Field notes, 6:07 PM. Dinner in a Greek restaurant that shall remain nameless.
It is cold this night. A prediction of rain, sleet, freezing rain and most likely snow. I am perched on a high seat at a two-person table alongside a wall of windows looking out upon a nondescript four-way intersection. As I tuck into a gyro plate and green salad I realize how fitting it is that the root for the word 'anonymous' is Greek in origin. The word is anonumous, 'nameless'. That is the word for which my belly was searching, and with which it fills.
I eat at this establishment on a semi-regular basis. Not because the food, which is Greek in origin and concept, is necessarily the best exemplar to be had around these parts. There are other restaurants that do certain items better, so much better that their relative lack of atmosphere (dive-ishness, even) is offset by the deliciousness of the food. The food is good enough. On the days I eat here, it gives me what I want: comfort without identity.
It is this shade of anonymity that I discovered is part of the appeal for me. Lately when I dine here, I dine alone. Usually at the end of work day when circumstance has decreed that I will not have a companion for dinner. I make the decision as I am driving out of the parking lot at work, when hunger, fatigue and proximity act as the trade winds which blow my vessel a few blocks down the street. I set that course because it involves no mystery and few decisions.
When I walk through the storefront doors, there is no "where everybody knows your name" kind of moment. No nodding of heads, no shouted greetings, only a (usually) short line which I join and quickly scan the menu. Since I am still a relative newcomer in this area, there is no one who knows me. No one I recognize. Perhaps the counter people have a vague recollection that I have been in before. Something along the lines of "It's that bearded fellow who always orders the same thing".
I place my order, they give me my number, I sip tea while waiting. The place is quickly filling up with diners and take-away customers. I see a lot of kids and senior citizens, families, couples, one guy like me. All sitting and waiting for our number to be called.
When it is, I take my tray and grab a seat on the edge of the dining room. Always the edge. I have never liked being in the middle of rooms or crowds, from school to restaurants to concerts. The edges make it easier for me to relax and observe. Plus, lower probability of social interaction, which is something I am less than graceful at even when I am not tired and hungry.
I sit. I slowly begin to eat. The hubbub of voices surrounds me, but does not overwhelm. A stream of voices that blend into a rhythmic drone, out which pops the occasional recognizable word or even phrase. In the corners of the room, two large televisions are playing a repeating loop of travel videography from the Greek isles. In the occasional lull of conversation, you can hear snippets of bouzoukis playing. In conjunction with the lack of captions or subtitles on the video, the sounds are an odd blend amplifying the 'namelessness' of this dining experience.
I find it oddly soothing. I feel this way almost every time I come here. This does not bother me, because it is what I want, maybe need. Neither myself nor my fellow diners have an imperative to make this place an extension of their living room or front yard or residential community. The primary imperative for all of us is our bellies, and the need to fill them.
I finish up. With nowhere to be and nothing obligating me to move, I sit quietly. Ruminating on the meal, I am at ease for at least a few minutes. The dining room hums along oblivious to my presence, and that suits me just fine. For a few precious moments my belly and I have nowhere to be, no one to satisfy, no obligations to fulfill. Myself, my belly, we are nameless. We are content.
Showing posts with label city eats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label city eats. Show all posts
03 January 2015
20 August 2013
Tripped Up by Catfish - A Fable of Accidents
"You a food blogger?"
The question came at me like a bolt of lightning. It stunned me like one, too. That is not the sort of question I ever expected to hear, even though at that moment I was standing at the counter in a local seafood shack. I was wearing a fedora, casual batik shirt and shorts. My trusty Nikon film camera was slung over my shoulder. The fellow that asked the question was looking at my hat and at the camera.
"I see you got one of those old-school cameras there."
I sputtered, I stammered a bit, feeling terribly self-conscious. I managed a weak-sounding "No, no, I just have the camera in case I see something interesting, and I'm just out for lunch, heard you guys have really good fried catfish sandwiches."
The man smiled and went back to the kitchen. I placed my order---a "Po' Jack" sandwich with a side of fried okra---and went to get my drink. My ears were burning with low-grade embarrassment and confusion. Here was a golden opportunity to declare myself, announce some intention, open up some new writing territory...and I sort of flubbed it.
Long-time readers, and probably many other folks, know that I write about food frequently here. It is a topic never far from my mind, it never seems to get old and it is a subject with infinite possibility. I suppose if I had more confidence in myself, I would have responded loud and clear "Yes, sir, I am. I'm here to learn the ways of the fried fish sammitch, show me what you got!" I could have easily made a new friend and possibly gotten a kitchen tour, or at least a sample.
