Here’s something I didn’t realize about myself until I moved to New York: I love a good barbecue. You would think as a vegetarian I would be turned off by a party that revolves around the slow cooking of flesh, but actually, I think barbecues are a hoot! In the past three weeks, I’ve partaken in three equally delightful and diverse barbecues.
The first one was on a friend’s roof in the lower east side. The crowd of 15-20 stayed standing for much of the festivities and mingled in small groups. I met a man who owned his own hedge fund firm, an investment banker, and an advertising executive. I felt a little intimated by their successes and stature, but I was able to fit into this crowd by being one of many who owned two houses - that seemed pretty standard.
These upwardly mobile work-acoholics were meeting me for the first time, but were universally warm and welcoming. In addition to the standard barbecue fare of hamburgers and potato chips, our host had put out pita and hummus, a variety of olives, and a couscous dish that was a celebration of summer with the inclusion of all its fresh vegetables. The company was delightful, but the food made me stay until almost midnight.
The next barbecue was exactly a week later at my co-workers house. He lives in a tiny apartment with his girlfriend in the upper eastside with one treasured feature: a backyard. They took this 10 x 20 slab of concrete connected to their back sliding door and planted fresh herbs and plants around its circumference to soften up the atmosphere and give the entire area a sweet, comfortable feel. Their backyard consisted of a long dining table, a couple lounge chairs, and of course, a barbecue. Every other square inch was taken up with people. They invited 50 and 75 showed up to their 500 square foot apartment. The atmosphere was loud, raucous and a lot of fun. The wide variety of guests made for great conversations. A small sampling:
- Fat people on hot airplanes, Vegas, the Yankees
- Popular New York bike rides, vegetarianism, marathons
- Hangover cures, trade shows, dating
It was quite a bit different than the barbecue a week prior. For one thing, there was no hummus in sight and the alcoholic selection was 100% beer, but the group was equally as warm and friendly. If I hadn’t been to the US Open all day, I would likely have stayed until midnight at this one as well. As it was, I left a bit after 8:00, regrettably. I had to get home to my dog who I had left alone early that morning.
The final barbecue was a week later in Harlem. It was a school reunion of sorts and I had been invited as a friend of one of the alumni. The festivities took place in the basement of our host's childhood home, where his much younger, much messier brother resided. There was a makeshift bar and a kitchen counter, but the gem was out back. Roy, our host, had real grass and trees in his backyard along with a selection of eclectic chairs and a real live fire pit. It was lovely.
I was one of the few in attendance who wasn't a professional designer. The group was intelligent, witty, and very creative. After a few beverages, the conversation flowed. Everyone glowed a reddish hue from the light of the fire and their own alcohol-induced warmth.
The guest of honor was a young woman who was visiting from Ireland. She met her husband on a vacation there and married him two years later. Her visits to New York were infrequent and cause for celebration. A small group of us, including the Irish resident and a visitor from Minnesota who flew in for this reunion, stumbled through the dark streets of Northern Manhattan well past three in the morning. We were content with an evening of great food, stimulating conversation, and laughter that crackled like the fire through the night.
Yes, barbecues are fantastic. It's interesting that in a city of this magnitude, a suburban activity still reins as king of the summer. I'm glad it does. There's nothing wrong with a few friends congregating around grilled meats and cold beers, wherever they can find a slab of concrete or a blade of grass. It's a universal summer pastime - even in New York City.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Summer Swansong
New York is a biking town. For people outside the city, this may come as a shock. Yes, there is quite a bit of traffic, lanes are subject to interpretation, and street-level flow is manic. All that is true, but Manhattan also has the busiest bike path in the country which runs along the west side highway and circumferences the entire island. You can bike around Central and Prospect parks, over the Brooklyn bridge, and all the way to Coney island on the oldest bike path in America. There are annual century rides, weekly races around Central Park, and a bike race through all five boroughs that attract thousands of enthusiastic participants. More and more people are using bikes as their primary means of transportation with a new lane on 6th making riding even easier. I was talking to a man the other night who rides from his Brooklyn home to his work in Queens daily. He said the fastest commute was on his bike followed by the subway. The slowest option was a car.
I hadn’t been on a bike since the start of summer and was anxious to get back on two wheels before Labor Day. My adventure started in Prospect Park Sunday afternoon and winded through Brooklyn towards Coney Island. Along the way, we rode past storefronts in Yiddish, Chinese, Russian, and even English. A pit stop at the famous Spamoni Gardens alone was worth the trip. The crunchy, sweet crust was spread with a creamy, salty cheese and topped with a tomato sauce that puckered your lips with its fresh tang. The pie melted in your mouth and expanded in your stomach. Without the post-lunch ride, I think I would still be in a food coma.
