First, the whole museum seems icky, doesn’t it? Just twelve years after the event. $24 admission–what, it’s like the MoMA now? And a gift shop, for God’s sake. I have no interest in going.
Yet…when I went to Rwanda, one of the “tourist” things I did was visit the Kigali Genocide Memorial. Which is also a museum.
(One of the more bizarre moments on that trip was telling our host we’d gone to the memorial, and we’d liked the museum. “Wait, did you go to the memorial, or the museum?” Because of course there’s not just one memorial, or one museum. Our conversation went around in circles, like a Pizza Hut/Taco Bell situation.)
Honestly, Peter and I were thinking we would blow it off–we’re not morbid tragedy tourists. Except the people we were visiting said it was good!
It was great. It was somber without being grossly emotional. It was very informative (Herero massacre–what?). It was well lit and professional, but with no multimedia fanciness. And it was free–though of course donations are encouraged. The “gift shop,” in a little wood hut, carried a few books about the genocide, and some crafts.
The whole thing opened in 2004, on the ten-year anniversary of the genocide. Too soon? Not if you want a genuine memorial for people who died, of course not. (Though I would be curious to know how it was discussed at the time.)
The key to the genocide memorial not seeming maudlin or exploitative or generally icky was that when we arrived, a guide greeted us and took us to one of the mass graves. He briefly explained the situation, and the efforts of the memorial center, then we stood for one minute of silence.
After that, we were free to walk around however we wanted, with our audio tour or without.
I don’t envy that guide his job, but I think this human connection made all the difference in how we saw the whole museum/memorial.
Because, honestly, tourists can suck. I’ve yawned or daydreamed at some very serious places, maybe in full view of people who had been affected by the given event. It’s easy to fall out of the moment, if you’re hungry or your traveling companion has raced ahead, or whatever.
But one real, live person, talking directly to you–that’s the key to helping you focus on the place, why it exists, and what you might get out of it.
There’s plenty to learn from Rwanda, but that’s one concrete, small thing, and I’m glad I saw their model. It makes me at least not hate the idea of the 9/11 museum.
Doing the tourist thing, posing for a group photo at the genocide memorial, with Rod and our Rwandese friend Eric
You can tour the Steinway piano factory, you know. It’s just sitting up there, at the north end of Steinway Street in Queens, doing its thing like it’s done since, oh, right after the Civil War. Peter finally got on the stick and scheduled a tour–but you have to plan way ahead. Peter called in November, and the first dates available were for May.
So if you have a spring trip to NYC planned, call now! (718) 204-3175.
The place is a marvel of hand-crafted skill, scaled up and mechanized only slightly. And solidly union.
Steinway=sweet ride.
Safety glasses are required. Our tour guide (background) was a retired carpenter.
Wood choices.
Of course the wood floors in this place are beautiful.
And of course in a factory full of carpenters, you get a good dry-erase-marker holder.
A little bit of Astoria Ugly style in the shipping room.
Right after we took the tour, this spring, the Steinway company was bought by a hedge-fund bajillionaire. I hope it all works out OK. In the 1870s, Steinway was New York City’s largest employer, and it still provides good jobs for really skilled people.
I’m also still rooting for the Steinway Mansion. Check it out while you’re up here for the tour.
I’ve been traveling so much, I’ve really lost the thread with New York. I mean, on Wednesday I got on an uptown train instead of a downtown train by accident. I don’t think I’ve ever made that mistake, at least not while I’ve lived here.
So what better way to feel New York-y than to go to the august American Museum of Natural History? You know, the one with all the taxidermy.
I went to the preview for the new exhibit Our Global Kitchen. It opens today, November 17, and runs through August 11, 2013. (I shouldn’t tell you that far-off end date–it’ll make you feel less urgency, and then you’ll wind up missing it. This happens to me all the time.)
In short: You should go. It’s fun, and you’ll learn something. And, since it’s the AMNH, the dioramas and models are great.
I could have stared at this model of the push-pull farming technique all day.
The details: This is a really ambitious exhibit. Where to begin when you want to cover what the whole world eats, three times a day? Oh, and it’ll cover the food-supply chain as well.
As a result, it feels a little compressed, a little rushed–each section of the show could easily be expanded into its own exhibit. Then again, I spend an awful lot of time thinking about global food, and food production, so maybe it’s a perfectly good introduction to the issues and to non-American cuisine–which everyone should get.
