The last time I saw Julia, a man took our picture with a Polaroid camera and said the bright white of the flash would dissipate from our faces after it developed. He lied, maybe not on purpose, but he did. In it, we look like two friendly ghosts. We kept waiting for it to get darker as we ate pizza and salad in Crown Heights after a gig of hers at The Owl on Rogers Avenue, but it never did.
The day I see her again, so many months later--a phenomenon not unusual for anyone these days, I’m sure--we’re sitting under a peachy pink umbrella on a hot summer afternoon, drinking frose cocktails I’m sure meant for women who wear leggings to brunch and won’t shut up about SoulCycle. But we don’t care, it’s hot out, steamy, the kind of heat that makes your clothes cling to your chest, and a basic bitch cocktail is the perfect remedy.
*
The lightness I feel in my chest knowing B&H Dairy continues to survive the pandemic is practically levitating. SJT and I celebrate such a feat by dining there live and in person, and I am dunking my fresh mozzarella on challah bread into cold, cold borscht as if it hasn’t felt like decades since I was there last time. We slurp iced coffees and clink silver spoons against white ceramic bowls while young teens walk by dressed like they’re auditioning for The Craft. Ah youth, I smile, watching their Doc Martens amble past. I’m glad joy presents itself for me now less as trying to look cool and more like going shopping for vintage cookbooks at Bonnie Slotnick’s with SJT. While we are there, a woman named Jeannie tells us that eight short ribs is simply too many, how could you ever eat all of that. Later SJT promises to make me short ribs for my birthday, as many as I want.
*
HanOre returns from summer out of state and it’s jacket season, hers a red leather and mine the navy wool blazer I co-opted from my dad’s giveaway pile several years ago. We wrap them tighter around us as we sit at Amor y Amargo on East 6th Street in the East Village, nibbling on the roasted nuts we were required to buy by Governor Cuomo before sipping on smoky cocktails in high ball glasses. We talk about seduction and what it means to be a New Yorker, and how those things overlap. Somehow after two cocktails I am still standing and we go to Niagara a block away, the home of the Miss Manhattan reading. I miss my grungy weird little art bar and get a well drink in its honor with French fries lain across red and white checked wax paper. They’re too salty, but I don’t care. I’m just glad it’s still open.
*
Syd arrives to Le Moulin a Cafe and speaks French to the waiter. It’s so perfect he even laughs in French. I am drinking decaf iced coffee because I have been fighting insomnia but I miss the taste. The sun is hot but there’s a perfect chill in the air for my new emerald green chenille sweater, the one I love so much I have been wearing it for two days. I hardly remember what we ate because Syd--a history colleague I am delighted to also call my friend-- is so exuberant, joyful, vibrant I just remember laughing the whole time. Nobody ever comes up here, so it’s a treat when a friendly face appears. Later, we sit by the river and the sun shines and we talk about sex and television. Next to us, too close, even, an older woman undresses to absorb the sun and we’re reminded that New York is not dead.
*
As I’m preparing picnic goods for the park, I’m wondering when the last time it was that I truly entertained. It wasn’t going to be a big to-do, I was really just going to make a kugel for myself for Rosh Hashanah because last year’s turned out so well. But then I was reading Ruth Reichl’s Comfort Me with Apples and she was talking about dinners with groups of friends at Alice Waters’s house and I was inspired. I missed friends in groups and cooking for them, even with my limited skills. We found a spot near the river and unwrapped the noodle-y, dairy-full casserole laden with raisins (yes, RAISINS, because I LIKE THEM) and I gave out first then second then even third helpings. Later, I packed leftover challah and kugel into Ziploc bags for friends to take home like a real Jewish mother.
*
When Magali meets me in Long Island City, we go to a French bakery, a miraculously independent business trembling under the weight of all that too-new, too-nothing glass and concrete dotting the river and blocking the sun. I have a long, crusty (in a good way) ficelle with ham and butter and a chai tea and we sit in the sun, a parade of pups going by. I roll my eyes at dogs in strollers because honestly, what the hell is that even. Magali tells me about Zurich, where people have special bags they put their clothes and belongings in so they can swim home from work. I would never, ever want to swim in the East River, but I saw once in a documentary that people actually do it. I nibble on the ficelle as I consider the possibility. What doesn’t kill you makes you more of a New Yorker.
Step 1: Move to New York. Step 2: Have experiences.
Showing posts with label friendship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friendship. Show all posts
Sunday, October 4, 2020
Thursday, July 11, 2019
Have Some More
Our bowls of pasta arrived sometime recently, but I don’t remember because time began slowing once our broccoli rabe appetizer, accented with strips of crispy pancetta, arrived at our table.
