Last night, my friend Nicole and I had our monthly dinner and went to the steakhouse STK in the meat packing district.

[Because I was caught up in the hubbub of the holidays, I did not provide a review for last month's dinner at

Perry Street

, which may have been the best we've had.  I don't remember what I got, but I remember it was very good (how's that for a review?).  Also, we sat next to Ben Gibbard, lead singer of Death Cab for Cutie, who is much taller than I ever thought.  Since I, too, am a celebrity, I said hello to him and told him that my friend named her dog after him (which is true) and the mutha was floored, like it was the greatest compliment he ever received.  I can see why - I suppose it's one thing to say, "Hey, I really love "Transatlanticism'" and another thing to say, "Hey, I named a living creature, one that I will spend the next 13 years of my life with, after you."  I mean, if there were any dogs running around named Jason Mulgrew - or even Larry Awesome - it would probably be the high point of my life.  But anyway,

Perry Street

was spectacular and absolutely should be the place to take a girl who you just started seeing but really, really want to sleep with.  If you can't close the deal after a dinner there, then you should just cut your penis off and forget the whole thing.]

STK, on the other hand, was completely horrible.  I’ve thought of two snarky intros – tell me which one you like best:

- "STK’s slogan is ‘Not your daddy’s steakhouse.’  After that meal, I was longing for my daddy’s steakhouse!  And a decent meal!  Because the one I had there was shit!  Seriously!"

- "Many people think ‘STK’ is a fashionably-shortened version of ‘steak.’  But after eating there last night, it’s apparently that it’s not an ‘e-a’ that’s missing, but an ‘i-n.’"

(I like the first because it’s more in-your-face, whereas the second is too cerebral.  Not for you guys, but for me.)

Nicole and I arrived exactly on time for our 8:30pm reservation in a building that looked more like a club than a restaurant.  I don’t like clubs in New York City – they make me sad.  This is, admittedly, because of my own insecurities; there are beautiful women at clubs and there are douchebag guys at clubs and yet everyone who goes to clubs fucks at the end of the night.  Meanwhile, on the other side of town, at the end of the night my friends and I are sitting in my apartment eating toothpaste to get fucked up because we’ve run out of beer and it’s too cold to go outside and get more.  So yeah, sad. 

But if NYC clubs make sadder, NYC club-steakhouses make me sadder.  Nicole and I were told it would be 20 minutes before we were seated (which is fine), so we checked our coats and headed to the bar for a drink.  This is when the problems started arising.

1) At the bar, Nicole and I were treated to various groups of mid- to late-thirties bankers/former frat boys, talking very loudly about "equity" or "derivatives" or some shit, wearing shoes that cost more than my entire wardrobe, and leering at every girl in the vicinity.  "Girl" is the appropriate word because most the females at the place that were my age and traveling in groups.  They were very attractive and well-dressed and might as well have had "husband-hunting expedition" signs above their tables.  As I watched, I imagined the conversations members of each group would have later in the night, after they were sufficiently filled with liquid courage:

Girl: "So what do you do?"
Guy: "Wealth Management at JP Morgan.  Can’t lie, my Harvard MBA helped me out there.  It’s a tough job, but I have to pay the mortgage on my $3.4 million loft in Gramercy somehow.  Why – what do you do?"
Girl: "I work in fashion.  Basically what I do is – "
Guy: "Hey, do you want go back to my place, do some coke, and fuck?  I gotta tell you: it’ll be pretty rough and I’m not going to wear a condom."
Girl: "OK!"

[Girl starts grabbing Guy's balls as Guy throws seven $100 bills on floor and they leave.  Everyone looks at the money falling on the floor, shrugs, and returns to their conversations.]

My philosophy all along has been that I’m going to marry whomever it is I’m dating at 30.  The bar scene last night only strengthened my conviction that this idea is genius.

2) Nicole and I alternate – one month, she picks and I pay; the next, I pick and she pays.  In this case, it was the latter, but since I don’t know any restaurants in NYC, I told Nicole what I want and she suggested some places.  STK was kind of a compromise; I get a steak, she gets a scene. 

Typically, the non-payer of the dinner (me) buys the first round of drinks.  So I did.  Two drinks (with tip): $36. I mean, wowza. 

(And no, I didn’t get the "Blood of Japanese Emperor" cocktail.  They even ran out of rye for my Manhattan, so it wasn’t even full.  Sweet.) 

3) There was a miscommunication early in the night.  When the hostess said, "We’ll be able to sit you in about 20 minutes", she really meant, "Sir, your shirt couldn’t have cost more than $50 and, let’s face it, you’re not very good looking.  I’m going to stand here behind my little desk and alternate between ignoring you and shooting you looks of disgust and disdain.  We’ll seat you in an hour and fifteen minutes."

What I’m trying to say is that Nicole and I waited an hour and fifteen minutes on a Wednesday night at an overcrowded, douchebag-filled restaurant for an over-priced, not very good meal.  Should I continue with the review or do you get the picture?

Things I learned from this dinner:

- Anytime you see a food item with the word "bisque" attached to it, order it.  Note this rule does not apply to any bisques served at rest stops, delis, or out of a food truck.  Consume those at your own risk and be sure to have toilet paper handy. 

- According to Nicole, I have a tendency to smother women.  Figuratively.  But little does she know that it is also true literally.

(Hahahahahaha!)

(More creepy cackling: hahahahahaha etc)

- Never, ever order scallops.  You will always be disappointed.  Take this to the bank.

- Um, I think there was more, but since we ate so late and since it was SO FUCKING LOUD and since I hit the red wine pretty hard, I don’t remember much else.

So don’t go to STK.  It’s terrible.

POST SCRIPT

This morning, I woke up at 5:45am.  I don’t know why, but for some reason I was overwhelmed with stress, woke up, and couldn’t fall back asleep.  So I started hanging out and trolling the internet for sex, like I do pretty much every morning.  But then I got bored.

Back up: When my show died, my friend Claire, the sweetest of sweets, took it upon herself to send me some rice pudding to help cheer me up.  But Claire did not just send me some rice pudding – she sent a shit-ton of rice pudding.  We’re talking probably four or five pounds of rice pudding here. Of course, I have to eat all this rice pudding, lest I seem ungrateful.

I eat pudding in a very specific way: from the outside in.  You see, I like when the pudding gets warm from being held in my hands, so when I eat it, I scrape the pudding from the sides of the container.  This will upset the center of the pudding, which will rise a little bit, but then the pudding will settle back to the sides of the container, where this next layer will be warmed by my hands, and then consumed in the same way.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat. 

(And really, after re-reading that paragraph, can you believe that I’m not having sex on a regular basis?)

This morning, I was sitting naked on the edge of my tub while the shower was running, eating some of this rice pudding in my sauna-like bathroom (I mean, why not, right?).  There I was, balls dangling on the side of the tub, eating the rice pudding, having a grand old time, when I scraped the side of the pudding container with a little more vigor than usual.  Like tugging on a rope that you don’t realize is not tied to anything, my arm and the spoon were whipped out of the pudding container, sending my body backward and rice pudding flying.  When, milliseconds later, I had steadied myself on the edge of the tub, I saw that I thrown/spilled/gotten rice pudding all over my chest, belly, and genitals.  Not my best look.  Did I mention this was at about 6:45 in the morning?(Sorry, after re-reading

that paragraph, can you believe that I’m not having sex on a regular basis?)

So that’s how my day started.  And sadly, it hasn’t been much better since. 

(I just can’t wait to get home and get some more of that rice pudding.  Thanks again, Claire.)