Carrie's phone rings. Hello? Hello, it's a hot Russian for you. He says "good afternoon," and she says, "Sorry, wrong number." She hangs up. He calls back. She hangs up again, before he can even get a word out. He calls back a third time, and she says peevishly that she can't understand him. It's Misha, hot Russian, calling for your comic ass, woman. Oh. Oh. Carrie, huge idiot, tries to pretend it's not her. "Hold on, I'll get her for you. Caaaa-rrie! Uh, hello?" Misha is not fooled one bit. He got her number from Char's friend from the gallery. "Are you still loffing ot thot arrtist? Saying that she eats oll night Big Macs." Carrie squinches up her face and says she's sticking to her guns. Misha thought she would. "So let's go see her at 3 AM, to be sure." She asks if he's serious. "I'm serious, she's serious. You're the one who isn't serious." Carrie doesn't like the idea of getting out of bed to go to Chelsea at 3 AM. Misha suggests 1 AM, and that they have dinner first. At RUSSIAN SAMOVAR! God, do I love Russian Samovar. It's the best place EVER. They make all these vats of different vodkas, huge glass jars behind the bar filled with the fruits and herbs that flavor them. God, it's delicious. 52nd Street, y'all. The first time I went there was with Gustave and his friend Barbara, who is now my friend (hi, Barbara!), and we got so hammered. Barbara bet me $10 that I wouldn't go over to this hot Trainspotting-looking guy and get proof of his age (Gustave thought he was in his thirties, I thought younger). So, emboldened by vodka (the cranberry is fabulous, as is the apple cinnamon. Dill, good, if briny. Horseradish, painful), I went. He was EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD. And WITH HIS ENTIRE FAMILY. So yes, I hit on a hot teenage Russian boy at Russian Samovar, in front of his whole clan. I sent him a shot of coriander vodka afterwards, and his family toasted him. Then I went recently to kill time before Iggy and the Stooges played at Roseland, and the twenty-four-year-old rock and roller I was with called me "hardcore" because I kept ordering carafes. Everyone should go to Russian Samovar. Did I mention that they have live entertainment? There's a pianist, and sometimes a woman who plays guitar and sings, and does traditional Russian dances. She's like the Russian Charo, dripping in Christian Dior jewelry and sky-high blonde hair. She's amazing. Russian Samovar is amazing. Carrie and Misha have a date. The phone rings again, and Carrie answers with a smile. But it's not Misha. It's Harry.
Charlotte miscarried. It happens. And it's got to be the worst feeling in the world. Carrie arrives, and sits next to her on the couch. Char, her face shiny and tear-stained, ignores her offer of mint tea and says she can't go to Brady's party. Of course not. Mir will understand.