AnimaMundi

NYC Cab Ride

"On a Saturday in mid-May, some friends and I went out to celebrate my 30th birthday. At the end of the night, we hailed a cab. The driver had the radio on, turned to a modest volume.

One friend asked if he could please turn up the volume so we could enjoy his music, too. None of us knew the song, but the rhythm was strong. Before long, all of us were clapping and waving our hands out the window — all of us, including the driver.

After maybe 30 blocks of freewheeling up Third Avenue, we noticed flashing lights behind us. Police? No. Rather, it was a Con Ed van that had been stopped next to us at a red light a few blocks back. One of the Con Ed technicians was holding an industrial-strength flashlight out the window, turning it on and off so we had a strobe light to complement our tunes. The van followed behind Club Cab for about 20 blocks.

To the dancing driver and Con Ed: Thank you for the memorable birthday!" Jennifer Rutkoski

E.B. White's "Here Is New York"

Some claim that E.B. White's three New York's are outdated. I am not so sure about that. The additional factor of class and obscene wealth is one that is turning the city into an elitist little island. Soon only the wealthy will inhabit NYC and only the wealthy will visit it. The generations of the sons and daughters of the immigrants who built New York and made it what it is today will no longer be able to live there or even visit the city.

"There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born there, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size, its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New Yrok of the cummuter — the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something ….Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness, natives give it solidity and continuity, but the settlers give it passion."

I remember reading this passage after 9/11:

"The city, for the first time in its long history, is destructible. A single flight of planes no bigger than a wedge of geese can quickly end this island fantasy, burn the towers, crumble the bridges, turn the underground passages into lethal chambers."

The comments following the article are worth a look.

For example: "My personal E B White story involves a chemistry professor who each day put a literary quote on his blackboard. On October 1, 1985, he used a quote from Mr. White, and I commented to him that I had never known him to use a quote from a living author. Mr. White died that day."

Spirit of Place

Lawrence Durrell's unpublished letters were compiled in a book entitled "Spirit of Place". The letters describe his experiences in Corfu, England, Egypt, Rhodes, the former Yugoslavia and South America. Durrell had a the artistic ability to depict the spirit of a place. Smells, light, good food, wine, beauty of nature, great conversation, fascinating characters. All part of the mysterious uniqueness of spirit of place. I was reminded of Durrell's images of spirit of place when I read this post about the Lower East Side of New York. It also reminded me of the aftermath of August 2005 in New Orleans:

The speakers began to deride nostalgia and Fullilove stepped to its defense, saying, "Nostalgia was coined by psychiatrists, who saw that people who moved far from home could die from longing for their home." She asked us to respect that nostalgia is not just some bittersweet emotion, but rather a testament to the fact that "home is an object of attachment, like a mother or a father, home is a secondary system of homeostasis. When you destroy this system, you destroy a person's ability to function in the world. Nostalgia is something we need to understand and respect."
Repopulation of New Orleans. Click to enlarge.

