A night out can’t compare to a Sunday that starts with brunch…and ends with you having accomplished at least 8 fruitful hours of bar-hopping. Some of my best brunches in Manhattan began at Essex, a hipster institution on the Lower East Side, located on…Essex. Brilliant. One outing in particular occurred on a beautiful spring day – Mother’s Day, in fact. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate motherhood.
Essex is the best place for brunch in the city for several reasons.
1. Reasonably priced - $20 (including tip) for all brunch essentials - lovely brunch dish of your choice, great rolls, and 3 drinks (mimosa, screwdriver, or bloody mary). Every drink after that is only $3, which is what most Manhattanites would classify as “free.”
2. The hostess is usually this lovely-faced but bitchy woman. One might think this would work against the establishment, however, in a place like that, it actually serves to make one feel better about themselves. When we do finally get seated, we feel as if we’ve won the cool lottery and suddenly doing your hair and wearing those large sunglasses indoors all feels worth it…and logical.
3. The décor is minimal but interesting enough. There are what seem to be tennis balls painted white all along the wall. Perplexing? Sure. But after 3 screwdrivers at the buttcrack of noon, they might as well have been placed there by Michaelangelo.
4. People-watching – as you look around the multi-leveled but open space, you see three types of dining groups: couples that will be repeating the one-night-stand that just occurred; couples that will certainly not be repeating the one-night-stand that just occurred (signaled by their inability to actually look at each other); and groups of single guys and gals.
So, my friends and I waited at the bar for our table. We had made a reservation…which allows you to wait one hour instead of two. Remember, people, as my high school bff said as he rode the procrastination train into his seventh year of college: failing to plan, is planning to fail. Anyway, the aforementioned waitress (who seemingly woke up from the bed of her one night stand, pulled her tousled hair back, haphazardly slapped on some lipstick, and rolled into work) graciously led us to our table. I knew it was going to be a good day when I saw we were being placed next to the mimosa station – this most certainly would mean we would get free refills, well past our 3 drink limit. I wasn’t let down, and by the end, my two friends, Megan and Jessica, that didn’t really like each other, merely tolerated, were practically swapping spit.
Brunch ended, but the rest of the day began with an illegal margarita-to-go procured at El Sombrero. We made our way to Thomson Square Park where we sat in the shade and feasted on three very attractive men playing Frisbee. As the one in the group usually unafraid to approach men, I was being begged by Meg and Jess to introduce myself to them. I fought back saying that it would be a much less garish approach if Jess would just ask one of them for a light. This worked like a charm, and soon we were walking with Josh, Aaron (whom we insisted referring to as Alex until we learned, much later in the day, that was not his name), and some other guy (who barely spoke, so time has taken its toll on my memory of him) to 7B – a dive bar located on, what do you know, 7th and B. Again, brilliant.
After we had some PBR and Josh had administered a Jungian test on us regarding our sexual preferences, we moved on to Crocodile Lounge where a free pizza was given with every drink. Hard to believe, but oh so deliciously true. At the Croc, there was also SKEE BALL – Meg, we would soon learn, was a world champion skee baller not opposed to propositioning random male strangers to a game. If they lost, they’d owe her a beer. This tactic earned her a long line of beer – literally, beer after beer was lined up on the bar. A line so long, in fact, that she started giving them away. God bless her. The Croc also boasts an outdoor “garden” – a term used loosely in Manhattan, usually denoting a smallish outdoor concrete patio. The scene at the Croc is a wonderful mixed bag – likely due to its location close to Union Square. The bartenders are always very friendly, and they seem to always recognize anyone that returns a second time. They wear hats that I’m sure are meant to evoke the likes of Crocodile Dundee…and hey, what says Australia better than a straw hat?
The night ended with me up on the roof. Not sure how I got there – all I know is I was following Aaron and Jessica. I had no business following Aaron since he was a marine and likely had at least a modicum of roof-climbing/dwelling-while-inebriated-skills.
Keep this in mind when trying this at home - no matter how sober you feel when you get home, you’re going to be hungover the next day – turns out, my body doesn’t actually run on alcohol. Weird.