The ride continued through Coney Island along the boardwalk, past the Tatiana cafes of Brighton Beach and the party boats on Sheepshead Bay. After crossing a narrow bridge, we ended up at Riis Park at the foot of the Rockaways. With the absence of lifeguards and the $25 roundtrip ticket from the city, this beach is known for attracting its fair share of hipsters. Bikini tops are optional and tattoos strongly encouraged. The sea was rough from Hurricane Earl and I opted not to go too far out in the water for fear of being swept away.
In the evening we continued our journey to downtown Rockaway where we were staying at the D Piper Inn. When we arrived, Peter, the Inn’s owner, had opted for surfing over hanging around to greet us, but his friend Tom stepped in to show us around. After stashing our bikes among the boogie boards and surfboards in their overgrown backyard, we went in search of the famous Rockaway tacos. The pizza was now a distant memory, so we headed over to the taco shack at a brisk pace to make sure we caught them before they closed at eight. The shack was 10 feet wide with a single window where people walked up to place their order. Cartoon shapes were painted on its side in bright colors that had chipped off with the tumultuous ocean weather. Tomato plants lined the roof and a smattering of mismatched chairs and ½ dozen end tables were set up in a small alley off to the side. The crowd was mostly younger and many carried boards from their day at the beach. The fish tacos were divine and (because we ordered deluxe) topped with chunky guacamole. It was clear to see why this place was legendary.
From our taco feast, we walked along the shore to the Sand Bar, the only bar in New York with a view of the Atlantic Ocean. The bar was featured in the Times that morning and that notoriety was all the incentive we needed. Once we got there, we saw that while the bar was technically on the beach, the bright, garish, fluorescent lights instantly made you forget you were on the water.
There were less than 20 people milling about the square bar, sipping their gin & tonics and amber beers. We saddled up to a corner spot and ended up next to an inebriated elderly man who bragged about doing time for attempted murder in between questioning the manliness of “sissy Manhattan types.” The whole scene made me uncomfortable and I suggested we depart after a single drink.
We meandered through the sleepy, rundown town and found a commemorative park on the bay – about eight blocks west of the ocean. The park had an alter decorated in stained glass that was set amidst a backdrop of the lapping waves of the bay and a breathtaking panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline. It was not the first time I’ve been surprised by how visible that skyline is from so many areas in greater New York, and how many people must have been horrified by actual views of the devastation nine years ago.
I opted for an early night so I could see the sunrise over the ocean the next morning. It was worth the early alarm and the vibrant reds and oranges of the morning were like silent promises of a glorious day to come.
On our way out of town, we grabbed another taco for the road and biked the 10 miles to Long Beach. We got to the tip and pulled over to the shore where we thought the boardwalk began. Although we were wrong about the boardwalk, the attendant didn’t charge us the standard admission fee and the beach was practically empty. We decided to lock our bikes up and stay for the day.
The water was cold, but the sun was gloriously toasty. We lounged around like walruses, occasionally turning over in the sun to keep our bodies evenly warm. It felt like the last hoorah of summer – and as it turned out – it was. It was our final beach trip before the chill of Autumn breezed into New York, driving residents to their closets for scarves and turning green leaves red. It was as if the summer sun had looked at a calendar, and turned down its heat post-Labor Day. It was a wonderful summer swansong however, and one I’ll always remember fondly.
I look forward to welcoming the summer back with open arms…and a similar trip…in about nine months.
I hadn’t been on a bike since the start of summer and was anxious to get back on two wheels before Labor Day. My adventure started in Prospect Park Sunday afternoon and winded through Brooklyn towards Coney Island. Along the way, we rode past storefronts in Yiddish, Chinese, Russian, and even English. A pit stop at the famous Spamoni Gardens alone was worth the trip. The crunchy, sweet crust was spread with a creamy, salty cheese and topped with a tomato sauce that puckered your lips with its fresh tang. The pie melted in your mouth and expanded in your stomach. Without the post-lunch ride, I think I would still be in a food coma.
