Thursday Wrap-Up: A Press Dinner In the Age of Covid-19

Like the week before it, last week proved to be another dose of that old familiar feeling — I was keeping myself busy with freelance work, had a doctor’s appointment, and ran with friends.

I also partook in a press dinner, which apparently still exists in Covid-19. Last Wednesday, the yin to my yang, Hutch, asked me to be his plus one to a “resident dinner” with chef Adriana Urbina. I immediately jumped at the chance and accepted his invitation, and then as if a record scratched, I took a step back and thought, ‘well how the fuck is this going to work?’ But as hosting a set number of people to a tasting menu is quite the liability during “these unprecedented times,” it turned out very well, taking place “promptly at 7:25 p.m.” with tables spread out across vast rooftop on Broad Street downtown. And in an effort to not make this sound like I’m writing something for work, I’ll be quick: the food was great, the backdrop was fucking baller (thank god it didn’t rain), and the company even more so. I was reminded of all those previous times my former colleague and I attended media dinners together, except this time we didn’t run into any of our industry friends and the food didn’t suck. Five courses (with wine pairings) later, we were on an empty subway ride home where there may or may not have been some pole dancing (see: wine pairings), bellies stuffed and satisfied.

Will this happen again? How can it realistically, when there isn’t even a concrete plan for indoor dining here in New York?

Speaking of which, let’s talk about the dining rules here in NYC: for those of you unaware, guests aren’t allowed to sit down for a beverage — anywhere. No, the great douchelords ruined it for all of us by not taking their to-go cocktails elsewhere and instead hanging around makeshift bar windows in droves, and so now we all must order food to go with our beverages. It’s a shitty rule to be quite honest, as most of us just simply want a martini. (And ordering food to go with the booze also burns a much larger hole in those wallets of the unemployed.) 

But that rant is for another day. 

Total Mileage for the Week: 38.3. A bit up from the week before, likely due to the mid-week greenmarket run, which tacks on more mileage, as well as when I tried to bail from Sunday’s long run earlier then planned, but then ran in the exact opposite direction from our end destination, and got lost in Crown Heights instead. (Sorry, mom and dad.) It’s fine, I’m fine. We’re all fine. 

Notable Meals Out for the Week: The aforementioned press dinner and our #supportlocal long run destination of Miss Ada in Fort Greene. And on Friday, Lizzie and I finally reunited for lunch in the West Village, which ended up being a two-parter, first at Fairfax (THE CORN, tho), and then at Pastis, which we had been aiming to get to when it reopened pre-Coronavirus. I’ll take this time to say that Pastis is taking both outdoor dining and the pandemic seriously — all patrons get their temperature checked upon entry, there is a designated flow when using the restroom, and all tables have a time limit. Completely ecstatic, I’m quite sure we looked downright ridiculous to the server when we ordered: “Indeed, we’ll have a half-dozen oysters, steak tartare, fries, and two very dry gin martinis with a lemon twist…and we are also 82-year-old men.”

But I don’t give a shit, those martinis straight up brought tears to my eyes. 

Now if you’ll excuse me I must retire to the library with a glass of Brandy…