Last time, I wrote about the idea that everybody in New York is seeking the life that's just around the corner. I don't know that I'm so much seeking that - not yet. Day-to-day existence here is still a novelty and a joy, even if it sometimes is a pain. For now I'm happy with what's here, what I happen across. I'm learning every day, and I take this life as it presents itself and Iove the whole experience.
The thing I seem to have found, without even looking for it, is some part of my personality that hadn't been as visible before. I'm bossier since arriving here. I'm stronger and more assertive. I'm more confident, I walk fast. I flirt more. I don't take bullshit from people, and sometimes I come across as demanding.
I like it.
The other day, Sabra and I went to the East Village to pick up the futon we were buying for our living room. I knew a car service that would send a Suburban, so I called them once we go to the guy's apartment, and I guess I used a very authoritative tone with the dispatcher, who was trying to rush me off the phone.
"Do you work in fashion?" the guy asked, when I hung up. Not in a mean way, but very matter-of-fact.
I stared at him astonished for a moment (I was wearing ratty moving clothes and no makeup) and then told him that, in fact, I sort of did.
"Oh, he said," because I know lots of people in fashion and they're always ordering car services to come pick up this and that."
"I've just adopted a bossy New York demeanor since I moved here," I told him.
And yet, like many New Yorkers, I'm bossy and can be brusque in crowds, and at other times when it's necessary to assert myself, but talk to me one-on-one and I'm as friendly and down-to-earth as can be. That's how so many people are here - you've got to demand to get many things, but if you talk to people directly they go out of their way to be nice.
I think it has something to do with this: we're united by our willingness to put up with place, both tyrannical and wondrous, and our love for it - our willingness to sacrifice for that love - unites us. It's as though we were the multiple wives of a charismatic, mercurial man, and we were all alike (despite our rivalries) by the way we loved him in spite of ourselves. That's the feeling you get in New York.
So I like this new me. I may finally be living up to my fiery Aries nature. I never thought I fit the stubborn, take-charge Aries profile, but I think maybe I had just stifled it beneath the good-girl behavior I learned so well.
It's not about being mean, it's just about asking for what you want and telling people, in a reasonable way, when you're not happy with something. I find this tactic rarely has negative results. When you're merely asking for what you want or stating how you feel, no one can really argue. And people respect you more for your cojones. I'm glad to be here, finding mine.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Ruminations
Have I ever mentioned that I love the “Post” in all its rollicking, truculent, unabashedly low-brow magnificence? I gobbled it up this morning and think I ought to do so every day (while dutifully tucking in to the Times as well). The papers seem to appeal to the two sides of me, the serious thinker, and the girl who just wants to have fun.
Outside my window, a schoolbus is bleeping its backup bell and across the street a tall girl with bright-red hair flaring up against her green sweater ambles by. It’s loud here but I like it – I see a lot from my perch.
Some days it takes me so long to wake up. Sometimes I think the only time I truly get out of my hours-long morning daze is when I’m out striding through the sunshine. Yesterday I ventured out around 10:30 to do some long-pushed back errands (tailor, leather repair, etc.). I saved them all because the LES is garment central (or used to be) and I knew I'd get better work at better prices than on the UWS.
My tailor shop, on Orchard Street, charmed the hell out of me. It was narrow and dirty, the floor littered with safety pins and straight pins and lint and other fluff, and an angry, neurotic man was bellowing something about his zipper when I walked in (I think he need therapy worse than zipper-repair). Two old Jewish ladies had their hands folded in their laps or were twittering about – Irene and Susan there were called, which I knew because the proprietor made sure to learn our names. I asked them how the shop was and they informed me there was no better deal on the Lower East Side. The walls were paper with baseball paraphernalia, and the prices were tacked up on big pieces of white paper which clearly stated, in black marker, how much any possible job might cost. I paid $14 for a pants hemming and coat-sleeve repair, which took only 30 minutes, and which I deemed a bargain.
