when you want, where you want.
Jefferey Self Fills the Void With Coffee Runs
Illustration: Margalit Cutler
For the actor and author Jefferey Self, working on his memoir, Self Sabotage, while shooting a new movie provided the right opportunity for multitasking. “It felt glamorous — editing my book on set,” he says. “Unless I make it a performance, I won’t get the work done.” Now, that film, the paranoid thriller Drop, is also out. Self, freshly back in the West Village after 13 years in L.A., spent the past week looking for something, anything, to wear to the premiere (“I should have hired a stylist, but I got cocky,” he says) while bouncing between coffee shops and rediscovering the classic Village wonder of Tartine.
Wednesday, April 2
My husband, Augie, usually walks our dog, Cheech (because I am —say it with me — lazy), but he had to prep for an audition, so I take over this morning. We had a boozy dinner at Tavern on Jane the night before, followed by a substantial amount of red wine by our fireplace, so I am moving slowly.
I throw on clothes and down the large glass of lemon water I drink every morning because I read somewhere it was Vivien Leigh’s “health secret” (I get my health secrets exclusively from the bipolar and the dead). Cheech is a very opinionated dog, and I am a very co-dependent person, so I just sort of follow his lead. This morning, he takes me across Hudson, Seventh, and Sixth Avenues to Washington Square Park. I stop into Joe’s Coffee on the corner of Gay Street and get a large cold brew before reading some of Rupert Everett’s novel The Hairdressers of St Tropez on a bench outside. I drop Cheech off at home and remember I haven’t eaten, so I grab one of those refrigerated peanut-butter protein bars and a ginger-turmeric shot from Gourmet Garage and head to the gym.
The gym is boring as ever, and no one hooks up with me in the steam room. On the way home, I buy a Green Guardian smoothie from Juice Generation on 14th Street. I always add whey protein, which for some reason really boosts the serving size. Every time, they ask if I want the extra, and every time, I pretend it’s totally random luck and say, “Oh wow, yeah!”
Next, I go to the bank because I can never figure out how to do things on their website, so I’m there a lot, and frankly, I consider them my friends. I stop by the apartment to take my meds, drop off my gym bag, and microwave four pieces of chicken bacon. I love regular bacon, but I stopped eating pork entirely a few years ago because I became obsessed with rescue pigs and videos of pigs online — the watching of which takes up a significant portion of my life. There’s nothing great about the chicken bacon, but it fills the void. I like the simplicity of microwaving it, the crunch of it, and whatever benefit I’m convincing myself of by eating lots of protein.
I walk to Soho in search of an outfit to wear to the premiere of Drop. The movie was shot in Ireland, though it’s set in Chicago. We did it for the tax credit, obviously. I should have hired a stylist, but I got cocky. I wander around Soho and the Lower East Side for three hours with zero luck. Everything is overdesigned or looks weird on my strangely long limbs.
A bit dejected, I head back to the village, overtly aware that it is now 5 p.m. and I have yet to get any of the day’s planned work done on the screenplay I am writing with my friend. Oh well, I think, as I stop into Fairfax on West 4th Street to have a lager and a bowl of tater tots and read more Rupert Everett. I walk home, stopping into Sea Grapes on Hudson to buy a bottle of chilled red.
I get home and make the turkey Bolognese sauce that we have at least once a week. Augie and I eat while watching Hitchcock’s The Lady Vanishes and then a few episodes of Hulu’s Mid-Century Modern before bed. I realize I haven’t had any dessert and am still hungry, but having walked over 25,000 steps, I fall asleep before I can do anything about it.
Thursday, April 3
I wake up early, determined to get more work done than yesterday. I down lemon water while I throw in a load of laundry and make a promise to myself I’ll remember to put it in the dryer, unlike almost every other day.
I leave to find a coffee shop to work in and get progressively annoyed by the fact that every spot I go to — 11th St Cafe, Plant Shed, Partner’s Coffee, and Think Coffee — has no seats. My coffee-shop hierarchy is dictated by whatever I’m in the mood for space-wise. It’s more about the venue. There are places I like to write in, places I like to read in, and places I like to sit outside with my dog. It just depends on what void I’m trying to fill.
My husband would really like me to get better at making coffee at home, because, as you can probably tell, I buy a lot of it. We have a nice coffee maker, but I don’t like drinking coffee at home, and I don’t really like hot coffee. I use going out for coffee as a reason not to stay in bed all day. I end up at Maman in the Meatpacking District, which I normally avoid because they don’t let you bring your dog inside, but seeing as I’m alone and desperate, plus there is a great-looking empty stool in the window, I relent.
I get a cup of overnight oats with peanut butter and a cold brew from the barista who is not only really sweet but also very cute and has a great butt. I write while making eyes at him and decide I like Maman after all.
I go to the gym, but who cares? I swing home afterward to make a protein shake, take my meds, and remember to put the clothes in the dryer. Before I can get more work done, though, my quest to find an outfit for the premiere continues. Once again, I waste way too much time. I take the train up to Nordstrom, then walk to Bloomingdale’s, and still come up empty-handed. I walk down to Soho, fully aware that the walking doesn’t do me any favors time-wise. At yet another shop, I finally find something I like, and I vow to never buy clothes again.
I stop by Joe & the Juice on Hudson for a Green Shield juice. I don’t think I even like their juices, but I like that they have tables where you can write. I have a bit more to do but am now starving, so I stop into Cowgirl for chicken nachos and a happy-hour lager. I go home to read through the day’s work, then take a 45-minute nap on the sofa.
