On Another Home

Second Home?I feel like I've written this post a million times due to my failing computer battery, however every time I write it I am equally as excited to describe this "good" place. I've realized that most good places are also the places where I have encountered frustration, anger or pain. A good place lights a fire beneath you, at times warm and comforting and sometimes intense and burning. In these places it's hard to avoid getting burnt. New York is one of these places and London and almost every house I've ever lived in.
So to is the restaurant in the west village where I have worked for nearing two years. Two or three times a week I veer off sixth avenue onto the shady side street, wave to the neighborhood supers always perched on the stoops and push the heavy worn wooden door in with both of my hands or my back. I'm greeted by warmth, no matter the season, and a cheery salutation from the bartender peeling fruit behind the granite bar.
The place is small, modeled after a provençal farmhouse. Warm wood, a glass walled wine room, embroidered cushions on the banquettes and a long communal table carved from a single piece of wood in the center of the room. During service waiters float around and around this table like carved horses floating around a carrousel.
The staff is small and like any small group of people who spend a lot of time together, drama, gossip and intrigue abound. However these people, whose backgrounds are as varied as their interests, have become some of my best friends. If I do not arrive in the afternoon in a particularly ornery mood, I'll chat and giggle as I clean windows, fold napkins and slice bread. The friends in the boxy kitchen will turn down the radio to greet me, simultaneously wrapping sausage and flattening pasta.
I love fine food and fine wine, so in truth, there is no better place for me to be and no better place for me to escape to after a day of trying to pay attention in class pounding the pavements around NYU.