Last night, I finally ate at Mary's Fish Camp in the West Village. I have been stalking the restaurant forever, but have never made the dining plunge due, mostly, to the crowds and waitlist it usually attracts. I was having dinner with my friend J. and it was his heady and perfect suggestion that we go there.
The restaurant's also been a bit of a legendary place for me personally, in that Amy Sedaris, the funniest woman alive, still waits tables there from time to time.
Sadly, Amy wasn't working. To be honest, if she were, I may not have been able to eat, all things considered. I would have either been early toddler peek-a-boo shy, or I would have launched into my own one-woman rendition of all three seasons of "Strangers With Candy", whether Ms. Sedaris liked it or not.
However, J. and I did thoroughly enjoy the shit out of an excellent meal, right down to two separate hold-down-and-smack-somebody-this-shit's-good desserts. I had the Lobster Pot Pie, which was about a pound of melted butter, lobster, etc. hiding demurely under a bonnet of buttery, flaky, fatty goodness. J. and I both had serious entreé envy though, when our table-neighbors got their Lobster Rolls. Next time, I ain't fucking around. I know the real deal.
After dinner, J. and I hung out at his apartment. We were both a bit gassy from all of the creamy, fishy heaven we inhaled at Mary's. J. and I had a brief flatulence war, which J. won hands down.
"Whoa, " J. said just after emitting a minor anal aria. "That last one could kill somebody."
"Hold on." I quickly lit a match, and blew it out so the sulphur from the extinguished matchhead could do its magic. Unfortunately, the combination didn't work out so well; the sulphur did little in the way of absorbing the odor. In fact, it accentuated it, giving the air a smoky, violently savory scent.
As our faces torqued in horror, I said: "Dear Lord. Now it smells like a pork roast in here."