My room is about 9 feet by 7 feet. To call it a room is fair but the irony lies in the fact that I don't have a lot of it. Fortunately, the ceiling is 10 feet high so there is space to grow. This room is the smallest space I've ever slept in since wedging myself between my parents in their bed when I was 2.
My bed was delivered today by 3 sweaty gentlemen who didn't see that there is an elevator in our building and who dragged my mattress and boxspring up 4 flights of stairs. As they set up my bed, I gave them the risers on which to place the bed frame. The risers allow me to store things under the bed which now occupies more than half my room. But I've used the vertical as best as I can and although it's no loft, I did buy a step stool to make getting into bed a little easier. Like the rest of Manhattan, I'm movin' on up.
I'm also movin'. As the streets calmed after the initial rush of morning commuters, I put on my running gear and took on the NW corner of Central Park as my new training ground. I hadn't run in at least a month so my soft muscles combined with the cold air made climbing the most conservatively sloped hill feel like running straight up a wall made of oil. My legs seized as if I had asked them to wade through a chest-high bowl of pudding. The run, not so successful. It devolved into a walk mixed with spurts of running past people who looked like I might feel embarrassed for walking in front of. While strolling (and panting) however, I did notice that many of the trees and bushes and flowers in the park are labeled with their common names. It was an educational 10 minutes.
By the time I crawled back to my apartment dragging my offended limbs, I was starving and wolfed down a bowl of leftovers concocted with noodles, char siu pork, shrimp, greens, fish, crab... I ate like I was being paid. The cop lay asleep on the couch while I masticated. When he woke, he dropped me off at Bed Bath and Beyond for yet another trip to procure handy items to make my space more efficient. My doors look like candles, clothing on over-the-door hooks dripping down all surfaces.
I had never strolled through the Upper West side much before and I was quite enamored with the big name stores alongside small boutiques. The pedestrians were mainly middle-aged women with very young children and Columbia students. Not being sweaty or terribly kinetic but very slovenly, I hadn't changed out of my running clothes so I looked pleasantly faux-sporty. A necklace caught my eye in the window of a shop called A Tempo at 290 Columbus Avenue. A necklace I don't need but which I ordered anyway as my first gift to myself here. It's got the silhouette of a small bird on it. I'd also bought a jewelry dish with a bird handle. I've left the nest to build another.
The Magnolia on Columbus beckoned but instead of dense cupcakes with painfully sweet buttercream, I splurged on dark darling Bing cherries from a small grocer. They're not in season but they were passable for dessert following my final meal of Chinese New Year leftovers. Roasted duck and fried rice. The duck was still rich and the rice heated beautifully. I considered returning to the UWS to catch a movie but the comfort of home was so enticing that I stayed in on my Friday night to write and stay in touch with friends online. At the end of my evening, I literally climbed into bed and slept like a princess on a pedestal.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Thursday, February 7, 2008
you better watch where i point this thing
Note to aspiring spies: When trying to be inconspicuous while taking candid photos of strangers in the subway, it is best NOT to wear a yellow rabbit fur coat with an enormous sheepskin collar OR use a pink camera.
Hm. I think that was pretty self-explanatory.
I finished the rest of my prime rib from Tavern on the Green this morning with another soft sandwich of beef and cheese. It smelled like the faux Santa Will Ferrell's character suspiciously sniffs out in the movie Elf. Breakfast was again served at around 3pm before I braved the world to head to the Focus Features office to pay another visit to the boys of film: Mr. Kansas and Felipe.
On the B train, I saw this boy who very much so would not take his mind away from his cookie. You can't really see it clearly in the photo but he bore an expression of wry curiosity with a bit of aloofness.
I arrived late enough that the boys could leave for the night and we walked along Bleecker to the Village. Felipe commented on my hurried gait. It's happening. I'm becoming one of them. The fast-walking, no-bullshit New Yorkers who spit and swear at the slightest provocation. But I did neither because we were headed to Pinkberry where Felipe and I plucked Mr. Kansas' Pinkberry flower.
The shop looked the same as the others in L.A., the green striped windows and the pebbled floor. But the yogurt was different. It was fluffy and full instead of cool and clean. I ordered a medium original with strawberries, blueberries and raspberries but got mango instead of the latter. When I mentioned it, they gave me a small cup of raspberries on the side which we all enjoyed. Mr. Kansas liked his first taste of controversial frozen yogurt. Red Mango was across the street. The competition in this city is thick.
Mr. Kansas took his leave early and Felipe and I got a moment to ourselves to speak and wander. He is lovely. Tall. Beautiful. Kind. An ex-lover made a bad choice when he decided to let Felipe go. No one should let someone of his sweetness walk the earth alone. If only I were a boy. Sadly, my burping and farting without apology does not a boy me make.
We parted ways at the West 4th train station and I made my way to Golden Unicorn for Chinese New Year dinner with a friend and her NY entourage. The F train was bare except for what I named "The Snob and the Sleepy Trio of Grey Knitted Cap Wearers". The station at East Broadway was vacant. I walked behind this woman through the tunnel to the street I needed.
Above ground, I consulted my Streetwise map many times to figure out the way to Chinatown. The shops were all closed for the celebration. I walked cautiously as men passed. There were photo opportunities here but somehow I felt unsure of my surroundings enough that my vigilance stifled my inner journalist.
Dinner with strangers is always interesting for me. It is a challenge to connect over a meal. I met four new people this evening and the conversation was never awkward or still. We spoke of coincidences and similarities and bonded over our collective inability to read the Chinese menu. But this was only a minor obstacle as we did order a grand list of foods my parents would deem excessively decadent for a regular dinner. But it's a new year, baby.
We started with roast duck wrapped in rice flour buns with scallions and plum sauce. The duck skin was oily and crisp. Fantastic. We also ordered sweet and sour pork chops, a mixture of duck, pickled vegetables, sprouts and mushrooms, e-fu noodles with crabmeat and chive blossoms, Yang Chow fried rice, steamed fish with ginger, scallions and soy sauce, sauteed pea shoots and salt and pepper shrimp. Everyone was ravenous. We spoke and ate until movement became laughable. For me, the highlight was the women's restroom where the door was decorated with a glass plate that displayed an inlaid rose with a pair of lips at the stem. It was the most romantic restroom door I'd ever seen.