I am with my friend NE, human glitter, a poet who brims with shine and sparkle and intellect and knows how to appreciate joy and pleasure in big and small bites. We will be having dinner at Fiaschetteria Pistoia, which I will soon learn is a sliver of Tuscan culinary heaven on Christopher Street, where a man with tattoos in the window makes fresh pasta by hand, BY HAND, spinning dough into strips that will eventually become spaghetti, pappardelle, and lord knows what else. Waiting for NE in the tiny hallway next to a kitchen cordoned off by glass, I watch as another man makes slabs of veal in a pan, tossing in generous heaps of olive oil while the cast iron sizzles the meat to a light brown. Small plates of pasta, artichokes, vegetables leave the tiny kitchen window and exit into the room decorated with exposed brick painted white. A Keith Haring poster of Rome and another for Italian ice cream dot the walls. When we sit down at a tiny gray marble table, the words “Fresh Pasta is Never Al Dente Because it Was Never Dried” float above our heads.
We rip slices of bread, offered to us in a tiny brown paper bag, into a olive oil from an equally tiny ramekin. A waiter offers us wine from a selection of empty bottles, each tagged with ‘White’ and ‘Red’ like Alice’s bottles in Wonderland are with ‘Eat Me’ or ‘Drink Me.’ We don’t, instead pouring ourselves water from a repurposed bottle etched with what look like window panes.
NE is talking when the broccoli rabe arrives, its green stalks and florets dipped deliciously in olive oil, but I don’t remember what she says because I slide a chunk of it into my mouth with a sliver of pancetta and my brain stops working, the broccoli falling apart next to the crunch of the pancetta, releasing flowers and spices onto my tongue. She stops mid-sentence, eager to “have what I’m having” as When Harry Met Sally would say, and takes a bite. We look at each other, eyes wide. Wow.
We make our way through the small plate loaded with the shiny green vegetable until there’s just a little bit left.
“Have some more,” NE says.
“You have some more!” I say back, pointing a fork at her.
We both giggle and take each other’s advice. A lone floret rests on the edge of the plate when a waiter tries to remove it, but I make him pause so I can give it to NE. A smile spreads wide across her face.
Our pasta arrives in two small bowls lined with blue trim. I slide mine toward me, ribbony pappardelle made yellow by the redness of a bolognese-style ragu. I'm careful not to “chow down,” and remember to taste. The silken pasta glides next to the chunky, meaty ragu and slowly my brain begins to stop working again. I have trouble forming sentences. I try not to speak because that means more time I’m not eating. And NE is having the same experience with her Cacio e Pepe, this hand-rolled spaghetti with pecorino and black pepper that’s tangy and creamy at the same time. I taste it and eat it with all manner of impropriety, nibbling the strands of pasta from my fork one by one.
We go back to our own dishes, but NE insists. “Have some more!”
When I hear her say it this time, I realize she is not just saying to keep indulging in Cacio e Pepe. Enjoy, she is saying. Take pleasure! Live! Taste! Be in and of your senses and this moment. The food is so good, she says I start blushing. She wants to marry every man in the restaurant, especially the one who makes the pasta. After a while we stop speaking altogether and just look at each other and shake our heads. We both feel a little drunk, despite having only water to drink. This food euphoria is something new, a buzz not unlike a strong glass of wine. The pleasures of good food shared with a friend extend beyond the stomach. We are tasting joy, and in good company.
I am with my friend NE, human glitter, a poet who brims with shine and sparkle and intellect and knows how to appreciate joy and pleasure in big and small bites. We will be having dinner at Fiaschetteria Pistoia, which I will soon learn is a sliver of Tuscan culinary heaven on Christopher Street, where a man with tattoos in the window makes fresh pasta by hand, BY HAND, spinning dough into strips that will eventually become spaghetti, pappardelle, and lord knows what else. Waiting for NE in the tiny hallway next to a kitchen cordoned off by glass, I watch as another man makes slabs of veal in a pan, tossing in generous heaps of olive oil while the cast iron sizzles the meat to a light brown. Small plates of pasta, artichokes, vegetables leave the tiny kitchen window and exit into the room decorated with exposed brick painted white. A Keith Haring poster of Rome and another for Italian ice cream dot the walls. When we sit down at a tiny gray marble table, the words “Fresh Pasta is Never Al Dente Because it Was Never Dried” float above our heads.
We rip slices of bread, offered to us in a tiny brown paper bag, into a olive oil from an equally tiny ramekin. A waiter offers us wine from a selection of empty bottles, each tagged with ‘White’ and ‘Red’ like Alice’s bottles in Wonderland are with ‘Eat Me’ or ‘Drink Me.’ We don’t, instead pouring ourselves water from a repurposed bottle etched with what look like window panes.
