August 2007 Archives
Song Selection: "Even a Child Knows"
by Crowded House
Him: Tall, tan, bespectacled and boyish in silver wire frames. We spent several minutes talking about cooking, baking and the fantastic things that can be concocted using good ingredients, a little know-how and a dash of imagination. We talked chocolate too, he in a mild Austrian accent, me in my modulated L.A.-speak.
After bantering about our backgrounds and our love of food, he invited me back for lunch. During our lunch conversation he dropped a surprise: he'd taken a shine to me. And he was leaving for vacation.
A month later, he was back and wanting to get together.
We met at a landmark. I was early and sat reading "Piano Lessons" by Noah Adams. He walked up listening to music on his iPhone. We ambled to a restaurant, where dinner service had just started. We were shown a corner table.
Him: Still tall, still tan, but wearing black-rimmed glasses and expressing regret over his trip. I had spent my summer in town learning the city. He had spent his across the ocean bonding with family and friends. A part of him wanted to stay, he said, but New York was where his business was, so he came back.
I listened through dinner. I listened as we walked. I listened when we stopped and I listened some more.
We drew no parallels; instead we reflected on experience. When asked, I offered opinions and advice. And my own fragments of perception began to create a clearer picture.
There are people who are earnestly committed to their work, who have the friends they want, and the diversions they need. For them, giving new acquiantances a few hours of their time is thought of has bestowing a rare privilege.
By the end of the night, I realized I was with one of those people. But rather than being grateful, I was exhausted from analysis and problem solving.
Our evening had been a business meeting, not a social call.
 | Crowded House - Even A Child |  |
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 | Found at bee mp3 search engine |  |
Eating out all the time will wreck you if you're not careful (cf. "Super Size Me"). After several months of restaurant dining, a few months ago I decided it was time to return to a more Californian diet.
So when a craving for grilled ground meat hit recently, I tried to resist. But as the Borg say, resistance is futile.
Off I sauntered to the Burger Joint, a little faux hole in the wall hideaway tucked in the corner of the otherwise sleek and 'spensive Le Parker Meridien hotel. It's probably the best burger in Midtown for your money, though like everything in New York, it's arguable.
The menu is bare-bones. Your choices are a burger with or without cheese, and your choice of lettuce, tomato, pickle, onion, mayo or mustard. Want it all? Order "the works." Finger-thick fries come separate. The beverage selection is limited to a dark beer (I want to say Sam Adams, but I don't remember), lemonade, soda and a chocolate or vanilla shake (only available after 4 p.m.).
The price of a burger is $6, $6.50 if you want cheese. That's up a dollar from when I was there two or three years ago. For Midtown, that's not bad at all.
To get the goods, you have to find the only entrance. There's a semi-secret neon sign hidden away near the concierge desk. I suppose it sort of adds to the mystique.
Walking in is kind of a shock. Compared to the rest of the hotel, the place is grubby, dim and cramped. But unlike the rest of the hotel, it's also a little microcosm of the city itself. Office workers, construction workers, the stylish, the students and tourists alike jockey for seats in the low-occupancy space.
A tip: go after the lunch rush, but before (or after) the dinner crowd. Around 6:30 in the evening is perfect. So is about 10 p.m. And be sure to order your burger one degree more done than you want it. Trust me.
The London Times recently did a review and called Burger Joint's offerings the best in the city.
Nice to see that good taste knows no bounds.
The cool weather of earlier this week hints at my favorite season to come: fall. And for once in a very long time, I'll be able to dress for it.
I'm excited for what's on offer this year — daytime womenswear is going back to elegance and sophistication, and subtle, understated grey is the new neutral. No more ridiculous babydolls, too-high hemlines and too-low, too-tight jeans. Even menswear is getting into the act — suits are back in style.
I've been scanning the mags and fashion rags, looking for discounts and inspiration. (Far off dreams of becoming a menswear tailor float in the distance, though after tossing the idea around with two locals, I now have two prospective clients.) With the change of season comes blowout sales.
I tried to get into the sample sale for Mulberry, the formerly fuddy-duddy but nonetheless expensive British handbag and leather goods line that's been revived with a new creative director, and more importantly, sexier advertising. I arrived at a nondescript office building in the late afternoon around rush hour.