Stuffed and sleepy, we were a caravan of Chinese kids who can't read Chinese headed for the trains. On the D (which I thought was the B) I saw this woman sitting across the aisle from me. She seemed worried and I couldn't stop looking at her. I thought she needed consolation. I wondered what troubled her. At moments I thought she might cry. I wanted to wish her well but I refrained. Something kept me silent. Eventually, she closed her eyes and looked to be dozing. This brought me some relief as if she were truly distressed, sleep would not come so easy on the express train that didn't stop at 110th St.
I didn't realize I was on the wrong one until we breezed through my station and I had to switch to a downtown train. There, at 125th Street, I saw these kids with their father and his friend. The boy in the brown jacket splayed himself on the platform bench with a preternatural swagger. The girls, possible siblings, were haughty and stoic. I tried to take their photo without any to do but their father noticed and seemed to be upset. I couldn't hear him through my iPod shuffle but I could feel his displeasure and caught what sounded like muffled unkind words about me. He was a father who kept his children out until midnight on a school night but nonetheless they were his children and I was the girl in the fur coat who so brazenly and obviously was taking pictures of them. It made me regretful. I am not impervious to the annoyance I may cause. I skipped the train that came in order to avoid a confrontation with the father and also with two drunken Korean boys who asked me if the A train stopped at 86th St. It seemed rhetorical. I sensed their mischief. All these factors made me feel nervous so I called the cop and he met me at the station near our apartment.
Seeing him at the top of the stairs was a moment of relief. We walked in the cold night to our home and I felt safe and protected. He'd had a bad day so I tried to dote on him a bit. Boys are funny that way. They want you to know that they're down but they can easily refuse your care. How bold.
The chefs returned late and our nightly ritual of jokes and anecdotes began at 2am. We come together from the corners of the city and we eat. We laugh. We commiserate. We are a family. I asked the cop if he could smuggle his uniform home so that we might each wear a piece of it and take a portrait. A portrait of my safety in a city that grows increasingly more fascinating and frightening each day. I love to come home and as for our portrait, I'm sort of a big deal when it comes to taking photos with a pink camera, you know.
Hm. I think that was pretty self-explanatory.
I finished the rest of my prime rib from Tavern on the Green this morning with another soft sandwich of beef and cheese. It smelled like the faux Santa Will Ferrell's character suspiciously sniffs out in the movie Elf. Breakfast was again served at around 3pm before I braved the world to head to the Focus Features office to pay another visit to the boys of film: Mr. Kansas and Felipe.
On the B train, I saw this boy who very much so would not take his mind away from his cookie. You can't really see it clearly in the photo but he bore an expression of wry curiosity with a bit of aloofness.
I arrived late enough that the boys could leave for the night and we walked along Bleecker to the Village. Felipe commented on my hurried gait. It's happening. I'm becoming one of them. The fast-walking, no-bullshit New Yorkers who spit and swear at the slightest provocation. But I did neither because we were headed to Pinkberry where Felipe and I plucked Mr. Kansas' Pinkberry flower.
The shop looked the same as the others in L.A., the green striped windows and the pebbled floor. But the yogurt was different. It was fluffy and full instead of cool and clean. I ordered a medium original with strawberries, blueberries and raspberries but got mango instead of the latter. When I mentioned it, they gave me a small cup of raspberries on the side which we all enjoyed. Mr. Kansas liked his first taste of controversial frozen yogurt. Red Mango was across the street. The competition in this city is thick.
Mr. Kansas took his leave early and Felipe and I got a moment to ourselves to speak and wander. He is lovely. Tall. Beautiful. Kind. An ex-lover made a bad choice when he decided to let Felipe go. No one should let someone of his sweetness walk the earth alone. If only I were a boy. Sadly, my burping and farting without apology does not a boy me make.
We parted ways at the West 4th train station and I made my way to Golden Unicorn for Chinese New Year dinner with a friend and her NY entourage. The F train was bare except for what I named "The Snob and the Sleepy Trio of Grey Knitted Cap Wearers". The station at East Broadway was vacant. I walked behind this woman through the tunnel to the street I needed.
Above ground, I consulted my Streetwise map many times to figure out the way to Chinatown. The shops were all closed for the celebration. I walked cautiously as men passed. There were photo opportunities here but somehow I felt unsure of my surroundings enough that my vigilance stifled my inner journalist.Dinner with strangers is always interesting for me. It is a challenge to connect over a meal. I met four new people this evening and the conversation was never awkward or still. We spoke of coincidences and similarities and bonded over our collective inability to read the Chinese menu. But this was only a minor obstacle as we did order a grand list of foods my parents would deem excessively decadent for a regular dinner. But it's a new year, baby.
We started with roast duck wrapped in rice flour buns with scallions and plum sauce. The duck skin was oily and crisp. Fantastic. We also ordered sweet and sour pork chops, a mixture of duck, pickled vegetables, sprouts and mushrooms, e-fu noodles with crabmeat and chive blossoms, Yang Chow fried rice, steamed fish with ginger, scallions and soy sauce, sauteed pea shoots and salt and pepper shrimp. Everyone was ravenous. We spoke and ate until movement became laughable. For me, the highlight was the women's restroom where the door was decorated with a glass plate that displayed an inlaid rose with a pair of lips at the stem. It was the most romantic restroom door I'd ever seen.
Stuffed and sleepy, we were a caravan of Chinese kids who can't read Chinese headed for the trains. On the D (which I thought was the B) I saw this woman sitting across the aisle from me. She seemed worried and I couldn't stop looking at her. I thought she needed consolation. I wondered what troubled her. At moments I thought she might cry. I wanted to wish her well but I refrained. Something kept me silent. Eventually, she closed her eyes and looked to be dozing. This brought me some relief as if she were truly distressed, sleep would not come so easy on the express train that didn't stop at 110th St.
I didn't realize I was on the wrong one until we breezed through my station and I had to switch to a downtown train. There, at 125th Street, I saw these kids with their father and his friend. The boy in the brown jacket splayed himself on the platform bench with a preternatural swagger. The girls, possible siblings, were haughty and stoic. I tried to take their photo without any to do but their father noticed and seemed to be upset. I couldn't hear him through my iPod shuffle but I could feel his displeasure and caught what sounded like muffled unkind words about me. He was a father who kept his children out until midnight on a school night but nonetheless they were his children and I was the girl in the fur coat who so brazenly and obviously was taking pictures of them. It made me regretful. I am not impervious to the annoyance I may cause. I skipped the train that came in order to avoid a confrontation with the father and also with two drunken Korean boys who asked me if the A train stopped at 86th St. It seemed rhetorical. I sensed their mischief. All these factors made me feel nervous so I called the cop and he met me at the station near our apartment.Seeing him at the top of the stairs was a moment of relief. We walked in the cold night to our home and I felt safe and protected. He'd had a bad day so I tried to dote on him a bit. Boys are funny that way. They want you to know that they're down but they can easily refuse your care. How bold.
