Mosaic memory and New York City: a sort-of restaurant review
I've always felt at home in New York City.
Some of that's from being born here (I'm in the city as I write this), which entitles one forever after to always answer that question of "Where are you from?" with "New York." (The "city" is implied. Otherwise you would have said "upstate." Conversely, one can also answer with just "The City" and anyone in the Northeast or MidAtlantic states will know which city you mean. When I got to college in Rhode Island it was one of the phrases translated for people from other areas of the country in the orientation handbook.)
Of course that question, "Where are you from?" was one I heard a lot as a kid, prompted not by curiosity about my birthplace but as a code for "where are your genes from?" Looking at me, people couldn't decide what I was. Italian? American Indian? Puerto Rican?
Of course, the correct answer to the person who asks "Where are you from?" but who is staring at you in such a way that you know they mean "what ethnicity are you?" is: "New York."
I used to play with them. When they would get that answer, they would try another tack. "Oh, and where is your mommy from?"
Solemn, wise-eyed child. "Oh. She's from Upstate New York."
Others would try to be more specific. "I mean, where were you born?"
I would be more specific back at them. "Beth Israel... Hospital."
I was stubbornly, indefinably from New York and I knew it.
***
Walking through the city today I was thinking that when we lived in the suburbs, New York went from being like a parent, whom you lived with and who nurtured you, to being like the cool aunt or uncle who was really fun to visit. (The fact that I had a really cool aunt who lived in Greenwich Village probably explains this metaphor's existence.) Now that I think about it, though, the city is perhaps a bit more like a whole branch of the family that's fun to visit, but whose members one knows in varying degrees.
The variety that New York presents, the shreer overwhelming volume of everything means that "knowing" the city means knowing only certain pieces. And yet when you walk down a block you don't recognize... you suddenly realize that you do. You walked this block tht time in 1984 when your mother's friend's sister from Illinois was visiting and you were looking for that [fill in here: art gallery, restaurant, apartment she used to live in...] The memory of that block got filed away in the jumbled pile of postcards and snapshots in the big drawer in the filing cabinet in my head labeled "New York." Each time I go somewhere in the city, another file gets added. It's a mosaic that will never quite all be stitched together into one quilt, even if I lived my whole life here.
This is how I found the place I'm eating in now. I was walking down Eighth Avenue (down meaning south), and as I was approaching the intersection of 23rd Street, one of those postcards came floating out of my memory.
The memory of who I came here with (was it Romkey? And who else? Was it Sunday brunch? There was a bistro, near the movie theater... how did we know of it?) is vague enough I can almost believe I dreamed it. Except that if I did dream it, I must have very clear pregognitive talents. Because the Boston Chicken I knew was going to be there, was there. As was the fancy cupcake place.
But it seems even more dreamlike when I try to apply logic to the memory. Cupcake place? But, didn't cupcakes only become trendy like 2-3 years ago? If I came here with Romkey it would have been fifteen years ago at least? And yet, there's the bistro I've been expecting to see. Who would have thought the place would still be around 15 years later?
The place is called "East of Eighth" and it is exactly as I remembered it, an eclectic but not overly pricey or pretentious menu of fusion/nouvelle American/whatever you want to call it cuisine. Fifteen years ago raspberry chipotle anything would have been a typical example of such fare. Oh, how far we've come...!
The menu lists two specials which entice me: a split pea soup and "lobster and filet mignon stir fried rice." I secure a table for one, order both along with a serving of the "cumin-lemon marinated salmon," which I am told is "lox-like." Served with freshy marinated cucumbers and multi-grain toast points. Perfect.
The soup comes right away and is delightfully springy with pea flavor, with two excellent 'croutons' blanketed in melted cheddar floating in it. The bread basket has at least four kinds of bread in it. Eclectic mix, anyone? A single slice of each. A very good, crumbly and yet crusty cornbread, sweet and perfect when buttered, a focaccia, and two different diameters of baguette-like thing. In addition to the nicely soft butter, there is a spread made of pureed carrots with some sweet onion -- no wait, that's scallions and it's just that the carrots are so sweet. A touch of... curry powder in it, maybe? Not much, just a hint, nothing to take away from the sweet wetness of the carrots.
