Asian 289


Asian 289 was completely a choice of convenience. Those generally make for either poor or weird experiences. This was both. Raining like I’ve rarely seen it rain in Manhattan, we left our shelter at Caliente for another year of debauchery and influence. We made it a whole half block before the deluge overtook us and we ducked into the first place with a ceiling and what looked like the possibility of alcohol. I still to this day don’t really know what the name of this joint is. The word Asian is painted on the glass door, the decor is vaguely Asian and the address is 289. So, voila, Asian 289. The menu sort of made me a liar, as it has some Asian/Italian mash-up thing going on, and the name Cucina Stagionale on it. Uh. Also taking up residence at the bar was the fossil pictured at left. She was a sweet old broad, whom I believe still thought it was 1943 and was convinced she was going to get lucky with one of our compatriots. “Lucky for you my sweetheart is away fighting the Krauts, so I get to do my part at home for America’s young men,” she was heard to say to anyone male under the age of 50 who dared sidle up to the bar. It was followed by a vomit-inducing wink and a smack of her wooden dentures. So we bought her another sidecar and told her to relax her granny libido for the good of the country. Apparently she’s a regular, all dolled up the way she was, at this empty bizarro bar, and the young, friendly bartender treated her as such. We were regaled with tails of Teddy Roosevelt (apparently he was a real gadabout), and her childhood slashing and burning crops in Samaria. Suddenly there was something vaguely undead about the whole place, so we threw money on the bar and ran out into the gale to once again brave the city where boredom just isn’t tolerable. [MF]