The chefs returned late and our nightly ritual of jokes and anecdotes began at 2am. We come together from the corners of the city and we eat. We laugh. We commiserate. We are a family. I asked the cop if he could smuggle his uniform home so that we might each wear a piece of it and take a portrait. A portrait of my safety in a city that grows increasingly more fascinating and frightening each day. I love to come home and as for our portrait, I'm sort of a big deal when it comes to taking photos with a pink camera, you know.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
a taste of balmy
Not one delectable thing that I've eaten here can compare to the magic of a warm New York day. Today was delicious.
Some mornings I can't discern the weather from inside my apartment. This morning was standard in that I woke up after noon and leisurely showered and dressed for a day out. I enjoyed a yoga session to Britney's greatest hits. I don't like the calm, chanting, chakra-soothing crap they force on you at yoga studios. I like hip hop and pop music that pulsates and writhes out of the speakers as I stretch and strengthen. I think the juxtaposition calms me.
Cereal in the belly and wool scarf and coat on the body and I was on the move only to step out of my building into a curious and wonderful New York. A New York of a springtime softness. I removed my coat and beamed with delight. It was a beautiful, balmy day and I had missed the morning rain in the safety of my flannel sheets.
At 5pm, I arrived at Bullfrog and Baum for a meeting about a possible internship. The company represents a lot of chefs and restaurants and also has a burgeoning lifestyle division which is where I would land. In all honesty, not an admonishment of their hiring practices but who would say no to me for an UNPAID internship? I enjoyed meeting the women with whom I would work. They were welcoming and encouraging. It felt strange going from one who would order interns around and who had to conduct interviews to be the one sitting on the scrutinized side of the table. I smiled and did my best. I have nothing to lose except two days a week of furious strolling through the streets of Manhattan.
I asked the ladies of Bullfrog for a restaurant recommendation. I was sent to Cafe Grumpy where I sat in the corner with a green tea latte begrudgingly brewed by an obstinate barista. The tea was roasted and clashed with the cream I'd added to it so I finished it as quickly as I could. I attempted to read "The Memory Keeper's Daughter," a novel I stole from a friend but I was too distracted by the city outside.
The sky had dimmed when I began my stroll up 7th Avenue. I surveyed the shops in the fashion district. Fabric stores and notions stores and stylish future designers everywhere. I was hungry and decided to stop at Ginger House which before I looked at the posted menu I had mistaken for an English pub due to its dark wood paneled walls. It felt like I was in Boston or Washington DC. But better...because I craved roast duck and they had it. My parents were 3000 miles away and it was Chinese New Year's Eve. I connected with them gastronomically.
I sat alone along a wall outside a wait station. Most of the patrons were not Chinese but I don't usually judge Chinese restaurants by the racial barometer reading. The waiters were stern but swift and soon I had BBQ pork, roast duck, sauteed string beans and white rice before me. Starved, I set about my dinner and watched a table of loud, boisterous fashionistas. They were dressed with spunk and loving their conversation. As I finished, I cracked open my fortune cookie which read: "Be calm and collected. Peace is a virtue." And then on the reverse, "haircut" with the Chinese characters in translation. I suppose fate finds me harried and hairy. I am not.
I walked. I walked for blocks. Forty. I carefully crossed forty streets along 7th Avenue and then Broadway. I wove through the tourists in Times Square. The lights, the signs, the bustle, the taxis, the life vibrating in the warm air of this glorious night. The last night of the Lunar New Year and I was standing in the middle of the city that continues to entrance me. I looked up to the top of the skyscrapers, the cliffs of industry and we the meandering river of bodies and strollers and packages that course through the divide. I swelled with peace and joy and light. My heart was brighter than the marquees on Broadway.
At Columbus Circle, I boarded the M10 bus headed north on Central Park West. A homeless man also got on and threw his fare with disdain into the till. There was a bit of tension between the driver and this man. A kind woman swiped her Metrocard for him to avoid a delay in service. The driver was edgy. I sat with my leftovers in my lap, the scent of my people wafting out of the smiling plastic bag. When I returned home, my roommate Ed rang and we met to explore our neighborhood and find his dinner.
It was 9:30pm in Harlem with my roommate as we stopped along the restaurant row of Frederick Douglass Parkway. We will try them all in due time. The air began to change. It was growing cold. I decided to take Ed back to Miss Mamie's where I would have my first repeat restaurant experience here. Where without warning, suddenly I became a frantic cornbread glutton. I had just eaten dinner but I consumed two plates of cornbread. I just walked forty blocks, I justified to Ed, so I had to eat four orders of cornbread so that I wouldn't die. Butter became a game of "How much can Katie use?" I made a small city with the emptied, tiny white plastic containers with their foil lids peeled away. Ed ordered us the "Sampler Platter" with Southern fried chicken, North Carolina BBQ rib, short rib and fried shrimp. We had potato salad and beans and rice on the side. Everything was delicious, especially the short rib. The meat was tender and soaked with a rich glaze.
We barely spoke. The comfort between us like that of people who hate yet tolerate each other. As we strolled home, I shivered in my sweatshirt and Ed repeatedly offered me his jacket. Perhaps we don't hate each other. Or perhaps one beautiful day had thawed a hardened cop turning him into the chivalrous gentleman I glimpse now and again. A man doesn't always have to be a meal of perfection. Sometimes a taste is good enough to tide you over. Much like the day that will resound in my memory. A day that was everything I loved about New York from all my vacations here.
At home, more eating. Nate had made hummus and babaganouj today which we inhaled on soft torn slices of pita bread in front of the ALT (Absurdly Large Television.) We watched Project Runway and retired to our rooms in the wee hours of the morning. Our midnight snacks a new favorite pastime.
Some mornings I can't discern the weather from inside my apartment. This morning was standard in that I woke up after noon and leisurely showered and dressed for a day out. I enjoyed a yoga session to Britney's greatest hits. I don't like the calm, chanting, chakra-soothing crap they force on you at yoga studios. I like hip hop and pop music that pulsates and writhes out of the speakers as I stretch and strengthen. I think the juxtaposition calms me.
