1 day ago
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
New York break: subway spit storms and chicken bones
Yesterday’s ride to Brighton and Coney Island took 1 hour and 10 minutes. Going there, the train stopped repeatedly, waiting for clearance. The cars were nearly empty and sitting there in the dark long tunnels, waiting for the lurch that would mean movement at last, tried my patience, though others sat listlessly, impervious to the delay, to the silence of waiting.
Three guys got on at a Brooklyn stop. They were immersed in a spitball (through straws) fight. In the almost empty car, they could sit at a distance from each other and make the soppy crumbled balls fly high over to the far corners of the train. Watching them litter the car, so that the wet little mounds would adhere to seats and walls, I felt the overwhelming desire to tell them to cut it out, and in fact – to clean up the mess. Of course I didn’t, not because I felt threatened – the chances of these particular thugs beating me down were, after all, small, but because I knew they would not listen. There was a moment where I thought of doing it anyway, just for shock value (they surely would recoil), but then decided to simply move myself further out of their range with what I thought was a great display of indignation (I'm sure this only fueled their spit).
I sat at one end, across from a guy who was in workman’s (construction?) clothing, reading Oggi (Italian-American?). He was equally disgusted.
“That big guy is the worst” he told me. “I was a kid once, I got into trouble, but this – this beats the hell out of my pranks.” I tried to imagine if a prank could be smaller than spit balls and still be called a prank.
And the spitballs mounted. More passengers got on, not knowing that they were entering a battle zone. I could not stand the image of sitting in that spit waste, but I watched anyway. It took another group of (high school?) students to finally distract me. Their chatter about that “bitch girl” who “did what she f******* pleased” was riveting enough to draw me away from the speckles of spit bullets.
Besides, by now, my senses were being assailed in other ways as a woman took out (from a dirty plastic bag) a box of Popeye chicken and chewed her way around the thigh bone. She left the bag of chicken remains on the seat, not too far from the spit mess. Others got on, sat down, got off, not knowing, locked in their own conversations and thoughts about whatever destination they were heading for.
My Oggi man got off with a friendly wave at me and somehow I felt the bond of riding out a spit storm with him. That kind of momentary connection with a stranger happens on trains and subways.
Three guys got on at a Brooklyn stop. They were immersed in a spitball (through straws) fight. In the almost empty car, they could sit at a distance from each other and make the soppy crumbled balls fly high over to the far corners of the train. Watching them litter the car, so that the wet little mounds would adhere to seats and walls, I felt the overwhelming desire to tell them to cut it out, and in fact – to clean up the mess. Of course I didn’t, not because I felt threatened – the chances of these particular thugs beating me down were, after all, small, but because I knew they would not listen. There was a moment where I thought of doing it anyway, just for shock value (they surely would recoil), but then decided to simply move myself further out of their range with what I thought was a great display of indignation (I'm sure this only fueled their spit).
I sat at one end, across from a guy who was in workman’s (construction?) clothing, reading Oggi (Italian-American?). He was equally disgusted.
“That big guy is the worst” he told me. “I was a kid once, I got into trouble, but this – this beats the hell out of my pranks.” I tried to imagine if a prank could be smaller than spit balls and still be called a prank.
And the spitballs mounted. More passengers got on, not knowing that they were entering a battle zone. I could not stand the image of sitting in that spit waste, but I watched anyway. It took another group of (high school?) students to finally distract me. Their chatter about that “bitch girl” who “did what she f******* pleased” was riveting enough to draw me away from the speckles of spit bullets.
Besides, by now, my senses were being assailed in other ways as a woman took out (from a dirty plastic bag) a box of Popeye chicken and chewed her way around the thigh bone. She left the bag of chicken remains on the seat, not too far from the spit mess. Others got on, sat down, got off, not knowing, locked in their own conversations and thoughts about whatever destination they were heading for.
My Oggi man got off with a friendly wave at me and somehow I felt the bond of riding out a spit storm with him. That kind of momentary connection with a stranger happens on trains and subways.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Correct. The last subway stop on the F line puts me in Coney Island. Home of the first Nathan’s hotdog and of the original Cyclone rollercoaster. I came here occasionally as a kid, on the hot, doggy days of summer. Today, the beach is empty and the water is warm enough for birds only.
