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.
Monday, February 4, 2008
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.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
before i turn to stone
30 Rock is not just a sardonic TV show but it's also the nickname for the actual headquarters of one of the largest media conglomerates in the country. NBC Universal. It's where I went this morning but where I arrived too late to see a few of the executives whom I loved so dearly when I was an assistant at my former place of employment. I stood sweaty and panting outside the office of the head of the company as he walked past me to get to another meeting. I looked oily and crazy. I glanced around sheepishly at the thin and beautiful assistants in their office savvy outfits and their acclimated body temperatures. I consoled the disappointment of my failed mission with a tuna sandwich and fresh squeezed grapefruit juice from Pret A Manger, a chain of shops I haven't seen since I was in London over a year ago. I sat amidst the lunchtime crowd of dashers and smiled on the inside. I had nowhere to be but back at my apartment to perhaps buy some household items with my roommate the cop. I smelled the amalgam of scents that compose the symphony of the wedge hour that drives the day into two parts, the before and after. I watched it spin around me though I was not part of its universe let alone the center.
Coming out of the train station at 110th street, I encountered two small Chinese women. They were probably 70 and less than 5 feet tall. The older one wore a light purple knitted cap and the sunglasses given to patients of ocular dismay. The kind that block out all manner of light to save the fragile corneas and retinas of people who have seen too much. The younger one had a worn red coat and a smiling face. We climbed the stairs together and I noticed they had each a bag and a wheeled duffle/ backpack. They had trouble dragging the larger bags up the stairs so I asked them in Cantonese if they wanted some help. They giggled and accepted but without shame. Their accents betrayed their origins in the countryside of Canton where lives are meager. I took one dufflebag and marched ahead as they tended to the other. I looked back and saw that it was still causing them a bit of inconvenience so I handed over my Louis Vuitton purse and took a second dufflebag in my free hand and above ground we went. They smiled at their luck to have help. I laughed at the absurdity of me in my high heeled boots, towering nearly 6 feet tall over these two women who had just come from the markets of Chinatown with ingredients for the Lunar New Year feast coming in a few days. Their dufflebags were laden with raw vegetables and meats. As we walked, we discovered we lived on the same street just a few buildings apart. They invited me to have tea with them and sit for a while but I declined as I had shopping of my own to do. I wished them a happy new year and good health. They giggled further.
Two people have been cold to me in the past week but for the most part, I've connected with strangers just as I would have were I in LA. I told a man on the train that his sandwich smelled delicious. I told a gay waiter at a soul food restaurant that his ass was fantastic, probably the most fantastic I'd ever seen. I've smiled at passengers on the subway. After purchases at Bed Bath and Beyond followed by won ton soup at Penang and fried banana won tons at Lime Leaf, the cop and I returned home to unpack, unwrap and assemble. I recounted the story of the little old ladies. I was advised that I should stay out of the affairs of others and that no good deed goes unpunished. I felt sad for the cop. Everyone knows that little old ladies should be the first recipients of a random act of kindness. This city has hardened my roommate and I refuse to succmb to the same stony evolution.
Coming out of the train station at 110th street, I encountered two small Chinese women. They were probably 70 and less than 5 feet tall. The older one wore a light purple knitted cap and the sunglasses given to patients of ocular dismay. The kind that block out all manner of light to save the fragile corneas and retinas of people who have seen too much. The younger one had a worn red coat and a smiling face. We climbed the stairs together and I noticed they had each a bag and a wheeled duffle/ backpack. They had trouble dragging the larger bags up the stairs so I asked them in Cantonese if they wanted some help. They giggled and accepted but without shame. Their accents betrayed their origins in the countryside of Canton where lives are meager. I took one dufflebag and marched ahead as they tended to the other. I looked back and saw that it was still causing them a bit of inconvenience so I handed over my Louis Vuitton purse and took a second dufflebag in my free hand and above ground we went. They smiled at their luck to have help. I laughed at the absurdity of me in my high heeled boots, towering nearly 6 feet tall over these two women who had just come from the markets of Chinatown with ingredients for the Lunar New Year feast coming in a few days. Their dufflebags were laden with raw vegetables and meats. As we walked, we discovered we lived on the same street just a few buildings apart. They invited me to have tea with them and sit for a while but I declined as I had shopping of my own to do. I wished them a happy new year and good health. They giggled further.
