Noa; Industry (food)
Itty wears a 3/4-length slim-waisted black jacket with a sheen to it, over a shirred pomegranate shell, stovepipes and space-age shoes. "This place has wine and beer," I warn, "no hard stuff. Is that okay?" "Oh sure."
On the south side of St. Marks Pl., two-room Noa has red fluorescent lights and candles, a back wall of Mexican murals in reds and ochre, Indian-motif throw pillows, brick, low tables and seats in orange colors for lounging. Itty breathes it all in and declares, "I could go for a margarita." Handsome and charming Noah is consulted regarding our wine selection. Itty likes dry, so he recommends the deep-purple arid South African Malan Pinotage. It's a hit with her. The well-selected wines by the glass here go for $8. Noah the oenophile reminisces on a couple of recent wine-tastings at the Puck Bldg. My glass of Oregonian pinot noir is light woodsmoke with a hint of licorice. We see a tall pitcher of garnet sangria go by.
Itty and I chitchat; she's volunteering for an upcoming church function. She says she likes their priest. "He says it's not against the church to be homosexual, it's the practice of homosexuality that the church is against."
"Is he gay?"
"Mmmeeyeah, I don't know." On men she says, "I don't like picture perfect." She lists her faves: David Spade, Howie Mandel, Nic Cage.
"Nic Cage? Omigod. He is sooo ugly. You have the worst taste in men."
Light Mexican bites on the menu, all under $10. A small order of guacamole ($6) comprises a bucket of palm-sized crimson, sand and dark brown tortilla chips with small ramekins of too-slippery lemony pimiento-spiked guacamole and an oniony fresh salsa that I like better.
Ice buckets of bottles of beer are served here, which remind us of the wild goose chase in Cancun seeking a friend of a friend who worked at Carlos'n Charlie's. We hadn't realized there were five or so Carlos'n Charlie's in the area. Even when the friend's friend wasn't in residence, the mention of his name would result in the appearance of free drinks and snacks. At one saloon, the waiter led the whole place in the prototypical Cancunian conga line, out the door, across the street, dodging honking traffic, and back to the entrance where another waiter poured champagne down our gullets. I can't remember if we ever found the guy, but it was fun looking. Angelina returned late to the room one night in just a towel, drunk and soaked from skinny-dipping, so I did what any good friend would do?began taking pictures. And I'd already given her bed away to a guy from Las Vegas, so she had to share with him.
Trina had come on that getaway with us. She wasn't friends with any of us; why, she was Itty's nemesis. We couldn't figure out how she'd wound up on our trip, and yet there she was. My friend Mark and I had once put a little password-stealing program on our friend Nick's machine. We learned his password was "trina," but true to his modus operandi he dumped her within a couple of weeks anyway. At 8 a.m. at Newark International Trina had said, "I want ice cream." So ice cream she had. At dinner that night the busboys couldn't keep up with her; in her Mondrian mini and dangly earrings, she cleaned plate after plate from the buffet with a focused concentration, until there were five or six empties stacked in front of her.
At the beach she asked me to put sunscreen on her back. While I was applying the goo, I noticed the sharp ribs jutting out, felt my head getting light, stifled a gag reflex and fought to finish the job quick as I could. One evening, after dinner, I knew she was in her room, but she wouldn't answer my knock.
By Noa's wide-open front windows I say, "Trina, bulimia." Itty says, "Oh no, I don't think so." Right, and her priest's not gay. I haven't been back to Mexico, since when departing we ran to check in at the airport and left Itty to settle with the cabbie, who then wouldn't release her luggage, insisting she pay him more than we'd agreed on. Little Itty stood firm. We finally noticed she was missing and looked out the window to see Itty and the cabbie playing tug-of-war with her luggage. I sweetly asked the airport security guy to help us and he refused to get involved. We caused a scene but no one would help out. Which left a bad taste in my mouth, although Itty says she would return.
The bartendress has luminescent skin and breaks into song and dance along with the jangly pop from the speakers. We guess at her accent, I say German, Itty says Russian. I know it's not Russian; I've heard the Russian accent many times at work, usually in the form of, "Lane. Do not worry," or "Ah, Lane, good noose ees blah blah blah. Ah, but Lane, bad noose ees blah blah." Or once: "You order coffee, not vodka for meetings. You discriminate against Russians."
We're both wrong?Jules is Swedish and 22. Guys, I didn't inquire if she was seeing someone; you'll have to ask for yourselves.
The cash-only policy sends us rifling through our handbags; we put together enough to avoid a trek to the nearby ATM. The bar bids us adieu. The sandwich board outside claims "Friendliest staff in NYC." I do believe that's the case. Despite her unquenched tequila jones, Itty would next day write, "I would love to go back to Noa."
Lobster bruschetta ($15) is a take on the BLT, served on thinly mayoed toast topped with heirloom tomatoes, salty crispy pancetta and white coils of the sweet lobster. The toasts sit over a thin pesto.
The bar is jam-packed with champagne- and martini-drinkers shooting furtive looks and waiting for something to happen that probably won't. No table-hopping, and a table of gals next to a table of guys don't even exchange eye contact. The girls like their lobster bruschetta enough to order a second.
My dropped napkin is immediately scooped up and then replaced with a fresh one. A bottle of Evian presented on a tray passes en route to another table. Drought or no drought, it still looks ridiculous. We are served tap without having to ask. A good-looking young server leaves us black and white square plates that hold our entrees.
Itty says, "I'd like to be with someone young."
"'Be with'?kissy-flirty-smoochy or all out sex?"
She mulls that one a while. "Kissy-flirty."
"Well that's doable."
A Weight Watcher's portion of striped bass' ($19) seared top forms a slim but satisfying crust. Fresh-fresh, but lacking in flavor and just a smidge overcooked. The menu claims the fish is "studded" with lemon confit, but the zingy yellow relish is served alongside. The next table gets a chicken pot pie the size of Montana. And they finish almost all of it. Lamb with Japanese eggplant and tomato coulis over ziti ($13) is a ragout out of Grandma's house. Almost too homey but for the fresh rosemary biting back. The uncut long tubes of ziti are cold, but the lamb sauce is warm. The texture is mealy due to the fine grind of the lamb, but the flavor is hearty and springtime in one; rich and filling. A special stop is made to ask how I like it, as it's a new offering. I like. Good, they'll tell the chef (Alex Freij).
The airy backroom holds a big table currently accommodating a group of girls. Itty sizes them up and sniffs, "Maybe you should invite guys and girls for your birthday."
"Yeah, I probly will cuz I want to get your husband's side of your stories. But if it was all girls we could find a youngster for you."
My wineglass with a couple sips left is whisked away by a waitress wearing industry's uniform of brown cap-sleeved peasant blouse topping dark jeans. Farewell... Lemon tart ($6) comes with an ovoid of tongue-fizzling raspberry sorbet and a few unsweet marinated berries. It's a tart tart with a sweet brulee skin. When you were a kid, did you have that stuff that was like modeling clay and when it dried, your creation was supposed to look like it was made of wood, but it never did? I think that's what they used to make the tart crust.
Desserts are fruit-centric and change daily. Our half-filled plate is cleared without consent, but we really were done with it. More coffee is not offered; we had to ask. When we rise to leave, a staffer new to us earnestly asks how was everything. "Great!"
On our walk uptown, Itty tries to convince me we should visit Vegas, as her crushes can be found there. I'll consider it; someone needs to go with her to save her from herself.
"I'll let you kiss David Spade, but if I see you with Howie Mandel I'm telling you're married."