Summer in the City

On Saturday afternoon, we made it to the #1 train on 7th Avenue South from Elizabeth and the Bowery. Barely, swimming in the 88 degree heat and humidity. We had a good lunch at New Malaysia, a place we hadn't been to in years. The place has been spiffed up a bit and the food prices have naturally crept up, but not overly so. The chicken satay is still a kick with its chili-laced peanut sauce. The crispy orange-chili chicken is also right up there, although I remember it to be more crispy and less glazed, but that was many years ago so...Service is friendly, efficient and our mother tongue is spoken. After making it across the Canal St. inferno we made our way to Ceci Cela for a raspberry glace and some coffee. I know their pastry is very good, but it was too darn hot. We then walked into Sur La Table in SOHO for an AC breather. An automaton salesperson was womanning the new Illy X7. She insisted that the pod-capsules made smooth non-bitter espresso. She was wrong. I asked her where she took her espresso-latte-cappuccino in the city and she didn't really answer. I asked her if she had ever heard of 9th St. Espresso and she said no. I tried to explain where 9th St and the Chelsea Market are, but to no avail. That was a tip off that she was either a shut-in or flown in for the Illy promo. When I told her about my local coffee roaster who has been at it for 30 years or so, she tried to tell me about the freshness of beans. K. had already moved on and I followed suit. Backing up to Friday we made the semi-mistake of going to Bar Stuzzichino. The stuzzichino from Delizie di Calabria would put this place out of business, unless it does it on its own. K's panini was very good, but my pasta portion was miniscule and ok-ish. Should have gone to Lunetta again. Friday night we returned to Cacio e Vino. They were swamped, but we got a table. K's pasta alla Norma was terrifically good, what with that roasted eggplant flavor permeating the dish. Shades of the long departed La Vucciria in SOHO. Unlike my last visit in May, my pizza was disappointing and a glance back at the Trinacria-decorated oven told the story. Mayhem and flailing hands in the air. Don't go when they're in da' weeds. Saturday morning we thought we would have a peaceful coffee and a pastry at Georgia's Bake Shop. As soon as we sat down, the human larvae, as my double-sited friend tags them, started their demon dance. They were under everything, touching everything, blocking the door from the inside, blocking the door from the outside, screeching, jumping up and down. One father took about a half hour to fix three coffees. Evidently someone is rather picky or prickly. Then the stroller brigade swarmed in. It was like a blitzkrieg. The place is not that spacious so two of these deluxe $$trollers don't allow for much movement. Soon I was ready to grab a knife and stab one of the human larvae in the neck and/or throat. The minds of the parents of these human larvae are usually located in the vicinity of Mare Orientale. Ooffa. The skies emptied big time Saturday night just after we arrived at Alfama to dig into some steamed clams in a garlic, cilantro, red bell pepper, white wine bouillon with hearty bread. K had poached pollack with tomatoes and brussel sprouts. I had poached bacalhau on mashed potatoes. We drank a vinho verde called Gazela that had a slight fizz to it and decent acidity. The meal was light and the wine was too. The owner is out of the country for a time and although the meal was quite good, we have had better dishes there. Maybe it was the humidity. The service was reliably friendly and right there. Never made it to Zinc Bar to meet up with Shai Bachar, who it turns out was not gigging, but wanted to meet up for a drink. Sunday we headed to the Meat Packing District transexual transplant Markt. 

It was Father's day so we got there at 10 and had a very good brunch of Belgian waffles with strawberries and whipped cream and K's killer ham-gruyere omelette with a potato galette. French press coffee was strong and fresh. The staff was very welcoming and on the money. From there we headed to Chelsea Market for Amy's foccaccia and Buon Italia's Calabrian crushed hot peppers and Parmesan Reggiano Riserva. At the end of  K's-birthday weekend, we were hot and tired but happy.

Live and work in New York for at least one year. You don’t have to drive after drinking. It’s nice. You’ll also come to be both amazed and disgusted at how seemingly everyone in that town is swimming in money except for you. How the fuck can they all afford rent? Bastards. I hope they have troubled, ungrateful children.

 

The Bagel Scoop

What with the line at Ess-a-Bagel, I am surprised that they just don't tell the people to scoop out their own bagel. Ridiculously stupid.

Florent Redux

This NY Mag piece is much better than the NYTimes obituary. No regrets for the humble nostalgia-loathing Florent Morellet.

"Morellet, however, refuses to be maudlin about Florent’s fate. “I used to be the light in the middle of the darkness, and now I suppose I am the dark spot in the middle of the light,” he told me. “Of course I have prayed that maybe I would be saved at the last minute by a collapse of the world economy. And when it became real? Yes, I drove out to my lake house in New Jersey and wept for three days straight. But,” he quickly added, “only three days!” Morellet then took a sip from the five thimble-size bowls before him, samples of that evening’s soups, an appetizer not found on the menu. “I am from Bumfuck, France, okay?” he said. “And when I grew up I wanted to kill myself every Sunday because nothing happened. So I moved to Paris, but you know what? Paris is awful! Americans, they love Paris, but I absolutely hate Paris. It is always gray, it is always the same. So I came to New York for the reason everyone comes to New York, because it is the city of changes. People forget this is what they love about New York. They get old, they get grumpy. They get … nostalgic.”