NE is talking when the broccoli rabe arrives, its green stalks and florets dipped deliciously in olive oil, but I don’t remember what she says because I slide a chunk of it into my mouth with a sliver of pancetta and my brain stops working, the broccoli falling apart next to the crunch of the pancetta, releasing flowers and spices onto my tongue. She stops mid-sentence, eager to “have what I’m having” as When Harry Met Sally would say, and takes a bite. We look at each other, eyes wide. Wow.
We make our way through the small plate loaded with the shiny green vegetable until there’s just a little bit left.
“Have some more,” NE says.
“You have some more!” I say back, pointing a fork at her.
We both giggle and take each other’s advice. A lone floret rests on the edge of the plate when a waiter tries to remove it, but I make him pause so I can give it to NE. A smile spreads wide across her face.
Our pasta arrives in two small bowls lined with blue trim. I slide mine toward me, ribbony pappardelle made yellow by the redness of a bolognese-style ragu. I'm careful not to “chow down,” and remember to taste. The silken pasta glides next to the chunky, meaty ragu and slowly my brain begins to stop working again. I have trouble forming sentences. I try not to speak because that means more time I’m not eating. And NE is having the same experience with her Cacio e Pepe, this hand-rolled spaghetti with pecorino and black pepper that’s tangy and creamy at the same time. I taste it and eat it with all manner of impropriety, nibbling the strands of pasta from my fork one by one.
We go back to our own dishes, but NE insists. “Have some more!”
When I hear her say it this time, I realize she is not just saying to keep indulging in Cacio e Pepe. Enjoy, she is saying. Take pleasure! Live! Taste! Be in and of your senses and this moment. The food is so good, she says I start blushing. She wants to marry every man in the restaurant, especially the one who makes the pasta. After a while we stop speaking altogether and just look at each other and shake our heads. We both feel a little drunk, despite having only water to drink. This food euphoria is something new, a buzz not unlike a strong glass of wine. The pleasures of good food shared with a friend extend beyond the stomach. We are tasting joy, and in good company.
Saturday, June 4, 2016
Scenes from a Summer II
On Tuesday night I am leaving Phoenix, a gay bar in the East Village, because of course I am. SJT has just given one of his 'How to Opera' sessions, in which he highlighted some of the operatic points of interest happening around New York this summer. He sipped a greyhound or two or three and rolled up his cranberry-colored shorts to cool off his legs in the back room of the brick-laden bar. Pushing his long sleeves past his elbows in hopes of a similar result on his arms, he nonetheless said "I hate short sleeves," though the fact that it is now very much summer in New York does not seem to phase him. He asks me for feedback on the session though I have trouble issuing it because I could listen to him talk about quantum physics or the many uses of canned tuna and I would still be enthralled, words always elegantly and eloquently floating off his tongue whether they are about opera or about Bob's Burgers. I hope he will teach the class again.
Outside, the air is cool and though it is past 8pm the sun has not yet set and the sky is a blissful lavender hue. I can almost see the sunset down 13th Street, the sun a creamsicle-colored orb slowly descending into the horizon. I contemplate taking the bus uptown, but decide I want to be outside a bit longer and walk to the train. Back near my home, I stop to get a salad and decide I will sit outside and eat it on a stoop. Ultimately I decide my own stoop will be serve just fine, so I continue the journey home. I set myself down on the brick stairs in front of my building and crack into my salad, the soft night air brushing against my face. My roommate comes up the walk not too long after I sit down, smiling and raising an eyebrow at me. "Why are you eating out here?" she asks. "I thought to myself, well, we can't really do this in our apartment and I wanted to eat outside so I just said, 'fuck it,'" I laugh. She smiles back and laughs too, heading inside. Sometimes I forget what weird can look like to other people because I live in New York.
I miss this time of year the rest of the year. Maybe because I stayed inside far too often as a child, or because the nature of living in this city is that you are just exposed to its elements all the time and eventually you are bound to pick your favorites. I love the soft dew of humidity on my face, the kiss of the sun on my shoulders and face, the flutter of sundresses around my knees when I walk on the streets. I love the hum of the fan in my room when I fall asleep, wrapping myself in just one thin sheet as opposed to my usual piles of blankets. I love the coconut smell of the sunscreen I bought and the way sand sticks to my suntan lotion's orange grease gel when I go to the beach. I love the promise of rooftop parties and ocean visits and open windows that allow breezes to float in. At certain times, the city is emptier in the summer and I feel my thoughts flow a little slower, that I have more time to listen to them.
*
Friday night BK and I meet for dinner in Crown Heights. We go to Glady's on Franklin Avenue, a Caribbean restaurant. The restaurant, done up with glass shutter windows that remind me of homes in South Florida, is across the street from an organic grocery, and I had to walk past a Starbucks and a Citibank to get to it. I remember five years ago when the street was all bodegas blasting dancehall music, plastic lawn chairs for sale in their storefronts, with only the bar Franklin Park plopped at the end on St. John's Place.