"I'm sorry miss," the doorman said. "They sold out at 1:30 this afternoon. The line started at 9 this morning; there must have been at least 200 women. Doors opened at 10."
Yikes! I guess sample sales really are sport here.
A few days later, I met a man who had seen that line. He told me he was wondering what all those women were standing there waiting for.
Having learned my lesson, I decided to move more quickly when I learned of a biannual sale of clothes by high-end designers, including some of the so-called Antwerp Six — originally, six breakout students of the Royal Academy in Antwerp, Belgium, trained by Linda Loppa, now dean of Polimoda in Florence, Italy.
Soho is a rarified neighborhood, once known as the enclave of artists, now known as shopping capital of Manhattan and the enclave of wealthy artists. IF Boutique, which was holding the sale, is sort of tailored to them. The cerebral designs of Martin Margiela were on display, as were an all-new shipment of clothes from Danish designer Ivan Grundahl. There were somber, beautifully constructed pieces by Dries van Noten and wacky, complicated jackets and dresses by Junya Watanabe.
I looked but didn't pull them off the racks. Instead, I was on a mission to find new pants. High-waisted (or at least normal-waisted) and wide-legged, please. The slow-slung, cigarette-legged thing of the past four years or so was bringing me down and cutting off my circulation.
So it was with great joy that I managed to find two pairs of heavily discounted, well-made pants that were both interesting and beautiful. And better still — they fit.
Come on, cold weather.
The site looks at what sorts of local conveniences are in your area, and how far you'd have to walk to get to them.
It's not foolproof, but it's pretty neat.
Get your walk score here:
It was glorious.
Unfortunately, we're back up to hot, humid temps by Saturday. They say the heat index will make it feel like we're in the 90s. Again.
Oy.
In junior high, I realized I could get home faster by walking than by taking the bus. If I didn't have a lot of books to carry, I could sprint home in about 10 minutes by making a beeline through people's backyards.
In college, instead of gaining the freshman 15, I lost 10 pounds unintentionally speedwalking around campus.
Several years ago on my last day in Paris, I took a sprint through the 7éme arrondissement. The local Sunday strollers nearly snapped their necks watching me whiz by.
It turns out my need for speed may contribute to my longevity. The New York City Health Department has determined that New Yorkers, on average, live longer than other Americans.
Why? Because people who walk faster live longer, according to an epidemiologist quoted in a recent New York magazine article. In fact, a British Council study found that New Yorkers are the fastest walkers in the U.S. (Singapore leads overall.)
Lightning-fast walking is just one of several factors contributing to New Yorkers' longevity, but it's a pretty significant one, it seems.
Now that we've got the secret to longevity down, how long before someone discovers the fountain of youth?
The other night, I received a last-minute in-home dinner invite from some friends. In-home entertaining is a rarity in this town, where a scarcity of space makes people highly territorial.
I brought a bottle of Il Nebbiolo purchased a month or so ago at Acker, Merrall & Condit, purported to be America's oldest wine shop.
Unfortunately, I can't remember who the winemaker was, but the wine guy recommended it without reservation. My hosts were intrigued by the idea of a dark rosé and very pleased after taking a sip.
Dinner was simple, the conversation lively. But best of all was the evening and nighttime view of the city from the gigantic windows in their high-rise apartment.
A friend had suggested once that if Manhattan ever feels too big, the fastest cures are to either take a drive around the island or go into a high tower and look down.
For an evening, the city didn't feel so overwhelming.
I exit across the street from the Staten Island Ferry on my way to meet a friend who works in the financial district, an area of town I'd not visited since I moved here.
The tourists appeared to outnumber the workers, but I was meeting a native. We went to Rosario's, known in the neighborhood as the place where Wall Street guys (and gals) go to stuff their gullets before getting back to the Big Board.
You enter and let your eyes adjust to the dim light as you head for the big, black chalkboard at the back. On it are the day's specials. See what you want? Order small, medium or large. (about $8/$9/$10, respectively, for most dishes) There are other things on the menu too, but my friend was on a strict lunch hour. No dawdling.
Make a left and approach the hot case, look one of the guys in the eye, smile and yell, "I'd like the pasta and chicken, please! Small! And add the calamari!"