Two people have been cold to me in the past week but for the most part, I've connected with strangers just as I would have were I in LA. I told a man on the train that his sandwich smelled delicious. I told a gay waiter at a soul food restaurant that his ass was fantastic, probably the most fantastic I'd ever seen. I've smiled at passengers on the subway. After purchases at Bed Bath and Beyond followed by won ton soup at Penang and fried banana won tons at Lime Leaf, the cop and I returned home to unpack, unwrap and assemble. I recounted the story of the little old ladies. I was advised that I should stay out of the affairs of others and that no good deed goes unpunished. I felt sad for the cop. Everyone knows that little old ladies should be the first recipients of a random act of kindness. This city has hardened my roommate and I refuse to succmb to the same stony evolution.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
panelist
After a chocolate chip cookie on the train, Karen and I emerged on Wall Street to attend an event at Deutsche Bank. "Investing in Hollywood." My former boss spoke on a panel of executives involved in the film business and its investment opportunities. We entered the auditorium in our jeans and casual clothing and tromped between rows to two empty seats in the center section which afforded the clearest view of heads of studios and film finance gurus. I surprised myself with how much information I had accumulated through office osmosis. When terms were dropped and trends were discussed, I understood. Who knew I could feel so smart.
Karen and I left the suits to their cocktails and chatter for a bit of shopping at Century 21. So many pretty things. So little necessity. As we grew hungry, I emailed my Jedi council of former New York foodies to ask for a recommendation in the Tribeca neighborhood. Bubby's was the winner where Karen and I sat down around 8pm and ravenously tore at jalapeno cornbread. She ordered chicken pot pie with coleslaw and hush puppies. For me, three meat meatloaf with mac and cheese and sauteed spinach. The chicken pot pie was a bit dry and the hush puppies unremarkable. My meatloaf had personality and bacon. The sides were lovely, mac and cheese creamy and hot with little bit of gruyere, the spinach lush and green. I tried fresh cranberry juice for the first time and loved it. It was crisp yet a strong red. For dessert I ordered Callebaut hot chocolate which was a bit too sweet but fantastic nonetheless. They went low fat on me with the use of whole milk instead of cream but I always must remind myself that we're in New York and not Paris. Tant pis.
From Bubby's Karen and I took the train to the Mandarin Oriental hotel located at the Time Warner Center at Columbus Circle. We met my former boss in the Lobby Lounge on the 24th floor with a view of 59th Street and a corner of the park. The walls were black marble and the appointments were all very Asian. We sat in soft chairs next to a high window and sipped MacCallan 12 year scotch on the rocks. When I say we I mean the former boss and me. He finished my scotch for me as I am but a child when it comes to hard liquor. I admit that the scotch was incredibly smooth though. A manly drink for manly people who want to sleep like babies.
We chatted about what I'd learned recently about the finance industry. We talked of things that adults speak of when they sip expensive drinks in dim rooms...Nebraska, cooking, life. It was the first time I knew this man as not my boss but as my friend in a way. As a man over whom I could lord my superior sense of humor and inappropriate behavior. I stole a green apple from a bowl in the hallway on the floor of his hotel room. I stole his Times Dining section. I tried to steal his complimentary hotel slippers but he was wearing them. I suppose he misses my presence at the office. More than he'd miss a set of shampoos and conditioners anyway.