Oh, and my waitress is psychic. I just glanced up, upon hearing the cocktail shaker in the bartender's hands, and not two seconds later she is at my elbow asking if I want something to drink besides water. Yes, definitely. I am halfway through my soup and spring is in the air and... something with gin, please. I order gin, lemon juice, a shot of chambord, with a splash of soda. (This improvised drink will later appear on my bill as a "gimlet.")
The food arrived shortly after that, filling, delicious, and perfect. I find this one of my favorite ways to have lobster. The rice grains in the fried rice were just as they should be, al dente, and each one coated with oil. It was, well, like something I'd make out of leftovers at home--with the leftovers from a meal at, oh, Aujourd'hui, though. Tiny slices of snow peas, actual peas, and pea-sized cubes of carrots. Tied the whole meal together, I suppose, too, what with the peas and carrots.
***
Speaking of peas and carrots I had one of my more amusing eavesdropping episodes in a restaurant. A young couple were sitting in the front window of the place. The dining room I was in was on the second floor, and the whole front wall is glass. He had his back to the glass; she faced it. They were clearly on a date, but an early one, since it was only just 6:15pm when I sat down, and they had been there a while, judging from the state of their plates.
At one point, he turned to look out the window and spotted a group of their friends walking past the restaurant, then wondered aloud what they were all doing there. This led to him figuring out that they were getting ready to surprise him for his birthday. They girlfriend was very upset by having the surprise ruined (although he seemed highly amused and pleased about the whole thing).
"Why the hell were you looking out the window anyway?" she pouted. "You're supposed to be paying attention to ME."
"Well, but you were looking out the window, and your eyes got kind of wide, so I looked to see what you were looking at... why the hell did we sit over here if you didn't want me seeing?"
"Well, I thought it would be too obvious that something was up if I made a big deal about wanting to sit somewhere else! Besides. your back is to the window. Now really, I'm getting pissed off, you're still looking out the window instead of at me..."
"Look, there's Steve!"
"Robert! Don't you appreciate the things I do for you? I wanted you to be surprised!"
"I am surprised!"
"I don't think you appreciate how much hard work it was to put this thing together! It's taken a lot of finesse that I don't have!" A pause. "Quit looking out there already!!"
Some of that's from being born here (I'm in the city as I write this), which entitles one forever after to always answer that question of "Where are you from?" with "New York." (The "city" is implied. Otherwise you would have said "upstate." Conversely, one can also answer with just "The City" and anyone in the Northeast or MidAtlantic states will know which city you mean. When I got to college in Rhode Island it was one of the phrases translated for people from other areas of the country in the orientation handbook.)
Of course that question, "Where are you from?" was one I heard a lot as a kid, prompted not by curiosity about my birthplace but as a code for "where are your genes from?" Looking at me, people couldn't decide what I was. Italian? American Indian? Puerto Rican?
Of course, the correct answer to the person who asks "Where are you from?" but who is staring at you in such a way that you know they mean "what ethnicity are you?" is: "New York."
I used to play with them. When they would get that answer, they would try another tack. "Oh, and where is your mommy from?"
Solemn, wise-eyed child. "Oh. She's from Upstate New York."
Others would try to be more specific. "I mean, where were you born?"
I would be more specific back at them. "Beth Israel... Hospital."
I was stubbornly, indefinably from New York and I knew it.
***
Walking through the city today I was thinking that when we lived in the suburbs, New York went from being like a parent, whom you lived with and who nurtured you, to being like the cool aunt or uncle who was really fun to visit. (The fact that I had a really cool aunt who lived in Greenwich Village probably explains this metaphor's existence.) Now that I think about it, though, the city is perhaps a bit more like a whole branch of the family that's fun to visit, but whose members one knows in varying degrees.
The variety that New York presents, the shreer overwhelming volume of everything means that "knowing" the city means knowing only certain pieces. And yet when you walk down a block you don't recognize... you suddenly realize that you do. You walked this block tht time in 1984 when your mother's friend's sister from Illinois was visiting and you were looking for that [fill in here: art gallery, restaurant, apartment she used to live in...] The memory of that block got filed away in the jumbled pile of postcards and snapshots in the big drawer in the filing cabinet in my head labeled "New York." Each time I go somewhere in the city, another file gets added. It's a mosaic that will never quite all be stitched together into one quilt, even if I lived my whole life here.