They did another thing I love there, which was refer me to somebody who could do the work better than they when it came to adding a loop to my leather belts. The Puerto Rican man behind the tailor-shop counter directed me to a Jewish shoe-repair shop below Delancey and about five blocks away. Now, this is a neighborhood filled with shoe-repair shops, but he knew just the one. I’m touched by these old arts – the repairing of garments, the customizing and bespoke things. It’s rare these days for anybody to own anything they’re inclined to take care of – when a dress only costs $24.50, who wants to pay $10 to repair it? But I like to own things with history (and usually a few holes) and to keep them and care for them – the reward is greater than with items that fade and pile and come apart (literally) at the seams after you’ve owned them for a month. When that happens with items I buy, I march them back to the store and request a refund. Though increasingly I simply don’t buy them in the first place. I love a bargain but abhor “cheap.” I prefer old things and things with glamour, vintage jewelry – strings of glass beads and old cocktail rings; long leather gloves, fur shrugs (though it’s not pc); coats, coats, coats; belts that have something to say; evening bags; and the kind of dresses made to show off a narrow waist.
It was refreshing to hear an interview with Isaac Mizrahi on WNYC (via the Time's "The Moment" blog) where he advised against buying things on sale – those are the odd, ill-fitting things, he said. Which is kind of what I’ve thought all along, but have been chastising myself for thinking. It was freeing to hear. I think I’d save money, actually, by avoiding sample sales. I seem to get caught up in the moment and buy things I regret. And my favorite things are largely items I’ve just stumbled onto when I wasn’t intending to shop – a vintage snakeskin-patterned raincoat happened upon in a vintage store when I popped in; same thing with an elephant belt and a chartreuse-wool dress – I wasn’t shopping on any of these occasions. One of my favorite clutches was a $100, I-have-no-time-but-I’m-going-to-hold-my-breath-and–buy-this wardrobe addition and another is the Diane von Furstenberg pencil skirt I paid a fortune for but which is my go-to garment I can wear six ways. Yes, the best things are those I spy when I merely step into store for a quick perusal, not intending to get anything – and then I just go for it. When I set out to shop, I go with the mentality that I have to get something, or I haven’t accomplished my goal – and that leads to regretted purchases. I’m going to go to the consignment shop asap, in fact, and unload some of them.
But yesterday. The shoe store was shuttered – we had all forgotten the Jewish holidays. But it’s on my street, practically (in the no man’s land below Delancey) and I’m glad to know where to go. It’s sometimes hard to find these places, they don’t often have websites or advertise much; the tailor shops, the repair spots – all of it is a dying art but one I cherish. And while I was looking for the shoe store I found a much-lauded donut shop, Donut Plant, a harbinger of what the area will be, whose pillow-soft organic donuts made me understand why I once encountered two girls who had taken the subway here expressly to find it. I couldn't direct them to it then, but now I know.
It’s fall in New York and I think I might finally understand this season. Summer was a youthful, go-go party of sultry evenings and endless running around and ensnaring ourselves insouciantly in scrapes only to laugh it off and scamper away. But I think it’s during fall that New York is most itself. In blazing, knowing autumn, the city’s wiseness and weariness is revealed. It’s at once at its most glorious and it also seems to be shrugging off the trials it puts us through: "Yeah, whaddya gonna do?"
I love this place so much that sometimes I’m aching for it before I remember that I’m in it. Could it be true, like some have written, that we all stay in New York for the life we imagine is just around the corner? Maybe that’s part of it, but I’m pretty thrilled with this life – the combination of indulgence and penny-pinching, of glamour and grit. The way I can go about my daily errands and suddenly look up and see the Chrysler Building, or go for a run and watch the sun bounce off the river beneath the Brooklyn Bridge. I never want to lose that sense of wonder.
Outside my window, a schoolbus is bleeping its backup bell and across the street a tall girl with bright-red hair flaring up against her green sweater ambles by. It’s loud here but I like it – I see a lot from my perch.
Some days it takes me so long to wake up. Sometimes I think the only time I truly get out of my hours-long morning daze is when I’m out striding through the sunshine. Yesterday I ventured out around 10:30 to do some long-pushed back errands (tailor, leather repair, etc.). I saved them all because the LES is garment central (or used to be) and I knew I'd get better work at better prices than on the UWS.
