2007
08 An Evening with Andy Murphy
A P R
An evening with the mastermind.
The rustic look of La Esquiña—a hidden brasserie in SoHo—compliments Andy’s dark, mysterious being.
Andy Murphy—a tall, well-built thirty-something Manhattanite, born and raised in New York City—has it all. No, pardon me. I mean, he absolutely has everything. Charm, look, manner, occupation and a nice, cozy nest in the Gramercy Park—a small, fenced-in private residence in Manhattan.
La Esquiña was jam-packed, once again. People were still hung upon the secrecy of the restaurant—it was almost similar to joining a cult. To have a meal at La Esquiña means one needs to make uncountable phonecalls and reservation three to six months in advance, depending on the seasons. It was Andy who did all the work because that was just being Andy, being a gentleman.
From the minute I arrived at the corner of Cleveland Place and Kenmare Street, there he was, awaiting for me to open the yellowcab door to give me a peck on the cheek and warm hug. Long time no see, we both said at the same time. It had been a long time since the last time.
Andy still looked like how I had always remembered him. Not physically per se, but the way he opened the restaurant door, the way he pulled out the seat, the way he carried my bag—all for me. He appeared well-mannered everytime I saw him. Was it just me or I couldn’t get enough of being treated like a fine lady?
Andy and I went downstairs, passed the kitchen, through a passageway. It was like entering a dungeon. Passing rooms after rooms, the light was dim. The bar was crowded. I don’t blame them, they have over 40 different tequila available.
Once we were seated at this corner next to the steel bars—a partition to another dining hall for larger group—we were more than ready for some nice meals. Then Andy ordered for me, based on my request, a selection of tapas and two glasses of Chardonnay to mediate our tastebuds.
To comprehend Andy’s mind is like reading chapter 4 of 1984 by George Orwell. He has this certain je ne sais quoi, not sure what it is. Don’t get me wrong, Andy is a very simple person. It might be quite an understatement to say, provide Andy with a tall cup of Sumatran coffee and a fluffy bed, he’d be the happiest guy on earth. But that is exactly what he is—uncomplicated.
He didn’t realize this but everytime I saw him, it was always such a pleasure. There’s no better time than being with someone who is so full of life. His laugh was so contagious I couldn’t help it but put wrinkles on my face because I laughed so hard with him. At times like this, I feel fortunate to come across someone like Andy in my life.
Certainly there were times when he hurt me bad I didn’t want to crawl out of my bed. Or when he didn’t keep his promise to grab me that cup of Hale-and-Hearty soup because it was not on his way to work. Or that time when he forgot my birthday, again!
But having an Andy in life, these flaws seem so meaningless.
08 An Evening with Andy Murphy
A P R
The rustic look of La Esquiña—a hidden brasserie in SoHo—compliments Andy’s dark, mysterious being.
Andy Murphy—a tall, well-built thirty-something Manhattanite, born and raised in New York City—has it all. No, pardon me. I mean, he absolutely has everything. Charm, look, manner, occupation and a nice, cozy nest in the Gramercy Park—a small, fenced-in private residence in Manhattan.
La Esquiña was jam-packed, once again. People were still hung upon the secrecy of the restaurant—it was almost similar to joining a cult. To have a meal at La Esquiña means one needs to make uncountable phonecalls and reservation three to six months in advance, depending on the seasons. It was Andy who did all the work because that was just being Andy, being a gentleman.
From the minute I arrived at the corner of Cleveland Place and Kenmare Street, there he was, awaiting for me to open the yellowcab door to give me a peck on the cheek and warm hug. Long time no see, we both said at the same time. It had been a long time since the last time.
Andy still looked like how I had always remembered him. Not physically per se, but the way he opened the restaurant door, the way he pulled out the seat, the way he carried my bag—all for me. He appeared well-mannered everytime I saw him. Was it just me or I couldn’t get enough of being treated like a fine lady?
Andy and I went downstairs, passed the kitchen, through a passageway. It was like entering a dungeon. Passing rooms after rooms, the light was dim. The bar was crowded. I don’t blame them, they have over 40 different tequila available.
Once we were seated at this corner next to the steel bars—a partition to another dining hall for larger group—we were more than ready for some nice meals. Then Andy ordered for me, based on my request, a selection of tapas and two glasses of Chardonnay to mediate our tastebuds.
To comprehend Andy’s mind is like reading chapter 4 of 1984 by George Orwell. He has this certain je ne sais quoi, not sure what it is. Don’t get me wrong, Andy is a very simple person. It might be quite an understatement to say, provide Andy with a tall cup of Sumatran coffee and a fluffy bed, he’d be the happiest guy on earth. But that is exactly what he is—uncomplicated.
He didn’t realize this but everytime I saw him, it was always such a pleasure. There’s no better time than being with someone who is so full of life. His laugh was so contagious I couldn’t help it but put wrinkles on my face because I laughed so hard with him. At times like this, I feel fortunate to come across someone like Andy in my life.
Certainly there were times when he hurt me bad I didn’t want to crawl out of my bed. Or when he didn’t keep his promise to grab me that cup of Hale-and-Hearty soup because it was not on his way to work. Or that time when he forgot my birthday, again!
But having an Andy in life, these flaws seem so meaningless.
“In my mind I’ll always be his lady.
In my mind I’ll always be his girl.
Only time will tell if I’m his lady.
But in my mind I’l always be his girl.”
—Heather Headley
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