Double Deuce

From our perch on high the city unfolds before us, 
a topographical map, in all directions.

From our room window, 
we take in the river, its surface glistening 
like the shiny scales of an aquatic snake 
wending its way through boroughs.

We spot cedar shingled roof top rain barrels, 
Broadway marquees and uncountable yellow taxis.

Our daughter takes not one but two trips 
to the fancy hotel breakfast buffet,
all the better to palm, with a smirk, 
an extra Nutella packet — or three.

We're back up for a quick costume change
then we take the express elevator down to the lobby.
We pass a gargantuan U.S. Open tennis racket 
cast in royal blue and leaning just-so in the foyer; 
I make him snap me at this over-the-top step-and-repeat.

The sports equipment matches, 
in theme if not scale, three enormous 
blow-up neon green tennis balls, each
tethered to earth in a cloistered quad behind the front desk.

We push through the revolving door, 
passing two dozen well-to-do guests 
queuing for a chartered bus to Flushing Meadows
to catch Coco Gauff on the courts. 

Ever the material goods street ethnographer,
I clock the brands and cultural signals of 
the assembled gentry's casual wealth athleisure wear 
faster than one of Coco's 128-mph serves.

We're not headed to the stadium
to hold a Honey Deuce in the stands.
This doesn't stop the annual phenomenon 
from following us to our ultra luxe Korean brunch.

He checks us in at COQODAQ
while our daughter and I zero in on a long row of luxury soap bottles
overlooking wide black marble sinks, under smoky mirrors.
"This is better than L'Occitane stone sink on Champs-Élysées!"
Exclaims our well-traveled teen.

I deduce this handwashing bar is a genteel nod
to the less than gracious fact that we're
right off the grimy streets of New York
and are heading inside for fancy finger food.

Or maybe they just want to awe us from the outset.
We delight in the fun, each reverting to childhood.
We froth up foamy art on our wet hands 
with luxurious lather from Hermes (hers) 
and Maison Francis Kurkdjian (mine), respectively;
I pose for my first-ever handwashing portrait.

By the time we slide into our haute cuisine booth,
we are in bubbly moods, and ready to indulge.
I place my order for their Instagrammable
"Golden Nugget."

More precisely: the 24 Karat version loaded
"with Tsar Imperial® Daurenki caviar."
She arrives on an ebony pedestal, 
along with my pour of custom collabo
U.S. Open x Coqodaq Champagne Chavost. 

I ask my husband to snap me enjoying my perfect bite.
He assures me my caviar-nug chewing face 
"...isn't what you are hoping it will look like." 
[As foretold, his live photos go straight to the archives.]

Luckily for him, the main event arrives:
A ceramic bucket, itself artisanally crafted,
filled with drumsticks and thighs from pastured chickens
tossed in light rice batter and fried to a golden sepia
before the OG is plated and the Gochujang Glazed.

As we pass sides of scallion salad 
and purple-stained deviled eggs.
We pronounce this meal: 
"the best fried chicken that happens to be gluten-free!"

My husband's eyes sparkle with promise 
as he assesses a quartet of sauces, picks CQDQ Verde.
With a squirt and a long drag, his hopes are found:
"That green sauce!" Amazing! 
He rumbles, purr-like, dredging more cilantro aioli.

On cue, a Double Deuce arrives on a platter above us.
A riff on the U.S. Open's signature beverage,
this one features a to-scale tennis ball
crafted of honeydew slushy ice. 

The sphere melts slowly, 
bobbing in its self-made ice bath.
Our conversations meander; bellies fill with comfort foods.
We share sips of the remaining melony gin elixir 
while resisting the urge to lick our flavored fingers.

Sensing our digit urgency, our server arrives bearing
a small basket of cheery orange CQDQ-branded moist towelettes. 
We look at our daughter, who's itching to pocket the four packets. 
We let her; we can survive without a wet nap.
After all, we've got a second date with a sink on our way out.