"Tequila, Ribs, and Fox Mulder: Reflections from Peekskill"

Fleeting glances and a great Gin Martini await at The Central, a bar, bistro, and lounge located in the historic yet renovated Peekskill Train Station on Railroad Avenue by the Waterfront.

There’s a certain irony to waking up on a day reserved for leisure—the sacred “sleep-in Saturday”—only to rise with the same reluctant discipline as any workday. The sun slips through the curtains, indifferent to my supposed freedom, and I surrender to the compulsion to write.

But it’s a gentle kind of writing—unhurried and luxuriant, shaped not by deadlines or the gaze of an audience. This writing, I cradle: inhale, exhale, each syllable rolled between my fingers like beads on a string.

Sometimes, it flows like a charm; other days, the words resist, stubborn in their silence. My mind, ever restless, doesn’t observe weekends. Desire lingers too—yesterday’s echo weaving with memory, beauty encountered, fleeting glances and humid thoughts suspended in July’s haze.

Yesterday was swollen with longing, and I—far past thirty-five and then some—thank heaven for the soft lens of age. At twenty-five, I rarely left a broom closet unoccupied. Everything brimmed with possibility. Now, I pause before indulging, weigh each temptation with the wisdom of too many sunrises seen from the wrong side.

Still, some pleasures I won’t forfeit. Lunch with an old friend at Taco Dive Bar—a cheerful spot on Hudson Avenue near the train station—was a delight. He’d wanted a companion for a quest to Milton, to retrieve a watch from repairs. But the heat—dense, relentless—snuffed out any taste for ambition. Had we a car, perhaps. But the idea of sun-scorched platforms and subway transfers was enough to keep me local.

Instead, we gathered at Taco Dive Bar, his evening already shaped by a rendezvous: a play in the City with his goddaughter. The title--Prince Faggot—gave me pause, then a wry smile. How different things sound in a British accent. I nearly joined them, curiosity tugging, but the thought of enduring a New York summer night dulled any wanderlust. New York in July is best left to the heatproof and ambitious. I love her when she’s cold—when the weather and the attitude sync into something brisk and sharp.

As always, old friendship was a tonic: laughter, ribbing, reminiscence. I wish he’d stop assuming I’m forever preoccupied with sex, my appetite untouched by age. These days, I’d rather curl up with a good book. No man compares to Fox Mulder anyway—and nostalgia, when it calls, rarely whispers.

The blues and yellows of Taco Dive Bar did their magic. Spirits lifted. A frozen drink, mine spiked with tequila, cooled but didn’t stir my wilder side. The heat had already dissolved whatever resistance I had. My hat, soaked through, bore witness.

We ordered the Bourbon BBQ Ribs—an unusual choice for me, but a revelation. Tender, sweet, indulgent without being obscene. The pitcher of frozen Tequila Sunrise was a flop, so I chased it with a shot, hoping to summon a mood. It worked.

His 5:08 train would carry him to Grand Central for the evening’s show. We lingered, then drifted to Central—the café and bar nestled inside the old Peekskill train station. The breakfast there is worth waking early for, and the staff, young and charming, keep spirits light. My gin martini was strong enough to keep the day buoyant, even as the hours slipped away.

So it goes—another Friday in Peekskill, stitched together by sweat and laughter, memory and mischief. A small drama. A slice of heat. Autumn cannot come soon enough. I crave crisp air, dry sidewalks, and the quiet defiance of cooler days.

Let Miami keep the heat. Let New York cool her pulse and sharpen her edge.

At Taco Dive Bar, the Bourbon BBQ Ribs—an unexpected pick for me, but an absolute delight. Perfectly tender, subtly sweet, and indulgent without being over the top.

Eye-catching visuals always capture this author's attention, transforming into stories that linger in the subconscious until they're needed, like this handsome motorcycle guy and skull-themed artwork at Taco Dive Bar, complete with a skull-shaped shot glass of tequila.

The Central—a cozy café and bar tucked inside the historic Peekskill train station—is great for breakfast, with a young and charming staff. They serve excellent gin martinis, but be cautious not to have more than three... or you might encounter yourself up under the host/bartender.