"as John Waters puts it, “I remember watching men pay good money to get pissed on.”

NYC: Distinction and Final Acts

One day Kathy was in Filene's on the UWS. A heftier woman saw her trying on clothes and noting Kathy's waistline said: "I hate you!" They both laughed and proceeded to talk clothes etc. See, this doesn't happen in many other cities. It might, but chances are higher that this type of talk occurs in NYC.

"Why are New Yorkers like this? It goes against psychological principles. Psychologists tell us that the more stimuli people are bombarded with, the more they will recede into themselves and ignore others. So why is it that New Yorkers, who are certainly confronted with enough stimuli, do the opposite? I have already given a few possible answers, but here's one more: the special difficulties of life in New York—the small apartments, the struggle for a seat on the bus or a table at a restaurant—seem to breed a sense of common cause. When New Yorkers see a stranger, they don't think, "I don't know you." They think, "I know you. I know your problems—they're the same as mine—and furthermore we have the same handbag." So that's how they treat you."

Why is it that many suicides in NYC are by people who go the city expressly to do their swan song?

Lunetta, Rioja Fest & Cacio e Vino

Thanks to Gastropoda, I had a fine lunch at Lunetta on Wednesday. The place was happening so I grabbed a seat at the small oval bar. The panini of prosciutto, fontina and marinated arugula came on Sullivan Street Bakery crust-heaven bread with a generous side of fresh baby arugula dressed with a light touch. The panini made me sit up and take notice. The wine prices were steep by the glass and the offerings were not that enticing, so I had local water.

Later I stopped at Astor Wines to browse their selections. On the wait out I noticed a banner that read "Rioja Wine and Food Festival" so I naturally went in. How could I not? The people were very gracious and ushered me into the tasting-classroom room where cooking demo's and wine seminars are held. I arrived at the midpoint of a tasting of about 30 Rioja's. Unfortunately I sat next to a very critical and vocal blond woman of a certain age who kindly offered me some of the wines that had already been poured. She told me that she had been raised in a vineyard. Maybe she might think of going back there. Everyone was talking vintages and the Spanish requirements for Crianza's and Reserva's. I was drinking the wines. Two stood out for me: the 2001 Monte Real Reserva and the 2003 Roda Crianza. The Monte Real ($15-$20) had finesse and balanced purity. For the money a very fine Rioja. There were two Roda's: Roda and Roda 1 ($40 & $70). One was aimed at the cherry high pitched fruit lovers and the other at the blueberry plum lovers. I loved both. Solidly centered with lots of legs. Through the translator, I said to the gentleman from Rioja: "Viva La Rioja! Do you happen to have any spit roasted lamb to go along with these great wines?" Everyone chortled and he thanked me and said that a variety of tapas would be provided later in the early evening along with all the wines that we had tasted. I stored the 6:30 time in my databank. After walking, I returned to my room and napped. I awoke to find that it was 6:30! I quickly made it over to Astor to find the windows darkened. As I drew closer, I saw candles. My heart started to beat a little faster. There was food and wine a plenty left. The room was buzzing and people were beaming. The tapas, spicey albondigas for one, were quite good and I abstained from drinking any gratis Rioja reserva's. If you believe that then you don't know me. After bidding farewell to the kind Rioja people, I strolled over to Cacio e Vino. You gotta love the music on their site by Shai Bachar. Since I wasn't that hungry I sipped some Fondo Antico Versi that is a blend of Nero d'Avola, Cabernet and Merlot. It was ok, though I'll take their Nero d'Avola over it anyday. I wound up ordering a small Caprese pizza that was quite good. Crusty and chewy with toppings of high quality. The staff and owner were welcoming and helpful. The pasta dishes looked tempting. All in all, a good day and night. I was tired, but happy.   

