I Was Hoping, But You're an Amateur . . .
I came to a well-rested realization today. Last night, my brain fried. Every moment of my being at Florent was physically painful.
Then 6:04 a.m. broke.
I have a special relationship with the last call for night. It has a little bit to do with the color of the sky and a lot to do with the people heretofore known only as, The Boys.
6:04 a.m. at Florent is no different. It's the point of night when my mood shifts drastically, because the most painful, stressful, potentially harmful hours are over (3:00 a.m. - 6:00 a.m.). The glass is half full. The usual suspects walk or crawl in or, if we are lucky, give us runway. *Serve, Eduard!* I also get to see people who are family to me come in. The Saturday morning brunch crew.
There is a small crew of industry folk who stop at Florent before crawling home to bed. Those who have been battling the inebriated masses all across the same meaty stretch of the West Side Highway armpit. Folks from the Maritime Monolith and the Gansevoort Demilitarized Zone. APT movers and Cielo shakers. Survivors of One, Rhone, the Park nos soeurs de Pastis. You know who you are. Miss Hag. loves you because we are veterans of the same war.
Only amateurs come to Florent before 6:00 a.m. That's when we're not just serving. We serve it. Work!