Sunday Funday

There’s a certain kind of Sunday that doesn’t ask much of you. It just shows up soft around the edges—bright light on the table, street noise turned down low, the simple agreement that the day can be unhurried.

Two cocktails arrive like small weather systems. Salt on the rim, a lime wedge catching the sun, a sprig of green leaning out over the glass as if it’s listening. The first sip is cold and sharp, then mellow—sweetness and citrus settling into something easy. You don’t have to name it for it to feel right.

Outside, Williamsburg moves the way it always does: people drifting past the window, a chair scraped back, a server weaving through tables. Inside, for a minute, everything narrows to hands around glass and that quiet clink when you toast.

This is what “Sunday Funday” really means to me—not a big plan, not a loud story. Just a small pocket of time where you let the week loosen its grip. A table, a drink, a little sun, and the feeling that the day is still wide open.