My tailor shop, on Orchard Street, charmed the hell out of me. It was narrow and dirty, the floor littered with safety pins and straight pins and lint and other fluff, and an angry, neurotic man was bellowing something about his zipper when I walked in (I think he need therapy worse than zipper-repair). Two old Jewish ladies had their hands folded in their laps or were twittering about – Irene and Susan there were called, which I knew because the proprietor made sure to learn our names. I asked them how the shop was and they informed me there was no better deal on the Lower East Side. The walls were paper with baseball paraphernalia, and the prices were tacked up on big pieces of white paper which clearly stated, in black marker, how much any possible job might cost. I paid $14 for a pants hemming and coat-sleeve repair, which took only 30 minutes, and which I deemed a bargain.
They did another thing I love there, which was refer me to somebody who could do the work better than they when it came to adding a loop to my leather belts. The Puerto Rican man behind the tailor-shop counter directed me to a Jewish shoe-repair shop below Delancey and about five blocks away. Now, this is a neighborhood filled with shoe-repair shops, but he knew just the one. I’m touched by these old arts – the repairing of garments, the customizing and bespoke things. It’s rare these days for anybody to own anything they’re inclined to take care of – when a dress only costs $24.50, who wants to pay $10 to repair it? But I like to own things with history (and usually a few holes) and to keep them and care for them – the reward is greater than with items that fade and pile and come apart (literally) at the seams after you’ve owned them for a month. When that happens with items I buy, I march them back to the store and request a refund. Though increasingly I simply don’t buy them in the first place. I love a bargain but abhor “cheap.” I prefer old things and things with glamour, vintage jewelry – strings of glass beads and old cocktail rings; long leather gloves, fur shrugs (though it’s not pc); coats, coats, coats; belts that have something to say; evening bags; and the kind of dresses made to show off a narrow waist.
It was refreshing to hear an interview with Isaac Mizrahi on WNYC (via the Time's "The Moment" blog) where he advised against buying things on sale – those are the odd, ill-fitting things, he said. Which is kind of what I’ve thought all along, but have been chastising myself for thinking. It was freeing to hear. I think I’d save money, actually, by avoiding sample sales. I seem to get caught up in the moment and buy things I regret. And my favorite things are largely items I’ve just stumbled onto when I wasn’t intending to shop – a vintage snakeskin-patterned raincoat happened upon in a vintage store when I popped in; same thing with an elephant belt and a chartreuse-wool dress – I wasn’t shopping on any of these occasions. One of my favorite clutches was a $100, I-have-no-time-but-I’m-going-to-hold-my-breath-and–buy-this wardrobe addition and another is the Diane von Furstenberg pencil skirt I paid a fortune for but which is my go-to garment I can wear six ways. Yes, the best things are those I spy when I merely step into store for a quick perusal, not intending to get anything – and then I just go for it. When I set out to shop, I go with the mentality that I have to get something, or I haven’t accomplished my goal – and that leads to regretted purchases. I’m going to go to the consignment shop asap, in fact, and unload some of them.
But yesterday. The shoe store was shuttered – we had all forgotten the Jewish holidays. But it’s on my street, practically (in the no man’s land below Delancey) and I’m glad to know where to go. It’s sometimes hard to find these places, they don’t often have websites or advertise much; the tailor shops, the repair spots – all of it is a dying art but one I cherish. And while I was looking for the shoe store I found a much-lauded donut shop, Donut Plant, a harbinger of what the area will be, whose pillow-soft organic donuts made me understand why I once encountered two girls who had taken the subway here expressly to find it. I couldn't direct them to it then, but now I know.
It’s fall in New York and I think I might finally understand this season. Summer was a youthful, go-go party of sultry evenings and endless running around and ensnaring ourselves insouciantly in scrapes only to laugh it off and scamper away. But I think it’s during fall that New York is most itself. In blazing, knowing autumn, the city’s wiseness and weariness is revealed. It’s at once at its most glorious and it also seems to be shrugging off the trials it puts us through: "Yeah, whaddya gonna do?"
I love this place so much that sometimes I’m aching for it before I remember that I’m in it. Could it be true, like some have written, that we all stay in New York for the life we imagine is just around the corner? Maybe that’s part of it, but I’m pretty thrilled with this life – the combination of indulgence and penny-pinching, of glamour and grit. The way I can go about my daily errands and suddenly look up and see the Chrysler Building, or go for a run and watch the sun bounce off the river beneath the Brooklyn Bridge. I never want to lose that sense of wonder.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Blog-dentity crisis
I'm not really sure what this blog is about, to tell you the truth. It's supposed to be my gimlet-eyed ruminations on New York, but it seems like most of the time I just go on and on about myself and the minutiae of my existence - to read it you'd undoubtedly conclude that I'm hopelessly self-absorbed.