Let's just take a look at another one of those models, shall we? (photo courtesy AMNH)
To my taste, the food-industry section, which starts the exhibit, could’ve taken a stronger “It’s time to change this!” stance. And certainly the curators’ comments before the show were more in this vein–the word “unsustainable” came up a lot.
But there’s some progress. This same exhibit 30 years ago would’ve been sponsored by ADM and Cargill, and had a thoroughly gee-whiz-technology-is-great tone. At least now we get the cons of fish farming listed alongside the pros.
And you get square Japanese watermelon! (photo courtesy AMNH)
After all the supply-chain stuff, the rest of the exhibit feels a lot more colorful and fun. There’s a fancy show kitchen, where you can eat actual food, and there’s a mirror where you can stick out your tongue and see how many tastebuds you have. There are buttons to push to smell things, and touchscreens to learn about banana transport. You can post your food pics to Instagram with the tag #CelebrateFood, and they’ll show up on screens in the exhibit.
But the meat of the exhibit is still the actual physical stuff. There’s a whole wall of cookbooks from around the world. There’s a vaguely obscene-looking Mesoamerican popcorn popper, and beautiful molds for Korean rice cakes.
See what I mean about the popcorn popper?
And there’s a vivid diorama of a just-before-Cortes-landed market in Mexico.
Somewhere in there is a basket of grubs! (photo courtesy AMNH)
I also loved the set rooms and meals from different places and times in history: a Roman empress’s breakfast, Kublai Khan’s buffet on the hoof…
In the same room, the juxtaposition of Gandhi’s typical breakfast with Michael Phelps’s is fascinating. It struck me as the stealth message of the exhibit. If Americans learned to eat more foods from elsewhere–more vegetarian staples, more flavor and spices–we might all put a lot less stress on the world’s food systems.
And definitely settle in for the second big video presentation, at the end–all about celebrations and special foods from around the world.
I’m glad such an august institution as the American Museum of Natural History has taken on such a huge and meaningful subject as food. And I hope it sparks some thoughts in people who haven’t thought so much about food yet. There’s a lot more to taste out there…
Tomorrow, August 25, the city is setting up a temporary pedestrian plaza at Newtown and 30th Avenue, in front of the Key Food. This is meant as a trial run for a permanent plan that would block off the street where cars are always whizzing by in an unnerving way. Read more
I love me a Greek frappe. When I explain this drink to people, though, it often gives them pause. That’s because the secret ingredient is Nescafe.
Miss June in the 2012 Frappe-Hotties Calendar. Turn-ons: home movies, nude beaches; turn-offs: poorly preserved film, weak straws
In today’s militant-foodie climate, saying you drink Nescafe is like saying you eat Rainbo bread, and not in a guilty-pleasure-reminds-of-my-latchkey-kid-days way. Still, I take perverse joy in bending Nescafe to my will, and I thank the Greeks forever for thinking up this brilliant drink, which is nothing more than a spoonful of instant coffee furiously mixed up with a little cold water, plus optional sugar and milk; ice and straw mandatory.
But, fine, I understand some people are too good for Nescafe. Or they hear the word and can only think of the evils Nestle has perpetrated in the developing world, which is a fair point.
And it’s those people I thought of yesterday when I discovered an amazing thing: you can use regular, real, good coffee to make a frappe!
Let me first explain why this took so long. In this house, we came to coffee snobbery late. In winter, we drank Turkish coffee. In summer, we drank frappes. We were at one with our Astoria ecosystem.
Our standard frappe kit: Greek-made Nescafe, sugar and battery-operated "frappediser", available at Greek groceries everywhere
Then fancy-pants coffee crept in. Next thing you know, we’re sucking down the shade-grown-whatever, in vast quantities, making vintage thermoses full every day.
In anticipation of hot weather, I ordered the Toddy, on the recommendation of the hilarious and talented Hilah Cooking. We now had fancy-pants cold coffee concentrate in the fridge. Great iced coffee, but no foam. And where is the fun of drinking cold coffee, if there’s no reason to stick a straw in it?
