As you may have read in my story “Sid Stein – Crimefighter and Criminal,” I have a soft spot in my heart for women of Latin extraction. Not too long after I was to appear in court for the loitering ticket I received while on a date with my first Dominican girlfriend (I broke up with her), I met yet another one on J-Date, the Jewish online dating service. Somehow, despite the fact that I am on a Jewish dating site, I meet all the Dominican women. Go figure.
Rosa was quite delightful and we hit it off well. Although she lived in Manhattan, we saw each other on weekends. Either she would come here or I would go there. And, I must add. After years of not spending any time in the city, I was enjoying my visits to the Big Apple.
One night, Rosa made reservations for us at the Carnegie Club to see Cary Hoffman, a Sinatra impersonator backed by an 11-piece orchestra. http://www.hospitalityholdings.com/ The club is a swank cigar bar and jazz venue, so I wore my Sunday best. Although I was having some trouble reading the cocktail menu because I had forgotten my reading glasses, I eventually settled on a Havana Fizz. Here is the recipe for this delicious cocktail:
Havana Fizz
Specialty of The Carnegie Club
Created by Kenneth McClure
Cocktail glass, chilled
Pour ingredients into an empty mixing glass
6-8 sprigs of fresh mint
1/2 oz. fresh lime juice
1/2 oz. simple syrup
Muddle contents
Add ice
2 oz. Bacardi 8 Rum
Shake and strain
Fill with Champagne
Garnish with a mint sprig
After a few Havana Fizz’s, I was really enjoying the Carnegie Club. The singer was great and really evoked a Frank Sinatra show in Vegas. Ring-a-ding! The cocktail waitresses were classic and cute. They wore pearls. The other patrons were fun too. We met couples from Oklahoma, Texas, and yes, even New York. I was having a grand time but Rosa was a bit upset with where we were seated by the hostess. Something went awry with our reservation and although we had a small table, it wasn’t located in the spot she wanted. As we were leaving to go to a music club, Rosa decided to have a few words about the mix-up with the maitre-d’. Her conversation took place by the door while I waited outside. As she complained about the seating arrangements, I wasn’t left alone to shiver in the cold. Instead, I was stranded outside with three young women who were discussing their evening plans. They were all quite attractive, and in my somewhat inebriated state, I had no problem striking up a conversation with them. I may have even offered them a party favor. Whatever the case, at least I had something to do while I waited.
As unhappy as Rosa was with the maitre-d’, she was even more unhappy when she stepped outside to find me engaged in conversation with three women. I made a mental note – she gets jealous quite easily. As she sneered at me, I feebly defended myself. I explained that: (1) I like to chat with random people, which is absolutely true, and (2) if she hadn’t felt the need to complain to the maitre-d,’ I never would have started the conversation with them in the first place. As you might well imagine, the second part of my defense was not very well received. Like I said, it was a feeble defense.
Despite this minor incident, we hopped into a cab and went to a music club where Rosa knew one of the members of the funk band playing there. We both enjoy music and were soon drinking martinis and bopping along to the beats being thrown out by the band. We were even having a good time. The difficulties encountered at the Carnegie Club were soon forgotten.
Before I get to the next part of the story, I need to fill you in on a few points. Consider this an aside. Like many other women of Latin descent, Rosa has what can only be described as a classic Latin butt. It’s big. Big butts are part of what you get when you date Latinas. If you don’t like them, then don’t date them. Personally, I have not always dated women with big butts. My ex-wife did not have one. Nevertheless, I do have some instinctual attraction to them. Although I wouldn’t describe the attraction as a preference, I do appreciate an ample butt. To be honest, I have no idea when or how I acquired this appreciation, but it may have something to do with what might possibly be described as a condition akin to a midlife crisis, although I don’t think it’s quite that drastic.
Let me elaborate. At some point when my kids were in high school, I started to listen to rap music. They were listening to it so I heard it often. Wanting to be the cool dad, since I was always the cool dad, I grew to enjoy it. Before I knew it, I was listening to rap quite often and even purchased a number of New Era 5950 caps. http://www.neweracap.com/ Those are the caps you see rappers wearing all the time. Part of the hip/hop culture. They are ubiquitous on the heads of today’s youth. I even sing a couple of rap songs at karaoke. In one way, you could say that I embraced hip/hop culture. An acquaintance of mine from karaoke once remarked that he was impressed that I continued wearing my caps and hoodies long after I first sported them in public. He added that he was comforted by the fact that I didn’t turn out to be a “wigger” for a day. I took it as a compliment. I think he meant it as one. Mostly, anyway. If you don’t know what a “hoodie” or a “wigger” is, look it up.
There is something else you need to know before I continue. I should describe what it’s like walking around Manhattan with an ample- butted woman while wearing a 5950 cap on my head. Although some of you white liberals with no black friends (and I don’t mean polite acquaintances like the kind you have at work) might think this is a racist stereotype, black men really do like big butts. There are even songs about it. I even put together a CD with just ass songs. So, while walking around Manhattan, I discovered that many black men would be checking out Rosa. Fair enough. I look too. We’re guys. We do that. With Rosa, though, there was an added twist. They would look at me too – quizzically, skeptically. As this scene repeated itself a number of times, I finally figured out why these black men were looking at me this way. Silently and in a state of disbelief, they were challenging me. I fancy that the question they were asking with their eyes was this: “Are you sure you can handle all that, white boy?” Once I figured it out, I just nodded my head in the affirmative with a wry smile on my face. To be perfectly honest, I enjoyed earning the respect of men who appreciated the origin of ass in asset.