Instead, I got confused and anxious and did no such thing. I took my drink to the table to await my order, turning his question over and over in my mind. It bothered me, but why?
The answer, or at least the start of one, came to me as I was tucking in to the sandwich. It bothered me because I was momentarily flustered in public---anathema to me---and it made me ask the deeper question of: If am I not a food blogger, then what kind of blogger am I?
I write about Stuff and Things (of which Food is a subset), even the Fiction and the Poetry. I've written about death and depression and light and love. I can barely begin to answer the "What?" question. And that begs a different, deeper question: What kind of writer am I?
That question sat firmly on top of my head while I ate, like a monkey that decided it wanted to be my hat. It kept picking at me, and thwacking my skull with bony little fingers. I knew I wasn't going to answer that question during lunch, so I accepted the thwacking and concentrated on enjoying the sandwich.
The sandwich, ladies and gentlemen, was excellent. Top notch. World-class, I might say. It was simple, it was crispy-tasty, it was served right. It was, in fact, the best damn fried catfish sandwich I have had in what seems like decades. The counter lady and the fellow who questioned me---turns out he was the manager/head chef/fish guru, name of Walter---both asked me if I enjoyed the meal.
I did. Very much. I told them in no uncertain terms what I thought. I ended up having a nice chat with Walter, and told them I would be back. He let me know about some of the other specialties they make and told me a little bit about what they do, where they get their fish. They seemed pleased that I was interested, and I could hear some pride in his voice when he talked about it. We shook hands, and I left to go about the rest of my day.
I still hadn't figured out a way to let them know that I do write about food, and their food was such that I would love to write about it. Which, of course, I just did. And I will go back. At least now they know me, and maybe we can have some more good conversations, talk some shop.
Now, if I could just figure out what kind of writer I am...
The question came at me like a bolt of lightning. It stunned me like one, too. That is not the sort of question I ever expected to hear, even though at that moment I was standing at the counter in a local seafood shack. I was wearing a fedora, casual batik shirt and shorts. My trusty Nikon film camera was slung over my shoulder. The fellow that asked the question was looking at my hat and at the camera.
"I see you got one of those old-school cameras there."
I sputtered, I stammered a bit, feeling terribly self-conscious. I managed a weak-sounding "No, no, I just have the camera in case I see something interesting, and I'm just out for lunch, heard you guys have really good fried catfish sandwiches."
The man smiled and went back to the kitchen. I placed my order---a "Po' Jack" sandwich with a side of fried okra---and went to get my drink. My ears were burning with low-grade embarrassment and confusion. Here was a golden opportunity to declare myself, announce some intention, open up some new writing territory...and I sort of flubbed it.
Long-time readers, and probably many other folks, know that I write about food frequently here. It is a topic never far from my mind, it never seems to get old and it is a subject with infinite possibility. I suppose if I had more confidence in myself, I would have responded loud and clear "Yes, sir, I am. I'm here to learn the ways of the fried fish sammitch, show me what you got!" I could have easily made a new friend and possibly gotten a kitchen tour, or at least a sample.
Instead, I got confused and anxious and did no such thing. I took my drink to the table to await my order, turning his question over and over in my mind. It bothered me, but why?
The answer, or at least the start of one, came to me as I was tucking in to the sandwich. It bothered me because I was momentarily flustered in public---anathema to me---and it made me ask the deeper question of: If am I not a food blogger, then what kind of blogger am I?
I write about Stuff and Things (of which Food is a subset), even the Fiction and the Poetry. I've written about death and depression and light and love. I can barely begin to answer the "What?" question. And that begs a different, deeper question: What kind of writer am I?
That question sat firmly on top of my head while I ate, like a monkey that decided it wanted to be my hat. It kept picking at me, and thwacking my skull with bony little fingers. I knew I wasn't going to answer that question during lunch, so I accepted the thwacking and concentrated on enjoying the sandwich.
The sandwich, ladies and gentlemen, was excellent. Top notch. World-class, I might say. It was simple, it was crispy-tasty, it was served right. It was, in fact, the best damn fried catfish sandwich I have had in what seems like decades. The counter lady and the fellow who questioned me---turns out he was the manager/head chef/fish guru, name of Walter---both asked me if I enjoyed the meal.
