Too Old for Clubbing

I realized two things this weekend. #1, I'm officially too old for clubbing. And #2, I like my own cooking better than at least 50% of the restaurants I go to.

On Saturday, I went out with a friend of mine to distract her from her dismal work situation. We met for a play, then grabbed some dinner on the way to one of New York's hottest (supposedly) nightclubs, Cain. After wandering through the Village in search of dinner after the play, we settled on Barbuto in the Meatpacking District, just up the street from Tortilla Flats--which, naturally, was packed to the gills. My goat cheese ravioli was underdone and her gnocchi was overdone, leaving me to opine out loud that my homemade ravioli and gnocchi were far superior. And, at $24 a plate, far cheaper. It used to be that me thinking "I could cook better than this" was precipitated only by a truly dismal restaurant experience. I mean, isn't that the point of going out to eat? To get something better than you'd have at home? But either my palate is refining or my cooking skills are improving (or both), because now I think "I could cook better than this" at least half the time. The other half of the time I think, "I should try to cook this, this is good/interesting/innovative." Perhaps this is a sign from God that I should actually start that underground restaurant/secret supper club I've been talking about.

Then we proceeded to Cain, which was exactly what I expected--crowded, noisy, completely overpriced and full of trashy B&T wannabes. The music was deafening, the flashing lights were seizure-inducing, and the drinks were $15 each, but the people watching was really amusing. We had a great time making fun of everyone. The women were, uniformly, 23 to 26 and dressed in designer shoes and teeny dresses. The men were, uniformly, either 24-year-old investment bankers just off work, trying to pick up women by getting $400 bottle service, or members of the Russian mafia, trying to pick up women by getting $400 bottle service. Everyone was drinking either shots of Patron or vodka and Red Bull. Oh wait--one of the frat boys who bribed the doormen in order to get in may have been drinking a Corona. During my debilitating hangover the next day, I determined that yes, in fact, I am too old for clubbing, and that I'm also too old to have that kind of hangover for no good reason. I'm not so naive as to think I'll never be hungover again, but next time it better be for a really epic cause, not just because I happened to go out on a Saturday night.

Then again, my sister and her husband are visiting this weekend, and her only must-do New York item is to go to Hogs & Heifers. So my no-hangover-except-for-a-good-reason rule may be shortlived.