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Still, it documents an important time in our lives, so we're leaving it on the internet for posterity.

La Phlegm Nikkita

Last Friday, we met up with the gang at The Peach Pit
for a round of laxatives/booze/cocaine/abstinence/bitchiness/dj-ing/sideburns/kvetching and Nat’s homespun wisdom. Sadly, that is not true…rather we met some friends for dinner and drinks at Nikkita, an amber-lit downtown space we discovered last year, and which, for a minute, seemed like a reasonable place for whimsical martinis and small plates of tasty morsels. With its exposed brick and canopy booths, there are cozy spaces for conversation, the kind where one drinks a bit of wine and feels flushed and intimate and profound. And I was happy there, in my little twos and threes, eating gordo hanging shrimps and tiers of B-grade oysters, though it always struck me as kind of like listening to American Rock ‘n Roll in Soviet Russia and feeling super chic. Oh, and the waitresses are slow and the real martinis are too vermouthy and you really must question the integrity of meat so thoroughly smothered. But it was a comfort. Not so this past Friday, when we all gathered for the first time since Maggie and Dan became husband and wife and returned from their honeymoon in the Carribean. Malcolm’s cocktail was a travesty, and his meat was not cooked to his specifications. The crowd was greasy and grim and altogether too drunk for whatever time it was and eating there I felt like an eighth grader at a dance in the gymnasium, when the lights come on and you are exposed as the perspiring, adolescent mess that you are, and not at all Paula Abdul. A shame, really. A shame for our mouths and the the glinty-eyed conversations we’ll never have because, though it never really was cool, or especially delicious, it was ours; Nikkita is so over.

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