My equilibrium gets thrown off when I go west of 7th. Even 6th. 5th is really my comfort zone—I know I’m rubbing shoulders with Madison, and that’s only a hop, skip, and a jump from my side of town. (Yee, I have a side!) For some reason I’m at my best on the east, even though two out of every three buildings have a rodent problem and there are more myriads of displaced artists sauntering around than there are talentless Manhattanites (I made up both of these stats).
There’s no cologne dust floating around starch-collared B&T boys. Cheese smells differently over here. Al fresco means wobbly tables and cash only, and there are more typos on our street signage.
For some reason I find this place comforting and I can’t figure out why, because it’s So. Freakin’. Filthy.