The ride continued through Coney Island along the boardwalk, past the Tatiana cafes of Brighton Beach and the party boats on Sheepshead Bay. After crossing a narrow bridge, we ended up at Riis Park at the foot of the Rockaways. With the absence of lifeguards and the $25 roundtrip ticket from the city, this beach is known for attracting its fair share of hipsters. Bikini tops are optional and tattoos strongly encouraged. The sea was rough from Hurricane Earl and I opted not to go too far out in the water for fear of being swept away.
In the evening we continued our journey to downtown Rockaway where we were staying at the D Piper Inn. When we arrived, Peter, the Inn’s owner, had opted for surfing over hanging around to greet us, but his friend Tom stepped in to show us around. After stashing our bikes among the boogie boards and surfboards in their overgrown backyard, we went in search of the famous Rockaway tacos. The pizza was now a distant memory, so we headed over to the taco shack at a brisk pace to make sure we caught them before they closed at eight. The shack was 10 feet wide with a single window where people walked up to place their order. Cartoon shapes were painted on its side in bright colors that had chipped off with the tumultuous ocean weather. Tomato plants lined the roof and a smattering of mismatched chairs and ½ dozen end tables were set up in a small alley off to the side. The crowd was mostly younger and many carried boards from their day at the beach. The fish tacos were divine and (because we ordered deluxe) topped with chunky guacamole. It was clear to see why this place was legendary.
From our taco feast, we walked along the shore to the Sand Bar, the only bar in New York with a view of the Atlantic Ocean. The bar was featured in the Times that morning and that notoriety was all the incentive we needed. Once we got there, we saw that while the bar was technically on the beach, the bright, garish, fluorescent lights instantly made you forget you were on the water.
There were less than 20 people milling about the square bar, sipping their gin & tonics and amber beers. We saddled up to a corner spot and ended up next to an inebriated elderly man who bragged about doing time for attempted murder in between questioning the manliness of “sissy Manhattan types.” The whole scene made me uncomfortable and I suggested we depart after a single drink.
We meandered through the sleepy, rundown town and found a commemorative park on the bay – about eight blocks west of the ocean. The park had an alter decorated in stained glass that was set amidst a backdrop of the lapping waves of the bay and a breathtaking panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline. It was not the first time I’ve been surprised by how visible that skyline is from so many areas in greater New York, and how many people must have been horrified by actual views of the devastation nine years ago.
I opted for an early night so I could see the sunrise over the ocean the next morning. It was worth the early alarm and the vibrant reds and oranges of the morning were like silent promises of a glorious day to come.
On our way out of town, we grabbed another taco for the road and biked the 10 miles to Long Beach. We got to the tip and pulled over to the shore where we thought the boardwalk began. Although we were wrong about the boardwalk, the attendant didn’t charge us the standard admission fee and the beach was practically empty. We decided to lock our bikes up and stay for the day.
The water was cold, but the sun was gloriously toasty. We lounged around like walruses, occasionally turning over in the sun to keep our bodies evenly warm. It felt like the last hoorah of summer – and as it turned out – it was. It was our final beach trip before the chill of Autumn breezed into New York, driving residents to their closets for scarves and turning green leaves red. It was as if the summer sun had looked at a calendar, and turned down its heat post-Labor Day. It was a wonderful summer swansong however, and one I’ll always remember fondly.
I look forward to welcoming the summer back with open arms…and a similar trip…in about nine months.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Misty
I always get to the subway station when the local entertainment is singing Misty. His steel guitar is accompanies by his sweet, lofty voice that cuts through the rumbling of the express trains. Recently, he’s starting bringing a friend along to play the sax. It’s a very nice arrangement.
His rendition is fine as cherry wine, and certainly I have no cause to complain, but I would appreciate a little variety. I feel like hit the subway station at slightly different times every day. A series of events – how many miles I run on the treadmill, if there’s hot water in my building, how many friends puppy runs into in the park, how interesting the top news stories are on Morning Edition, how I wear my hair down or up, if it’s one of the mornings I get the New York Times – dictate whether I get to the subway station at 7:42 or 8:35 or sometime in between.
Yet despite the variance of the minute hand, the song is always the same…Misty. Is this an uncanny coincidence? Do I just happen to hit him during Misty every day? Or do I perhaps inspire him in some way? When he sees me, is he compelled to breakout into Misty? Or does he just play one song? Is it possible to earn a living in New York City, the most expensive, expansive city in the country, off a single rendition of Misty?
Apparently, it is.
I guess I’ll just continue to enjoy this entertainment as part of the steady rhythm and routine of my mornings in the city. What else can I do? Cry about it? Now here I go….getting misty….