Yesterday, Day 2 of Toddy Era (TE), I stirred my coffee extra vigorously, and noticed a bunch of bubbles formed. Not foam, but…bubbles. I was surprised. I’d always assumed the reason Nescafe foamed up when you shook it with cold water was due to the Nescafe itself, maybe the blood of malnourished African babies they put it in or something.
But here was very good and perfectly ethical coffee forming bubbles too. I quick pulled out our frappe whizzer and went to work.
Frappediser in action
Et voila. The foam appeared. I dropped in ice cubes, more cold water and milk…and then stuck in a straw, and all was good.
Mr. July in the 2012 Frappe-Hotties Calendar.
The problem is, of course, it doesn’t taste like a frappe. It tastes like real coffee. Which to someone new to this whole frappe game is not a problem. But to someone weaned on the authentic Greek taste, it’s a little hard to adjust.
Today was Day 2 of the Toddy Frappe Era (TFE), and it’s getting easier. The new fancy-coffee overlords may have won.
...Or have they?!
(Don’t let me put you off real Greek frappe, with Nescafe. It’s fantastic. BUT you have to use made-in-Greece Nescafe, which tastes far better than ‘Merican recipe, or at least a Euro-brand instant espresso. It does foam up a little bit better and sturdier, so you can do it just by shaking Nescafe, sugar and cold water really hard in a jar with a lid on–no frappediser needed.)
Hi all. I’m in Dubai as we speak, watching from the 18th floor of a building as a minor sandstorm swirls around about 28 construction cranes. I haven’t yet had a chance to collect my thoughts (or all my funny pictures) on this subject of grandiose city construction.
This fantabulous new tumblr is a great outlet for a dozen or so Queens denizens, including Our Illustrious Leader and Generator of Brilliant Food Ideas, Jeff Orlick. As you’d expect from anything about Queens, it’s mostly about food.
A belated wrap-up of the year. I almost didn’t post this, because everything went so well this year that it seemed too boring. Ten items seemed like a stretch–here’s the Top 9:
1. I spent five weeks in Egypt and did not get sick. Absolutely astounding. I can’t really take credit. It’s like my stomach bacteria are a separate force from me. Thank you, thank you, stomach bacteria.
2. Bookdealbookdealbookdeal. OMG!!! For realz! 2 legit 2 quit!! Oh hai I can be real awthor? Oh, right–they gave me money to write in full sentences and spell things right. I’d better keep in practice.
3. I was on a boat! I was on a boat! Peter and I took the Queen Mary 2, and even dined with the Commodore Himself.
4. I really felt like this Internet thing is going to work out. This isn’t specific to this year exactly, but I’ve met so many fantastic people through the Internet, from the fabulous Kate Payne of The Hip Girl’s Guide to Homemaking to Christina of A Thinking Stomach to Medo, who just happened by my blog and wound up driving me around Cairo and convincing his incredibly generous mom to make me a home-cooked meal.
It's not even all fitting in the picture!
In real life, I probably would’ve met Medo’s mother first–she’s only a few years older than me. But this is what happens on the Internet. (Get your pedophile jokes lined right up. I can take it.)
Medo can manage a smile even after being stuck in Cairo traffic for an hour.
5. I made some jokes in Arabic. I can’t remember them now, but I remember when people laughed. And when the family who shared their picnic lunch with me at the Agricultural Museum in Cairo said, “She’s like us! She’s got the Egyptian spirit!” (I am wildly translating andaha damm khafeef–she has light blood.)
This matters because it was the small goal I set for myself while taking Arabic classes in Cairo. All other forms of fluency in Arabic have eluded me. And nothing gets you so far with so little in Egypt as making a good joke. It made up for my total failure to use the various polite phrases at the right times.
6. I made peace with my hometown. This happened to be via an article I wrote for the New York Times, which is also very exciting. But in the big picture, it’s amazing to me that the place I said sucked so hard for so long is now cool enough to make me want to advocate for it.
Or…could it be…that I’ve changed too? No, that’s just silly!
7. I got into good work habits, with other people’s help. Early in 2011, I realized: all those people who take their computers to coffee shops are on to something. In fact, all those people who go to offices to work are also on to something. You get more done with other people around (up to a point). So I put the call out for people to come over and work at the extra desk in my office. I called it the Queens Writers Fellowship, and it brought some excellent people over. When I’m back and writing this year, I hope to do it again.