It's not that, really. It's just that I don't really know how to blog.. I ought to know -- I've been copyediting the blogs at Nymag.com for a few months now and I think I get their format. Blogs have to be about something - that's the idea. One of these days I will start a blog that is about something - maybe a ramen blog, or one called Lower East Snack.
For now, I guess my goal for this one is to focus more on the writing, so it's an enjoyable read no matter what I'm blogging about, and to make it more sharp-eyed observations, less diary-style gushing.
Thoughts, dear readers, on how Green Eyes on the City could improve?
It's not that, really. It's just that I don't really know how to blog.. I ought to know -- I've been copyediting the blogs at Nymag.com for a few months now and I think I get their format. Blogs have to be about something - that's the idea. One of these days I will start a blog that is about something - maybe a ramen blog, or one called Lower East Snack.
For now, I guess my goal for this one is to focus more on the writing, so it's an enjoyable read no matter what I'm blogging about, and to make it more sharp-eyed observations, less diary-style gushing.
Thoughts, dear readers, on how Green Eyes on the City could improve?
New digs, fresh start
Sometime mid-last week I felt the first twilight chill in the air, and this time I dug my winter clothes out from under my bed and kept them out. Though the next day, when I tried to wear a purple wool cardigan, drops of sweat beaded on the small of my back and I looked around and it was hot.
It's still too hot for turtlenecks and wool. I know this because I moved across town today, and even in a cotton t-shirt and cut-offs, perspiration pooled and plinked off of me and off of the Uzbek movers. After they had loaded the truck (while I frantically finished packing the kitchen) they set off downtown and I did the same, taking a cab so they wouldn't beat me there. What luxury the cab people enjoy, speeding across town with a view on every side! We mole people of subway voyages get none of that, not counting the occasional sight of a rat.
My driver took the FDR highway, which hugs Manhattan's Eastern edge, and as we merged and he accelerated I realized how little I ride in cars anymore (especially during the day) and how apparent driving's precariousness is to me now; I'm skittish in a car. But the view was glorious, grand, sweeping, and every other cliche. The angled light of a late-fall afternoon burned blue above the East River, above Queens' former factories (now lofts), with the Triborough reclining elegantly in the background. I was suddenly no longer consumed by drudgery of packing and moving. I felt as light, and as much in wonderment, as the day I arrived.
It was a good way to begin a new beginning. And that's what this apartment is, a fresh start. It's more beautiful than I had anticipated, the poshest place I've ever had. Of course, my standards for poshness in housing aren't high -- throw in a dishwasher and I'll swoon as though you offered me the penthouse suite at the Ritz. But it's apparent that care has been taken in the details. There's a marble stoop, granite counters, exposed brick, recessed lighting, closets galore (with clever separate storage units above) and brand-new, good quality kitchen appliances.
So it's gorgeous and for two days, until Sabra arrives, it's mine alone. Mine and my boxes -- they have a life of their own. But I'm tired of being owned by stuff, so a lot of this is going. It's smarter to purge before you move, but it took this new place to inspire me. I now see that the old place was a drag on my energy. I'm glad to be out, and so glad to be here. Bring on the new season, the new place, new opportunities and new attitudes.
It's still too hot for turtlenecks and wool. I know this because I moved across town today, and even in a cotton t-shirt and cut-offs, perspiration pooled and plinked off of me and off of the Uzbek movers. After they had loaded the truck (while I frantically finished packing the kitchen) they set off downtown and I did the same, taking a cab so they wouldn't beat me there. What luxury the cab people enjoy, speeding across town with a view on every side! We mole people of subway voyages get none of that, not counting the occasional sight of a rat.
My driver took the FDR highway, which hugs Manhattan's Eastern edge, and as we merged and he accelerated I realized how little I ride in cars anymore (especially during the day) and how apparent driving's precariousness is to me now; I'm skittish in a car. But the view was glorious, grand, sweeping, and every other cliche. The angled light of a late-fall afternoon burned blue above the East River, above Queens' former factories (now lofts), with the Triborough reclining elegantly in the background. I was suddenly no longer consumed by drudgery of packing and moving. I felt as light, and as much in wonderment, as the day I arrived.