"Red sauce?" he yells back.
"Yes, please!"
Shovel, shovel, shovel, shovel. Slop. Slop.
You can stuff an amazing number of pasta shells and chicken chunks into a small aluminum tin, and still have room left over for a nice side of calamari.
The guy who prepared your order writes codes on a brown paper bag, stuffs the tin in, and hands you the bag. You follow the line, making a sharp right past the cold case (salads and huge slices of red velvet cake) to the cashiers.
You know the drill: Make eye contact, smile, hand the bag over so the lady can read it. Pay, then spin to the left out of the flow of traffic and find a booth or a table.
The food is substantial, as is the conversation. We're in and out in about 50 minutes.
Afterward, we walk past the Wall Street bull and split off when we get to the Museum of American Finance, or at least where the museum used to be.
It's moving to new digs in October. Guess I'll have to make a trip back.
Him: Tall, dapper, chisel-jawed, drinking pinot grigio. We spent the evening discussing design and typography, he in his Londoner's accent, me in my L.A.-speak.
Two days later, we had lunch and went to the traveling "Ashes & Snow" exhibit and talked about photography and Shigeru Ban. And for some shocking reason, he took a shine to me.
Nearly a year later, he rang me in New York. We met at a bar, where the kitchen was closing and the barkeep was tending to the night owls.
Him: Seated, bundled up, but still dapper and drinking pinot grigio. I had crossed the country. He had crossed an ocean. The U.S. was his new home.
We compared notes.
I had only been in town for a few months, but Los Angeles and New York seemed worlds apart, I said. While I was sincerely trying to create a home New York, I wondered what madness possessed me to leave my pretty good, fairly contented life in L.A.
It's not an adventure if there's no adversity, I concluded. Besides, the nomad in me had been aching for change. At least this was what I was telling myself.
As I listened to him talk about his own travails, I noticed that he was correcting himself in a conscious effort to adapt his vocabulary: People weren't bright, they were smart. Phone calls weren't made on a mobile, but a cell. He rode the elevator; he no longer took the lift.
However, he still pronounced the adjectival epithet "facking."
I smiled whenever it came up. I smiled a lot that evening.
He sighed.
His decision to come to the States was carefully considered, he told me. And when he left the city he'd called home for decades, someone very important was supposed to follow. But the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry, and they did in his case too.
The very important person is very much missed, and no number of round-trip jaunts could make up for not being in the same place all the time.
My life here is quite alright, he said. But I don't think I would have made the same decision had I known this would be the situation.
We drew a parallel.
I almost picked Gibson's novel up, but I was on a mission, seeking out a copy of Robert Ludlum's "The Bourne Identity" instead.
Lo, Gibson has a new novel out: "Spook Country."
Tonight, the author was reading at the Union Square Barnes & Noble. Had I not procrastinated on some other work, I would have gone.
Instead, I'm reviewing award entries.
It seems everybody's making maps, or figuring out how to present information visually. So it came as no surprise to find one of the cover stories in this week's edition of New York magazine features maps of 10 Little Cities.
Which map most closely matches your interests?
Not being familiar with Spanish cuisine, I'd say the food was terrific, though I've read diner critiques that lambasted some of the dishes with words like "inauthentic."
As for my friend and I, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. There was white asparagus with creme fraiche and caviar, fried chickpeas, sea snails (cooked with garlic, "Chinatown style") and tuna cakes — golfball-sized servings of seasoned, cooked tuna, fried to a reddish brown. Crispy on the outside, delicious in the middle.
We ended the evening with flan de naranja, the only choice of three that we could interpret on the dessert menu. (Of course, Tia Pol is now on the Where to Eat Map.)
Afterward, we went for a stroll, first walking toward, then through the tragically hip Meatpacking District (these days more tragic than hip — the fastest action has moved to the Lower East Side).
My friend directed me on a slight detour to get what she deemed the best cupcakes in New York: those at Billy's — better than the more famous treats at Magnolia Bakery in the West Village because they aren't as painfully sweet. This was true, though the half-inch of baby-blue buttercream frosting on mine made up for it.
