It is not often that I leave Manhattan, much less that I leave it for Boston, mainly because there is no enjoyable way of getting from one city to another. I once took a flight (business class - $1200) from JFK to Logan, and barely had enough time to absorb the latest issue of Town & Country - to which I subscribe - mainly because the flight attendant, a striking woman in her 50s with porn star hair and coed lips, relentlessly badgered me about drinking more of the sparkling they had to offer, specifically a corked Veuve Clicquot that was not even chilled to the correct champagne temperature (46-48F). Furthermore, the flight was too short and an unnecessary amount of time was spent embarking and disembarking, finding the black car service and traveling from the airport and through the tunnel to the hotel where I was staying (The Four Seasons previously, but now when I go to Boston I stay at the Taj, or if it is full, I stay at the W.)
My colleague Henry Drummond suggested that I take the Acela train to Boston if I absolutely must go to Boston, and to have the driver take my luggage to the hotel to be held by the concierge while I go for drinks at a place called Trade. So this was my plan last week when I was in Boston. I did as he suggested. Drummond is normally full of great ideas - even though the woman he's now sleeping with is less attractive than his wife - and I trust him on recommendations for things such as restaurants, bars, hotels, ski resorts, and where to dry-clean an Armani tuxedo in places like Philadelphia or Detroit, even though I never go to places like Philadelphia or Detroit.
At the bar I wait to get the attention of a bartender in a waxed mustache and wearing a black French Connection UK shirt with an open collar and black jeans from Hugo Boss. He takes my order and I ask for a bison-grass vodka on the rocks. I hand him my black AmEx and tell him to keep an eye on me and if it looks like my glass is getting empty, to keep bringing me more. I stand at the bar sipping my vodka. It is seven, and I watch the after-work crowd in Boston's Financial District. I feel good, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look good. There are hardbodies all around me. I chat up a woman named Lindsey who looks hot in a blue Gucci dress with tuxedo frills on the sides and black and ivory Tory Burch shoes and a watch that I have to stare at for a long time to decide if it's a fake Rolex or not. It isn't, and a wave of relief comes over me. She is talking to me about her recent trip to a third-world country where she built houses or she gave vaccinations, but I'm not paying attention. It occurs to me that the shade of blue (slightly lighter in tone than royal blue) of her dress does not match the ivory in her shoe. The two colors actually clash. It's all I can think about. I quickly drink the last of my vodka and before I know it, there's another vodka in my hand. The bartender is very good, and I make a mental note to Yelp about him later, but right now it's hard to think about anything but this woman's shoe choice. She's obviously a hardbody and has an exquisite manicure and expensive haircut and chooses her makeup well, but it's nothing short of a character flaw that she should make such a bad decision regarding her shoe choice. I wonder if she is noticing how red I am turning, and I quickly drink the last of my vodka and turn to the bartender. I hand him a fifty and he hands me back my black AmEx. Before I can walk outside and hail a cab, Lindsey is tapping me on my shoulder. I can hear her asking me if I want to go to a place in the North End for drinks with her friends. I turn to her and tell her no, and that she should have thought about that when she was selecting her shoes that morning, and I walk into a cab and tell the driver to take me to the Taj. She looks confused, and this explains a lot. I close the cab door and look away. I tell myself I won't look at any more women's shoes for the rest of the day, and then I remember that inside my Tumi luggage that is at the hotel already is the newest issue of Esquire, and that I remembered to bring my Brooks Brothers velvet opera slippers to wear around the hotel room, and I return to a better mood. I tell the cab driver to turn up the radio. It's an old song by Toni Braxton that I am thankful to hear has not fallen out of rotation by the DJs of Boston. I sit back and enjoy the rest of my cab ride. I can still taste the bison-grass vodka on my lips, and I am slightly jealous of the haircut on the bartender at Trade. For the rest of the evening, all I can think about is what kind of hair product he might use, and I kick myself for not asking him. Finally around two in the morning I decide that he uses Sisley Paris Hair Cream and I am able to fall asleep with a clear mind. read more