Nevertheless, Glady's is delicious. BK and I sit and eat and discuss writing, relationships, the length of his new beard, and when we are going dancing next. We have the jerk chicken and bok choy and plantains and a bowl of curried goat. Never in my life did I think I would have the opportunity to say 'More Goat, Please,' but now I have proven myself wrong. They cap off the meal with complimentary servings of of deliciously cool non-dairy coconut ice cream in tiny metal cups and it's perfect.
I am dismayed to learn later that it is run by hipsters who are from absolutely no form of Caribbean descent and I have mixed thoughts about going back. But I'll be damned if I did not inhale that curried goat, practically licking my fingers until it was gone.
After dinner I head to a rooftop in the Crown Heights historic district. AR throws me down the keys and I let myself in and up the stairs. People sit on lawn chairs and look up at the now-dark sky, the only lights a string of Christmas bulbs they've brought up the line the wall. We migrate back and forth between the roof and our host's apartment, listening to records with his friend D: Grace Jones, Tracy Chapman, Savages, as the three of us sit and bullshit together, talking about how terrible Vangelis is though AR bought one of his albums that day. We slowly become covered in cat hair from the host's hilariously overweight pet, a fluffy white cat named Beans.
Back upstairs we sit and dig into dirt pudding, accented with deliciously mushy Oreos and rubbery gummy worms, treats I do not allow myself to eat too regularly these days. The pudding floats fluffy in my mouth and I take another serving though I definitely don't need it and am almost sure I don't want it, but I am doing my best to hold on to the food memory for posterity. I will doubtlessly need it since I have been subsisting off oatmeal and Lean Cuisines for the last few weeks and in this dirt pudding-ensconced moment I am in food bliss. At 1:30 in the morning, AR, D and I take the train back through Brooklyn. Once they depart at their stop I read Patti Smith's M Train until I get back into Manhattan, the air cool enough that I wrap my arms with the cardigan I've been keeping in my bag for such an occasion.
*
Saturday I have brunch with DL, a happy treat since I have barely spent any real time with him in many months. At Bar Corvo near the Brooklyn Museum, we dive into a fish sandwich (me) and a foccacia bread pudding (he…though I helped, probably more than I should have…). We walk all over the neighborhood, making our way around and then through Prospect Park and down into Park Slope and then by Barclays Center, chatting about the weirdness and wonderfulness in our current lives. He is older and wiser than I and I value his insights, doing my best to remember them for when I move forward. The sun is hot on our limbs but we press on, listening and overlapping speech naturally and never disrespectfully. Our stories bend and twist and our conversation sparks new topics at every turn, as it always has. By the time we reach Atlantic Terminal, we have walked several miles but, a mark of true friendship, I have barely noticed. Hugs and goodbyes are exchanged and I feel that same tug at my heartstrings when I leave all of my friends, that leftover ache of being an only child and going home to my empty room filled with stuffed animals that won't talk back to me. But as always, I know I will see them again, and with that I descend into the Q train to make my way back to Manhattan.
Outside, the air is cool and though it is past 8pm the sun has not yet set and the sky is a blissful lavender hue. I can almost see the sunset down 13th Street, the sun a creamsicle-colored orb slowly descending into the horizon. I contemplate taking the bus uptown, but decide I want to be outside a bit longer and walk to the train. Back near my home, I stop to get a salad and decide I will sit outside and eat it on a stoop. Ultimately I decide my own stoop will be serve just fine, so I continue the journey home. I set myself down on the brick stairs in front of my building and crack into my salad, the soft night air brushing against my face. My roommate comes up the walk not too long after I sit down, smiling and raising an eyebrow at me. "Why are you eating out here?" she asks. "I thought to myself, well, we can't really do this in our apartment and I wanted to eat outside so I just said, 'fuck it,'" I laugh. She smiles back and laughs too, heading inside. Sometimes I forget what weird can look like to other people because I live in New York.
I miss this time of year the rest of the year. Maybe because I stayed inside far too often as a child, or because the nature of living in this city is that you are just exposed to its elements all the time and eventually you are bound to pick your favorites. I love the soft dew of humidity on my face, the kiss of the sun on my shoulders and face, the flutter of sundresses around my knees when I walk on the streets. I love the hum of the fan in my room when I fall asleep, wrapping myself in just one thin sheet as opposed to my usual piles of blankets. I love the coconut smell of the sunscreen I bought and the way sand sticks to my suntan lotion's orange grease gel when I go to the beach. I love the promise of rooftop parties and ocean visits and open windows that allow breezes to float in. At certain times, the city is emptier in the summer and I feel my thoughts flow a little slower, that I have more time to listen to them.