8. I started Astoria Ugly. I’ve been meaning to do this for years. Finally Tumblr came along and provided a pared-down enough format that just posting a heinous-architecture photo a day made sense. See how great the Internet is now that we’ve lost all of our attention span? Admirably, David, who’s been babysitting Astoria Ugly while I’m away, has more energy to write things for it. I’ll be back at the helm shortly.
9. People called me ‘teacher.’ In the spring and early summer, I taught several classes on blogging, based on my expertise derived from…this very blog, I suppose. I may not be monetizing or SEO-optimizing or attracting those feverish commenters who fight to be the first, but gosh darn it, I’ve been in this game for (holy crap) eight years now, and tried every random blog thing on for size. It was fun to consolidate all that knowledge–and get up to speed on new developments. And hear all my students’ new ideas and points of view.
It also gave this blog a little kick in the pants. To be honest, I was about to bail. Sometimes it’s more fun to write tweets and snarky Facebook comments. But, yeah, you can’t quit your blog while you’re teaching about blogging. So I buckled down and followed my own advice: I set a posting schedule (and occasionally messed it up–for ex, with this now-dated post), and brainstormed ideas, and wrote in batches. (This is why the blog gets kind of far behind my actual travel timeline–but you don’t mind too much, do you?)
Thanks a million for reading all this time. Greatest respec’ to all the real teachers in the world.
As Peter and I got off the Q18 bus in Maspeth, he briefed me: “Remember, if anyone asks, we have a car, but it’s in the shop. We love the Mets. And the city hasn’t been right since Giuliani was in charge.”
Maspeth is one of those “real Queens” neighborhoods, where you understand why even the mention of my fair borough’s name inspires fear in the hearts of Manhattanites. There’s no subway access. Everyone owns a car. And the demographic is fairly old-school, conservative white.
We were here because we always make jokes about taking the most impractical transit route. And then occasionally we do it. This time, we were headed to a movie at the wonderful Kew Gardens Cinema. But for some reason that didn’t seem like a really exciting plan until Peter suggested we walk. And to sweeten the pot, he said, we could take a bus first. Starting in Maspeth skipped us over a lot of territory we already knew well and dumped us in an area we wouldn’t otherwise go.
We grabbed a slice of pizza (sesame seeds on the crust!), admired a display on historic Maspeth in the local bank window, and then headed for the nearby cemeteries. There’s a whole swath of them in this part of Queens, which shows where the border of “town” was, way back when–as cemeteries are always set on the outskirts. Now they’re just consumed in the larger tangle of Queens.
We had trouble finding our way into the first one, though some street signs clarified:
I should hope so. This is Queens, after all.We finally made it into the Lutheran All Faiths Cemetery, a refreshingly scrappy place, with lots of plots overrun with weeds and wildflowers and mulberry trees. As the name indicates, it’s the catchall cemetery. There’s a mass memorial to the victims of the General Slocum steamboat fire. Around the edges were newer graves, which some people were visiting for Father’s Day. Fortunately, the cemetery appears to have relaxed its policy on plastic flowers.
On we trudged, through the adjoining cemetery and past thousands of German headstones. In the newer part of this one, many of the graves were for Puerto Ricans. And Chinese. This mishmash, even in death, is what I consider the real Queens.
Out the other side of the cemetery, and we felt like we’d been dumped in some small town. These train tracks are spookily abandoned. I don’t know how a city like New York can afford to have abandoned train tracks cutting through for miles, but that appears to be the case. Maybe they can earn some cash back by hiring them out for a remake of Stand by Me.
But soon we knew we were back in Queens. A utopian version of Queens. We have these kinds of row homes in Astoria, but they’ve all been colossally messed with over the years, so the original vision has been lost.
I’ve never seen such a pristine block. American flags were fluttering. Lexuses were parked. Women were speaking Brazilian Portuguese. Like I said, utopian Queens.
Soon enough, we were on the straightaway, down Metropolitan Ave. Where we saw the Chalet Alpina. I am still mentally apologizing for the extremely stupid penis joke I made, just before a sturdy older gentleman exited the heavy wood front door and said to us in a thick German accent, “Try anysink. You cannot go wrong.” Shamefaced, we peeked inside–only to set eyes on a real live woman playing a real live accordion. It was only 5pm, though, and we weren’t hungry yet for schnitzel. We soldiered on.
