Hell’s Kitchen – 150 Lafayette St, Newark, NJ
Perhaps it is my new diet of grass-fed london broil and Naked energy drinks, but I am feeling a renewed strength. Then again, it could be the cornucopia of literary talent that bubbles to the surface wherever I go, like my whole grain, gluten-free, fair-trade pasta on the boil.
In the perfectly-odorless city of Newark, birthplace of Philip Roth and Whitney Houston, there is a monthly reading series that demonstrates my claim quite well. At the Hell’s Kitchen speakeasy I found myself in attendance at Brick City Speaks (this is what we writers call personification). Hell’s Kitchen! You say. Egads! Nay, dear reader, do not fear. I, too, felt a wariness at the moniker of this particular watering hole, but my trepidation was quickly proven unnecessary. What a charming establishment; not a lick of flames in sight. Upon my arrival I was greeted by a decidedly undevilish canine by the name of Angelina. She had a dull salt and pepper hide. The two of us conducted a rousing debate on Flaubert in between readers.
And so I doff my proverbial hat to Mr. Saturday (not to be confused with Man Friday), whose verbal illuminations of the human body cavity obviated the imagination, gravity-defying poet Dana Jaye Cadman (@danajaye), and the lovely microfictioness Elizabeth Palamara (@ebethpalamara). What can I say? It was a feast for the soul, a smorgasbord for the senses. I also ate 11 pounds of pulled pork.