I go for a sunset walk before meeting Augie and a friend for beers on the Hudson, where we watch hot guys run by. When did all men start wearing Lycra? Not complaining, just curious.
Back home, we watch a few more episodes of Mid-Century Modern, which I really love. I smoke a spliff and have a PB&J with a lemon SpinDrift before heading to bed. I do not fold the clothes in the dryer.
Friday, April 4
I wake up early, drink my lemon water, and walk to Partner’s Coffee on Seventh Avenue for a cold brew while writing at an outdoor table.
It is a very pretty morning, and the Village is coming alive in such a cliché way. I walk over to Three Lives Books, where I recently discovered that the nonfiction shelf is visible from the window, which means I can spot whether or not they have my book in stock without even going inside. Gary Janetti once told me, “Always go in and sign the books, because then the store can’t return it if they don’t sell it.” It’s a good trick, but I have decided I cannot make a habit of it. “Just because you wrote a book and it is for sale at your favorite local bookstore doesn’t mean you need to become the kind of colorful character who checks on it every day,” I tell myself on the verge of stepping inside.
I go to the gym. The steam room is quite cruise-y; everyone is clearly excited for it to be Friday, but it’s also too crowded to do anything about it. After, I stop into Gourmet Garage, where I make a small spinach salad with chicken from their cold bar. Back home, I make yet another protein shake. My protein shakes are just some powder I bought on Amazon: whey and vanilla. I asked a hot friend with nice muscles on Fire Island what he took, and he sent me the link. I like the taste.
I get a solid two hours of good work done on my screenplay, then walk over to Casa Magazines with Cheech to get another coffee. We sit in Abingdon Square, which is just on the verge of springtime magic. I suspect next week will be the tulips’ debut, and I quietly lament that I won’t be in town to see it.
It is now half past five, and I go across the street to Meme for a happy-hour negroni. Augie joins me and orders an Aperol spritz. We then walk over to Tartine on West 11th and have dinner outside. Every time I eat at Tartine, I remember that it’s one of my favorite restaurants in New York. Augie and I both have the sautéed chicken, which comes with a small salad and French fries. The fry game at Tartine is pretty unbeatable.
My late friend who lived in the West Village for 20 years introduced me to the neighborhood — what to love, what to avoid. I used to stay with him when I visited. When I moved back, I wanted to be in the West Village because I knew it so well, but every day it seems more bro-y and basic. So many independently owned places are being replaced by corporate-feeling ones. So many restaurants that seem family owned can be traced back to the same handful of restaurant groups. It’s a bummer to see, but there are places, like Tartine, that have maintained the Old West Village’s vibe. If you’re sitting outside on a nice evening at West 11th and West 4th, it’s almost too gorgeous. And it’s the best meal I have all week.
We go home and watch Audrey Hepburn, Kay Thompson, and Fred Astaire in Funny Face paired with desserts we order from Posh Pop, a Greenwich Village bakery we’ve recently discovered that delivers a little too easily. I have the peanut-butter-cup cookie bar, and it is exactly as incredible as it sounds. My one note is that I wish they also sold ice cream, but we can’t have it all, can we? I fall asleep watching Mary Poppins.
Saturday, April 5
It is rainy and gross outside, so I take the opportunity to sleep in. Plus watching two Technicolor movie musicals back to back really took it out of me last night.
Cheech has zero interest in going outside, but I force him to step out the front door to pee before he sleeps the rest of the day. I go around the corner to 11th Street Cafe to get a coffee and my absolute favorite breakfast dessert in New York — a cranberry and pecan scone, flaky and slightly crispy from the caramelized sugar on the outside. It is perfectly soft inside and roughly the size of Rhode Island. I have a bumpy relationship with 11th Street Cafe. I love the place; it’s adorable, cozy, and neighborhood-y, but they’re extremely strict about not bringing dogs in. For a while, I decided to boycott, but at the end of the day, I can’t stay away. The power of a good scone is not to be underestimated.
I come home and fold some of the many loads of laundry I’ve done this week, make a to-do list of things I need to get done before leaving town on Monday, and read more of my novel. The weather has me feeling sleepy, and I love any excuse to close my eyes, so I nap for a couple of hours. I’d almost always rather be asleep except for maybe when I’m eating a perfect scone.
I hop in the shower before heading out to dinner and a show. My plan is to walk from the Village up to midtown, but now it’s really pouring, so I take the C train instead. I’ve now arrived an hour early for my dinner, so I wander into a couple of bars around Hell’s Kitchen in search of a good spot to have a beer and read, but everywhere is packed with the post-matinee crowd.
I end up at a place called Lily’s on Ninth Avenue because I notice they have a stool directly in the window, which you may have noticed happens to be my favorite kind of stool. I order a pilsner, read, and people-watch. I suddenly notice that I’m directly across the street from my old apartment, which I write a lot about in my new book. It’s where I wrote all my early solo stand-up shows, it’s where I spent years doing sex work, and it’s where basically everything in my early 20s happened. I allow myself to feel a nostalgic pinch of pride as I reflect on how different my life is now.
I have spaghetti pomodoro with chicken, a Caesar salad, and some house red at Nizza with my friend Michael Schulman before we go see Bernadette Peters in the Sondheim revue Old Friends. I actually saw the show in London, but when Bernadette Peters is on Broadway, you just simply go. It’s called being a good citizen.
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