When we passed an old-timey soda fountain, we did magically get hungry for ice cream. Our timing was flawless–we’d apparently just missed an insane rush of Father’s Day sundae consumption. Behind the marble counter was a mess of sticky glasses and wadded-up napkins, and our counter guy looked a little shell-shocked. My chocolate ice-cream soda (with chocolate ice cream) was pretty splendid nonetheless. But we were getting close to our appointed movie time, so I had mine in a to-go cup, instead of a nifty glass like this guy’s.
Fueled by sugar, we made it to the theater with five minutes to spare. That gave us five minutes to duck into the wood-paneled gloom of the Homestead Gourmet Shop, where the glass cases are packed with German specialties. The Homestead deli is right across the street from the Homestead retirement home, and they both use a similar typeface in their signs. Could it really be that the two businesses are related? If so, I think I’ll be looking into an assisted-living situation there. And the train whisks by right behind. And the movies are across the street. Where do I sign?
Scooted into our seats for Midnight in Paris just as the previews started. Kew Gardens is a great place to see a movie all about nostalgia, because its halls are lined with old film posters, and the whole operation seems like it’s from a gentler era. Tickets cost $10! The carpeting has cool Art Deco patterns! Genuine teenagers work here! (Non-New Yorkers: This is remarkable because everywhere else in NYC, all the crappy service jobs are held by full-grown adult aspiring actors. Takes some of the innocence out of it.)
After the movie, we heeded the siren accordions of Chalet Alpina and walked back, through Forest Hills Gardens, ogling mansions all the way. We tucked in to wicked schnitzel, some lard-loved spaetzle and hearty goulash soup. Our brusque waitress shamelessly upsold us (“Zat schnitzel is very small. You cannot share it.”), but we couldn’t complain about anything.
We toasted each other with our giant beers. “What a great trip to Wisconsin,” Peter said. Sure, you read about Queens’ ethnic diversity all the time–its Indian, Colombian, Chinese, etc. scenes. But I never expected a day out to end with sauerkraut.
Earlier, just after the movie, we’d had a quick beer on a patio just next to the LIRR tracks. We were looking at our handy-dandy Queens bus map and plotting our next move when our waiter (another teenager) asked, “You guys tourists?” The way he said it made me for once proud and flattered to be a tourist. “Only from Astoria,” Peter answered–but I think that counts.
I mentioned it back in the fall, but then I was just guessing at how enjoyable it would be. Now I knowThe Upper East Side Cookbook, by the lovely Parsley Cresswell, is the next volume to add to your shelves.
Poor Miss Parsley. She feels herself losing her toehold in the society of the Upper East Side. And I think, in these troubled economic times, we can all relate to that. Just yesterday, downward mobility was the subject of breakfast conversation.
Miss Parsley is inventive, though, and cooks and forages to save money, as well as to cheer herself up. And the recipes in this book are all quite accessible and delicious. But that hardly does the book justice–it’s really a wonderful document of NYC life, and I feel proud to have had a very small hand in it. (I know Parsley’s alter ego, and provided light copy editing services.)
Maybe it’s just the thing for Mother’s Day? You know, just to show that even though you’re actually not doing quite so well as your parents, you’re still managing to feed yourself…
It’s all over the news, so I’m sure you know: The Obamas are planting a vegetable garden. Fan-fucking-tastic! (This is not gratuitous swearing.)
Meanwhile, Hook Echoes is revived! Also fantastic. Jefe, teller of many stories, is in Austin, and I am so envious of his general problem-solving and gardening skillz.
And further meanwhile, I’m about to head to Spain, and I’ll be, by the serendipity of Craigslist, meeting up with and staying chez Heather Coburn Flores, the author of Food Not Lawns. Excellent.
And while I’m doing that, my friend Deb will be planting wildflowers all over Bedford-Stuyvesant. Check out the plans for Bed-Stuy Meadow at 21st Century Plowshare. If we had more actual earth in Astoria, I’d suggest we do it here. But we’re pretty paved over. If you live somewhere with even a little exposed earth, toss some seeds in there. You never know what might happen.
It’s all over the news, so I’m sure you know: The Obamas are planting a vegetable garden. Fan-fucking-tastic! (This is not gratuitous swearing.)