But wait, is this really Brooklyn’s tip or is it Russia? As I walk up the beach toward Brighton, I suddenly hear Russian. Everywhere around me, Russian. The sun brings out the people – older, retired people mostly, some with baby buggies, minding the malcziki and dzievuszki. But mainly, they have created a gathering place, clustering around benches that line the boardwalk, speaking passionately about…everything important: gossip type talk, melodic, expressively presented. Hairstyles, makeup, clothes are from half a century ago. But then, that was their time in the sun, that’s when they conquered the world. Or at least this small portion of it, at Brighton Beach.
But wait, is this really Brooklyn’s tip or is it Russia? As I walk up the beach toward Brighton, I suddenly hear Russian. Everywhere around me, Russian. The sun brings out the people – older, retired people mostly, some with baby buggies, minding the malcziki and dzievuszki. But mainly, they have created a gathering place, clustering around benches that line the boardwalk, speaking passionately about…everything important: gossip type talk, melodic, expressively presented. Hairstyles, makeup, clothes are from half a century ago. But then, that was their time in the sun, that’s when they conquered the world. Or at least this small portion of it, at Brighton Beach.
New York break: dasvidanya dzievuszki..
Back in September, Tory, chef (and now proprietor) at Madison's L’Etoile, said to me “you should go to my favorite place in New York -- the Russian Vodka Room.”
I have come to New York frequently over the past year, but I have never made it to the Russian Vodka Room. Until last night.
The room is small, dark, narrow. A jazzy guitarist is playing at the side, a guy at the piano accompanies him. A few men sit at the bar. They’re Russian. The waitresses are Russian as well. My friend and I find an empty table in the corner – there aren’t many, we are lucky. The menu is all about vodka. And pirozki. She and I split a carafe of the apple pomegranate infused vodka. Then the cranberry one. Then a carafe of the pear infusion. Carafe – it’s like wine, isn’t it? A carafe implies easy drinking, a sip, then another, ummmm, delicious! This stuff is so good! I haven’t had vodka in so long!
Next thought – this stuff is potent! The music continues, people come and go, my friend and I talk about old times, new times. We haven’t seen each other in years… She looks the same… another carafe? Sure, but add some food, the shots are going down smoothly, but they need something to arrest the easy flow.
The hours pass… the guitarist packs his bags. The men at the bar sigh in the Russian life-is-tough way… the couples, scattered around the dark room, are quietly mumbling to each other.. My friend and I divide the pirozki, then order some cheese and bread… the carafes appear, magically, the waitress seems to know when they need to be refilled. I’ve stopped counting.
Outside, the air is cool, refreshing. We take a cab… who can walk after that? The RVR, at 265 west 52nd. Go there, order a carafe. Or more. Tell the waitress “spasiba,” lean back, think sleighs and onion domes, birch trees and balalajkas. Dream in audacious ways, talk big, brag about your past. Break bread, drink vodka, feel the weight of the world on your Polish or Russian shoulder. Na zdrowie!
I have come to New York frequently over the past year, but I have never made it to the Russian Vodka Room. Until last night.
The room is small, dark, narrow. A jazzy guitarist is playing at the side, a guy at the piano accompanies him. A few men sit at the bar. They’re Russian. The waitresses are Russian as well. My friend and I find an empty table in the corner – there aren’t many, we are lucky. The menu is all about vodka. And pirozki. She and I split a carafe of the apple pomegranate infused vodka. Then the cranberry one. Then a carafe of the pear infusion. Carafe – it’s like wine, isn’t it? A carafe implies easy drinking, a sip, then another, ummmm, delicious! This stuff is so good! I haven’t had vodka in so long!
Next thought – this stuff is potent! The music continues, people come and go, my friend and I talk about old times, new times. We haven’t seen each other in years… She looks the same… another carafe? Sure, but add some food, the shots are going down smoothly, but they need something to arrest the easy flow.
The hours pass… the guitarist packs his bags. The men at the bar sigh in the Russian life-is-tough way… the couples, scattered around the dark room, are quietly mumbling to each other.. My friend and I divide the pirozki, then order some cheese and bread… the carafes appear, magically, the waitress seems to know when they need to be refilled. I’ve stopped counting.
Outside, the air is cool, refreshing. We take a cab… who can walk after that? The RVR, at 265 west 52nd. Go there, order a carafe. Or more. Tell the waitress “spasiba,” lean back, think sleighs and onion domes, birch trees and balalajkas. Dream in audacious ways, talk big, brag about your past. Break bread, drink vodka, feel the weight of the world on your Polish or Russian shoulder. Na zdrowie!
