Zolo

Last week while I was staying overnight in New York I wrote this in my journal:

I've never dined by myself before. Another first. But I craved a good wine and something other than a burger, so here I am.

I'm in Chelsea, I think. Somewhere just off 8th Avenue, south of 14th Street. Restaurant name unknown. I just ordered a $35 bottle of wine for myself. What the fuck hey. Zolo Malbec: product of Argentina.

Awkward moment:
"Two glasses?"
"Oh no, just one"

Maybe I've got an imaginary friend that I can't see. Or maybe he just didn't realise I was Australian.

The wood-fired pizza I ordered is orgasmic, and that's not an understatement. Well maybe if my mouth was my junk it wouldn't be. Shredded beef, red pepper, caramelised onion and a bold cheese, something from the parmesan family. It might have been called mangelco or something like that. It reminded me of mangoes when I read it on the menu.

It's kind of hard sitting here all alone with my thoughts. But the wine is certainly helping. It makes for quite the opportunity to eavesdrop and people-watch. There are two girls a few tables down. Either they're breaking up or someone has just died. Not a happy vibe coming from over there.

I'm on to my third, albeit generous, glass of wine and have eaten seven of the eight slices of pizza. I can really put it away. Having a big brother that steals potatoes off your plate spurs you on to be a quick eater. Consequently, I've usually eaten everything in front of me before I realise I'm over-full and resemble the gluttonous Augustus Gloop from Willy Wonka.

The melancholy lesbians are scratching their heads as if to find a solution to their problem but it appears to be unsolveable. They look at each other despondently.

All of a sudden I miss my family and friends. I miss familiarity, but at the same time I crave this aloneness. Just like I craved this wine that has made me drunk-ish.