Cereal in the belly and wool scarf and coat on the body and I was on the move only to step out of my building into a curious and wonderful New York. A New York of a springtime softness. I removed my coat and beamed with delight. It was a beautiful, balmy day and I had missed the morning rain in the safety of my flannel sheets.
At 5pm, I arrived at Bullfrog and Baum for a meeting about a possible internship. The company represents a lot of chefs and restaurants and also has a burgeoning lifestyle division which is where I would land. In all honesty, not an admonishment of their hiring practices but who would say no to me for an UNPAID internship? I enjoyed meeting the women with whom I would work. They were welcoming and encouraging. It felt strange going from one who would order interns around and who had to conduct interviews to be the one sitting on the scrutinized side of the table. I smiled and did my best. I have nothing to lose except two days a week of furious strolling through the streets of Manhattan.
I asked the ladies of Bullfrog for a restaurant recommendation. I was sent to Cafe Grumpy where I sat in the corner with a green tea latte begrudgingly brewed by an obstinate barista. The tea was roasted and clashed with the cream I'd added to it so I finished it as quickly as I could. I attempted to read "The Memory Keeper's Daughter," a novel I stole from a friend but I was too distracted by the city outside.
The sky had dimmed when I began my stroll up 7th Avenue. I surveyed the shops in the fashion district. Fabric stores and notions stores and stylish future designers everywhere. I was hungry and decided to stop at Ginger House which before I looked at the posted menu I had mistaken for an English pub due to its dark wood paneled walls. It felt like I was in Boston or Washington DC. But better...because I craved roast duck and they had it. My parents were 3000 miles away and it was Chinese New Year's Eve. I connected with them gastronomically.
I sat alone along a wall outside a wait station. Most of the patrons were not Chinese but I don't usually judge Chinese restaurants by the racial barometer reading. The waiters were stern but swift and soon I had BBQ pork, roast duck, sauteed string beans and white rice before me. Starved, I set about my dinner and watched a table of loud, boisterous fashionistas. They were dressed with spunk and loving their conversation. As I finished, I cracked open my fortune cookie which read: "Be calm and collected. Peace is a virtue." And then on the reverse, "haircut" with the Chinese characters in translation. I suppose fate finds me harried and hairy. I am not.
I walked. I walked for blocks. Forty. I carefully crossed forty streets along 7th Avenue and then Broadway. I wove through the tourists in Times Square. The lights, the signs, the bustle, the taxis, the life vibrating in the warm air of this glorious night. The last night of the Lunar New Year and I was standing in the middle of the city that continues to entrance me. I looked up to the top of the skyscrapers, the cliffs of industry and we the meandering river of bodies and strollers and packages that course through the divide. I swelled with peace and joy and light. My heart was brighter than the marquees on Broadway.
At Columbus Circle, I boarded the M10 bus headed north on Central Park West. A homeless man also got on and threw his fare with disdain into the till. There was a bit of tension between the driver and this man. A kind woman swiped her Metrocard for him to avoid a delay in service. The driver was edgy. I sat with my leftovers in my lap, the scent of my people wafting out of the smiling plastic bag. When I returned home, my roommate Ed rang and we met to explore our neighborhood and find his dinner.
It was 9:30pm in Harlem with my roommate as we stopped along the restaurant row of Frederick Douglass Parkway. We will try them all in due time. The air began to change. It was growing cold. I decided to take Ed back to Miss Mamie's where I would have my first repeat restaurant experience here. Where without warning, suddenly I became a frantic cornbread glutton. I had just eaten dinner but I consumed two plates of cornbread. I just walked forty blocks, I justified to Ed, so I had to eat four orders of cornbread so that I wouldn't die. Butter became a game of "How much can Katie use?" I made a small city with the emptied, tiny white plastic containers with their foil lids peeled away. Ed ordered us the "Sampler Platter" with Southern fried chicken, North Carolina BBQ rib, short rib and fried shrimp. We had potato salad and beans and rice on the side. Everything was delicious, especially the short rib. The meat was tender and soaked with a rich glaze.
We barely spoke. The comfort between us like that of people who hate yet tolerate each other. As we strolled home, I shivered in my sweatshirt and Ed repeatedly offered me his jacket. Perhaps we don't hate each other. Or perhaps one beautiful day had thawed a hardened cop turning him into the chivalrous gentleman I glimpse now and again. A man doesn't always have to be a meal of perfection. Sometimes a taste is good enough to tide you over. Much like the day that will resound in my memory. A day that was everything I loved about New York from all my vacations here.
At home, more eating. Nate had made hummus and babaganouj today which we inhaled on soft torn slices of pita bread in front of the ALT (Absurdly Large Television.) We watched Project Runway and retired to our rooms in the wee hours of the morning. Our midnight snacks a new favorite pastime.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
wither i wandered
He was late. I stood outside the appointed Starbucks at Hudson and King, thick and perfect Jacques Torres dark hot chocolate in my hand. It was the earliest I'd woken up since moving here. And he was late.
Months ago, a gentleman excused himself from my boss' office during an unexpected phone call my boss had to take that interrupted their meeting. As he sat politely in the chair across from my cubicle, he asked me about my plan at the company. I told him I was moving to New York to be a writer (in theory.) He offered to introduce me to his friend who was a fairly accomplished writer living in the city. The writer who would be late for our meeting.
On the train downtown, I saw a handful of Giants fans wearing the mass produced jerseys of their idols. An Eli Manning stood over me as he examined the MTA map. I asked him if they were going somewhere, like the Pro Bowl perhaps. For those of you who are football deficient, the Pro Bowl is an assembly of the best players in the National Football League who get together after the season just to play for fun. This Sunday LIVE FROM HONOLULU, HAWAII!!! RAWRRRRR!!! BEER BEER BEER MANLY MANLY MANLY. Just when you thought there would be no more football, the money grubbing NFL brings you MORE football!!
The Eli Manning pointed out his father on the train with us. It was sweet. Filial fanaticism. I thought they were merely extra exhuberant but apparently they were headed to a parade! I've only attended gay pride parades and I was fairly certain that this particular one would be decidedly "un-gay."
The writer. I watched him walk past me and survey the Starbucks for the self-described "tall Chinese girl." He looked dodgy. He wore a blue Dodgers hat with a moustache and a beard.
"Kathleen?" he asked as he walked out of the caffeine fray. His expressionless face would later appear bored.
