Although written long ago, E.B. White's essay "Here Is New York" remains one of the best testaments to the soul of the city.
"It is a miracle that New York works at all. The whole thing is implausible. Every time the residents brush their teeth, millions of gallons of water must be drawn from the Catskills...The subterranean system of telephone cables, power lines, steam pipes, gas mains, and sewer pipes is reason enough to abandon the island to the gods and the weevils...By rights New York should have destroyed itself long ago, from panic or fire or rioting or failure of some vital supply line in its circulatory system or from some deep labyrinthine short circuit. Long ago the city should have experienced an insoluble trafiic snarl at some impossible bottleneck. It should have perished of hunger when food lines failed for a few days. It should have been wiped out by a plague starting in its slums or carried by in by ships' rats. It should have been overwhelmed by the sea that licks at it on every side...It should have been touched in the head by the August heat and gone off its rocker...Mass hysteria is a terrible force, yet New Yorkers seem always to escape it by some tiny margin: they sit in stalled subways without claustrophobia, they extricate themselves from panic situations by some lucky wisecrack, they meet confusion and congestion with patience and grit--a sort of perpetual muddling through...there is not enough air and not enough light, and there is usually too much heat or too little. But the city makes up for its hazards and its deficiencies by supplying its citizens with massive doses of a supplementary vitamin: the sense of belonging to something unique, cosmopolitan, mighty and unparalleled."
White wrote his essay during a heat wave. New York City is tough when the humidity creeps in. The tunnels are a lesson in patience; waiting for that blessed AC car door to open taking you to untold places within the city that most of our ancestors first saw in the late 19th/early 20th century. No AC then. "...strangers who have pulled up stakes somewhere and come to town, seeking sanctuary or fulfillment or some greater or lesser grail. The capacity to make such dubious gifts is a mysterious quality of New York. It can destroy an individual or it can fulfill him, depending a good deal on luck."
Since there has been a lot of press about this place and we are always on the grail trail for pizza, our first stop was Kesté. It's a little cramped, though we barely beat the lunch rush. The mammoth authentic Associazione Pizzaiuoli Napoletani oven looks like a mosque's roof. The tiny tiles glitter in the light. Firstly, the dough is very good. Thin at the center and thickly puffed around the edges with just the right amount of char. Chewy, but, but...not crispy enough for us. The chewy/crispy ratio is very important. We had the Regina Margherita. The toppings are of high quality and sparingly used. Would I return? No, but I would recommend it to you for a try. It might be your type of pizza.
We walked a bit and then went to two NYC staples that are right next to each other on Bleecker Street, Amy's Bread for dessert and Murray's Cheese for aged Parmigiano Reggiano to nibble on with the Champagne that was chillin' in our hotel room. Did I mention that it was the beginning of Kathy's month long birthday celebration? Mea culpa. Gemini's are great exaggerators, thus the extended length of the birthday into the annual birthmonth. At the suggestion of Regina Schrambling and her alter ego, after some obligatory Champagne in the room, we headed to the UWS branch of Fatty Crab. As recommended, we sat at the bar and ordered mainly from the snacks. The fatty pork-beef sliders spiked with Scoville-amped chili were my favorite. I could have had another 20 or so. The scallop satay was incredible. Slightly charred, tender and plump, interspersed with, what else, pork fat, and a crunchy peanut-chili dipping sauce that was addictive. The pork steamed buns were ok. Mostly bun and very little pork. Asians in the know get them elsewhere. Kathy ordered the skate Panggang that was smothered in a vibrant sambal that made you sit up. She also had two Gone Bamboo's and she was after the second one. I had a glass of French rose that went well with everything. Talkative New Yorkers eating the messy chili crab at the bar and a bartender ("none of my drinks are sweet") from New Orleans. And there you have it. Would I go back? Yes, because of the freshness of the food, the forward use of chili, spices and herbs and the friendliness of the bartender. Lot of "f's" there, non? I would like to try to the Village location too, but we walked back to the hotel from this location. Before that, we walked over to