It was a good way to begin a new beginning. And that's what this apartment is, a fresh start. It's more beautiful than I had anticipated, the poshest place I've ever had. Of course, my standards for poshness in housing aren't high -- throw in a dishwasher and I'll swoon as though you offered me the penthouse suite at the Ritz. But it's apparent that care has been taken in the details. There's a marble stoop, granite counters, exposed brick, recessed lighting, closets galore (with clever separate storage units above) and brand-new, good quality kitchen appliances.
So it's gorgeous and for two days, until Sabra arrives, it's mine alone. Mine and my boxes -- they have a life of their own. But I'm tired of being owned by stuff, so a lot of this is going. It's smarter to purge before you move, but it took this new place to inspire me. I now see that the old place was a drag on my energy. I'm glad to be out, and so glad to be here. Bring on the new season, the new place, new opportunities and new attitudes.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Dear readers, please send encouragement
So, it's gotten to the point, and I knew it would happen eventually in New York, where my optimism feels a little bit bedraggled, a little threadbare. I've been in the running for a few great jobs but haven't landed one yet (though there's a good one I'm being considered for - there's my optimism again), getting into freelancing here is proving more fraught with hurdles than I expected, and my energy just feels scattered.
I think scattered may be the nature of the city, though. If you've ever called or emailed someone in New York and not gotten a response for more than a week and thought, what's wrong with this person? I can tell you. It's the city. There's so much going on, so much exciting work to do and places to check out and events constantly and your subway rides are deceptively long, that the time just goes, drains away. A week has passed and you still have unanswered emails. It's a thrilling, rollicking tornado of an existence for those who are truly "doing" the city, but sometimes it causes a person to pull back and wonder why there's never enough time.
I think my apartment situation is a big part of the malaise I'm feeling. I've been ever-so-ready to move since my roommates have devolved into not the greatest - loud music, stuff left all over the living room, dishes that sit in the sink for days, always running around like they're too fabulous to take out the trash - it could be worse, but it's gotten worse than when I moved in, and it's been wearing on me. Plus the boys that live in the neighborhood and catcall like crazy bug me, too. (Yesterday one was driving alongside me, persisting in offering a ride. I declined politely the first five times and then he made some skeezy comment and I exclaimed, "Stop harassing me!" "Harassing?" he said, befuddled).
Sabra and I were supposed to move into our new apartment Sept. 1, but now it's been pushed back til the 15th, and I was really just ready to get out of here. I am going to look at the apartment again tomorrow, so that's exciting. I'll make sure it truly does look 15th-ready (dear god, it better be). I'm just ready to be downtown and away from these current roommates!
Well, I guess that's all my complaining for now. Back to being pluckily optimistic.
I think scattered may be the nature of the city, though. If you've ever called or emailed someone in New York and not gotten a response for more than a week and thought, what's wrong with this person? I can tell you. It's the city. There's so much going on, so much exciting work to do and places to check out and events constantly and your subway rides are deceptively long, that the time just goes, drains away. A week has passed and you still have unanswered emails. It's a thrilling, rollicking tornado of an existence for those who are truly "doing" the city, but sometimes it causes a person to pull back and wonder why there's never enough time.
I think my apartment situation is a big part of the malaise I'm feeling. I've been ever-so-ready to move since my roommates have devolved into not the greatest - loud music, stuff left all over the living room, dishes that sit in the sink for days, always running around like they're too fabulous to take out the trash - it could be worse, but it's gotten worse than when I moved in, and it's been wearing on me. Plus the boys that live in the neighborhood and catcall like crazy bug me, too. (Yesterday one was driving alongside me, persisting in offering a ride. I declined politely the first five times and then he made some skeezy comment and I exclaimed, "Stop harassing me!" "Harassing?" he said, befuddled).
Sabra and I were supposed to move into our new apartment Sept. 1, but now it's been pushed back til the 15th, and I was really just ready to get out of here. I am going to look at the apartment again tomorrow, so that's exciting. I'll make sure it truly does look 15th-ready (dear god, it better be). I'm just ready to be downtown and away from these current roommates!
