The big drama this year: Sonya Thomas failed to eat her age in HDBs, falling way short at 27 of the new Women's champ, Miki Sudo, who ate 34. That happened right before I got down there. In the Men's division, Matt Stonie came shockingly close to out-eating Joey Chestnut. At one point, about half-way through the ten minutes, he was even ahead by three or so hot dogs, something I've never seen before. He listened to music on headphones and bopped around as he ate, which is something some of the eaters do to sort of compact the contents of their stomachs. At around the 40-HDB mark, Joey Chestnut rallied and crushed Stonie. He ate 61 hot dogs to win the thing, and he got engaged to his lady friend right after. None of the other eaters came close, not even Eater X. "Badlands" Booker must compete because he likes hot dogs.
I got back on the train as soon as the contest was decided. I studied the back of each house we passed between 18th Ave. and 86th St., the cable wires, its little yard; feeling covetous and peevishly disenfranchised. If I lived there, I thought. If that house were mine. Guys in their boxers and undershirts went in and out of the houses, shutting up patio umbrellas and hoisting bags of trash.
I turned thirty-three, reluctantly.
My birthday was on Tuesday, and Nina took me out to eat at Samudra, a vegetarian Indian restaurant in Jackson Heights. It was raining heavily by the time I got to Roosevelt Ave., and I stood in the alcove of the exit for some time as a tried to get my bearings. There are shops and kiosks built into landings of the stairwell and selling hair oils and cassette tapes. I jetted out northwest down Broadway, which turned out to be way wrong, and got soaked in the storm. At length I found the place, Nina standing hopefully in the doorway; my jeans pressed to my thighs with large ovals of wetness. The restaurant seemed to me to be decked out like a blonde wood railway car; the walls were divided into panels by ribs that sprouted buttresses holding up a high shelf. The storefront's neon sign was hooked up to a powerstrip paint-glued onto the wall. There was one other couple, a white woman and a South Asian man, who seemed to be having a fight. They barely said anything to each other. The staff hung out by the kitchen, playing games on their phones. We ordered some masala dosas, which arrived huge, shiny-smooth, cylindrical; and some curries, including an okra thing that was very good. (Bhindi Masala?) It was all very good. We had hot masala tea out of metal cups.
After dinner we hopped a cab and headed south to Nitehawk where we caught the 10:00 screening of Obvious Child, which was the funniest, most charming thing I've seen all year, not least of because of Jenny Slate's performance. Richard Kind at his least solicitous since he was building a mentaculus. We drank beers in the dark and held hands. The theater retains its ability to make you feel like you're getting away with something. When we got home, Nina revealed what was quite possibly the biggest pie I've ever seen, filled with several quarts of blueberries and spice. She'd made the crust herself, rotating the butter in and out of the freezer to keep it solid during the substantial heat of the afternoon. It was an object to be reckoned with: Huge, sandy-colored, shining with brushed-on egg white and sugar crystals.
The picture doesn't do it justics. And it was very, very good. We had to cut it into twelfths to tame it.
She'd bought me gifts, too: A pajama suit, top and bottom, like I've wanted for the wintertime so I'd be truly able to get into Old Man Mode; a gift certificate for cooking classes at The Brooklyn Kitchen; and two pairs of Happy Feet socks with colorful designs on them. (Fancy socks might be my new jam? Looking for one.) She was beyond generous.
I don't deserve it. I don't.
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