Shopsin's Map To The Men's Room

I didn't have the "Blisters on My Sisters". I had a pulled pork Cuban that was good, but somewhat heavy, like the owner. There is no sign, but there is a long line on the weekends. Two highly tatooed guys who are regulars were engaging the owner. There is instant comradery here. The owner's son mentions that some food magazine has an article about the Kenny's place. I haven't seen it yet, nor do I care and she, the writer, is a fucking asshole. Some guy sitting next to the owner asked him what's good. The owner said how the fuck do I know what you like? Then I mentioned to Kenny that I recently learned that Alice Trilling died of a heart attack on 9/11/01. Her heart was weakened by radiation treatments to her lungs in the mid-70's. Many people think that she was in the World Trade Center that dark day. He said a lot of people died that day. A look appeared in his eyes and face for a nano-second. The Trillings were friends and regulars at the original location in the West Village on the corner of Morton St. He named things on the menu after the Trilling's daughters. From the stereotypical kinds of people who get tatooed, to presidential power, brainwashing, eating habits, eating out in upscale restaurants to Myanmar (Burma) so it went. The owner said that the death toll from the recent cyclone is nothing compared to the slaughter of people by the regimes in that part of Asia. He was trying to recall what Myanmar (Burma)'s most important export was. I said Burma Shave. He laughed and said that those highway signs would not be allowed under current ecological rules. The key to the men's room is on a spatula on which is a very tiny handwritten map that are the directions to said men's room. It's unreadable, but I found my way. I hadn't paid yet and as I got up to go to the men's room I told the owner that I did not plan to bolt. He said if I did bolt that he wouldn't have to see me again. A true New York character.

On The Joe DiMaggio Highway

When I left NYC on Friday morning it was cold and rainy. I walked to Chelsea Market in the raw wind for some stiff cappuccino and food to take home. I saw Malcolm Gladwell in the market at 9th St. Espresso on Thursday morning. Part of his inspiration for writing "Blink" was the fact that he had recently grown his hair out. The NYPD picked him up one night on the street in Manhattan because to them he "resembled" a suspect that they were looking for. In fact, he did not look anything like the suspect at all. I recognized him from pictures on the web. His hair stuck out and so did his eyes which seemed like they were 2 feet in front of him in thought. He is so distinctive looking that I don't think I could confuse him with someone else, but the NYPD did in a split second. I told him that I enjoyed his books and he said thank you and nodded.

On the Joe DiMaggio Highway on my way to PJ Wines, I grinned at this Amfar billboard. Spritzer we hardly knew ya'.

NYC

Looking forward to a spending a few days in NYC next week. After laying in a bluestone walkway and preparing and planting the garden, I need some urbanity. Some of the food and wine places, most with vowel endings, that I hope to visit include: Sullivan St. Bakery, Buon Italia and 9th St. Espresso (both in Chelsea Market), Malaysia, Cacio e Vino, is-there-life-after-Il Buco, Melampo Imports, Ceci Cela, Pearl Oyster Bar, PJ Wines, Todaro Brothers, Elyssadido.   

Last Tango in Times Square

Lost New York City  is "A running Jeremiad on the vestiges of Old New York as they are steamrolled under or threatened by the currently ruthless real estate market and the City Fathers' disregard for Gotham's historical and cultural fabric."  In his latest post he links to a NY Times article on Fazil's Times Square Dance Studio. The fabled feet that touched those maple boards is a wonderland full of ghosts.   

Times Square, Is Low Life Better Than No Life At All?

I first saw Times Square in the early 1960's, but don't remember anything. The first time we really walked around Times Square was in the early 80's before Disney, Virgin and The Gap. This is series of pictures of Times Square up until 1952.