Well, I guess that's all my complaining for now. Back to being pluckily optimistic.
Silly food quiz type thing: Who's a foodie?
Saw this on friend's food blog and couldn't resist trying it.
Granted, this is from the U.K., so it skews a little bit more towards the weird British animal-part food category (black pudding, headcheese, haggis, etc.)
Mine score was 55 - I expected higher! But I beat my friend the food blogger's score - hers was only 51. Maybe I should start that ramen blog I've been thinking about...
Want to try it?
Check out the list and hit comment to share your number.
Here’s what you do:
1) Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2) Bold all the items you’ve eaten.
3) Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.
4) Optional extra: Post a comment at www.verygoodtaste.co.uk linking to your results.
The VGT Omnivore’s Hundred:
1. Venison
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant.
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake
Granted, this is from the U.K., so it skews a little bit more towards the weird British animal-part food category (black pudding, headcheese, haggis, etc.)
Mine score was 55 - I expected higher! But I beat my friend the food blogger's score - hers was only 51. Maybe I should start that ramen blog I've been thinking about...
Want to try it?
Check out the list and hit comment to share your number.
Here’s what you do:
1) Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2) Bold all the items you’ve eaten.
3) Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.
4) Optional extra: Post a comment at www.verygoodtaste.co.uk linking to your results.
The VGT Omnivore’s Hundred:
1. Venison
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant.
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Wonder Weekend
Had a total blast this weekend. The highlights:
-Friday night, dinner with Caitlin et al at Schiller's in the Lower East Side, a couple of blocks from both Brad's place and from my future apartment. Schiller's is really famous because it's about a zillion years old, and while I liked the food and the atmosphere, I felt like the menu should have had more in the way of light options appropriate for summer. Oh well, when you've been around a zillion years, I guess you do what you want. Brad's boyfriend Walter, who is much older, was visiting from Austin and he was nice enough to pick up the tab for all of us, which he frequently does. He has a gruff air about him, but he's actually a sweetie.
After Schillers we headed to this cute underground bar I've been to before, which doesn't really have much in the way of a sign, so I'm not sure of the name. Bar 151 or something. When that place proved kind of dead, Brad was at a loss (he mostly goes to gay bars) and nobody else knew the neighborhood. I'd been to one nearby bar a couple of weeks before and remembered that it had good dance music --not so much clubby, just eclectic, more old-school -- so we headed over there and sure enough, the music was rockin'. It was mostly 50s and 60s soul, which reminded me of Sock Hop music, and is about my favorite for dancing. After a few vodka and red bulls, we were all boogying along with the hipster-y crowd.
-Saturday, I straightened up a bit and worked a little on this important project I'm doing (more on that later) and then in the late afternoon Lariss and I headed to the Warmup party at P.S.1, the contemporary art museum in Long Island City, Queens that's housed in a former school. The party was fun - music, beer, lots of pretty people - but what impressed me most was the museum itself. At most museums I get the feeling that I'm a spectator merely taking everything in, a very one-sided relationship, but somehow these exhibits engaged viewers more deeply. It wasn't anything gimmicky and self-consciously "interactive," either, it was just that we were asked to more than just look. In one mostly dark room, six diver suits hung from the ceiling, ominous and larger than actual people. They were holding large wrenches and other scary-looking metal implements and occasionally a light would flicker on above one of them. Sound effects included much creaking and groaning, and a strange smell filled the air that was probably compressed oxygen. It was eerie and weird and nightmare-ish.
I liked many of the other exhibits, too, but what I appreciated overall was their variety. Different media - film, hanging things, a room with all the walls painted like a Utopic brookside scene with big fluffy beanbag chairs to recline in. It was (in my inexpert opinion) contemporary art at its best: not towering, abstract, and impenetrable, but designed to engage the viewer in varied and surprising ways.
Saturday night we were out with the girls in what has become a typical night for us: Dinner at Employees Only, dancing at Tenjune, and then a nightcap at Employees Only. Irish knows everyone there, so we sat with the employees in the garden and ate late-night snacks and some people smoked. Then Lariss and I shared a cab back to the Upper West Side.
