Sam buzzed us in since we didn’t have a reservation. Apparently, Eric has passed more than a few nights there with ladyfriends, and I was soon about to see why.
The first thing that happens at M&H is they inquire as to your drink preferences and suggest an appropriate cocktail from the bar. Then someone drops by your table with a complimentary dish – ours was a plate with two gorgeous strawberries on a soft little mound of cheese, drizzled in honey. Sexy. The cocktails arrive shortly thereafter. Mine was a smoky, fantastic scotch with a thin, fresh orange peel curled in the middle and some other special additions I can’t quite recall. Eric’s drink was a fruity frothy something or other that came with a cold metal spoon and a single, six-inch square block of ice running through the middle. We sat in a closed off booth in a room resembling a dark saloon in a fancy hotel in the Old West in the 1800s. The music was jazz.
If my relationship with Eric didn’t resemble something like mildly flirtatious second cousins, fellas, I assure you, there would have been panties dropping all over the LES.
As it was, we headed home, sat on his couch and ate grilled cheese sandwiches. But I had a newfound understanding of part of the reason why, every time I see Eric, he is surrounded by a hair-flipping pack of giraffe-like model women. Not only does he know how to talk to and treat women, he ups the ante by frequenting places like Milk & Honey and dropping a pretty penny on a very worthwhile drink. I'm sure his investments have paid off.
Sam gave me the card for M&H with the secret number on the back. I can call anytime I want for a reservation. And if I decide to switch teams, I would most decidedly take someone there if I wanted her panties to drop.
Sure, Coolio, it was easy for you to make those panties drop. What lady’s panties could withstand the downward gravitational pull of your heavy-lidded brown eyes, your now-spent millions, the crazy appeal of your upstanding dreads? But you know, Coolio, it’s not so simple for everyone else. What if the fine men of New York are having a hard time making panties drop? They have no rap-tastic stylings with which to woo the ladies. What is to become of them?
Had to Move is here to help. Men of New York, I have a new secret weapon for you. It will magnify your game. It will assure your advantage in the battle of the panties. It is called Milk & Honey.
Last night I was walking to my friend Eric’s house after a reading given by our friend Will. Eric had promised me a homemade grilled cheese; we were both sorely in need of something to soak up the beers sloshing around in our empty bellies. On Eldridge Street on the way home, we bumped into a chap named Sam wearing a vest and a hairdo that was some kind of hybrid between a mullet and a Mohawk. A mulhawk if you will. Eric and Sam exchanged greetings, and eventually I inquired as to how they knew each other. Eric said, oh, Sam is a waiter at this bar that I go to all the time. Which bar? Milk & Honey. And we were standing right outside.
Of course, I had heard about Milk & Honey. You have to have a reservation to go. The phone number is secret. The door doesn’t even open from the outside – you have to be buzzed in. I always thought it sounded pretentious and lame. But Sam seemed really cool so I suggested we pop in. Sam buzzed us in since we didn’t have a reservation. Apparently, Eric has passed more than a few nights there with ladyfriends, and I was soon about to see why.
The first thing that happens at M&H is they inquire as to your drink preferences and suggest an appropriate cocktail from the bar. Then someone drops by your table with a complimentary dish – ours was a plate with two gorgeous strawberries on a soft little mound of cheese, drizzled in honey. Sexy. The cocktails arrive shortly thereafter. Mine was a smoky, fantastic scotch with a thin, fresh orange peel curled in the middle and some other special additions I can’t quite recall. Eric’s drink was a fruity frothy something or other that came with a cold metal spoon and a single, six-inch square block of ice running through the middle. We sat in a closed off booth in a room resembling a dark saloon in a fancy hotel in the Old West in the 1800s. The music was jazz.
If my relationship with Eric didn’t resemble something like mildly flirtatious second cousins, fellas, I assure you, there would have been panties dropping all over the LES.
As it was, we headed home, sat on his couch and ate grilled cheese sandwiches. But I had a newfound understanding of part of the reason why, every time I see Eric, he is surrounded by a hair-flipping pack of giraffe-like model women. Not only does he know how to talk to and treat women, he ups the ante by frequenting places like Milk & Honey and dropping a pretty penny on a very worthwhile drink. I'm sure his investments have paid off.
Sam gave me the card for M&H with the secret number on the back. I can call anytime I want for a reservation. And if I decide to switch teams, I would most decidedly take someone there if I wanted her panties to drop.
posted by Had To Move at 4:05 PM
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