*
Friday night BK and I meet for dinner in Crown Heights. We go to Glady's on Franklin Avenue, a Caribbean restaurant. The restaurant, done up with glass shutter windows that remind me of homes in South Florida, is across the street from an organic grocery, and I had to walk past a Starbucks and a Citibank to get to it. I remember five years ago when the street was all bodegas blasting dancehall music, plastic lawn chairs for sale in their storefronts, with only the bar Franklin Park plopped at the end on St. John's Place.
Nevertheless, Glady's is delicious. BK and I sit and eat and discuss writing, relationships, the length of his new beard, and when we are going dancing next. We have the jerk chicken and bok choy and plantains and a bowl of curried goat. Never in my life did I think I would have the opportunity to say 'More Goat, Please,' but now I have proven myself wrong. They cap off the meal with complimentary servings of of deliciously cool non-dairy coconut ice cream in tiny metal cups and it's perfect.
I am dismayed to learn later that it is run by hipsters who are from absolutely no form of Caribbean descent and I have mixed thoughts about going back. But I'll be damned if I did not inhale that curried goat, practically licking my fingers until it was gone.
After dinner I head to a rooftop in the Crown Heights historic district. AR throws me down the keys and I let myself in and up the stairs. People sit on lawn chairs and look up at the now-dark sky, the only lights a string of Christmas bulbs they've brought up the line the wall. We migrate back and forth between the roof and our host's apartment, listening to records with his friend D: Grace Jones, Tracy Chapman, Savages, as the three of us sit and bullshit together, talking about how terrible Vangelis is though AR bought one of his albums that day. We slowly become covered in cat hair from the host's hilariously overweight pet, a fluffy white cat named Beans.
Back upstairs we sit and dig into dirt pudding, accented with deliciously mushy Oreos and rubbery gummy worms, treats I do not allow myself to eat too regularly these days. The pudding floats fluffy in my mouth and I take another serving though I definitely don't need it and am almost sure I don't want it, but I am doing my best to hold on to the food memory for posterity. I will doubtlessly need it since I have been subsisting off oatmeal and Lean Cuisines for the last few weeks and in this dirt pudding-ensconced moment I am in food bliss. At 1:30 in the morning, AR, D and I take the train back through Brooklyn. Once they depart at their stop I read Patti Smith's M Train until I get back into Manhattan, the air cool enough that I wrap my arms with the cardigan I've been keeping in my bag for such an occasion.
*
Saturday I have brunch with DL, a happy treat since I have barely spent any real time with him in many months. At Bar Corvo near the Brooklyn Museum, we dive into a fish sandwich (me) and a foccacia bread pudding (he…though I helped, probably more than I should have…). We walk all over the neighborhood, making our way around and then through Prospect Park and down into Park Slope and then by Barclays Center, chatting about the weirdness and wonderfulness in our current lives. He is older and wiser than I and I value his insights, doing my best to remember them for when I move forward. The sun is hot on our limbs but we press on, listening and overlapping speech naturally and never disrespectfully. Our stories bend and twist and our conversation sparks new topics at every turn, as it always has. By the time we reach Atlantic Terminal, we have walked several miles but, a mark of true friendship, I have barely noticed. Hugs and goodbyes are exchanged and I feel that same tug at my heartstrings when I leave all of my friends, that leftover ache of being an only child and going home to my empty room filled with stuffed animals that won't talk back to me. But as always, I know I will see them again, and with that I descend into the Q train to make my way back to Manhattan.
Saturday, April 25, 2015
My New York in Two Hours
Sometimes you have only a short time to spend with a dear friend to show them your New York (because there is no one New York experience and the city is different for everyone!), and you don't want to monopolize their time. So if you come to visit me and ask me to show you my New York in two hours, here is one sampling of what we might do together--and feel free to use this brief (yet lovely, in my humble opinion) travelogue for yourself!
Meet at...
Staley-Wise Gallery
560 Broadway at Prince Street, #305
20 Minutes
Price Range: Free!
The Staley-Wise Gallery is one of my favorite galleries in New York. It has a focus in fine art fashion photography, with the likes of legends Herb Ritts, Horst P. Horst, David LaChapelle and infinite others in their collection. There's currently a fabulous show on featuring images from the archive of Bert Stern, the photographer who did the legendary last sitting with Marilyn Monroe. I had the pleasure once of meeting Mr. Stern before he passed away, and you can read about that here. The gallery is beautifully curated and small but specialized, making it perfect for your mini-intro to my New York.
Walk 6 minutes to...