Today Irish and I had an amazing time at the free Yo La Tengo show at McCarren Park Pool. It was the last of the legendary Jelly NYC shows, and was bittersweet because after this they're closing the pool as a concert venue and turning it back into a pool. Right now it's an enormous shell where a public pool used to be, and it's perfect for all of the varied activities they had today: the show, dodge ball, four square, lots of booths giving things away and signing people up to vote, etc., and Irish's and my favorite: the slip n' slide. We spent hours slip n' sliding, and made friends with two little girls, sisters who were 5 and 8. They were so darling and sweet, and liked to hold our hands and we hung out with them all afternoon. It was an adorable family, actually. The parents were young and good-looking and (evidently) French, because the little girls started speaking it with their cousin, to our surprise. It was really a wonderful time - relaxed and carefree and a perfect way to spend one of the last summer Sundays.
-Friday night, dinner with Caitlin et al at Schiller's in the Lower East Side, a couple of blocks from both Brad's place and from my future apartment. Schiller's is really famous because it's about a zillion years old, and while I liked the food and the atmosphere, I felt like the menu should have had more in the way of light options appropriate for summer. Oh well, when you've been around a zillion years, I guess you do what you want. Brad's boyfriend Walter, who is much older, was visiting from Austin and he was nice enough to pick up the tab for all of us, which he frequently does. He has a gruff air about him, but he's actually a sweetie.
After Schillers we headed to this cute underground bar I've been to before, which doesn't really have much in the way of a sign, so I'm not sure of the name. Bar 151 or something. When that place proved kind of dead, Brad was at a loss (he mostly goes to gay bars) and nobody else knew the neighborhood. I'd been to one nearby bar a couple of weeks before and remembered that it had good dance music --not so much clubby, just eclectic, more old-school -- so we headed over there and sure enough, the music was rockin'. It was mostly 50s and 60s soul, which reminded me of Sock Hop music, and is about my favorite for dancing. After a few vodka and red bulls, we were all boogying along with the hipster-y crowd.
-Saturday, I straightened up a bit and worked a little on this important project I'm doing (more on that later) and then in the late afternoon Lariss and I headed to the Warmup party at P.S.1, the contemporary art museum in Long Island City, Queens that's housed in a former school. The party was fun - music, beer, lots of pretty people - but what impressed me most was the museum itself. At most museums I get the feeling that I'm a spectator merely taking everything in, a very one-sided relationship, but somehow these exhibits engaged viewers more deeply. It wasn't anything gimmicky and self-consciously "interactive," either, it was just that we were asked to more than just look. In one mostly dark room, six diver suits hung from the ceiling, ominous and larger than actual people. They were holding large wrenches and other scary-looking metal implements and occasionally a light would flicker on above one of them. Sound effects included much creaking and groaning, and a strange smell filled the air that was probably compressed oxygen. It was eerie and weird and nightmare-ish.
I liked many of the other exhibits, too, but what I appreciated overall was their variety. Different media - film, hanging things, a room with all the walls painted like a Utopic brookside scene with big fluffy beanbag chairs to recline in. It was (in my inexpert opinion) contemporary art at its best: not towering, abstract, and impenetrable, but designed to engage the viewer in varied and surprising ways.
Saturday night we were out with the girls in what has become a typical night for us: Dinner at Employees Only, dancing at Tenjune, and then a nightcap at Employees Only. Irish knows everyone there, so we sat with the employees in the garden and ate late-night snacks and some people smoked. Then Lariss and I shared a cab back to the Upper West Side.
Today Irish and I had an amazing time at the free Yo La Tengo show at McCarren Park Pool. It was the last of the legendary Jelly NYC shows, and was bittersweet because after this they're closing the pool as a concert venue and turning it back into a pool. Right now it's an enormous shell where a public pool used to be, and it's perfect for all of the varied activities they had today: the show, dodge ball, four square, lots of booths giving things away and signing people up to vote, etc., and Irish's and my favorite: the slip n' slide. We spent hours slip n' sliding, and made friends with two little girls, sisters who were 5 and 8. They were so darling and sweet, and liked to hold our hands and we hung out with them all afternoon. It was an adorable family, actually. The parents were young and good-looking and (evidently) French, because the little girls started speaking it with their cousin, to our surprise. It was really a wonderful time - relaxed and carefree and a perfect way to spend one of the last summer Sundays.
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