Karen and I left the suits to their cocktails and chatter for a bit of shopping at Century 21. So many pretty things. So little necessity. As we grew hungry, I emailed my Jedi council of former New York foodies to ask for a recommendation in the Tribeca neighborhood. Bubby's was the winner where Karen and I sat down around 8pm and ravenously tore at jalapeno cornbread. She ordered chicken pot pie with coleslaw and hush puppies. For me, three meat meatloaf with mac and cheese and sauteed spinach. The chicken pot pie was a bit dry and the hush puppies unremarkable. My meatloaf had personality and bacon. The sides were lovely, mac and cheese creamy and hot with little bit of gruyere, the spinach lush and green. I tried fresh cranberry juice for the first time and loved it. It was crisp yet a strong red. For dessert I ordered Callebaut hot chocolate which was a bit too sweet but fantastic nonetheless. They went low fat on me with the use of whole milk instead of cream but I always must remind myself that we're in New York and not Paris. Tant pis.
From Bubby's Karen and I took the train to the Mandarin Oriental hotel located at the Time Warner Center at Columbus Circle. We met my former boss in the Lobby Lounge on the 24th floor with a view of 59th Street and a corner of the park. The walls were black marble and the appointments were all very Asian. We sat in soft chairs next to a high window and sipped MacCallan 12 year scotch on the rocks. When I say we I mean the former boss and me. He finished my scotch for me as I am but a child when it comes to hard liquor. I admit that the scotch was incredibly smooth though. A manly drink for manly people who want to sleep like babies.
We chatted about what I'd learned recently about the finance industry. We talked of things that adults speak of when they sip expensive drinks in dim rooms...Nebraska, cooking, life. It was the first time I knew this man as not my boss but as my friend in a way. As a man over whom I could lord my superior sense of humor and inappropriate behavior. I stole a green apple from a bowl in the hallway on the floor of his hotel room. I stole his Times Dining section. I tried to steal his complimentary hotel slippers but he was wearing them. I suppose he misses my presence at the office. More than he'd miss a set of shampoos and conditioners anyway.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
eating and sleeping
I took a New York City bus for the first time today.
I had ridden with Vera in a taxi out to LaGuardia for her return flight to Toronto. We had risen too late to dine in the city so at the airport we had lunch at au bon pain. I ate a tuna sandwich on a French roll and an orange which cost $0.79. I looked across the table at my friend and felt a very nonchalant comfort. Though we have been friends for more time than we haven't been friends, we get to a place where everything goes but anything can still sting. She drops the prickly facts on me every now and again as I do on her. Saying goodbye was also a time to say "This is what I meant by what I said..."
On the M60 bus back to Manhattan, I stopped into a mattress shop on 125th St. to lay on bed after bed. I haven't decided on a winner yet since everything costs between $400-$600. Not having an income at the moment, the way my money leaves my hands has changed. I was never a frugal person but growing up and having to consider finances is inevitable. It's the in and out of cashflow. For now, I monitor the in and out of air through the leak in the Aerobed.
I decided to walk 12 blocks through Harlem back to my apartment. It had started to sprinkle but I was in a down coat that withstood the rain. For 10 minutes, I was the only non-black person I saw. It was a curious feeling that I haven't experienced since I started doing poetry in 1999 when I would be the odd one out at readings. Most of the people I saw were older. It was Tuesday afternoon so the children were at school and the mothers and fathers were at work. I stopped into a bakery for orange juice and got home just as Nate was waking up. A real Italian at the restaurant where he works recommended a pizza place on the LES that he wanted to try so I tagged along to Luzzo's. We took another bus and strolled the LES along 1st Ave. We passed Bird Bath Bakery and each bought a cookie. The store was of a strange ambiance. It's a "green" bakery but the vibe was somber and stolid. Tall pillar candles stood next to stacked cookies in the window. A very odd display.
Luzzo's was incredible. We started with calamari which was mezzo mezzo. The squid was not fresh and too chewy for my taste but the pizza...oh, the pizza. I had thought Lombardi's set the standard for my pizza eating future but Luzzo's crust and soft burrata from Napoli made the rainy weather clear up. The dough was light and soft like a cloud with a crisp bottom. The sauce and the cheese, the basil and the scent swirled together in a perfect pizza dream. We also had an order of gnocchi which I thought was lovely though Nate found it a bit gummy. For dessert, we walked a few blocks to Sugar Sweet Sunshine and got a half dozen of vanilla, chocolate, pistachio, lemon, pumpkin and red velvet cupcakes. Then a quick stop at Starbucks for coffee (for Nate) and a green tea latte (for me) and back home to tear into the box of pastel goodies with Karen who had come home from her shift.