His rendition is fine as cherry wine, and certainly I have no cause to complain, but I would appreciate a little variety. I feel like hit the subway station at slightly different times every day. A series of events – how many miles I run on the treadmill, if there’s hot water in my building, how many friends puppy runs into in the park, how interesting the top news stories are on Morning Edition, how I wear my hair down or up, if it’s one of the mornings I get the New York Times – dictate whether I get to the subway station at 7:42 or 8:35 or sometime in between.
Yet despite the variance of the minute hand, the song is always the same…Misty. Is this an uncanny coincidence? Do I just happen to hit him during Misty every day? Or do I perhaps inspire him in some way? When he sees me, is he compelled to breakout into Misty? Or does he just play one song? Is it possible to earn a living in New York City, the most expensive, expansive city in the country, off a single rendition of Misty?
Apparently, it is.
I guess I’ll just continue to enjoy this entertainment as part of the steady rhythm and routine of my mornings in the city. What else can I do? Cry about it? Now here I go….getting misty….
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Dance Off
I have a friend who loves to dance. This is most fortunate because it’s a love we share. In Seattle, there were few opportunities and companions with which to dance, but in New York, people are always throwing down.
He recommended we go to one of his favorite spots on Thursday nights to dance Bhangra at a club on the corner of West Houston and Verick. We met at 9:00 so we could take the pre-dance lessons. Lord knows I needed it.
Dancing Bhangra is kind of like being in Bollywood movie. The drums are heavy, the sitars are tight, and everyone dances with their hands in the air and a wiggle in their shoulders. The lesson was similar to an aerobics class. The beautiful woman on stage would show the crowd 8-32 counts of choreography and turn on the music so we could mimic the steps to our best ability. After a while, she started putting things together and inviting people on stage. I couldn’t stop smiling. I know I looked a bit goofy, but it was certainly a lot of fun.
When the lesson was over, the woman left the stage, the music grew even louder, and the good dancers started to file in. The crowd was heavily East Indian, but overall was a quite a mix of ages and backgrounds. The one thing everyone had in common seemed to be their smiles and enthusiasm for the dance. Most of the crowd threw themselves into the music, abandoning any attempt to be “cool” or “sophisticated.” It was quite refreshing for New York.
I pointed out to my friend that it was rare to see men dancing with such joy and vigor. Men danced in clusters with their whole bodies moving to the music; their hands waving in the air, their hips shaking, shifting side to side in lateral leaps and kicks – it was a true expression of joy.
The man I was with got completely drenched in sweat as he moved his own body around to the beat for the few hours we were there. He too was smiling nearly the entire time. With every shake of their shoulders, the driving beat and the warm, welcoming environment, men in the room were allowed to shake off the pretenses of being a typical stoic, macho New York man, and resign themselves to the joy of Bhangra.
He recommended we go to one of his favorite spots on Thursday nights to dance Bhangra at a club on the corner of West Houston and Verick. We met at 9:00 so we could take the pre-dance lessons. Lord knows I needed it.
Dancing Bhangra is kind of like being in Bollywood movie. The drums are heavy, the sitars are tight, and everyone dances with their hands in the air and a wiggle in their shoulders. The lesson was similar to an aerobics class. The beautiful woman on stage would show the crowd 8-32 counts of choreography and turn on the music so we could mimic the steps to our best ability. After a while, she started putting things together and inviting people on stage. I couldn’t stop smiling. I know I looked a bit goofy, but it was certainly a lot of fun.
When the lesson was over, the woman left the stage, the music grew even louder, and the good dancers started to file in. The crowd was heavily East Indian, but overall was a quite a mix of ages and backgrounds. The one thing everyone had in common seemed to be their smiles and enthusiasm for the dance. Most of the crowd threw themselves into the music, abandoning any attempt to be “cool” or “sophisticated.” It was quite refreshing for New York.
I pointed out to my friend that it was rare to see men dancing with such joy and vigor. Men danced in clusters with their whole bodies moving to the music; their hands waving in the air, their hips shaking, shifting side to side in lateral leaps and kicks – it was a true expression of joy.
The man I was with got completely drenched in sweat as he moved his own body around to the beat for the few hours we were there. He too was smiling nearly the entire time. With every shake of their shoulders, the driving beat and the warm, welcoming environment, men in the room were allowed to shake off the pretenses of being a typical stoic, macho New York man, and resign themselves to the joy of Bhangra.
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