Mogador
Bicyclemark is home from Amsterdam for the holidays, and he took the train from New Jersey to have dinner in the East Village with MsThingk and me.
The original plan was to eat at Yaffa Cafe, but we walked in to find the staff lounging around, looking half in the bag, telling us the place was closed for a private party. The waiters and busboys, sitting legs splayed at a few small tables, spotted MsThink and were suddenly eager to find her a seat, but realizing our group was a package deal, told us to come back later.
That's okay, there are a gazillion restaurants to choose from in the East Village and, when Mark looked to me for a suggestion, all I had to do was point a few doors east. "How about Mogador?" I asked. "It's Middle Eastern, or Moroccan, or something like that. How's that sound?"
December 15, 2005
After a brief look at the menu, it was agreed. We settled at a table under the front window and proceeded to talk about a million and one scattered subjects, beginning with the convoluted connections that linked us together. MsThink, whom I'd only met once before, randomly on the subway after work, asked Mark and me how we knew each other. Neither of us had a very clear answer for her. Through blogging, somehow, we knew that much. The first time we'd met in real life, though, was in Amsterdam, and we recounted that story as best we could. She and Mark first met in Amsterdam, too, at the University where Mark works. MsThingk spent a semester there studying sex. Gender issues, rather, or something like that.
As we finished our meals and perused the dessert menu, Mark pulled out his podcasting equipment and set it up to record our little discussion. He'd mentioned ahead of time that he'd probably do that, so it wasn't a surprise, but the gay couple at the next table seemed more than a little curious about what he was up to. Mark originally suggested we discuss my book, writing, and my experiences with publishing — self-publishing, specifically. But we wound up discussing gentrification, random bag searches on the subways, and New York's looming transit strike, instead. Transit strike? I hadn't even heard about it. I didn't let on, though, and just nodded earnestly while trying to figure out how the hell I was going to get to work if a strike shut the subway down. But then I realized that the chances are only 50/50 that I'll have a job to get to, so I'll take it as it comes. In any case, I didn't have much to say, and it'll be a miracle if Mark manages to edit a podcast that has me saying more than two words in it. I kind of hope he doesn't.
MsThingk has an apartment in Williamsburg, and we spent a little time discussing the neighborhood. "Which subway stop are you on again?" she asked.
"Morgan Avenue. Ever been out that way?"
"Yes. Once. It's really...umm...it's uh...I went to see a band at a bar out there. At the Wreck Room, do you know it?"
"Yeah, sure, it's right around the corner from me."
"Afterwards, when I stepped outside the bar, I remember feeling like I was in some bombed-out city in eastern Europe or something."
I already had my camera out, so I clicked through some shots that were stored on it, and found one of a pink cushion in the middle of the street. "Like this," I asked, holding the camera up for her to see.
"Oh my god, yes," she laughed. "That's so Bushwick."
