Miti Miti
by Greg
For Scott
Scott was so many things: a genius “FAYSHUN” designer, a pun savant, a romantic dreamer, my best friend, and yes, an inveterate food obsessive. He had a way of making his every bite look like he was savoring a piece of forbidden fruit. He’d often chatter about a new spice he’d discovered at the supermarket and recipes that would help him gain max protein to achieve a dump-truck ass. He also sent me pictures of every “dinner for one” he prepared in his kitchen.
Scott makes me remember food, and food makes me remember Scott.
One Hell of a Night Out
Looking back on it, I think one of the reasons Scott and I connected when we met at RISD was that neither of us had any money. We got creative figuring out how to hack art school and have a good time without blowing our measly work-study paychecks. We went in together on a family cell phone plan, and when one of our meal plans ran out, we covered each other. When we overdrew our checking accounts, we developed a system of loaning each other $100 that lasted well into moving to New York.
For budget-friendly fun, we could always count on the bread boules at Joe’s American Bar & Grill. They were inexpensive, filling, and took about an hour and a half to consume. We felt clever, dining at what we perceived to be one of Providence’s “upscale” restaurants. Given the fifteen-minute walk from campus and the French bistro-inspired décor, eating dinner at Joe’s felt like we were dining in Paris. Eating there inspired our imaginations to run wild: we became Pamela Bowdoin-Schiessler and Trish Donovan, two rich-bitch Providence housewives who had met in the elevator at our husbands’ law firm. Armed with credit cards and an endless well of shit talk, Pam and Trish knew how to have one hell of a “night out.” These personas followed us through the rest of our time at RISD—sometimes Pam and Trish would just show up at school events or go for a little jaunt around the city’s wealthier neighborhoods.
Credit to the staff at Joe’s for letting us have our little fantasy and never making us feel bad for going Dutch on a twenty-five-dollar bill on two debit cards.
Our Own Private Living Room
A few years into our lives in New York, Scott and I discovered Once Upon A Tart. We fell in love with the café, first for the name, then for their killer raspberry jam scone. We rarely deviated from that gem among the many delicacies in their bake case. Scott and I would often wake up at the crack of dawn and meet there before reporting for work. I’d inevitably arrive first and grab us coffees, and scones, and a seat outside, and together we’d watch the morning in SoHo unfold. After only an hour, it felt like an entire day had passed before it actually started.
Scott was fascinated with objects that were comically bigger than they were supposed to be, whether it was a six-foot wrench he stole from the basement of an old bank building at RISD or a seven-foot reed fan he found on the street and then brought aboard an Amtrak when he moved to the city.
As if they hadn’t already proven they had Scott’s number, the management at Once Upon A Tart put a colossal mortar and pestle in the corner of the cafe. On most visits, Scott would pick up the mortar and start improvising a scene. Some days, he was the witch of a colonial village relegated to the woods for blighting crops; others, a gay Barefoot Contessa crowing about how store-bought pesto was fine and all, but pulverizing fresh basil was preferred.
Because we were often there so early, it felt like our own private living room. We got to know the baristas and bakers, who Scott charmed into countless free coffees, but we never got a chance to try their tart.
Having Your Cake
No matter which restaurant had been chosen for a birthday dinner in our friend group, the dessert plan was non-negotiable: everyone knew we’d be ending the night at Sweet Revenge. It was a cupcake and wine bar operated by one of the city’s girl bosses, Marlo Scott. After our ritual of reflecting on the past year over coffee and a flight of cupcakes, Marlo would serve birthday champagne and send everyone home with extra baked goods. Sometimes Scott and I would wander in after a casual dinner out in the West Village. We’d sit at the counter and split a giant cupcake, careful to eat it at a glacial pace to maximize our time with the cute-but-straight barista, Brian. It was easier than talking to each other about the guys we were dating. I never thought anyone Scott was seeing was serious enough or understood his imagination and humor. Scott hated every guy I dated and thought they were boring, boring, boring. We did share a love for Brian and a Crimson and Cream cupcake.
One year, on his golden birthday, Scott surprised everyone and right after he blew out the candles on his cake he slammed his face straight down into the frosting. He chortled and let out a Mrs. Doubtfire “HELLLLLLOOO!” After the laughter subsided, he followed up with, “I’ve always wanted to do that! I finally got sweet revenge…on myself!”