Brunch/Lunch:
Lovely Day
196 Elizabeth Street between Prince Street and Spring Street
45 Minutes
Price Range: $9.50-$17
I found Lovely Day by accident while out for a walk one day with EH. We were going to try another joint, but there was a line out the door and no place to sit! I couldn't have been happier that this happened though after our meal at Lovely Day. The restaurant serves foods that infuse Thai cooking into a variety of international comfort foods, resulting in things like an egg white fritatta with shiitake mushrooms or buttermilk pancakes with lime palm sugar syrup for brunch. The space is small, with shabby-chic floral wallpaper, a lunch counter with red barstools, and red booths. The staff is friendly and when you ask if the man who was sitting next to you was Thurston Moore from Sonic Youth, they'll say no, that wasn't him, but he does come here a lot and he did look like him, though. Lovely Day is an unpretentious neighborhood staple serving delicious, inexpensive, and unique dishes. I can't wait to take you there!
Walk 6 minutes to...
Think Coffee
1 Bleecker Street at Bowery
5 Minutes
We're just stopping to grab a coffee/tea at this branch of thoughtful, social and environmentally responsible, independently owned coffee franchise Think Coffee. I chose this branch because I will want to show you where legendary punk club CBGB-OMFUG used to be, right across the street at 315 Bowery. It's now a John Varvatos store but the location is important to be because the DIY, fuck-you spirit of the CBGB scene is one of the reasons I moved to New York.
Walk 13 minutes to...
101 Astor Place
25 Minutes
There's nothing really special at this location besides the fact that it's a new plaza with lots of seating and great people watching. We'll sit and stare at the folks leaving St. Mark's. On the way here, I'll tell you about Cooper Union and the Village Voice office, about the horrible yuppy bars and what the East Village used to be like in the 1970s. Then we'll sit and talk and catch up and drink our coffee and/or tea. Shortly you'll have to leave--the 6 train is close by, and so is the N and the R, so you can get to the east or west sides of town with no problem. But it will have been so lovely to spend even two hours with you and share part of the city I love so much, and thereby part of myself, with you. Maybe next time you come back we'll be able to see each other for more time, but even if you don't I promise to have something just as lovely planned for you then, too! I'm always happy to see you, even if for a short while. Have a safe trip home!
Meet at...
Staley-Wise Gallery
560 Broadway at Prince Street, #305
20 Minutes
Price Range: Free!
The Staley-Wise Gallery is one of my favorite galleries in New York. It has a focus in fine art fashion photography, with the likes of legends Herb Ritts, Horst P. Horst, David LaChapelle and infinite others in their collection. There's currently a fabulous show on featuring images from the archive of Bert Stern, the photographer who did the legendary last sitting with Marilyn Monroe. I had the pleasure once of meeting Mr. Stern before he passed away, and you can read about that here. The gallery is beautifully curated and small but specialized, making it perfect for your mini-intro to my New York.
Walk 6 minutes to...
Brunch/Lunch:
Lovely Day
196 Elizabeth Street between Prince Street and Spring Street
45 Minutes
Price Range: $9.50-$17
I found Lovely Day by accident while out for a walk one day with EH. We were going to try another joint, but there was a line out the door and no place to sit! I couldn't have been happier that this happened though after our meal at Lovely Day. The restaurant serves foods that infuse Thai cooking into a variety of international comfort foods, resulting in things like an egg white fritatta with shiitake mushrooms or buttermilk pancakes with lime palm sugar syrup for brunch. The space is small, with shabby-chic floral wallpaper, a lunch counter with red barstools, and red booths. The staff is friendly and when you ask if the man who was sitting next to you was Thurston Moore from Sonic Youth, they'll say no, that wasn't him, but he does come here a lot and he did look like him, though. Lovely Day is an unpretentious neighborhood staple serving delicious, inexpensive, and unique dishes. I can't wait to take you there!
Walk 6 minutes to...
Think Coffee
1 Bleecker Street at Bowery
5 Minutes
We're just stopping to grab a coffee/tea at this branch of thoughtful, social and environmentally responsible, independently owned coffee franchise Think Coffee. I chose this branch because I will want to show you where legendary punk club CBGB-OMFUG used to be, right across the street at 315 Bowery. It's now a John Varvatos store but the location is important to be because the DIY, fuck-you spirit of the CBGB scene is one of the reasons I moved to New York.
Walk 13 minutes to...
101 Astor Place
25 Minutes
There's nothing really special at this location besides the fact that it's a new plaza with lots of seating and great people watching. We'll sit and stare at the folks leaving St. Mark's. On the way here, I'll tell you about Cooper Union and the Village Voice office, about the horrible yuppy bars and what the East Village used to be like in the 1970s. Then we'll sit and talk and catch up and drink our coffee and/or tea. Shortly you'll have to leave--the 6 train is close by, and so is the N and the R, so you can get to the east or west sides of town with no problem. But it will have been so lovely to spend even two hours with you and share part of the city I love so much, and thereby part of myself, with you. Maybe next time you come back we'll be able to see each other for more time, but even if you don't I promise to have something just as lovely planned for you then, too! I'm always happy to see you, even if for a short while. Have a safe trip home!