I need to tell you one more thing before I get back to my narrative. It’s important because it affected how Rosa related to me and the world around her. It’s my theory about a particular genetic code embedded in the DNA of all Latina women. Let’s call it the Latina Spice Denominator or LSD for short. All Latina women have it. Some people might call it Latin passion or simply a quick temper, but after dating two Latina women in succession, I truly believe it is a condition passed down from generation to generation. Genetically. Think Rosie Perez in the movie “White Men Can’t Jump” as she’s screaming at Woody Harrelson. Although I submit that all Latina women have this trait, some control it better than others. Whereas Rosie Perez didn’t exhibit much control, at least in the movie, Rosa seemed to manage her LSD much better, at least most of the time. Clearly, after a couple of martinis and some confusion at the Carnegie Club compounded by what she described as flirting with those three women while I waited for her outside, she lost some of that control.
I am finally ready to return to my story. As I said, Rosa and I were having a great time bopping to the music and drinking martinis. We were feeling good. When the show ended, we hung around so Rosa could chat with her drummer friend and a couple of other people she knew at the club. In a friendly mood, I was chatting with people too. To be honest, I was in more than just a happy mood. I was drunk off my rocker. We were cabbing it, so why exercise any discretion with intoxicating beverages?
Of course, there is always some reason to exercise discretion and I was about to find out as soon as we left the club. Apparently, while I was engaged in some chatter at the club, some older black man was busy hitting on Rosa. I had seen him sitting there at some point but didn’t pay him much attention. He was on the scrawny side and seemed harmless. Harmless or not, Rosa lost control of her LSD again simply because I wasn’t paying attention to her while some guy was moving in on my “territory.” She gave me an earful about it even while I implored her that the man was completely harmless and not a threat. It didn’t matter to her. Whoever the suitor is, she emphatically explained that it was my absolute duty to step in and break it up.
I was finally beginning to get it after committing two major transgressions. Don’t talk to other women and defend my woman to the death. So long as I abided by those two rules, my life with Rosa would be full of bliss. It sounded simple enough. To her credit, Rosa regained control over her LSD and we hopped into a cab to get a bite to eat. And, some coffee. I really needed some caffeine.
Since we were in the Village, Rosa settled on a late night place to eat, called simply, The Coffee Shop, conveniently located at Union Square. http://nymag.com/listings/restaurant/coffee-shop/ Check out the review from New York Magazine. It’s very hip, plays extremely cool music, serves great drinks and is full of very pretty people who need something to eat after partying all night long. We arrived just before 4 a.m. and the place was packed. There was at least a 20 minute wait for a table. We got in line.
Rosa thought she could finesse the maitre-d’ and maybe get us seated sooner. Apparently, she has a way with maitre-d’s. Feel free to ask the one at the Carnegie Club for a reference. Curious about a new place in the big city, I morphed into a tourist and spent my time in line looking around the room and absorbing the sights and sounds. In other words, I took my eyes off Rosa. That was a mistake. In the short time I was busy checking out the scene at The Coffee Shop, some guy got busy hitting on Rosa. This time, however, it wasn’t some scrawny, harmless-looking black man. This time, it was a very muscular, mean-looking black man over six feet tall who reminded me more of a gangsta rapper than Nat King Cole. I am 5’9” in shoes. And he wasn’t just talking to her. He was hassling her. I knew what I had to do. I took a deep breath, walked right up to him, and in a stern but steady voice, said: “If you don’t leave my girlfriend alone, I will fuck you up.” I wish someone had a camera to get a picture of his face. He was shocked and confused. I could tell what he was thinking. “Is this white guy crazy? I could tear his head off.” He got right up into my grill (face) and incredulously asked: “Did you just say you were going to fuck me up?” Did I tell you how mean he looked? By the way, he looked even meaner from only two inches away. You may be thinking that I couldn’t have chosen a more stupid course of action so late at night when I knew damn well that this guy had also been out partying his ass off. Well, what you don’t know is that there was this huge bouncer standing right next to us. And I mean huge. If he wasn’t a former defensive lineman for the New York Giants, he could have been. Black, bald, about 6’7,” and like I said, huge. A mountain. With my antagonist still glaring at me, I glanced up at the bouncer with the few seconds I had to respond before getting my ass whipped or being branded a coward and then getting my ass whipped. The bouncer was stoic. Then, he cracked a little smile and wordlessly reassured me that he had my back. I turned toward this freaking asshole, looked him straight in the eye and said: “Yeah, I said that I was going to fuck you up.” I emphasized the word “fuck.” Just as I was finishing my last word, the bouncer stepped between the two of us. He never said a word. He just became an impenetrable barrier between me and the guy who probably could have killed me.
I felt like a king. Indestructible. Without a doubt, I had never done anything braver in my life. Or more stupid, if you prefer. And, I had done the right thing by Rosa, who at this point, was watching the scenario unfold. I puffed up my chest and smiled at her. No way was her Latina Spice Denominator going to rear its ferocious head now. This time, she was going to pin a medal on me. “Are you fucking nuts?” she screamed at me. I think she was more scared than mad, but I couldn’t be sure. “That guy could have killed you!” “Don’t ever do that again!” Sometimes, you just can’t win. The Latina Spice Denominator is mysterious, and apparently, not always logical.
In any event, we soon got a table and enjoyed some good late night food. And coffee!
One other thing. Perhaps a month later, Rosa and I were sitting somewhere and struck up a conversation with a black man at an adjacent table. At some point, he said to me: “Don’t ever take your eyes off your woman.” Sound advice if a little too late.
1 comment:
Happy Hanukkah
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