I did. Very much. I told them in no uncertain terms what I thought. I ended up having a nice chat with Walter, and told them I would be back. He let me know about some of the other specialties they make and told me a little bit about what they do, where they get their fish. They seemed pleased that I was interested, and I could hear some pride in his voice when he talked about it. We shook hands, and I left to go about the rest of my day.
I still hadn't figured out a way to let them know that I do write about food, and their food was such that I would love to write about it. Which, of course, I just did. And I will go back. At least now they know me, and maybe we can have some more good conversations, talk some shop.
Now, if I could just figure out what kind of writer I am...
23 March 2013
Friday Afternoon Reg'ler Thang
Damnit, I sat down to expound on any number of topics from God particles to rape culture to who knows what, and then I was all distracted by rereading my past writing. The net result was, and I am sure this happens to you as well, that I couldn't stop thinking about sandwiches.
Is it weird, do you think, to have a crush on a sandwich?
Not just any sandwich (or 'sammich', as I sometime say) mind you. I'm talking po' boy. Shrimp po' boy, to be exact. And just about every Friday, at the tavern across the street from my place of part-time spice mongering, they have the shrimp po' boy as a special. I discovered this some weeks ago, on a sunny Friday lunch half-hour in which I persuaded myself to not to hook up with Crush #1 (a tasty BLT sammich) or Crush #2 (superlative turkey club).
So it 'twas that fateful afternoon I "ventured forth in search of tasty comestibles", to paraphrase John Cleese in Monty Python's "The Cheese Shop" skit. I hoofed it on over to the tavern, grabbed what would become my semi-regular seat, and uttered the phrase that would send my sammich cravings in a new direction: "I'll have the shrimp po' boy, please."
Even the waitress seemed surprised. It was not my usual. There was a brief awkward silence from which we both recovered in reasonable time. I sipped my iced tea and amused myself watching the antics of the talking heads on the sports channels showing on the televisions above the bar. Then the sandwich arrived, I fell to.
First, a word about sides. The sandwich specials come with some pickle chips and a choice between potato chips and cottage cheese. I like pickles, and the ones in this place are decent. I am not a cottage cheese man, so my choice is always the chips. Theirs are not house-made, but whatever brand they might be slinging are good enough.
As to the sandwich, the bread seemed a cross between a baguette and ciabatta sub roll. Good sized, it was packed with a decent supply of shrimp, with lettuce and tomato slices. Regarding the shrimp, I admit I was prepared to be underwhelmed. After all, the middle of the country is not exactly known as prime seafood territory. But it was fried shrimp, not simple boiled shrimp, and there was remoulade sauce. I reckoned fried and sauced would make up for any slippage in the quality of the shrimp themselves.
Man, oh, man, was I surprised. Even though it was a full lunch time crowd, things seemed to get quiet as I chewed. It finally penetrated my consciousness about a third of the way through the sandwich that it was really good. The shrimp were fried just right, not heavily breaded. The sauce, their version of a remoulade, really had some presence. The tomatoes were less than stellar, but it being winter that was of no surprise. Even the lettuce was tasty, dark green romaine instead of insipid iceberg disappointment.
It was as I polished off the last bite that I realized it wasn't just good, it was great. It was so good I asked the waitress to let the kitchen crew know that I thought that shrimp po' boy was possibly the best po' boy I have had outside of New Orleans. And I had some spectacular po' boys in New Orleans on my visit some years ago!
Now I realize that were it possible to do a side by side comparison of this sandwich to one from say, the Acme Oyster House in New Orleans, the NOLA version would probably win. They have history and tradition and experience on their side. That's okay, though, and I'll tell you why: I don't live in New Orleans right now. And I wanted a good fried shrimp sandwich; that sandwich was right in front of me. Lucky for me, the folks in the kitchen seemed to want to make a good po' boy, and it showed. It was good enough, for sure, to be that Friday afternoon reg'ler thang.
Is it weird, do you think, to have a crush on a sandwich?
Not just any sandwich (or 'sammich', as I sometime say) mind you. I'm talking po' boy. Shrimp po' boy, to be exact. And just about every Friday, at the tavern across the street from my place of part-time spice mongering, they have the shrimp po' boy as a special. I discovered this some weeks ago, on a sunny Friday lunch half-hour in which I persuaded myself to not to hook up with Crush #1 (a tasty BLT sammich) or Crush #2 (superlative turkey club).
