Meet Me at 53rd and 6th
No time for new material this week, but as a tribute to the lovely platter I had this weekend with the oh-so-glamorous Miral Sattar herself – in all her intelligence-layered glory, radiating social ease galore – I will repost a piece I wrote on chicken and rice for Divanee magazine…
Meet Me at 53rd and 6th
I was in Connecticut a few weeks ago, and every time we drove past a sign for Plattsville Road, my mind automatically read “Plattersville Road.” That’s when I knew I had a problem.
My name is Sarah Khan, and I am a Platteroholic.
I wasn’t always like this. For years I’d heard rumblings of Platter-speak from my Connecticut and New Jersey friends, and had never paid them much heed. Anyone who would drive into Manhattan from an hour away just to eat some food off a street cart was clearly riddled by some rapidly misfiring dendrites, in my opinion.
That was a simpler time. Today, I make trips from Boston to satisfy my Platter cravings. I disguise them in any way I can – spa weekends, shopping expeditions, conferences, trips to visit old friends – but the underlying premise remains the same. “Hey it’s so great seeing you again after so long! Why don’t we get something to eat? I know a great little place at 53rd and 6th…”
Fabulous 2 BR, Furnished, Heat/Hot Water/Bollywood Cast/Ghost Incl.
Imagine with me, if you will, the following scenario:
You lay awake in bed, staring blankly as your clock blinks “2:34” at you in blue. Terrified at the prospect of waking up in four short hours for work, you still can’t seem to fall asleep. How can you? The sweet musical stylings of your neighbors’ rousing live piano renditions of popular show tunes are just so. damn. engaging.
Sound like fun? I’ve tried it. It really isn’t. It got old a few songs after “Hit the Road, Jack,” but before “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Somewhere between 1:33 and 3:07 a.m, when I finally marched upstairs to notify them it was time for their curtain call. No encore necessary.
While living away from your parents has its perks, independence comes with its share of hitches as well. Chief among them is the cast of characters you’ll encounter in the real world. Who knew that one day I’d be living directly beneath the 2008 Romanian Olympic gymnastics team, who practice their floor routine dedicatedly in their living room – preferably between the weeknight hours of 2 and 7 a.m.? Or that a lavish musical of Bollywood proportions would be staged just above my queen-sized bed?
The Fine Art of Testifying
With the rising popularity of social networking sites, it seems like everyone has something to say about their friends. Usually, it goes a little something like this:
“ *** is my boy! Get in line, ladeez! You gotsa get this one before he’s snapped up! *** ROCKS! Boyzzz 4 life!”
When I read such testimonials, I find myself compelled to do two things:
1) Offer the testifier a thesaurus, a spelling lesson, and my editing services.
2) Message the well-meaning friend and ask why the subject of his glowing review remains so patently single, despite it being years after he received such evocative words of praise.
I resist these urges, however.
I find you can tell a lot about a person not by what has been written about them, but rather, by the testimonials they leave for others. For example, my testimonials suggest I’m a nice, outgoing, and fun girl. The testimonials I draft for my friends, however, suggest I’m a bit… quirky. Which may be closer to the truth.
To test my theory, I’ve compiled a few I wrote recently:
So I have a blog.
I guess that’s just soooo 2005, eh?
Stop complaining. And while I try to get the hang of this blogging thing, feel free to check out my portfolio at http://home.comcast.net/~sarah.khan. That should keep you busy for awhile.
Happy New Year!