This is possible here. The many stops for food. New Yorkers are like hummingbirds in constant search of nectar to sustain their perpetual motion. In Los Angeles, making a stop for food is an annoyance and a bother. But here, walking home usually means you'll pass a delectable storefront at which you can pause for a bite.
I had ridden with Vera in a taxi out to LaGuardia for her return flight to Toronto. We had risen too late to dine in the city so at the airport we had lunch at au bon pain. I ate a tuna sandwich on a French roll and an orange which cost $0.79. I looked across the table at my friend and felt a very nonchalant comfort. Though we have been friends for more time than we haven't been friends, we get to a place where everything goes but anything can still sting. She drops the prickly facts on me every now and again as I do on her. Saying goodbye was also a time to say "This is what I meant by what I said..."
On the M60 bus back to Manhattan, I stopped into a mattress shop on 125th St. to lay on bed after bed. I haven't decided on a winner yet since everything costs between $400-$600. Not having an income at the moment, the way my money leaves my hands has changed. I was never a frugal person but growing up and having to consider finances is inevitable. It's the in and out of cashflow. For now, I monitor the in and out of air through the leak in the Aerobed.
I decided to walk 12 blocks through Harlem back to my apartment. It had started to sprinkle but I was in a down coat that withstood the rain. For 10 minutes, I was the only non-black person I saw. It was a curious feeling that I haven't experienced since I started doing poetry in 1999 when I would be the odd one out at readings. Most of the people I saw were older. It was Tuesday afternoon so the children were at school and the mothers and fathers were at work. I stopped into a bakery for orange juice and got home just as Nate was waking up. A real Italian at the restaurant where he works recommended a pizza place on the LES that he wanted to try so I tagged along to Luzzo's. We took another bus and strolled the LES along 1st Ave. We passed Bird Bath Bakery and each bought a cookie. The store was of a strange ambiance. It's a "green" bakery but the vibe was somber and stolid. Tall pillar candles stood next to stacked cookies in the window. A very odd display.
Luzzo's was incredible. We started with calamari which was mezzo mezzo. The squid was not fresh and too chewy for my taste but the pizza...oh, the pizza. I had thought Lombardi's set the standard for my pizza eating future but Luzzo's crust and soft burrata from Napoli made the rainy weather clear up. The dough was light and soft like a cloud with a crisp bottom. The sauce and the cheese, the basil and the scent swirled together in a perfect pizza dream. We also had an order of gnocchi which I thought was lovely though Nate found it a bit gummy. For dessert, we walked a few blocks to Sugar Sweet Sunshine and got a half dozen of vanilla, chocolate, pistachio, lemon, pumpkin and red velvet cupcakes. Then a quick stop at Starbucks for coffee (for Nate) and a green tea latte (for me) and back home to tear into the box of pastel goodies with Karen who had come home from her shift.
This is possible here. The many stops for food. New Yorkers are like hummingbirds in constant search of nectar to sustain their perpetual motion. In Los Angeles, making a stop for food is an annoyance and a bother. But here, walking home usually means you'll pass a delectable storefront at which you can pause for a bite.
PST
Pacific
I've kept my Blackberry on West Coast time to mind those whom I love. I glance at it, see the hour and wonder about my friends. Some are waking, some are resting, some work, some play. All are in my thoughts.
Standard
Monday morning, my best friend since the age of 9 and I went to the jewelry district to see a man named Leigh. He sells antique engagement rings and Vera was interested in resetting a diamond of her grandmother's. It's a funny coincidence that she and I both wear diamonds passed down through the women in our family. De Beers would be disappointed.