So it 'twas that fateful afternoon I "ventured forth in search of tasty comestibles", to paraphrase John Cleese in Monty Python's "The Cheese Shop" skit. I hoofed it on over to the tavern, grabbed what would become my semi-regular seat, and uttered the phrase that would send my sammich cravings in a new direction: "I'll have the shrimp po' boy, please."
Even the waitress seemed surprised. It was not my usual. There was a brief awkward silence from which we both recovered in reasonable time. I sipped my iced tea and amused myself watching the antics of the talking heads on the sports channels showing on the televisions above the bar. Then the sandwich arrived, I fell to.
First, a word about sides. The sandwich specials come with some pickle chips and a choice between potato chips and cottage cheese. I like pickles, and the ones in this place are decent. I am not a cottage cheese man, so my choice is always the chips. Theirs are not house-made, but whatever brand they might be slinging are good enough.
As to the sandwich, the bread seemed a cross between a baguette and ciabatta sub roll. Good sized, it was packed with a decent supply of shrimp, with lettuce and tomato slices. Regarding the shrimp, I admit I was prepared to be underwhelmed. After all, the middle of the country is not exactly known as prime seafood territory. But it was fried shrimp, not simple boiled shrimp, and there was remoulade sauce. I reckoned fried and sauced would make up for any slippage in the quality of the shrimp themselves.
Man, oh, man, was I surprised. Even though it was a full lunch time crowd, things seemed to get quiet as I chewed. It finally penetrated my consciousness about a third of the way through the sandwich that it was really good. The shrimp were fried just right, not heavily breaded. The sauce, their version of a remoulade, really had some presence. The tomatoes were less than stellar, but it being winter that was of no surprise. Even the lettuce was tasty, dark green romaine instead of insipid iceberg disappointment.
It was as I polished off the last bite that I realized it wasn't just good, it was great. It was so good I asked the waitress to let the kitchen crew know that I thought that shrimp po' boy was possibly the best po' boy I have had outside of New Orleans. And I had some spectacular po' boys in New Orleans on my visit some years ago!
Now I realize that were it possible to do a side by side comparison of this sandwich to one from say, the Acme Oyster House in New Orleans, the NOLA version would probably win. They have history and tradition and experience on their side. That's okay, though, and I'll tell you why: I don't live in New Orleans right now. And I wanted a good fried shrimp sandwich; that sandwich was right in front of me. Lucky for me, the folks in the kitchen seemed to want to make a good po' boy, and it showed. It was good enough, for sure, to be that Friday afternoon reg'ler thang.
26 July 2012
The Spice Merchant's Apprentice
July 24th, 2012. 8:21 PM. The fatigue of honest effort drives the typing.
A funny thing happened to me today after I arose from bed and made myself presentable to the world.
I put in a full work day today. Actual job-type work. It was enlightening. Enjoyable, even.
I know, I am as surprised as you are, if not more so. To be sure, it isn't full-time. It isn't in architecture or construction. It isn't in a field for which I have any real experience and certainly no training. In fact, it is a line of work in which I ever pictured myself engaged. Those of you know me well enough would know why.
It is in retail. Specifically, a store* that sells herbs, spices and seasonings as their raison d'etre. I like to think of it as, for lack of a better description, an apprentice spice merchant. Did I mention it is retail?
Shocked? I'm still a little stunned myself.
I fell into it by happenstance. I was up to my neck in a job search related to my architecture credentials, and as my mind was wont to do, it flitted off on a tangent regarding a seasoning I was out of at home. My crow-mind couldn't resist going after that mental shiny thing, so I went the company website to look it up. I am fortunate that there is a local outlet of the company near to my house, so I knew it would be easy to get there and get what I needed.
So I'm looking over the page and I notice they have a "Careers" tab. I thought "What the heck?" and I clicked on it to scroll down the list. Lo and behold, the local store was in need of a part-time staffer. I stared at the ad for a few moments, for a split-second thinking I should do it, then clicked away. Me, retail? The thought boggled the mind.
But it kept nagging at me. The idea wouldn't let me go. I considered my position, the long search I've been on and still...nothing.** I thought about all the time I've spent staring out the window after my job hunt activities have burned out for the day. I considered that it would nice to have something constructive to do, earn a little money, while I am slowly stitching my professional life back together.