Saturday, February 7, 2015
Hey There, Astoria
You know those times when you're a kid and you say to yourself, "When I'm older, I'm going to have sleepovers with my friends and eat ice cream ALL THE TIME!" Except you get older and then you never do, and that's kind of sad.
Two of my friends brought that up in the last few months, and in that time we've reversed the clock. Maybe it's because I was an only child growing up, but even to this day when I have to leave my friends at the end of a dinner or a night out, I always feel like I've left part of myself with them. I get into a cab with a sigh and watch the lights flicker past on the dark skyline. It's like there will never be enough hangouts, never be enough time spent with the people I hold most dear.
Once in a while, though, we'll do a sleepover. And you know what? At 12 or 26, sleepovers are still the best. You get to hang out with your friends til you're too tired to go home, and then guess what? You don't have to go home! And you don't have to ride the subway with gross morning breath in yesterday's clothes, wondering if anyone sees the hangover that by this point has tattooed itself on your forehead.
J and I hadn't seen each other in a year and a half, though we live mere boroughs away and have known each other since we were 14 years old. I went to see her at a concert last week, and we agreed to make a night of catching up this weekend. Her new place is out in Astoria, though she was kind enough to pick me up in her car. I packed a bag for an evening away as I would have when I was a kid--pajamas, toothbrush, a clean shirt for the next day--and jumped into her car with a more grown up addition to my luggage, a bottle of champagne. Because if you can't celebrate a hangout with your girlfriends, what can you celebrate?
The times I have been to Astoria, I very much enjoyed how it's international and vibrant in a quiet way. There's almost no hustle and bustle, and there are people from all walks of life--young and old, families and singles. It's just far enough away for J, who says the neighborhood's small-town feel is perfect for "people who don't want to fuck with the big city," like herself.
Dinner took us to Agnanti, a Greek restaurant on Ditmars Boulevard. Decorated with famous screen couples from 1960s Greek cinema, the restaurant had long wooden tables and a real furnace burning off in the corner. Save for the Amtrak trains running above us on the bridge, I felt like I was far from the city, in a small town restaurant nestled away from honking horns and flashing lights. We ate bread dipped in olive oil and pepper, creamy tzatziki thick with cucumbers, deliciously charred grilled vegetables, mussels in white wine sauce and beef stew. I had a glass of retsina, a Greek white wine, which J informed me would taste like pine needles. I raised my eyebrows but decided to try it anyway. It was delicious, kind of like a chardonnay that, yes, tasted of pine needles but also smelled of olive oil (I learned that retsinas get part of their flavor from tree resins, so much of that makes sense).
After a dessert of Greek yogurt with berries and another neither of us
could define (it was complimentary!), we took back to J's abode for
champagne. We talked and talked about our families, about men and boys bad and good, about beauty standards and relationships. I have always believed that one of the best feelings is being able to sit and talk with your friends you haven't seen in a while and it's like no time has passed. J is as much of a positive force as she always has been, magnetic and passionate about the world around her. She is curious about my life and I about hers. We have seen each other grow and appreciate the journeys we have taken. J's cat Penny nestles next to our champagne bottle as if protecting it from intruders. Luckily, soon there is no more champagne to protect and we fall asleep.
In the morning, we take a quick gander in the snow through Astoria Park, a massive (by New York standards) stretch of open land leading to the East River. Bridges glide over the top of the park and through the snow you can see the Manhattan skyline. I personally can't wait to see Astoria Park in the spring and summer, when it's doubtlessly bright green and perfect for a day by (but definitely not in) the water.
Tiptoeing our way around the icy sidewalks, we eventually make our way to New York City Bagel and Coffee House, right near the Astoria-Ditmars Stop on the N train. I'm stunned by the sheer array of bagel and cream cheese flavors, the latter of which you're allowed to try as if they were ice cream flavors. I'm happily shocked upon hearing this. "I can TRY them????" I say in disbelief, eyeing first the wasabi cream cheese but ultimately settling on the bacon scallion for my multi-grain, whole wheat bagel. It's delicious, but I cannot finish it and give the rest to J.