In the netting of streets located around 47th and Madison, jewellers abound with velvet trays. Bracelets shine, necklaces sway, rings sit with their stones sparkling up towards our curious eyes. In Leigh's office, he produced 6 or 7 trays full of settings. Some had diamonds in them, some were empty, their prongs like the beaks of small birds, open and ready for a faceted feeding. Vera chose her setting and we set out with one of the assistants to see a slew of men with dirty fingers and rusted tools. Each specialized in a particular step of the process. Ivan sized the ring, sawing a section out and welding it to the specifications of Vera's finger. Hye reset the stone and secured the diamond of Vera's past into the platinum of Vera's present. Gabe polished the finished product and onto Vera's hand it went. They all wore wedding bands and the unimpressed expressions of jaded men who have seen many pretty things.
Time
Lunch. At Certe with a commodities trader. At the door was a tray of brownie cubes. The one I snuck was delicious. For my meal I had vegetarian lasagna with a side of grilled vegetables - zucchini, asparagus and red bell pepper. The lasagna was creamy with spinach pasta sheets stuffed with asparagus, mushrooms, eggplant, broccoli, tomatoes and cheese. For dessert, a small cup of tres leches cake. And another brownie cube on the way out the door. For braving the elements.
The commodities trader couldn't seem to understand what the appeal of New York was for me. I had to explain the food, the culture, the stimulation, the rituals. He lives in an enormous condo in Jersey with his wife. Neither of them seem to like these things and we reached an impasse after I tried to defend myself for about 5 minutes. We stopped in on his office and I poked around the spreadsheets on his desk. It didn't seem to matter if it were film ultimates or gold trades, it was boring.
As we left him to his work, I examined a sculpture in the lobby of the building and read its accompanying plaque. It was created by a German artists whose work has appeared at the Guggenheim and MOCA in Los Angeles. I stared at the recycled metal pieces. I admired it. The commodities trader looked at Vera and proclaimed that in the 3 years that he has worked at the company, he had never once stopped to look at the sculpture. Suddenly the difficulty of my lunchtime defense of New York became clear.
From there, Vera and I walked about 30 blocks to the Met which unfortunately was closed. Mondays. I made note. We cut through Central Park and encountered a woman with her baby and their dog. We asked directions and as she spoke, the baby, in his baby holder, moved his arms and legs like a bouncing starfish she wore as a badge. He was a serious baby. I guessed that his father was a very serious man and that his mother was the spicier of the two. She smiled, agreed and we said goodbye. Vera seemed to think I was bothering her. She said that people may just be polite sometimes and that I shouldn't be so chatty. I like to give myself credit for the ability to read people. I think perhaps I misread Vera.
Dinner. We took the train to the Village to meet with a real estate man. Another friend of Vera's. Another man with a wife and a disbelief in my move. We ate at Lombardi's and ordered Caesar salad and a sausage and mushroom pie for the three of us. Crunchy soft pizza dough, spicy sausage and a hit of sweet onion. I couldn't have it any other way again.
After dinner, Vera and I headed to the Bowery Ballroom to see Chromeo. The concert was the key reason my dear friend had come to visit and we rocked out to 80s electrofunk as my brand new boots got scuffed under the heels of hipsters doing likewise. I watched Vera laugh with glee as song after song hit her ears. I smiled as she enjoyed herself. I cried on the inside for the ruined leather on my feet.
Following the concert, we stopped in on one of the ibankers from the previous night. The rent for his midtown studio is the same as our 3 bedroom apartment in Harlem. Morgan Stanley must be a kind man. Vera and he caught up further as I stood in his walk-in closet and pulled an accounting book from the shelf. I cracked it open at his desk and began reading about this mysterious study which entices so many people as the foundation of where money is tallied. I borrowed the book as the ibanker cocked his head and told me to call him if I had any questions. Questions, yes. I think I will have many. The main one though is why do these people have such a hard time believing that I could just up and move to this glorious island?
I've kept my Blackberry on West Coast time to mind those whom I love. I glance at it, see the hour and wonder about my friends. Some are waking, some are resting, some work, some play. All are in my thoughts.
Standard
Monday morning, my best friend since the age of 9 and I went to the jewelry district to see a man named Leigh. He sells antique engagement rings and Vera was interested in resetting a diamond of her grandmother's. It's a funny coincidence that she and I both wear diamonds passed down through the women in our family. De Beers would be disappointed.