I considered that I like spices. I like using them. I like reading about them, smelling them, and especially eating them. Somehow that overrode all my anxieties and misgivings about selling things and interacting with the general public on a regular basis. Again, anyone who knows me knows that sort of thing gives me a case of the yammering fantods just thinking about it. It is so far outside my comfort zone as to be in another galaxy.
So what did I do? I dropped off an application. Then I hyperventilated into a paper bag.
I had two interviews, one with the corporate office, one with the store manager. The whole time I felt like I was standing a few feet away from myself, wondering "Who is this man?". I had a hard time believing I was going through with it. This is not something I've done before. There would be things to learn.
So, as it turns out, they really liked me, I liked them, so when they offered, I said yes. Then I hyperventilated into a paper bag.*** The result is that today was my first day on in the spice biz.
I have to say it ended up being much more enjoyable than I could have imagined. It was a slow day, according to the manager and the co-worker with me, so I know it won't always be so pleasant. Aside from the slight awkwardness I felt (and always feel in similar situations) when warming up to the customers and new tasks, I daresay I even enjoyed it. And for the third time, those who know me I have some issues when it comes to dealing with a stream of people all day long. But you know what? I exceeded my expectations. That felt pretty darn good.
So there you have it, dear readers. Another step on the path, where it is headed I don't have a clear idea. For now, though, I'll keep on walking and see what turns up. You never know until you try, right?
---
*It is a spice company with stores nationwide, about 70 or so, I think. I may have mentioned them in past posts, but in regards to naming names, I'm a little unsure what journalistic protocols might apply now that I am an employee.
**To be accurate, the job climate in architecture has started to pick up a little around my region. It is still a slow awakening, and things are not moving very fast. There have been nibbles. But that is a post for another time...
***Okay, so I didn't hyperventilate into a paper bag. But I did put my head down between my knees and take long, slow breaths for a minute or two.
A funny thing happened to me today after I arose from bed and made myself presentable to the world.
I put in a full work day today. Actual job-type work. It was enlightening. Enjoyable, even.
I know, I am as surprised as you are, if not more so. To be sure, it isn't full-time. It isn't in architecture or construction. It isn't in a field for which I have any real experience and certainly no training. In fact, it is a line of work in which I ever pictured myself engaged. Those of you know me well enough would know why.
It is in retail. Specifically, a store* that sells herbs, spices and seasonings as their raison d'etre. I like to think of it as, for lack of a better description, an apprentice spice merchant. Did I mention it is retail?
Shocked? I'm still a little stunned myself.
I fell into it by happenstance. I was up to my neck in a job search related to my architecture credentials, and as my mind was wont to do, it flitted off on a tangent regarding a seasoning I was out of at home. My crow-mind couldn't resist going after that mental shiny thing, so I went the company website to look it up. I am fortunate that there is a local outlet of the company near to my house, so I knew it would be easy to get there and get what I needed.
So I'm looking over the page and I notice they have a "Careers" tab. I thought "What the heck?" and I clicked on it to scroll down the list. Lo and behold, the local store was in need of a part-time staffer. I stared at the ad for a few moments, for a split-second thinking I should do it, then clicked away. Me, retail? The thought boggled the mind.
But it kept nagging at me. The idea wouldn't let me go. I considered my position, the long search I've been on and still...nothing.** I thought about all the time I've spent staring out the window after my job hunt activities have burned out for the day. I considered that it would nice to have something constructive to do, earn a little money, while I am slowly stitching my professional life back together.
I considered that I like spices. I like using them. I like reading about them, smelling them, and especially eating them. Somehow that overrode all my anxieties and misgivings about selling things and interacting with the general public on a regular basis. Again, anyone who knows me knows that sort of thing gives me a case of the yammering fantods just thinking about it. It is so far outside my comfort zone as to be in another galaxy.
So what did I do? I dropped off an application. Then I hyperventilated into a paper bag.
I had two interviews, one with the corporate office, one with the store manager. The whole time I felt like I was standing a few feet away from myself, wondering "Who is this man?". I had a hard time believing I was going through with it. This is not something I've done before. There would be things to learn.
So, as it turns out, they really liked me, I liked them, so when they offered, I said yes. Then I hyperventilated into a paper bag.*** The result is that today was my first day on in the spice biz.
I have to say it ended up being much more enjoyable than I could have imagined. It was a slow day, according to the manager and the co-worker with me, so I know it won't always be so pleasant. Aside from the slight awkwardness I felt (and always feel in similar situations) when warming up to the customers and new tasks, I daresay I even enjoyed it. And for the third time, those who know me I have some issues when it comes to dealing with a stream of people all day long. But you know what? I exceeded my expectations. That felt pretty darn good.
