East Village Sunday (sort of) Part One: Their Name Is Mud

Sundays are my day with my wife. We both have the day off. We sleep late; stagger around in a lazy day haze until the coffee kicks in. Wake up a bit and off to brunch. The beauty of brunch in NYC is that it usually goes until 4:00 or 4:30 pm so you never miss it. Nice. The adventure lies in finding the right place with the right mood and the best seating for the weather. The food is usually all very similar with little nuances here and there to peak the interest just enough to ask for a “table for two please.” So off we went yesterday to find a nice brunch. One we have never been to. Maybe we could find a place that we must have missed. But as it happens – more often than not – hunger got the best of us and we started talking about the places we usually go. . We verbally went down the list discussing them, feeling them out and then out of nowhere she spoke the word that I swore I would never approach again. Mud (9th street btw 1st & 2nd Ave.). Not a fan. If you are not part of their inner circle ten you are treated like a homeless person coming into their establishment begging for change. The coffee isn’t even that good. It’s all hype. The problem is the food is really good. It’s well done and interesting but you end up pulling teeth to get your order taken, get a smile out of the tragically hip servers, get your coffee, get your food, get your check, and get change. The easiest part is leaving and that is exactly what happened yesterday. My wife said Mud. It had been a couple of months and I figured, why not? It has been awhile and maybe things have changed for the better. Well, no dice. Even as we approached the entrance I could feel the pomposity. It rushed through me so quickly I didn’t even want to enter but my wife being the calm water to my raging river ushered me inside. As we walked in the server behind the bar looked at us, almost scowled and looked away. Did I have a booger hanging out of my nose? I checked. All was fine. No booger. Ok. We made our way through the small space with typical NYC maneuvering when people do not want to budge to let you by. We kept on looking at the employees hoping one of them would say hi or least ask us if we were eating and would we like a table. Nothing. They were to busy changing songs on their ipod and talking about how cool their playlist was. Man they are so cool. Too cool to do their job that is. After about five minutes of marveling at this blatant neglect I wanted out. I told my wife that we needed to run very far from here and never return. But, her being much more patient than I am encouraged me to give it a chance. I sucked it up and watched as she attempted to ask for a table for two. The to-cool-for-anyone server grabbed two menus successfully with out look at us or the menus and began walking to a table that we assumed was for us. She laid the menus down and walked away. I guess this was our table. Amazing! The effort she took in making sure she did not even acknowledge our existence was commendable. Great job! I truly felt like a complete nobody. Congratulations! Well this did it. I looked at my wife and said I am sorry but I do not EVER want to come back here again. Not until they rearrange some management or something. At this point my wife had had enough as well and we got up and left. No body tried to stop us and ask what was wrong. No one cared that we were leaving. When I stepped out into the cool/warm Sunday air, I took a deep breath and sighed a sigh of genuine relief. Never again will I subject my self or my wife to such horrible people. We gave it a second chance and they failed miserably. Miserably. After the trauma wore off we headed down 2nd avenue hungrier than ever in search for something, anything better than what we just experienced…………….

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