The cakes go in the fridge -- about thirty bucks' worth from Café Riviera. It's a housewarming party, so why not spoil them a little? Strawberry eclairs, plum tarts, macaroons, and three kinds of napoleons -- black forest, caramel, raspberry. (I haven't tried any of them; I merely assume quality based on what I know of the standard Riviera danish.)
The other option would have been to bring a bottle of wine or whiskey, but I've never been comfortable with the public gesture of presenting booze to the host. I'd much rather sneak into the kitchen with a box of supernatural sweets. It's the kind of thing my mom would do -- if you bring something good, keep it a secret for a while.
The front door of the apartment opens into an L-shaped hallway that breaks left around the kitchen. I walk past a Klappsta chair on my right and take off my shoes. As I turn the corner I notice the unopened whiskey bottles on the kitchen bar. It's early.
The hallway leads to a small living room, with the bathroom on the left just past the kitchen. I sit down on the floor and lean back against the door to the bedroom. Facing me are two people sitting on opposite ends of a green sofa: a Chinese girl on the left, and a white guy with glasses on the right. There's another guy to my right sitting in an Aeron chair by a glass table. I've met him once before; he's a musician. The guy with the glasses is a director; I've seen one of his movies. The girl is a question mark.
I really could use a prop. The musician hands me a Lagunitas Pils. Good timing.
More people filter in, and bottles accumulate on the bar. A bourbon here, a Yamazaki there. A pizza is delivered, and I move into the hall by the bar. The party now has two competing territories: kitchen/hallway vs. sofa/living room.
The Klappsta in the hall turns out to be just what I need: close to the beer, with a good view of both territories. I park myself on one arm of it. The other arm is for customers. Tired of standing? Need a new listener? Have a seat.
But with the Klappsta comes responsibility, i.e., you must keep up with the talky talk. It comes in hard and fast -- Bed-Stuy crime statistics, Montana geography, the Spa Castle franchise, the fate of Williamsburg, the origins of peat (for the conversation on articulating the taste of Scotch). The crowd is sharp, accomplished, witty, knowledgeable. I can't seem to one-up any of them.
I look over at the Question Mark on the couch. She looks bored. Her glass has been empty for a while. She finally steps over to the bar and pours herself another drink.
Her outfit is rather peculiar. Earlier in the day she was probably wearing a shorts suit, but at some point she must have ditched the jacket. Now she's wearing a yellow hoodie with the hood pulled over her head. The combination looks strange, but clearly she doesn't care. Maybe she's cold.
Maybe I'll ask her. She just took a seat -- right here, next to me.