We walked to a diner a few blocks away and had eggs with bacon so dark it looked like strips of tar. He asked me what I wanted to write. I asked him his process. Had he been more interested, I think he might be incredulous at my lack of focus but mostly he sat across from me, clearing his sinuses and telling me about how he never reads what he writes and that he gets paid a lot of money for it. I wasn't sure what I needed to get from him but what I got was the technique of writing the perfect sentence and then leaving it behind to move onto the next. Without fail. He told me not to self edit. He also told me to, well, write. The fundamental key to writing is writing. He said that it didn't seem like I wanted to write badly enough to belly up to the bar alongside writers who can't fathom doing anything else. So here I am.
He paid for my breakfast and we said goodbye on the corner. He told me to email him and let him know how it's going. It was generous of him to meet with me, a complete stranger. I appreciated that. I don't think he appreciated my never having read a single thing he'd written. Presumptuous of him to think that I would have. But then again, he writes without fear and with the assumption that all those who are literate will rush to find his words on the printed page.
After our meeting, I walked through Soho looking for a shop selling Valentines. I stopped at a Daffys and spontaneously tried on a pinstriped Elie Tahari pant suit. It itched. I felt fraudulent. The suit represented the opposite of what I was about to do on a Tuesday afternoon. I had no destination. I had no plan. I had the day to myself.
I wandered in and out of stores. I marveled at the simple yet entirely fantastic items at Muji. I walked on Canal Street. I saw fakes on display. Watches, scarves, small electronics all copied from quality originals. Other fraudulent items. When I reached the Village, it started to rain.
Sans umbrella, I randomly took shelter at Pennyfeathers Cafe on 7th Avenue South and Barrow Street. The enclosed patio in the front was fairly empty and I sat in a corner with windows around me. I opened my Time magazine and ordered lemonade from a lovely and cheerful waiter named Issac. The chill of the rain came through the glass protecting me from its moisture. I asked Issac which soup he liked and he produced a mild black bean with sour cream and onions on the side. He spoke with an Israeli accent and had the manner of a loving auntie. The starchy dark soup comforted me a little but there was something about the day that left me searching for true warmth. When the rain dissipated, I dressed for my departure but I stood next to my table for a moment as Issac came to retrieve my credit card slip. I needed a favor.
"Issac? Would it be weird if I asked you for a hug?"
"NO! Oh, you make me feel so good!" he replied. We hugged near the door of the restaurant. He was delighted and held his hand over his heart. He asked me if I lived in the neighborhood. When I told him I lived in Harlem, a woman at a nearby table asked me where specifically and then told me that her mother lived at 125th and Lenox. Issac told me to come back whenever I felt like talking or having a cup of coffee. He smiled so kindly on me that it was the bit of sunshine I was looking for on this overcast day.
I strolled to Kate's Paperie to look for Valentines (paper not people.) There, I picked up a job application. Imagine me! Amidst the paperpress notecards and ribbons by the yard. Crafty heaven. From Kate's, I stopped at the grocery store for fruit and laundry detergent.
On the C train home, I realized that I had left my Time magazine at Pennyfeathers. I put my laundry in the wash and called my new friend Issac. He told me that he was taking the magazine home so that it didn't get lost in the shuffle at the restaurant and that he would be working Saturday through Tuesday. I told him I'd be back to see him and pick up the rag over the weekend. I look forward to hugging him again.
My evening at home was peaceful and domestic. I sent thank you notes to friends in LA. Belated with more coming but still, gratitude delayed. I walked to the bodega at the corner of our building and traded 5 nickels for the lone quarter I still needed to dry my whites. I made myself a sandwich with the leftover prime rib. Cheddar, beef and a little bit of Gulden's mustard. I liked meeting the man at the bodega. I liked pretty much everyone and everything about my day. It's probably a little odd for New York.
When my roommates came home, we stayed up late recounting the day. We snacked and laughed. They made grilled cheese sandwiches with the bread and sharp cheddar I'd bought at the grocery store. I've deemed Nate's impersonation of Frenchmen to be a new anti-depressant. His intonation is simply, like my day out was, "hah-may-zang-ghah." And for a good belly laugh, it's never too late.
Months ago, a gentleman excused himself from my boss' office during an unexpected phone call my boss had to take that interrupted their meeting. As he sat politely in the chair across from my cubicle, he asked me about my plan at the company. I told him I was moving to New York to be a writer (in theory.) He offered to introduce me to his friend who was a fairly accomplished writer living in the city. The writer who would be late for our meeting.
On the train downtown, I saw a handful of Giants fans wearing the mass produced jerseys of their idols. An Eli Manning stood over me as he examined the MTA map. I asked him if they were going somewhere, like the Pro Bowl perhaps. For those of you who are football deficient, the Pro Bowl is an assembly of the best players in the National Football League who get together after the season just to play for fun. This Sunday LIVE FROM HONOLULU, HAWAII!!! RAWRRRRR!!! BEER BEER BEER MANLY MANLY MANLY. Just when you thought there would be no more football, the money grubbing NFL brings you MORE football!!
The Eli Manning pointed out his father on the train with us. It was sweet. Filial fanaticism. I thought they were merely extra exhuberant but apparently they were headed to a parade! I've only attended gay pride parades and I was fairly certain that this particular one would be decidedly "un-gay."
The writer. I watched him walk past me and survey the Starbucks for the self-described "tall Chinese girl." He looked dodgy. He wore a blue Dodgers hat with a moustache and a beard.
"Kathleen?" he asked as he walked out of the caffeine fray. His expressionless face would later appear bored.
We walked to a diner a few blocks away and had eggs with bacon so dark it looked like strips of tar. He asked me what I wanted to write. I asked him his process. Had he been more interested, I think he might be incredulous at my lack of focus but mostly he sat across from me, clearing his sinuses and telling me about how he never reads what he writes and that he gets paid a lot of money for it. I wasn't sure what I needed to get from him but what I got was the technique of writing the perfect sentence and then leaving it behind to move onto the next. Without fail. He told me not to self edit. He also told me to, well, write. The fundamental key to writing is writing. He said that it didn't seem like I wanted to write badly enough to belly up to the bar alongside writers who can't fathom doing anything else. So here I am.
He paid for my breakfast and we said goodbye on the corner. He told me to email him and let him know how it's going. It was generous of him to meet with me, a complete stranger. I appreciated that. I don't think he appreciated my never having read a single thing he'd written. Presumptuous of him to think that I would have. But then again, he writes without fear and with the assumption that all those who are literate will rush to find his words on the printed page.
