Wednesday, September 9, 2009

BAR: September In New Haven

Three bullshit artists chiding each other in a chess match of wit sat in BAR recently. Two of whom are your humble bloggers, the other, a friend. The time was dusk: the bloggers were handsome. The conversation was smarmy, punctuated by "insights" into American foreign and domestic policies. Of course, these three bullshit artists broached another topic which arises when fellas get together: women. And the seats at BAR provide a window shopper's delight. All shapes, sizes, color, and ages walk by in various fashion statements. When the weather is warm countless legs walk past BAR in blurs of grandeur. Don't blink; beauty is brief.

When approaching BAR with veteran's knowledge, one knows to stay away from the house brewed beer. It's appealing in name, and noble, however the taste is worth a penny. The beer at BAR is like the musical act Weezer. The nostalgia of your first time, when the drinking age is met stands out. What new taste! Now, like with Weezer, one feels bitter with resentment. When at BAR make sure to pair the pizza pie with one of the selections of wine. Echelon, a Californian medium bodied Pinot Noir paired nicely with the mashed potato pizza pie. The perfectly charred New Haven crust is meant to be enjoyed this way. Save the pizza and beer for poker night, the mashed potato pie is too elegant for barley and hops.

The mashed potato pizza: a concept New York or Chicago's shared unconscious could never sleep per chance to dream of. It is the secret weapon of the pizza world. Chicago's deep dish can deep throat BAR's potato pie. The Hawaiian special squeals like not quite cured ham. BAR's Mashed potato is a reasonably priced date with a Thanksgiving theme.

BAR's waitresses are everything you wish your girlfriend can be. You bought her a thighmaster for her birthday, an encyclopedia for Christmas, and a curler for Valentine's Day. You still go back for pie and Pinot.

September will always be a magical time for Americans, New Englanders,and New Havenites. The rest of the world, presumably, has yet to devise a calendar based on the sun and moon. But if they could comprehend math, divine acts, and witch craft: the sciences used by the proud American Sir Isaac Newtown when drawing the first calendar in the sand at Plymouth Rock, they too, surely, would place September in New Haven amongst other moments of ecstatic pleasure enjoyed by all peoples of creation.

September in New Haven does not start on a specific date, nor does it end on any date in particular. It is not like love or a divine presence, nor is it like a matrix on a Texas Instrument. It is not intellectual, philosophical, punctual, anamorphic... it is fruit, animal, and mineral. September in New Haven is that which you can see, hear, touch, and taste.

On the streets (both one way and our few two ways) waft the appealing smells of New Haven's world class restaurants ranging from fine dining to street food. Also delicious are the sights of the Milky-Way class Yale co-eds. As two men in our mid-twenties we have already experienced the Southern belles of SCSU, but have not yet developed the nostril hairs necessary for attraction to Quinnipiac women. The city sounds range from St. Raphael's sirens to auto-tuned cell phones.

The beauty is part undergraduate lust and part first-day-of-school nostalgia. No one in recent history views January first as the beginning of a new year; a new chapter in the chose-your-own-ending book of life. Instead that honor has been thrust upon September. Students pray that their social mistakes have sweat away during the summer heat, that their new blue jeans with last years style will catapult them to the front of the class, or at least down the hall from the all too well remembered bullies.

Not yet fall and unfairly considered summer, September is a season of all of its own: a season for spirits. A spiritual time because the Yale co-eds have not yet put away their summer clothes and it is now too cool for excessive perspiration. The summer has ended. Summer is sex and the early fall is its orgasm. The short climax will culminate in a long post coitus winters nap, awakened by a Vivaldian spring.

We are pleased to share with you our love of food and its accompanying wine, women, and song. We are most pleased to share with you the greatest treasure collectively shared by all of us, no matter the month: the unparalleled city of New Haven. We're dudes. We love life. We love food. We love New Haven.