In the netting of streets located around 47th and Madison, jewellers abound with velvet trays. Bracelets shine, necklaces sway, rings sit with their stones sparkling up towards our curious eyes. In Leigh's office, he produced 6 or 7 trays full of settings. Some had diamonds in them, some were empty, their prongs like the beaks of small birds, open and ready for a faceted feeding. Vera chose her setting and we set out with one of the assistants to see a slew of men with dirty fingers and rusted tools. Each specialized in a particular step of the process. Ivan sized the ring, sawing a section out and welding it to the specifications of Vera's finger. Hye reset the stone and secured the diamond of Vera's past into the platinum of Vera's present. Gabe polished the finished product and onto Vera's hand it went. They all wore wedding bands and the unimpressed expressions of jaded men who have seen many pretty things.
Time
Lunch. At Certe with a commodities trader. At the door was a tray of brownie cubes. The one I snuck was delicious. For my meal I had vegetarian lasagna with a side of grilled vegetables - zucchini, asparagus and red bell pepper. The lasagna was creamy with spinach pasta sheets stuffed with asparagus, mushrooms, eggplant, broccoli, tomatoes and cheese. For dessert, a small cup of tres leches cake. And another brownie cube on the way out the door. For braving the elements.
The commodities trader couldn't seem to understand what the appeal of New York was for me. I had to explain the food, the culture, the stimulation, the rituals. He lives in an enormous condo in Jersey with his wife. Neither of them seem to like these things and we reached an impasse after I tried to defend myself for about 5 minutes. We stopped in on his office and I poked around the spreadsheets on his desk. It didn't seem to matter if it were film ultimates or gold trades, it was boring.
As we left him to his work, I examined a sculpture in the lobby of the building and read its accompanying plaque. It was created by a German artists whose work has appeared at the Guggenheim and MOCA in Los Angeles. I stared at the recycled metal pieces. I admired it. The commodities trader looked at Vera and proclaimed that in the 3 years that he has worked at the company, he had never once stopped to look at the sculpture. Suddenly the difficulty of my lunchtime defense of New York became clear.
From there, Vera and I walked about 30 blocks to the Met which unfortunately was closed. Mondays. I made note. We cut through Central Park and encountered a woman with her baby and their dog. We asked directions and as she spoke, the baby, in his baby holder, moved his arms and legs like a bouncing starfish she wore as a badge. He was a serious baby. I guessed that his father was a very serious man and that his mother was the spicier of the two. She smiled, agreed and we said goodbye. Vera seemed to think I was bothering her. She said that people may just be polite sometimes and that I shouldn't be so chatty. I like to give myself credit for the ability to read people. I think perhaps I misread Vera.
Dinner. We took the train to the Village to meet with a real estate man. Another friend of Vera's. Another man with a wife and a disbelief in my move. We ate at Lombardi's and ordered Caesar salad and a sausage and mushroom pie for the three of us. Crunchy soft pizza dough, spicy sausage and a hit of sweet onion. I couldn't have it any other way again.
After dinner, Vera and I headed to the Bowery Ballroom to see Chromeo. The concert was the key reason my dear friend had come to visit and we rocked out to 80s electrofunk as my brand new boots got scuffed under the heels of hipsters doing likewise. I watched Vera laugh with glee as song after song hit her ears. I smiled as she enjoyed herself. I cried on the inside for the ruined leather on my feet.
Following the concert, we stopped in on one of the ibankers from the previous night. The rent for his midtown studio is the same as our 3 bedroom apartment in Harlem. Morgan Stanley must be a kind man. Vera and he caught up further as I stood in his walk-in closet and pulled an accounting book from the shelf. I cracked it open at his desk and began reading about this mysterious study which entices so many people as the foundation of where money is tallied. I borrowed the book as the ibanker cocked his head and told me to call him if I had any questions. Questions, yes. I think I will have many. The main one though is why do these people have such a hard time believing that I could just up and move to this glorious island?
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