After our meeting, I walked through Soho looking for a shop selling Valentines. I stopped at a Daffys and spontaneously tried on a pinstriped Elie Tahari pant suit. It itched. I felt fraudulent. The suit represented the opposite of what I was about to do on a Tuesday afternoon. I had no destination. I had no plan. I had the day to myself.
I wandered in and out of stores. I marveled at the simple yet entirely fantastic items at Muji. I walked on Canal Street. I saw fakes on display. Watches, scarves, small electronics all copied from quality originals. Other fraudulent items. When I reached the Village, it started to rain.
Sans umbrella, I randomly took shelter at Pennyfeathers Cafe on 7th Avenue South and Barrow Street. The enclosed patio in the front was fairly empty and I sat in a corner with windows around me. I opened my Time magazine and ordered lemonade from a lovely and cheerful waiter named Issac. The chill of the rain came through the glass protecting me from its moisture. I asked Issac which soup he liked and he produced a mild black bean with sour cream and onions on the side. He spoke with an Israeli accent and had the manner of a loving auntie. The starchy dark soup comforted me a little but there was something about the day that left me searching for true warmth. When the rain dissipated, I dressed for my departure but I stood next to my table for a moment as Issac came to retrieve my credit card slip. I needed a favor.
"Issac? Would it be weird if I asked you for a hug?"
"NO! Oh, you make me feel so good!" he replied. We hugged near the door of the restaurant. He was delighted and held his hand over his heart. He asked me if I lived in the neighborhood. When I told him I lived in Harlem, a woman at a nearby table asked me where specifically and then told me that her mother lived at 125th and Lenox. Issac told me to come back whenever I felt like talking or having a cup of coffee. He smiled so kindly on me that it was the bit of sunshine I was looking for on this overcast day.
I strolled to Kate's Paperie to look for Valentines (paper not people.) There, I picked up a job application. Imagine me! Amidst the paperpress notecards and ribbons by the yard. Crafty heaven. From Kate's, I stopped at the grocery store for fruit and laundry detergent.
On the C train home, I realized that I had left my Time magazine at Pennyfeathers. I put my laundry in the wash and called my new friend Issac. He told me that he was taking the magazine home so that it didn't get lost in the shuffle at the restaurant and that he would be working Saturday through Tuesday. I told him I'd be back to see him and pick up the rag over the weekend. I look forward to hugging him again.
My evening at home was peaceful and domestic. I sent thank you notes to friends in LA. Belated with more coming but still, gratitude delayed. I walked to the bodega at the corner of our building and traded 5 nickels for the lone quarter I still needed to dry my whites. I made myself a sandwich with the leftover prime rib. Cheddar, beef and a little bit of Gulden's mustard. I liked meeting the man at the bodega. I liked pretty much everyone and everything about my day. It's probably a little odd for New York.
When my roommates came home, we stayed up late recounting the day. We snacked and laughed. They made grilled cheese sandwiches with the bread and sharp cheddar I'd bought at the grocery store. I've deemed Nate's impersonation of Frenchmen to be a new anti-depressant. His intonation is simply, like my day out was, "hah-may-zang-ghah." And for a good belly laugh, it's never too late.
Monday, February 4, 2008
"I'm naht sittin' on ya head!"
Okay so for the fifth day in a row, I woke up during the post meridian hours. Today, the off-duty pastry chef and I set out on a houseware adventure. My fabulous coworkers in L.A. sent me off with an incredibly generous gift certificate to Zabar's where I can eat, shop and feel like the Kosher Jew I know I am on the inside. That was our first destination. I bought nary a houseware but I did spend eight whole dollars on four slices of nova lox. I then spent 75 cents on a mediocre bagel only to discover an H&H next door after we left. We stopped at a Starbucks for Karen's chai latte while I sat us next to a student who very coldly made room for us at the window counter. I think she'd had enough of my crinkly wax paper smoked salmon madness when she made like she was going to leave but actually moved to a table near the front of the store. I devoured the soft lox and pedestrian poppyseed bagel. Karen sprung for cream cheese from the barista and I sipped fresh squeezed OJ. Sunshine in a bottle.
We turned south and went to Macy's at Herald Square so that I could lay around more but this time with the focused goal of purchasing a bed for my closet/ room. On the crowded train, people were meeting people in a squishy afternoon melee. Passengers got on and stayed on, every stop filling the train with more dark winter coats and more gloved hands reaching for brushed metal poles. I spotted an Asian girl with bad blond hair and bright blue eyeshadow. I dubbed her "The Mermaid." A lady with a seat next to the door became agitated and started snapping at a man forced to stand next to her. The entire car laughed when he retaliated with "I'm naht sittin' on ya head! Quit complaining. At least you gaht a seat." Pardon the New York-ness of it all.
Macy's keeps the original wooden escalator on certain floors and we marveled at the feeling of it. The ricketiness, the rumble of wooden slats a nostalgic change from sleek steel. This is where Macy's began and it was unlike any I'd visited on the West Coast. This one had a Louis Vuitton in it! I ordered my bed without much fanfare and we celebrated with Auntie Anne's cinnamon sugar pretzel sticks. An entire island covered with real pretzel salesmen with carts on every corner and we get ours with a thick coating of cinnamon and sugar from a chain of shops typically found in sterile shopping malls across America. Pardon our L.A.-ness.
We shopped further at Daffys where Karen met a old man searching for a Valentine gift. We then met our friend at H&M and headed for Korean BBQ at Shilla. Delicious kalbi, chewy buckwheat noodles in cold broth, orange wedges for dessert. I burped the garlicky burp of Korean evidence all night. Later, I actually laughed so hard I farted while Karen folded her laundry in the living room. I'm not ashamed.
Before we headed back to the apartment, we made a stop at Duane Reade and picked up snacks and dishwasher detergent. On the platform at 34th Street, Karen tempted me with strawberry creme Peeps. Never has pink airpuffed sugar dipped in red sugar been so delicious. A stranger noticed our chewy treasure and made a comment about how good they looked. Karen offered him one and although he declined he remarked that she was generous and that it was a good thing. We're friendly. Pardon our L.A.-ness.
The night was topped off with Reese's Peanutbutter cookies and cereal for me. And some dark chocolate Ferrero Rochers. "When we are happy, we both get fat." (1)
(1) From the song "Life in a Nutshell" by the Barenaked Ladies.
