Why August in New York might just be heaven on earth

Interview, August, 1996

"Hey, where'd you get that number-two tan?" my friend asks.

"Miami. Last weekend," I answer.

"Ooooh, Jeez. Really? It must be so hot and sticky down there," my friend whines, while standing at Sixth Avenue and 50th Street, the temperature just shy of ninety, the humidity at 83 percent, a pollen count destined to send worker bees into orgasmic frenzy, air quality a bit better than January in Mexico City, and the sweat pouring out over his collar as if his suit has just gone on spin cycle. And it's only June 11.

Miami Beach in the summer is so universally misperceived, it's sort of a shame to reveal how the temp there almost never breaks ninety-eight, and a faint but clear breeze often blows off the shore. True, it stays close and steamy at night, but you're wearing almost nothing, air-conditioning pervades, and everyone's a little oilier and a lot sexier. You have a problem with this?

New York in mid heat wave, however, winds up the circle Dante forgot. Sure, on June 11 it's not hard deflecting discomfort after a winter that recreated much of what D.W. Griffith put the Gish sisters through. But by August, there comes that inevitable one-block-per-light cab ride with half-assed air-conditioning, where you suddenly start slamming your magazine against the partition, caterwauling, "I don't need this! I hate this place! Get me out of here!!!" To which the cab driver responds, "Left or right side, sir?"

You better hold onto both of yours and get a grip.

Tell me you moved to New York for the weather. The dynamics of the city's climate are no different than the rest of its qualities. It's all about extremes. You want the middle? That's what the rest of America is there for. You know you came here for the discoveries and the surprises, especially the unexpected ones that inexplicably turn up like wild roses pushing up through concrete. So, Shvitz City it may be, but wipe your eyes and remember what you came looking for. Besides, you need somewhere to show off that tan.

The outdoor cafe so perfectly placed, if they set up a cot you'd eat and sleep there every night

Bar Pitti and its more glamorous neighbor, Da Silvano, share a rare sidewalk with enough width that passersby actually pass by without craning over your refreshing panzanella or grilled chicken with endive and sun-dried tomatoes, irresistible veal polpettini, satisfying liver and white canellini beans, and delirium-inducing tartufo. With sound and light muffled by full-grown trees, idyllically isolated by a corner playground, Pitti winds up the welcome occasion that reminds you why the people you're dining with became your friends. 268 Sixth Avenue; (212) 982-3300.

A totally American-style bistro that is so seductive it's like being somewhere European after they've taken out the trash

No warbling sparrows, checkered tablecloths, or bouillabaisse on Fridays, and a clientele so quietly knowing that they never wear Revos indoors, yet Alva has that elusive snuggle-up-to-me-honey-even-though-it's-the-dog-days ambience that defines the invaluable bistros you fall into when you want to fall off of . . . anything. The menu's gotten simpler and better, the lights more burnished, the mood now almost languid (though not the delightful staff). If you're foolishly waiting to get into Lemon, and you sense that soon it's going to rain, turn the corner, run inside, and play. Here's your hideaway. 36 East 22nd Street; (212) 228-4399.

The how-did-you-find-this?, Impress-your-friends-to-no-end authentic bistro really worth a popped button or two

New York - the international city? Non? I ask the operator for the number of Bistrot Margot, naturally leaving off the final consonants of both, as anyone who's ever been enchanted by Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face would do. "Don't got it," the operator replies. I insist she look again. "Nope." I give her the address. "Nope. I got a Bistrott Margott," she says. "But that's it!" I cry. "That's not what you said," she says. "How am I supposed to know what you said if that isn't how you said it?" Spend one evening at this vest-pocket Galicia and you'll find it impossible to say it any other way. In the best tradition of Tout va Bien, Margot is a functioning archetype - poached salmon and lentils, beef stew in red wine, roast pork with gratin and ratatouille, tapenade, charcuterie, tomatoes stuffed with Montrachet, lemon tart. Almost no revelations. But almost no disappointments. Ask to open the windows. Tie up your dog outside so you can see him. Say hi to everyone in the neighborhood. Relax. And then, for less than it would cost you to cook, leave satisfied and with an "a bientot" to everyone, and a special "a bientott" to the operator. 26 Prince Street; (212) 274-1027.

I want a burger. A plain, juicy, drippy, chop-meaty burger that doesn't cost $10 and come surrounded by sauteed beet chips, or between brioche, and that's not served by some retro cutie who pretends she went to rydell high and freaks when she sees me eat it with my hands and then suck on my fingers