Walking back to her house, she points out a pet store. "This is where I like to go to pet other people's animals," she laughs. We go inside and pay a visit to a spunky Boston terrier in the window and a fluffy, brown tabby perched high above the shelves of dog food. I never really understood dog sweaters but this place is full of them, along with yardsticks of duck jerky for dogs. To each his own. As we tiptoe over the ice yet again, J mourns the lack of Mexican food in her neighborhood, prompting her to read to me from her phone the hilarious essay by Darin Ross, "Dear Guy Who Just Made My Burrito," from Medium (which I encourage you all to read if you haven't already!). We laugh loud laughs while I try not to fall on my face in the snow. At one point I laugh so hard I almost spit out my tea.
As J drives me over the Triboro Bridge, I already feel that same part of me getting left behind. What's nice though is that, no matter how much time passes, I know now I can always get it back.
Two of my friends brought that up in the last few months, and in that time we've reversed the clock. Maybe it's because I was an only child growing up, but even to this day when I have to leave my friends at the end of a dinner or a night out, I always feel like I've left part of myself with them. I get into a cab with a sigh and watch the lights flicker past on the dark skyline. It's like there will never be enough hangouts, never be enough time spent with the people I hold most dear.
Once in a while, though, we'll do a sleepover. And you know what? At 12 or 26, sleepovers are still the best. You get to hang out with your friends til you're too tired to go home, and then guess what? You don't have to go home! And you don't have to ride the subway with gross morning breath in yesterday's clothes, wondering if anyone sees the hangover that by this point has tattooed itself on your forehead.
J and I hadn't seen each other in a year and a half, though we live mere boroughs away and have known each other since we were 14 years old. I went to see her at a concert last week, and we agreed to make a night of catching up this weekend. Her new place is out in Astoria, though she was kind enough to pick me up in her car. I packed a bag for an evening away as I would have when I was a kid--pajamas, toothbrush, a clean shirt for the next day--and jumped into her car with a more grown up addition to my luggage, a bottle of champagne. Because if you can't celebrate a hangout with your girlfriends, what can you celebrate?
The times I have been to Astoria, I very much enjoyed how it's international and vibrant in a quiet way. There's almost no hustle and bustle, and there are people from all walks of life--young and old, families and singles. It's just far enough away for J, who says the neighborhood's small-town feel is perfect for "people who don't want to fuck with the big city," like herself.
Dinner took us to Agnanti, a Greek restaurant on Ditmars Boulevard. Decorated with famous screen couples from 1960s Greek cinema, the restaurant had long wooden tables and a real furnace burning off in the corner. Save for the Amtrak trains running above us on the bridge, I felt like I was far from the city, in a small town restaurant nestled away from honking horns and flashing lights. We ate bread dipped in olive oil and pepper, creamy tzatziki thick with cucumbers, deliciously charred grilled vegetables, mussels in white wine sauce and beef stew. I had a glass of retsina, a Greek white wine, which J informed me would taste like pine needles. I raised my eyebrows but decided to try it anyway. It was delicious, kind of like a chardonnay that, yes, tasted of pine needles but also smelled of olive oil (I learned that retsinas get part of their flavor from tree resins, so much of that makes sense).
After a dessert of Greek yogurt with berries and another neither of us
could define (it was complimentary!), we took back to J's abode for
champagne. We talked and talked about our families, about men and boys bad and good, about beauty standards and relationships. I have always believed that one of the best feelings is being able to sit and talk with your friends you haven't seen in a while and it's like no time has passed. J is as much of a positive force as she always has been, magnetic and passionate about the world around her. She is curious about my life and I about hers. We have seen each other grow and appreciate the journeys we have taken. J's cat Penny nestles next to our champagne bottle as if protecting it from intruders. Luckily, soon there is no more champagne to protect and we fall asleep.In the morning, we take a quick gander in the snow through Astoria Park, a massive (by New York standards) stretch of open land leading to the East River. Bridges glide over the top of the park and through the snow you can see the Manhattan skyline. I personally can't wait to see Astoria Park in the spring and summer, when it's doubtlessly bright green and perfect for a day by (but definitely not in) the water.
Walking back to her house, she points out a pet store. "This is where I like to go to pet other people's animals," she laughs. We go inside and pay a visit to a spunky Boston terrier in the window and a fluffy, brown tabby perched high above the shelves of dog food. I never really understood dog sweaters but this place is full of them, along with yardsticks of duck jerky for dogs. To each his own. As we tiptoe over the ice yet again, J mourns the lack of Mexican food in her neighborhood, prompting her to read to me from her phone the hilarious essay by Darin Ross, "Dear Guy Who Just Made My Burrito," from Medium (which I encourage you all to read if you haven't already!). We laugh loud laughs while I try not to fall on my face in the snow. At one point I laugh so hard I almost spit out my tea.
As J drives me over the Triboro Bridge, I already feel that same part of me getting left behind. What's nice though is that, no matter how much time passes, I know now I can always get it back.
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