So there you have it, dear readers. Another step on the path, where it is headed I don't have a clear idea. For now, though, I'll keep on walking and see what turns up. You never know until you try, right?
---
*It is a spice company with stores nationwide, about 70 or so, I think. I may have mentioned them in past posts, but in regards to naming names, I'm a little unsure what journalistic protocols might apply now that I am an employee.
**To be accurate, the job climate in architecture has started to pick up a little around my region. It is still a slow awakening, and things are not moving very fast. There have been nibbles. But that is a post for another time...
***Okay, so I didn't hyperventilate into a paper bag. But I did put my head down between my knees and take long, slow breaths for a minute or two.
12 June 2012
Dreams of Empire
Thoughts from a recent trip to New York City, transcribed in a daze:
June 10th, 2012. Late morning in Newark Airport.
I bit of the Big Apple; I can't be sure it was not biting me.
New York is more than a city of landmarks and visitor's notions. It is everything like you thought it would be, and more than you could imagine. It is a city of heartbreaking brutality and breathtaking beauty. New York City will exhaust you, break you, lift you up and make you grateful to be alive.
You must be careful with this city. It will not be careful with you. This is not from inherent insensitivity. It is that the city has bigger things to think of, in its dreams of consumption and commerce. New York City exists as an ideal, within space-time and outside of it. If we are shrimp, the city is a whale. When it thrashes or dives, we can be swept aside by the power and awed by the majesty. As I said, you must be careful.
Ha. I laugh at myself for feeling this way. Fatigue and anxiety, ecstasy and exhilaration, I felt after experiencing only a fraction of the whole. I walked as much as possible, covering miles and territory mostly and heretofore unknown to me except primarily through media and the filters of others' experiences. I ate myself silly, chewing my way through the cuisine of the city and nowhere.
I had a long solitary walk, taking pictures. I became dizzy and disoriented by the noise and hustle of the city. I think my camera became my filter and shield, allowing me to keep New York at bay so I could breathe and make sense of it all. The austerity of the plaza in front of the Seagram Building was a tonic after a long day. Fountains burbled at each end, and the luxury of the open area before Park Avenue was surprisingly effective at pushing back the street. I was able to gather my thoughts and my breath, getting a second wind to go see more. Because the city always wants you to see more. It demands it, it coerces and flatters, it offers temptations to satisfy any curiosity.
Me, I simply wanted to understand the bones and the flesh of the place, and why anyone would choose to live inside the leviathan.
I did not do this entirely alone. Good company makes for good travel, and my companion excelled at assisting me in sanding down the rough edges of Gotham. We walked, the best way to understand a place, and we walked as much as we could take. The serenity of Central Park and the buzz of the street scene by the Flatiron Building were truly energizing. The Empire State Building was all that I thought it would be; an experience that lived up to the myths. The High Line Park is a world-class urban amenity, and a great example of turning what could have been dross into a ribbon of gold. If an oasis is needed, look no further than the sculpture garden at the Museum of Modern Art.
The unceasing activity and the churn of the city continued to wear me out. So I turned to that which endlessly fascinates me: food.
New York is a city of astonishing food. It is the cuisine of everywhere and nowhere (to borrow a phrase from Gary Nabhan's "Coming Home to Eat"). It may not always, and usually isn't, cheap to eat in New York, but with consideration one can eat exceedingly well. You can eat America, and the world. And we tried.
From hot dogs to haute cuisine we ate some of the best food we have ever had. Gumbo. Fried oysters. Sublime pizza. Salumi, formaggia and a delicious glass of white wine in a frenetic Italian marketplace. Southeast Asian-French fusion cuisine, a medley of seafood that had me reeling and almost begging for more. Kati rolls from a biryani cart, the taste of which left me wanting eat twice again. And of course, the hot dogs. One of the most delightful eating experiences for me was chowing down on a hot dog from Papaya King, on East 86th Street not too far away from Central Park. Standing at the counter, looking out the window at the seethe and hiss of life out on the street, something came together for me. The food we ate was a reflection of what makes the city itself. We tasted the food of money and muscle, of thought and labor. We ate of the food that the city wants to be and of the food from the homes of those who make up the city. I had an inkling of what gives New York City its gravity.