Petit Dejeuner
Once we discovered Café Gitane had a patio that offered perfect views of men running shirtless on the West Side Highway, it was where you could find us most Saturday mornings. We’d split our favorite dish: organic eggs with merguez sausages, créme fraîche, potatoes, capers, and a baguette. Even though we were sharing the same amount of food, Scott would finish an hour after me. He had a way of turning his meals into a performance, spreading the butter and a jam smoothly over a baguette as if he were starring in a commercial. Tearing the perfect shred of croissant and tenderly baptizing it in a well of black coffee. His reaction to each bite was like a mini play, he was actor and commentator. We’d spend hours there, ordering more cups of coffee until Scott eventually finished eating and the gossip ran dry.
Scott was a Francophile and had always dreamed of spending time in Paris. One server, Jacqueline, learned that Scott had studied French and would encourage him to practice with her. Despite being a self-proclaimed attention whore, his shyness overcame him. Over several visits, Jacqueline wore him down, and I would relish the opportunity to watch him speak the language he loved and see this new side of him emerge. It began with ordering our meals in French. Then he and Jacqueline would discuss the perfect ratio of chocolate to pastry in an authentic pain au chocolat. A couple of months into our Gitane residency, Scott called me after a solo breakfast there and proudly exclaimed, “I just spoke French for two hours straight! Plutôt bon, non?”
Character Work
During our annual trip to Provincetown, largely a baccahanalic tour of restaurants up and down Commercial Street, one night was always reserved for a big ol’ “family dinner.” Our group once rented a dusty home from a no-nonsense lesbian realtor that was inexplicably decorated with Coca-Cola memorabilia. The one plus? It had a huuuuge kitchen.
We spent the week dreaming up the menu, with Scott insisting on making spicy pork meatballs. Once he was over the stove, simmering and slinging, he’d start singing, improvising a musical history for his “world-famous balls.” This led to the creation of “Grandmaaa,” a crass lush with an addiction to spicy food. Grandmaaa loved her drinks cold, recounting her favorite pieces in her fabled hat collection, and telling it “like she remembered it.”
Over a couple of cosmos, Grandmaaa told stories from her youth, what kind of trade she was on the hunt for in P-town, and where her favorite cruising spots were (behind the dumpsters at The Red Inn). That night, we went to bed with sore ribs from laughing so hard on a stomach full of spicy meatballs. This wasn’t a rare occurrence; his character work was an exceptional talent.
There was The SoHo Night Shopper (a heliophobic celebrity stylist that had keys to every designer store on Broadway), Clancy (a shadow-self, money-obsessed circus clown), and Aunt Pussy (a tar-lunged socialite who was a Forrest Gump of the 60s art world.) Grandmaaa became an instant classic, but only appeared this one evening.
Miti Miti
In January 2017, a year into our relationship, my now husband Doug and I hosted our friends for a big joint birthday dinner at our favorite taco spot in Park Slope—or, as Scott and I liked to call it, Pork Slop.
Scott always arrived at birthday celebrations with fresh flowers in hand. That night, in the dead of winter and after years of tough-love indifference toward my previous boyfriends, he brought two bouquets, one for Doug and one for me.
After the party wound down, there were about six of us left, Scott in the mix. It was just the right size and cast of friends to appreciate his shine. He told wild stories, landing zingers left and right. I caught whiffs of Pamela Bowdoin-Schiessler and Grandmaaa amidst the pico de gallo.
Not wanting the night to end, we stood outside under the neon sign that spelled the name of the restaurant. MITI MITI. It means sharing. Going Dutch.
I remember laughing so hard the fried plantains almost made a repeat appearance.
I remember hugging him goodnight in the hot pink glow.
I remember him giggling as he turned, heading up 5th Ave toward Atlantic.
Scott Stevenson, February 25, 1988 - January 26th, 2017
Name drops: Miti Miti, Cafe Gitane, Sweet Revenge, Once Upon A Tart, Joe’s American Bar & Grill
A very special thank you to this week’s illustrator, Racheal Bruce1. See more of her work here.
Racheal Bruce is an illustrator and educator from St. Louis. Her work imbues the feeling that a fantastical unreality could exist in our physical world, with all of the whimsy and eeriness that comes with it. She's curious how an audience interacts with their own feelings of superstition.
Such a vivid and beautiful tribute to a friend.
Greg, there is so much love in your words here. I wish I had been at every one of those tables with you and Scott to get to experience his brilliance (and yours, of course) ❤️❤️❤️