Scenes From A Watermelon Restaurant

2021-2024 // New York City / J.G. Melon’s

For J, for the lonesomeness we have remade into sparkling repartee.

J.G. Melon’s on 74th and 3rd Ave. My order: Cheeseburger, medium. Mayonnaise on the side. Drink variable and dependent on mood. Mix the mayo with lashings of Grey Poupon and slather it on the top bun. Cottage fries to share, or not. Devour. Drink. Delight.

Watermelon, Mose T

I. Heartbroken Apple Pie

Are you having food ? We always are. So we get a two-top, a nice one nestled by a wooden wall. There’s a rough opening in it that gives us a perfect view of the bar, which is the best place to be. Unless you’re afraid of crying all over the bar top—which I am. J orders a “Bloody Bull”. What do they put in it, rocky mountain oyster juice? No, it is the usual suspects plus, get this, Campbell’s beef consommé. Audacious and right up my alley. We order two with extra olives. It’s a savory punch to the lip. I enjoy every drop. As with dear friends and with J in particular, words bounce and spin between us like a good pinball game. All the talking makes us hungry. We take turns swiping cottage fries into ketchup and dijonnaise in between bites of burger*. I’m mired in a romantic dilemma, attempting to stick to my moral backbone in the face of an eclipsing emotional reality. It’s not going so well. So, instead we order pie. One slice of sour cream apple walnut pie, please. It comes with a dollop of can whipped cream on the side, and its really, really good. A candied walnut exterior top reveals layer upon layer of mandolined apple slices. It’s got a tang from the sour cream that replaces the lost acid of a cooked apple. J has since figured out it’s from The Little Pie Co on 43rd st. He lives right near the shop and tells me how often he’s tempted to buy a whole pie and eat it with a fork. Same—except I don’t even live near a pie shop. My tears finally break loose as J is driving me back to my apartment. Sorry to keep putting my finger in the wound, writes my lover. There is the taste of salt on my lips.

II. California Dreamin’

What to do when your blood is screaming, when candles and baths and lullabies won’t suffice. Head to the watermelon spot. It’s almost closing on a Wednesday. I took the bus here, the M15. At this hour, its nearly empty save a couple of sleepy people on the night shift. Its pretty dead in J.G. Melon’s as well. I have an Allagash White, the beer I’ve favored as of late. I started drinking it because it had the word gash in it. Turns out it tastes pretty good. I try to journal but my pen is misbehaving, so I just sit. Sips of beer and comforting noise. The sound of career bartenders burning the ice and polishing glasses. The wind down. I find a dollar floating around my bag. Enough for one song. I love the tactility of the jukebox buttons, the decisive thwap of each page of compact discs. There it is: California Dreamin’  by the Mamas and Papas. The song always reminds me of Wong Kar Wai’s Chungking Express. Faye Wong dancing alone. A toy airplane soaring above two lovers in the Hong Kong heat. Loneliness and longing. My burger comes. I chew slowly, letting its heat pulse through my body all the way down to my toes. Well, I got down on my knees/ And I pretend to pray. The bartender pours me another half-glass of beer, on the house. When I get back home I sleep like a baby. Which is to say, fitful and dream-filled.

III. Burnt Insides

It’s crowded as all get out. This time with tourists and men in puffer vests that probably say BlackRock on them. We just barely squeeze in at the bar, mercifully in favored spots tucked around the corner. This time both of us are heartbroken. J from the fading hope of the beginning, me from the sharp pain of a future lost. I loved passing the storm with you, I write and send. I order a double Bombay Sapphire on the rocks. I’m convinced only sad people drink gin like this, or maybe Prohibition era revelers. When the burgers come, they are charred to a well done. I blame it on the BlackRock crowd. I think of the cooks, sweating profusely and flipping patty after patty. The pickles cut through the burnt bits, which I actually start to like. I am become charred flesh and blood. J drinks his usual Bloody Bull and I steal one of his olives. He is content to sit with me in my mute state and rattle on comfortingly about Pimm’s Cups. The cacophony of happy grease-drunk people is like ringing in my ears. There must be something in my eyes, because the gin is more like a triple.

IV. Goodbye New York

The burgers aren’t burnt this time. The juices run down my wrist. Once again, J and I are speaking of the same people. It’s used to be nice how the characters and scene stayed the same, and it was just the moment that invented itself. Now I’m just tired, bone deep and muscle ache. I order a gin martini, wet and a little dirty. Embarrassing to say aloud, I know. But the truth is mostly embarrassing. The result of saying it is worth the momentary discomfiture anyway. Briny and not too strong as to keel you over in three sips. They shake martinis at J.G. so one can furtively rejoice in biting shards of ice chips—gin botanicals be damned. Remember the hope of the beginning, Desi says to Marnie in that one episode of Girls**. The difference between him and I is that I remember, I just don’t want it back anymore. There’s only so many times you can go back to a person till’ the nostalgia runs out and all you have left are bruises. New York has chewed me up and spit me out. It’s time to say goodbye. But I’ll be back. At the very least to the watermelon spot.

Proof of Life

J.G. Melon’s is an iconic fixture on the Upper East Side. It’s a balm on any given night. But come past midnight on the first Monday in May to see people in ballgowns eating cottage fries and washing them down with dry martinis. Always order the burger, but the chili is really good. Many thanks to the watermelon restaurant for always cradling me when I’m downtrodden.

*dijon mustard + mayonnaise

**Girls, season 5 episode 6, “The Panic in Central Park”