The is brutality there, and ugliness, this is true. But there is beauty, there is sustenance, there is life. One has to choose carefully as to what sees as the true heart of the city. As for myself, I cannot say for sure that I could live there (at least, not yet); the noise and the closeness of so many other souls still drains me in ways I find unsettling. But I do know that I want to go back someday. I only touched the surface of its heart, and I need to know truly what lies at its core. I suspect it has something to do with a pleasant summer day, a hot dog at the counter and someone lovely to help me rule this empire of the heart.
June 10th, 2012. Late morning in Newark Airport.
I bit of the Big Apple; I can't be sure it was not biting me.
New York is more than a city of landmarks and visitor's notions. It is everything like you thought it would be, and more than you could imagine. It is a city of heartbreaking brutality and breathtaking beauty. New York City will exhaust you, break you, lift you up and make you grateful to be alive.
You must be careful with this city. It will not be careful with you. This is not from inherent insensitivity. It is that the city has bigger things to think of, in its dreams of consumption and commerce. New York City exists as an ideal, within space-time and outside of it. If we are shrimp, the city is a whale. When it thrashes or dives, we can be swept aside by the power and awed by the majesty. As I said, you must be careful.
Ha. I laugh at myself for feeling this way. Fatigue and anxiety, ecstasy and exhilaration, I felt after experiencing only a fraction of the whole. I walked as much as possible, covering miles and territory mostly and heretofore unknown to me except primarily through media and the filters of others' experiences. I ate myself silly, chewing my way through the cuisine of the city and nowhere.
I had a long solitary walk, taking pictures. I became dizzy and disoriented by the noise and hustle of the city. I think my camera became my filter and shield, allowing me to keep New York at bay so I could breathe and make sense of it all. The austerity of the plaza in front of the Seagram Building was a tonic after a long day. Fountains burbled at each end, and the luxury of the open area before Park Avenue was surprisingly effective at pushing back the street. I was able to gather my thoughts and my breath, getting a second wind to go see more. Because the city always wants you to see more. It demands it, it coerces and flatters, it offers temptations to satisfy any curiosity.
Me, I simply wanted to understand the bones and the flesh of the place, and why anyone would choose to live inside the leviathan.
I did not do this entirely alone. Good company makes for good travel, and my companion excelled at assisting me in sanding down the rough edges of Gotham. We walked, the best way to understand a place, and we walked as much as we could take. The serenity of Central Park and the buzz of the street scene by the Flatiron Building were truly energizing. The Empire State Building was all that I thought it would be; an experience that lived up to the myths. The High Line Park is a world-class urban amenity, and a great example of turning what could have been dross into a ribbon of gold. If an oasis is needed, look no further than the sculpture garden at the Museum of Modern Art.
The unceasing activity and the churn of the city continued to wear me out. So I turned to that which endlessly fascinates me: food.
New York is a city of astonishing food. It is the cuisine of everywhere and nowhere (to borrow a phrase from Gary Nabhan's "Coming Home to Eat"). It may not always, and usually isn't, cheap to eat in New York, but with consideration one can eat exceedingly well. You can eat America, and the world. And we tried.
From hot dogs to haute cuisine we ate some of the best food we have ever had. Gumbo. Fried oysters. Sublime pizza. Salumi, formaggia and a delicious glass of white wine in a frenetic Italian marketplace. Southeast Asian-French fusion cuisine, a medley of seafood that had me reeling and almost begging for more. Kati rolls from a biryani cart, the taste of which left me wanting eat twice again. And of course, the hot dogs. One of the most delightful eating experiences for me was chowing down on a hot dog from Papaya King, on East 86th Street not too far away from Central Park. Standing at the counter, looking out the window at the seethe and hiss of life out on the street, something came together for me. The food we ate was a reflection of what makes the city itself. We tasted the food of money and muscle, of thought and labor. We ate of the food that the city wants to be and of the food from the homes of those who make up the city. I had an inkling of what gives New York City its gravity.
The is brutality there, and ugliness, this is true. But there is beauty, there is sustenance, there is life. One has to choose carefully as to what sees as the true heart of the city. As for myself, I cannot say for sure that I could live there (at least, not yet); the noise and the closeness of so many other souls still drains me in ways I find unsettling. But I do know that I want to go back someday. I only touched the surface of its heart, and I need to know truly what lies at its core. I suspect it has something to do with a pleasant summer day, a hot dog at the counter and someone lovely to help me rule this empire of the heart.
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