Cupcakes in hand, we passed by the Maritime Hotel outdoor lounge, which reminded me of a few hotel bar patios back home (yes, I got a little wistful.) Even my friend remarked, "this place has definitely got an L.A. vibe." I'm told the Maritime was a former orphanage. Maybe someday someone will write a book detailing the history of the buildings now housing New York's coolest hotspots.
Meanwhile, we kept walking ... walking past the Chelsea Market, home of the Food Network ... a throbbing nightclub guarded by a beefy bouncer ... several leggy prostitutes teetering in impossible stilettos looking for dates ... and a sort of wacky grocery store. By this time we were in the Village proper and my friend suggested a drink.
Having never spent time in this part of town, I followed my gut, turned and led my friend to a boite on a corner, where about 10 people gathered around what reminded me of a French zinc bar were noisily cajoling each other into one more story, one more flirt, one more drink.
As we approached, it was clear these people were friends of the bartender who looked like he was Mediterranean, spoke like he was Eastern European and poured like he was Russian.
I stuck to a single glass of white wine.
Nevertheless, when the man who gave up his chair for me tuned to a loungy arrangement of "Quando Quando Quando" on the bartender's iPod, we were all singing.
Come to New York sometime, and you too can take in the little surprises you'll find on a stroll, and just around a corner.
And in a city where you don't have a car to throw stuff into, you become your own pack animal.
So here are some things I've found useful for getting through a day in the city (most people seem surgically bonded to their cellphones, so that's not on my list):
• A messenger bag. Get one big enough to lug your stuff, preferably with a padded shoulder strap. It keeps your hands free — important for when you're running to catch a train/taxi/pedicab, directing tourists to their destinations or signing an autograph.
• A refillable water bottle. New York tap water is unchlorinated, so there's no need to Brita filter anything. However, you will need water. Bring a bottle and you can usually find free sources almost anywhere. If not, you'll be paying $1.25 or more for what comes from a public water source and kicking yourself for not getting it for free.
• A bandana or handkerchief. Mop sweat, turn it into a hat or a visor, and if it's white, use it to declare surrender when someone hits on you in a bar.
• Wipes, preferably not the antibacterial kind. Sometimes the subway railings are kind of slimy. Sometimes you just need a little freshening up.
• Pen and paper. 'Cause you never know when you're going to want to take down someone's phone number or start your Great American Novel.
• Reading material. Note, it does not have to be the New Yorker, though in some parts of town the New Yorker is about the right heft, both literally and intellectually. You'll want something to keep you company while you're on the train or dining alone in a restaurant. As noted before, the pressure to make no eye contact in some public places can be daunting.
• Wallet. Duh. But you'd be surprised how many times you forget it on your mad dash to explore the city.
• Unlimited-ride Metrocard. Unless you plan to take cabs or hoof it most of the time. Then it's probably better to pay as you go.
This makes finding an alternative all the more urgent. Not that I'm that price sensitive to my coffee (if I were, I'd get it for a quarter at the diner a couple blocks away). But it's one more reason to frequent places unique to New York — all the little shops will get priced out if not.
There are Starbucks stores on almost every corner of the city. Well, perhaps that's an exaggeration, but check out the Starbucks Center of Gravity map for some idea. It's pretty hard to avoid them.
A few weeks ago, I'd put a Swedish coffee shop on my list of places to visit. Like so many stores here, it's a tiny place. The women who work there are ice blonde, the men, brunet; and everyone speaks, or at least digs it when they speak Swedish to each other and to customers.
True to its reputation, the counter girl was very friendly, teaching me the correct pronouncation of "drömmar" (vanilla cloud cookies) and its singular form while stirring up some delicious hot chocolate. Their coffee and cappuccino are pretty phenomenal (and strong) too.
If they offered wifi and were open late into the night, I'd be there plenty.
While on the Lower East Side, a woman I met recommended the Roasting Plant, known in the neighborhood as "the tube coffee place" and only open since early April.
They roast their own coffee, which is sucked into the Javabot (Seriously. This is the trademarked name.) — a pneumatic tube attached to a grinder that shoots grounds into an espresso machine, which spurts superheated water through the grind and into a cup that then and only then is touched by human hands.
I've got to see this place for myself. I love the smell of coffee and only drink it occasionally, though more often now than I have in years. I guess New York will do that to you.