"Excuse me, sir... Is there marijuana in your salsa?"

Two tables over, a gray-haired man and his wife poke curiously at their half-empty ramekin. 

"I'm tasting a very distinctive herb here. And I can't quite place it."

Our waiter (also their waiter) tries desperately to squelch a smirk. 

"How awesome would that be if there was."

Ah, brunch in Park Slope. Our initiation to Brooklyn. 

A borough I kind of, sort of, accidentally might adore. 

Food. The theme of the weekend. 

Arthur on Smith. 

Where Bjork simultaneously dined on the same codfish dish as Cara. "Bjork, as in Swan Bjork?" "Yep. That one." "She was here?" "Right in that corner." "And we didn't recognize her?" "She had on normal clothes." Sipping on Tito's (the only vodka stocked) and devouring warm oatmeal-crusted bread smothered in honey butter and sprinkled with sea salt, a love connection was made. Via Twitter. "You guys, my future is becoming clear. Joe, the owner, is NOW FOLLOWING ME." A real-life screenplay waiting to unfold. And when it does, we're casting adorable 1990s Meg Ryan and Anthony LaPaglia as the leads. 

Buttermilk Channel. 

Where I questioned the idea of cornmeal cheddar waffles until I ordered them, drowned them in syrup and realized they made SO much sense. Without a stroller in tow, we were definitely the minority. Trending in Carroll Gardens? Toddlers. (So hot right now.) Go after noon and you will wait. Worth it.

Al di La. 

Where old friends and new friends oooh'd and aaaah'd over decadent Italian (after examining the menu with an iPhone flashlight app, extensively) until we shut the place down. Three of four women wanted to procreate with our gorgeous singer/song-writer/artist/magician/server, Brett. ("He could be gay?" "Don't care.") Ricotta frittelli with fresh whipped cream and chocolate sauce happened. As did the creation of hash tag #JESUSBROOKE. 

ABC Kitchen. 

Where we nearly paid forty five dollars for a black truffle burrata. ("Ten grams, shaved right in. Served bubbling hot.") Got free drinks after a west coast waif knocked mine over with a gargantuan handbag that weighed more than she did. ("I can tell you're not from New York because you're not screaming at us," mused her Dodgers-capped date.) Highlights included a near-perfect charcuterie plate (piles of prosciutto) and roasted broccoli/pistachio/sweet potato salad. Decided my future home should be decorated identically to this gorgeous space in Union Square. Also decided: we're really, really good at eating. 

Customer service.

It's the manifestation of integrity in business.

Incidental misfortunes happen... like a leak in the bedroom ceiling.

The cause? A crack in the chiller pipe. The solution? Temporary fix until a contractor can permanently repair.

A week and a half later - a mold-addled chunk of sheet rock had been removed. In its place? A shoddy trash bag patch job and a lone disposable shoe cover. (Ehem, previous post.)

A maintenance work order was hardly enough to illicit a resolution.

To their credit, a few phone calls and a frustrated email to management inquiring about "the gaping hole in my ceiling" did result in repair... at least to my eyeballs... paint splatters and crack in my armoire aside.

Fast forward four months and an out-of-pocket holiday stint. Return home to that familiar drip. Budding water stains wave hello.

"Hey, Brooke in #8449 again. Looks like there's a leak in my ceiling. Again. Yep. Same room. Same spot. No I don't have pets. Alright. Appreciate that. Will do. Thanks so much."

Faux empathy is tough to stomach. But I gave Carla the benefit of the doubt. She'd send someone up right away, she said. Have a contractor in first thing Monday to inspect, she said. She'd keep me posted, she said.

Monday passes.
Tuesday passes.
Wednesday the heavens unleash their liquid wrath upon Austin.

Intermittent droplets become incessant trickle. I shove furniture out of harm's way and resign to the couch.

I get roughly two hours of sleep. I want to smash my fist through the wall. I savagely tweet that no one should ever live here. EVER.

Ah, the power of social media.

A man with a wrench crawling through my roof AND an apologetic phone call from the front office pre business hours? Impressive.

A knock fills me with hope. Will I be greeted with news of a solution?

Nope. Just a large custodial bucket to replace my jury-rigged stew pot, now brimming with mildew water.

"Brought this to get you through the day."

How thoughtful.

"One more thing..."

Go on.

"Could take a couple of days. Turns out, it's hard to get access to the roof.  Because of all the rain, you know."

Of course.

Woke up to the wet thud of water pooling above me and plummeting down to the carpet.

Towel, towel... I need a towel.

Semi-coherent, I jump the soggy spot and stumble into the bathroom.

Something exotic scrambles out.

It's scaly and horrifying and grazes my foot, darting across the hall and under the closet door before I can scream for help.

Instant replay is made for moments like these. Forty-three-inch-Clyde-Drexler vertical, brought to you by sheer reptilian terror.

A panic-fueled "large beige lizard species of central Texas" Internet search narrows it down to lethal or endangered. Which begs the question - if I don't die before contacting maintenance to moonlight as exterminator, are we both going to jail?

I phoned it in. (No mention of the new mascot).

"Is this an emergency?"

"It's a leak."

"Water pouring from the fixtures?"

"No..."

"Then we'll get to it this afternoon."

And they did... taking with them chunks of mold-addled sheet rock and leaving behind a shoddy trash bag patch job, a disposable shoe cover and - most unfortunately - a bearded Mexican Gila Monster.