Monday, March 21, 2005
New York break: a Chelsea market inside a Nabisco shell
Ripping the gut out of an old Oreo cookie factory and fitting into it wholesale outlets geared toward foods and restaurant supplies seems clever. Now called the Chelsea Market, it does remind me of how a place with a sordid past (not the cookie factory but the Chelsea district) can be revamped and turned into a spiffy present. Or at least it’s getting’ there.
I have to say that the factory makeover itself is stunning. Since the place is off the beaten path, there aren’t many who come just to look. Most are serious about checking things off a list. But there is also that stray person who seemed to be in search of not food, but WiFi and he found it here, within the walls of the past cookie emporium (see photo below). I don’t question the logic of putting WiFi into a former Oreo cookie place. The greater puzzle was finding, on the walk over, a tiny grocery store, the type that looks too narrow to fit in two people standing next to each other, with a large sign posted over its door: WiFi available within. Why?
I have to say that the factory makeover itself is stunning. Since the place is off the beaten path, there aren’t many who come just to look. Most are serious about checking things off a list. But there is also that stray person who seemed to be in search of not food, but WiFi and he found it here, within the walls of the past cookie emporium (see photo below). I don’t question the logic of putting WiFi into a former Oreo cookie place. The greater puzzle was finding, on the walk over, a tiny grocery store, the type that looks too narrow to fit in two people standing next to each other, with a large sign posted over its door: WiFi available within. Why?
New York break: Melinda and Melinda and Manhattan
Such cinematographic nostalgia! Last night, I may as well have been standing in an advance purchase line to buy opening week-end tickets for Annie Hall or Manhattan.
Once inside, I am in for a shock: people in their twenties and thirties actually do fill moviehouses! Nice! (This is the age group that always laughs appreciatively at offbeat lines that have absolutely no appeal to younger audiences and aren’t forceful enough to stir the jaded “I’ve heard this before” set. It is also the most underrepresented age category in a Madison Westside multiplex.)
The movie? Woody Allen’s newest – Melinda and Melinda. It’s not really so new (content-wise) after all – someone remarked that Woody plagiarizes himself, and it’s true. The uncertain distinction between the comic or tragic, the certainty of death – all Woodyisms through and through.
This post isn’t a movie review though. There are plenty who have already written (not too kindly) about M & M (I would say that generally, it is regarded as merely better than his recent worst). It is a homage to viewing it in New York. To watching an audience, sitting tightly in a little basement theater, looking not unlike the characters on the screen – entangled in city life and in each other, neurotic, deliberately dressed, seemingly focused on their own personal successes. Since the movie jumps between two separate story lines, it isn’t hard to add this third one, of those at the Lincoln Plaza Cinema last night, so that I (as the non-New Yorker) am really the true outsider, the moviegoer, while they all played their parts, reacting to each additional twist along with those on the screen.
Authentic New York. If this is a mysterious (pretentious maybe?) label, wander into a moviehouse and stare at the audience. You'll see it.
Once inside, I am in for a shock: people in their twenties and thirties actually do fill moviehouses! Nice! (This is the age group that always laughs appreciatively at offbeat lines that have absolutely no appeal to younger audiences and aren’t forceful enough to stir the jaded “I’ve heard this before” set. It is also the most underrepresented age category in a Madison Westside multiplex.)
The movie? Woody Allen’s newest – Melinda and Melinda. It’s not really so new (content-wise) after all – someone remarked that Woody plagiarizes himself, and it’s true. The uncertain distinction between the comic or tragic, the certainty of death – all Woodyisms through and through.
This post isn’t a movie review though. There are plenty who have already written (not too kindly) about M & M (I would say that generally, it is regarded as merely better than his recent worst). It is a homage to viewing it in New York. To watching an audience, sitting tightly in a little basement theater, looking not unlike the characters on the screen – entangled in city life and in each other, neurotic, deliberately dressed, seemingly focused on their own personal successes. Since the movie jumps between two separate story lines, it isn’t hard to add this third one, of those at the Lincoln Plaza Cinema last night, so that I (as the non-New Yorker) am really the true outsider, the moviegoer, while they all played their parts, reacting to each additional twist along with those on the screen.
Authentic New York. If this is a mysterious (pretentious maybe?) label, wander into a moviehouse and stare at the audience. You'll see it.
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