We turned south and went to Macy's at Herald Square so that I could lay around more but this time with the focused goal of purchasing a bed for my closet/ room. On the crowded train, people were meeting people in a squishy afternoon melee. Passengers got on and stayed on, every stop filling the train with more dark winter coats and more gloved hands reaching for brushed metal poles. I spotted an Asian girl with bad blond hair and bright blue eyeshadow. I dubbed her "The Mermaid." A lady with a seat next to the door became agitated and started snapping at a man forced to stand next to her. The entire car laughed when he retaliated with "I'm naht sittin' on ya head! Quit complaining. At least you gaht a seat." Pardon the New York-ness of it all.
Macy's keeps the original wooden escalator on certain floors and we marveled at the feeling of it. The ricketiness, the rumble of wooden slats a nostalgic change from sleek steel. This is where Macy's began and it was unlike any I'd visited on the West Coast. This one had a Louis Vuitton in it! I ordered my bed without much fanfare and we celebrated with Auntie Anne's cinnamon sugar pretzel sticks. An entire island covered with real pretzel salesmen with carts on every corner and we get ours with a thick coating of cinnamon and sugar from a chain of shops typically found in sterile shopping malls across America. Pardon our L.A.-ness.
We shopped further at Daffys where Karen met a old man searching for a Valentine gift. We then met our friend at H&M and headed for Korean BBQ at Shilla. Delicious kalbi, chewy buckwheat noodles in cold broth, orange wedges for dessert. I burped the garlicky burp of Korean evidence all night. Later, I actually laughed so hard I farted while Karen folded her laundry in the living room. I'm not ashamed.
Before we headed back to the apartment, we made a stop at Duane Reade and picked up snacks and dishwasher detergent. On the platform at 34th Street, Karen tempted me with strawberry creme Peeps. Never has pink airpuffed sugar dipped in red sugar been so delicious. A stranger noticed our chewy treasure and made a comment about how good they looked. Karen offered him one and although he declined he remarked that she was generous and that it was a good thing. We're friendly. Pardon our L.A.-ness.
The night was topped off with Reese's Peanutbutter cookies and cereal for me. And some dark chocolate Ferrero Rochers. "When we are happy, we both get fat." (1)
(1) From the song "Life in a Nutshell" by the Barenaked Ladies.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
most valuable posterior
I stayed up late on pre-Super Bowl Saturday catching up with an Angeleno for whom I particularly pine. Again, as the slovenly trend would have it, I rose after the lunch hour to find Karen and Nate in front of our absurdly giant television. Law and Order, a most bewitching program had hypnotized the two of them for at least an hour. I declared that I needed to eat and be back by 6pm in time for the kick-off. They were complacent and easily swayed. It was Sunday.
We found ourselves at Miss Mamie's on 110th Street at around 4pm. The dining room was quaint with red vinyl chairs, a red piano and white wainscotting along the walls. The curtains in the window were of a strawberry pattern and the sweet tea and lemonade served in mason jars. Karen and I both ordered southern fried chicken with an assortment of sides between us: mac and cheese, cornbread stuffing, potato salad and candied yams. Nate ordered ribs with black eyed peas and collard greens. We wolfed down our food stopping only for hysterics as Karen recalled a man she saw on the train. The man wore particularly fitted trousers and Karen found it difficult to avert her eyes from his, clinically speaking, "junk." To be candid, she said it looked like he had a soda can in his pants. Mr. Pibb? Dr. Pepper? I laughed so hard I could barely breathe. It's delightful when that happens.
The service was slow on that Super Sunday afternoon and sensing our growing annoyance with Toni Braxton's greatest hits blaring from the sound system, our waiter comped our coconut cake and peach cobbler. Ken, we salute you and your dancer's physique. We will see you both again very soon.
6:00pm. Back in front of the electronic window. It was the first time I truly enjoyed the life-like quality of HD programming. Little Eli Manning looked crisp and forlorn. Every hair on Randy Moss' face was defined. Bill Belichick furrowed that brow and I felt it in my basal cortex. And Tommy Brady...that face paint was FIERCE, GIRLFRIEND! Nate and I forced ourselves to pay attention through the first half. Karen dozed off before the game started but came to after halftime when things got good. At the conclusion of the game, after Lil Eli spun out of the dog pile and passed the amazing pass and eventually ran out the 1 second remaining, New Yorkers outside my window cheered. I don't like to take credit for bringing luck to this city, but I will.
We found ourselves at Miss Mamie's on 110th Street at around 4pm. The dining room was quaint with red vinyl chairs, a red piano and white wainscotting along the walls. The curtains in the window were of a strawberry pattern and the sweet tea and lemonade served in mason jars. Karen and I both ordered southern fried chicken with an assortment of sides between us: mac and cheese, cornbread stuffing, potato salad and candied yams. Nate ordered ribs with black eyed peas and collard greens. We wolfed down our food stopping only for hysterics as Karen recalled a man she saw on the train. The man wore particularly fitted trousers and Karen found it difficult to avert her eyes from his, clinically speaking, "junk." To be candid, she said it looked like he had a soda can in his pants. Mr. Pibb? Dr. Pepper? I laughed so hard I could barely breathe. It's delightful when that happens.
The service was slow on that Super Sunday afternoon and sensing our growing annoyance with Toni Braxton's greatest hits blaring from the sound system, our waiter comped our coconut cake and peach cobbler. Ken, we salute you and your dancer's physique. We will see you both again very soon.
6:00pm. Back in front of the electronic window. It was the first time I truly enjoyed the life-like quality of HD programming. Little Eli Manning looked crisp and forlorn. Every hair on Randy Moss' face was defined. Bill Belichick furrowed that brow and I felt it in my basal cortex. And Tommy Brady...that face paint was FIERCE, GIRLFRIEND! Nate and I forced ourselves to pay attention through the first half. Karen dozed off before the game started but came to after halftime when things got good. At the conclusion of the game, after Lil Eli spun out of the dog pile and passed the amazing pass and eventually ran out the 1 second remaining, New Yorkers outside my window cheered. I don't like to take credit for bringing luck to this city, but I will.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
an avid reader
I have trouble with novels. In the advent of multi-tasking and Microsoft Windows open 20 at a time, I find it hard to concentrate sometimes. I love to read though and I do it often here. I read traffic lights. I read subway maps. I read the covers of books being read by real readers on the train. I read street signs and sale signs and department store floor categories. I read all day.
Yesterday, the weather was grey and I allowed myself the irresponsible luxury of sleeping past noon. The reasoning behind it was simple: I did it because I could. I turned myself out of bed and dawdled about the apartment and left it around 3:00pm to pay a visit to the boys at Focus Features. I had never met them before, the bodies which produce the voices I'd become familiar with over so many months. It was great to meet the tag team of assistants who often stay later than even I would like for them, to accommodate the time difference between us and the Eastern sea board.
