It Must Be Nice to Be a Lower East Side Girl
I can confirm.
If you didn’t read the viral article from The Cut or see the gotcha cover on New York Magazine, this title won’t make sense to you.
But if you did, you may now share the same fear as I do—being caught in the act of day drinking in a place like Dimes Square, and retroactively being plastered on the front of one of the most famous magazines in the world. I used to be afraid of becoming a Nolita Dirtbag meme. The stakes have risen.
This article bothered me a lot for all of the same reasons it bothered everyone else. I have read an abundance of “Old New York” material from people I greatly admire—Fran Lebowitz, Chloë Sevigny, Keith McNally (whose memoir I am currently reading ahead of my first Balthazar dining experience next week), Patti Smith—the list goes on. They write about rising up from the ashes, sneaking out of their apartments to see their boyfriends, working hard, meeting people, and connecting. Never do they sound whiny, which is what to me, this article came across as.
I also don’t think talking to influencers is the correct point of view of being a young girl in Manhattan. Why not make the article about being an influencer then? My life is very different than influencers. For one, I have to buy my own makeup products. That’s the tip of the iceberg of differences that I won’t bore you with. Rest assured, it is still very nice to be a Lower East Side girl.
New York Magazine is on a roll with these types of covers, first the one about Young Republicans that made an Alabama sorority sister go viral, now this. The girls above look gorgeous, and that’s all that matters.
As I’m sure you all picked up on from reading this blog, my life has been nonstop recently. Working full time, a rise in plans after work since the weather has gotten warmer, and the commencement of celebration season is catching up to me. I have been having a lot of fun, but my body told me it was time to rest. Therefore, I spent this weekend in my apartment, binging crime documentaries, doing an amount of laundry inappropriate for just one person to have created, and all-in-all enjoying my rent.
On Saturday, we celebrated Mother’s Day early. My sister and mom came into the city for a last-minute reservation at Clinton Street Baking Company, which was really great. I have always wanted to go there since moving into the neighborhood, and it was delicious. I still do not understand why getting a reservation here requires donating one kidney, but alas, the NYC reservation game. I tried my first bloody mary, surely not my last.
If you’ve met my mom you know this, but she is really cool and in-the-know. I go to her to ask for updates on internet gossip. She tells me where the hot places to eat are. She is also an incredible person, and goes above and beyond for every holiday, birthday, or special moment. How do you impress someone who knows everything before you do? You take her for a post-drink spritz at Lower Manhattan’s buzziest new opening: Bar Bianchi.
Opened by the same hospitality group as Le Dive and The Nines, Bar Bianchi has gained notoriety despite being open for just three days as this letter has been sent. It’s the only place north of (or in this case, on) Houston Street and east of Lafayette that you can enjoy an al-fresco spritz in European-style seating, gone are the days of schlepping to Dimes Square if you aren’t local to that area. They serve regular and “grande” drinks, bites, and Caffè Panna gelato (we got the lemon sorbeto and pistachio gelato).
This statement actually might be incorrect, because Saint Marks Place has become the go-to spot for fresh out of college NYC newbies to gather outdoors. My friends and I tried to grab a chill dinner at Empellón Al Pastor the other week, a tried and true spot for me for a few years, and as soon as I turned from First Ave, I was hit with a crazy sound barrier of chatter and music. I was transported to Coachella, from the looks of it. We were basically begging people to borrow additional chairs from their tables. I almost got into a fight with some finance douchelords who tried to cut me in line for a drink. I need some distance from anything above 7th Street for a little while.
I was worried that Bar Bianchi would laugh in my face upon walking in considering everyone has been talking about it, but they had a table for three right away inside, which we decided to take despite it being a beautiful day. It’s about twice the size as Le Dive, and feels like its Italian cousin. They gave us complimentary olives and potato chips which was a great touch. I will be back for post-midnight shenanigans with my girls, I’m sure sooner rather than later.
After marathon spending the last few weeks, I slowed my roll. The only purchase I have to report back on is this Chloë Sevigny Harmony Corine zine from Dashwood Books by Kevin Hatt. It was $15. I love Chloë and Harmony, so it felt like a must-have.
Having a weekend to myself made me feel like the narrator in My Year of Rest and Relaxation, which was dramatic considering I saw my mother and sister, enjoyed the sunshine on Sunday with my first cup of coffee since February, and was surprised by my beautiful coworkers/girlies who showed up to my door on Saturday at 10 p.m. with my favorite sweet treat—Bon Bon.
My watchlist consisted of catching up on Summer House and The Valley, tuning into Friday Night’s Dateline episode about the Idaho Murders, and this Netflix documentary about a woman and her father killing her husband. Jesse and Lexi are surely about to get ugly, The Valley is still the darkest show on television (including the two murder specials I watched), and I needed to watch the Nuggets-Thunder game to fall asleep after Dateline because I was so scared. I was going to watch Conclave, but I stopped caring about the new Pope about an hour after he debuted himself on the balcony. I also of course watched the Knicks. NO COMMENT.
I also treated myself to an hour and a half at my massage place—60 minute foot and 30 minute neck and shoulders. If you’re looking for a time to go, 7 on a Saturday Night was wide open. Here is what I wore this weekend:
Left—top: Brandy Melville, sweater: Banana Republic, jeans: vintage Ralph Lauren, belt: vintage from a place I can’t remember, bag: Auto, shoes: Tory Burch via The Real Real. Right—sweatpants: Brandy Melville, sandals: Tory Burch, bag: over ten years old faux Stella McCartney.
My summer schedule is swiftly filling up. I’m glad I took the time to myself this weekend, it was a much needed reset for the weeks ahead. Like I said before, life as a girl in New York? Not too shabby, indeed. Touché, The Cut.
Aye missed the point a bit you did lass
🩷🩷🩷