Fairway Market and picked up some aged Sherry Wine Vinegar. We hadn't been there since they expanded. Saturday morning we made a beeline for 9th St. Espresso. I had learned that Intelligentsia Coffee recently agreed to provide roasted coffee beans to 9th St. Espresso to create their own Alphabet City Blend. When we arrived at Chelsea Market they were closed! It was about 9:20 when the veil finally parted and we were allowed to order. With a hazelnut biscotti, the cappuccino was deep, robust and extremely smooth without a hint of bitterness. Without a doubt, one of the best I have ever had in the USA. Kathy's latte was also expertly brewed. You can tell that the baristas are into what they are doing and not just pumping out coffee mindlessly. I bought a pound of beans on Sunday. The black bags on the right are filled with the Alphabet City Blend of small light brown beans. Most espresso beans that I have seen are somewhat larger and darker brown-black. After we fueled up we headed south through the West Village and then east. We found our way to 2nd Ave and 4th St. but Ballaro was no more so we cabbed it to Lunetta on Broadway and 21st St. and found that they are doneski too. Lots of places closing or closed. We happened on the NYC BBQ Festival in Madison Park, but the place was overrun, so we ended up at Co., the home of no-knead pizza dough. Situated on a somewhat non-descript stretch of 9th Avenue, Co. is a smart looking minimalist place on the corner with lots of wondows. We opted for the benchmark Margherita and another topped with fennel sausage, red onion and porcini. Both were exceptional, the crust being both chewy and crisp with a good char from the gas propelled oven. We both agreed right off that Co. has it over Kesté. Co.'s quality ingredients are carefully spread on the dough without overwhelming it. The service was friendly and prompt. The wine list looks promising for a night visit. Two pizzas and a bottle of sparkling water came to about $40. I would go back. After a nap, we made our way to In Vino for an early dinner with hopes of catching Junior Mance's first set. Between the heat and humidity, our appetite was not voracious so we went light. We split a ricotta bruschetta, K. had lobster filled ravioli in a tomato-cream sauce and I had pappardelle con i gamberi arrabbiata. We opted for a Copertino Riserva from Puglia that was easy to drink and affordable. The draw here is the wines. The food is good and fairly priced, but not exceptional. I might go back, but there are so many places and so little time. It wasn't meant to be. We were too wiped to catch Junior Mance. It's a shame because people like him aren't going to be around forever. On the train back, we were entertained for $1. The car was full and at one point an older toothless small man in a blue denim jacket at the other end of the car began singing an old uptempo standard while shaking his styrofoam cup in rhythmic time. The certain way he sang toothlessly in key, shakin' his money maker, made me and another guy sitting across from me start to crack up. He gradually approached us knowing that he had us both. He had a bright eyes and sang with all his heart, but he knew he was funny. He cast a spell on those who appreciated it and made us laugh too. One of those NYC moments that remind me why we come to the City.
On Sunday morning, we had brunch at Markt. This brasserie is pretty reliable. The staff is friendly, the French press coffee strong and the Belgian waffles and omelettes wholesome and fresh. Then it was back to Chelsea Market to buy some Amy's foccaccia and other nibbles and to Buon Italia for Liparese capers, white anchovies and a jar of Calabrian crushed hot peppers. Just to prove it's not all about the food, we then went to Paracelsus on West Broadway below Prince. The senora who owns the store is a small frail woman from Milan who opened her unique clothing store 37 years ago before SOHO was galleries and high end boutiques and eateries. She appeared from the back of the store out of nowhere made up in multi-colored face paint in broad strokes on her cheeks and forehead, right out of Fellini. She is a unique person who has traveled the world and who knows la moda inside out. Her store is filled with clothing of fabrics and colors unlike any other clothing store that we have ever visited. She spoke of riding camels in Tunisia with her lover, of Berlusconi, Moamar Khadafy in Rome, Juventus and Paracelsus himself. There are autographed photos of many celebrities behind the register. She finally sold Kathy a Japanese black-on-black jacket that had circles of an off black-purple-silver color on it. She has some stories to tell and I would love to hear a few over a bottle of Italian wine.