Mr. Kansas directed me across the street for my breakfast, served at 5:00pm. Cafe Angelique with its Parisian tiling and non-Parisian low-fat, low-carb baked goods. I'd been advised that the chicken pesto sandwich on fougasse bread was worth investigating so I ordered that and a "Chocolate Bombe" which was a flourless chocolate brownie. Breakfast of sloths! The fougasse was toasted nicely and there was plenty of chicken pesto but the pesto was not strong enough and a bit creamy for me. The tomatoes sliced into it were old and tasted metallic with age. The chocolate bombe however was fluffy and crumbly and like dark cocoa velvet. The bombe was fantastic.
It's OK to eat one fattening meal a day if it's the only meal you eat. And I like to justify the consumption of chocolate with the presence of rain. Big, lackadaisical, slappy rain. The hems of my jeans were dark with the watery filth of this town. I stepped carefully down into and up out of the subway. The slick floors were shining with potential accidents. Gross. Earlier in the week I had tripped walking up the stairs of the subway and caught myself with my bare hands on the steps traversed by thousands. I quarantined my paws until I could find gloves made of hand sanitizer. I walked a few blocks like a criminal at gunpoint held hostage by bacteria and the slides I was shown in Microbiology class. I'm not a fan of bacteria and other assorted invisible foulness.
Fully innoculated, I woke late on Saturday and spent it reading in the apartment. I ate leftovers of grilled veggies and veggie lasagna from Certe and enjoyed a bit of solitude. Another grey sky spread outside my window and I didn't leave the house until 7pm when I took the train to 72nd Street to join my dear friend Dale and his mother for dinner at Tavern on the Green. While not the fanciest food, the history of the building dates back a lot of years and we were seated in the Crystal Room which is inspired by Venice and felt like the inside of an Easter egg dream. The chandeliers were everywhere and I indulged in a cocktail of Chambord and gingerale. Dale and his mother had just returned from a cruise and as I ate my seared ahi tuna with black seaweed salad and lotus root, I clicked through photos on Dale's camera. For my main course, I ordered the prime rib but only ate the cap. My entire life I'd only liked eating the cap but always felt silly about it, not knowing what I was doing until the French Laundry happened and Thomas Keller diagnosed my palate. TK, I love you. I want to have your food baby.
It's a culinary feat for that many people to consume that much food of a certain quality day after day. Everyone enjoyed their choices, iceberg blue, lobster bisque, pork chops, sea bass...and when I say everyone I mean us and the other hundreds of people celebrating that evening. Birthday parties, anniversaries, friends from the ends of the earth coming to dine and spend a moment looking at familiar faces before separating again in a puff of warm air on a chilly night. I wore my long, black wool coat that night and felt very much a sophisticate. Especially on the train back when a couple of Puerto Rican kids were making fun of a homeless woman. One of them made eye contact with me and smiled his acknowledgement that I knew they were being snarky. I wasn't afraid. I was a cool, calm New Yorker.
Yesterday, the weather was grey and I allowed myself the irresponsible luxury of sleeping past noon. The reasoning behind it was simple: I did it because I could. I turned myself out of bed and dawdled about the apartment and left it around 3:00pm to pay a visit to the boys at Focus Features. I had never met them before, the bodies which produce the voices I'd become familiar with over so many months. It was great to meet the tag team of assistants who often stay later than even I would like for them, to accommodate the time difference between us and the Eastern sea board.
Mr. Kansas directed me across the street for my breakfast, served at 5:00pm. Cafe Angelique with its Parisian tiling and non-Parisian low-fat, low-carb baked goods. I'd been advised that the chicken pesto sandwich on fougasse bread was worth investigating so I ordered that and a "Chocolate Bombe" which was a flourless chocolate brownie. Breakfast of sloths! The fougasse was toasted nicely and there was plenty of chicken pesto but the pesto was not strong enough and a bit creamy for me. The tomatoes sliced into it were old and tasted metallic with age. The chocolate bombe however was fluffy and crumbly and like dark cocoa velvet. The bombe was fantastic.
It's OK to eat one fattening meal a day if it's the only meal you eat. And I like to justify the consumption of chocolate with the presence of rain. Big, lackadaisical, slappy rain. The hems of my jeans were dark with the watery filth of this town. I stepped carefully down into and up out of the subway. The slick floors were shining with potential accidents. Gross. Earlier in the week I had tripped walking up the stairs of the subway and caught myself with my bare hands on the steps traversed by thousands. I quarantined my paws until I could find gloves made of hand sanitizer. I walked a few blocks like a criminal at gunpoint held hostage by bacteria and the slides I was shown in Microbiology class. I'm not a fan of bacteria and other assorted invisible foulness.
Fully innoculated, I woke late on Saturday and spent it reading in the apartment. I ate leftovers of grilled veggies and veggie lasagna from Certe and enjoyed a bit of solitude. Another grey sky spread outside my window and I didn't leave the house until 7pm when I took the train to 72nd Street to join my dear friend Dale and his mother for dinner at Tavern on the Green. While not the fanciest food, the history of the building dates back a lot of years and we were seated in the Crystal Room which is inspired by Venice and felt like the inside of an Easter egg dream. The chandeliers were everywhere and I indulged in a cocktail of Chambord and gingerale. Dale and his mother had just returned from a cruise and as I ate my seared ahi tuna with black seaweed salad and lotus root, I clicked through photos on Dale's camera. For my main course, I ordered the prime rib but only ate the cap. My entire life I'd only liked eating the cap but always felt silly about it, not knowing what I was doing until the French Laundry happened and Thomas Keller diagnosed my palate. TK, I love you. I want to have your food baby.
It's a culinary feat for that many people to consume that much food of a certain quality day after day. Everyone enjoyed their choices, iceberg blue, lobster bisque, pork chops, sea bass...and when I say everyone I mean us and the other hundreds of people celebrating that evening. Birthday parties, anniversaries, friends from the ends of the earth coming to dine and spend a moment looking at familiar faces before separating again in a puff of warm air on a chilly night. I wore my long, black wool coat that night and felt very much a sophisticate. Especially on the train back when a couple of Puerto Rican kids were making fun of a homeless woman. One of them made eye contact with me and smiled his acknowledgement that I knew they were being snarky. I wasn't afraid. I was a cool, calm New Yorker.
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