Notes From The Carlyle

The only thing I miss by no longer drinking is writing these.

  But here I am, my excuse for dropping twenty bucks on a cup of coffee knowing it will be well worth it.

  You can’t beat the Carlyle for its timeless appeal and impressive history.

  I always come in the Madison Avenue entrance to pass the photographs of John and Jacqueline Kennedy, stopping to pay court.

 She looks as if any minute she’ll reenter in her black dress and pumps.  He of course always looks the statesman, his alleged mischief properly concealed.

  But no one cares anymore anyway, the look-the-other-way people that we’ve become.

I’m seated in the red room off the bar while my waiter fusses over me like I’m important, the way you should be treated everywhere, but most often are not.

 “Shall I pour madam?” he asks politely. I nod, absorbing the moment that will pass soon enough.

  Across from me a portly man whose tweed vest pulls across his middle smiles. The waiter brings him a New York Times. He then comes over to me, saying, the man inquired would I like part of the paper?

  I wouldn’t have minded but know I’d then have to engage.

  I just want to sit and soak up what I’m seeing, not flirt or forced to be polite.

  “Tell him thank you, but no,” I reply, waving a thanks before pulling out my notebook. He smiles back as he tucks a napkin beneath his chin. Makes me laugh telling me he’s a first-class foodie watching him smear gobs of butter on his brioche pulling that vest a little more.

   A couple appears with a young boy all very well-dressed. By their accents know they’re Parisian, but even if I hadn’t heard them speak would have guessed; they have that easy, carefree flair most Americans don’t though try hard to emulate.

  It’s as though they come right out of the womb with style.

 Even the kid has it in his gray flannels and button-down with its sleeves pulled up. Love his white tennis shoes his father also wears.

 He sees me looking. He laughs calling out,”We going to Central Pok…we walk.”

 “Oui,” says his wife, smiling while tousling her son’s hair. I grin knowing what a nice time they’ll have on such a sunny day.

  My waiter comes to pour the rest of my coffee asking again, would I care to eat anything? I should have treated myself to that ten dollar croissant because when I ask for the check, Foodie who took leave, kindly took care of it along with leaving me his paper.

  SB