This is how I found the place I'm eating in now. I was walking down Eighth Avenue (down meaning south), and as I was approaching the intersection of 23rd Street, one of those postcards came floating out of my memory.
The memory of who I came here with (was it Romkey? And who else? Was it Sunday brunch? There was a bistro, near the movie theater... how did we know of it?) is vague enough I can almost believe I dreamed it. Except that if I did dream it, I must have very clear pregognitive talents. Because the Boston Chicken I knew was going to be there, was there. As was the fancy cupcake place.
But it seems even more dreamlike when I try to apply logic to the memory. Cupcake place? But, didn't cupcakes only become trendy like 2-3 years ago? If I came here with Romkey it would have been fifteen years ago at least? And yet, there's the bistro I've been expecting to see. Who would have thought the place would still be around 15 years later?
The place is called "East of Eighth" and it is exactly as I remembered it, an eclectic but not overly pricey or pretentious menu of fusion/nouvelle American/whatever you want to call it cuisine. Fifteen years ago raspberry chipotle anything would have been a typical example of such fare. Oh, how far we've come...!
The menu lists two specials which entice me: a split pea soup and "lobster and filet mignon stir fried rice." I secure a table for one, order both along with a serving of the "cumin-lemon marinated salmon," which I am told is "lox-like." Served with freshy marinated cucumbers and multi-grain toast points. Perfect.
The soup comes right away and is delightfully springy with pea flavor, with two excellent 'croutons' blanketed in melted cheddar floating in it. The bread basket has at least four kinds of bread in it. Eclectic mix, anyone? A single slice of each. A very good, crumbly and yet crusty cornbread, sweet and perfect when buttered, a focaccia, and two different diameters of baguette-like thing. In addition to the nicely soft butter, there is a spread made of pureed carrots with some sweet onion -- no wait, that's scallions and it's just that the carrots are so sweet. A touch of... curry powder in it, maybe? Not much, just a hint, nothing to take away from the sweet wetness of the carrots.
Oh, and my waitress is psychic. I just glanced up, upon hearing the cocktail shaker in the bartender's hands, and not two seconds later she is at my elbow asking if I want something to drink besides water. Yes, definitely. I am halfway through my soup and spring is in the air and... something with gin, please. I order gin, lemon juice, a shot of chambord, with a splash of soda. (This improvised drink will later appear on my bill as a "gimlet.")
The food arrived shortly after that, filling, delicious, and perfect. I find this one of my favorite ways to have lobster. The rice grains in the fried rice were just as they should be, al dente, and each one coated with oil. It was, well, like something I'd make out of leftovers at home--with the leftovers from a meal at, oh, Aujourd'hui, though. Tiny slices of snow peas, actual peas, and pea-sized cubes of carrots. Tied the whole meal together, I suppose, too, what with the peas and carrots.
***
Speaking of peas and carrots I had one of my more amusing eavesdropping episodes in a restaurant. A young couple were sitting in the front window of the place. The dining room I was in was on the second floor, and the whole front wall is glass. He had his back to the glass; she faced it. They were clearly on a date, but an early one, since it was only just 6:15pm when I sat down, and they had been there a while, judging from the state of their plates.
At one point, he turned to look out the window and spotted a group of their friends walking past the restaurant, then wondered aloud what they were all doing there. This led to him figuring out that they were getting ready to surprise him for his birthday. They girlfriend was very upset by having the surprise ruined (although he seemed highly amused and pleased about the whole thing).
"Why the hell were you looking out the window anyway?" she pouted. "You're supposed to be paying attention to ME."
"Well, but you were looking out the window, and your eyes got kind of wide, so I looked to see what you were looking at... why the hell did we sit over here if you didn't want me seeing?"
"Well, I thought it would be too obvious that something was up if I made a big deal about wanting to sit somewhere else! Besides. your back is to the window. Now really, I'm getting pissed off, you're still looking out the window instead of at me..."
"Look, there's Steve!"
"Robert! Don't you appreciate the things I do for you? I wanted you to be surprised!"
"I am surprised!"
"I don't think you appreciate how much hard work it was to put this thing together! It's taken a lot of finesse that I don't have!" A pause. "Quit looking out there already!!"