Category: NYC, biking, city life

Maybe California isn’t better after all…

This is great news! I like phrases like “veritable foodie paradise” and “$60 million restoration of the Battery Maritime Building.” Also, I deeply appreciate the words “having learned from the touristification of South Street Seaport.”

Why do I care, seeing how the Battery Maritime Building couldn’t be farther from where I live? Because San Francisco has a place like this, and I’m jealous. In fact, almost every decent city has a massive food hall. Come to think of it, what do tourists do when they come to NYC? Because when I travel, the market is the first place I visit.

Here, you’ve got your Whole Foods, which is slick and dull. Your Dean & Deluca, which is small and snotty. Your Chelsea Market, which is horribly, horribly lit and has depressing acoustics. And your new Balducci’s, which is enh, but at least is handily located for Karine and gives out lots of free samples.

Foooood haaaaalllll. Yessss, that’s what will make this city truly shine! Perhaps I will rent a stall, so I can sell unsolicited advice, and passionfruit curd.

Adieu, Fulton Fish!

I just noticed that DJP also has a nice stash of old Fulton Fish Market. The Astoria crew made its own pilgrimage a while back; Peter of course took photos (scroll down to “Fulton Fish…”).

Back in April, when we went, it seemed like the fish market was poised to close at any moment. Fortunately, it wasn’t like when Siberia, the best bar ever, the bar in the subway station, was “about to close” for more than six months, and I went there way too often and got way too drunk, and even locked in the place one night, and a bruise on my back from making out on the pinball game, and generally too horrified with myself to set foot in the new place on 9th Ave for a long, long, long time.

I mean, I’m really glad we saw the FFM when we did, representing the almost-end of an era, but you didn’t see me there every week after, ogling the giant tuna and cadging clams from guys in yellow rubber overalls, all nicknamed “the Hook.”

The fish market has officially moved up to the Bronx now, I think only back in October, leaving a bunch of cranky tough-guy sound bites in its wake (e.g., “Aw, who needs refrigeration? I’ll miss the old place!” says Vinnie “the Hook” Lambrusco). Guess it’s time for a visit, and a compare-contrast blog entry. But damn, you have to wake up so early…

Just like old times…

We need a new bolt for a toilet seat. In the meantime, it makes me a little nostalgic. “Peter, our bathroom reminds me of our trip to Mexico!” I said just moments ago.

“Or Greece,” he said. “Or anywhere. Really, does any good travel place have toilet seats?”

Good point.

Goal-Oriented

This is something I have only rarely been. Other than getting out of New Mexico by securing admission in one of our nation’s more respectable universities, and then escaping from dysfunctional grad school in back-of-nowhere Indiana by moving to NYC, my get-up-and-go has been napping in a sunny corner.

Which isn’t terrible. Especially in New York, where everyone’s very ambitious. Just being around some of these people can be exhausting. “How do you pay your rent?” people wonder. Easy: I know how to cook for myself and never order takeout. “What are you doing for work?” they inquire. Oh, this and that. And, most abstractly, someone once asked me, “What are you?”

Because I’m not an artist. I’m not in a rock band. I’m not a writer, even though I get paid to write travel guides. I’m not a journalist, out to break a huge story. It’s quite clear I am not an Arabic linguist. I’m not, like almost everyone else I know in New York, harboring some desperate, burning dream that really makes me who I am even as I labor in soul-sucking anonymity.

I’m not saying my way is the right way, although I have on occasion felt pretty smug about my outlook. I suppose you could call the attitude neo-slacker, but I prefer to reference Hemingway’s journalist character in The Sun Also Rises, who on principle never appears to be working. In fact, though, this not-appearing-to-be-working thing has backfired a bit recently, and I did get an ulcer a couple of years ago, in part due to employment uncertainty. But overall, I do seem to get a bit more daily pleasure than a lot of people I know, and I haven’t had a what-am-I-doing-with-my-life crisis in quite a few years.

But why am I talking about this, and what does it have to do with food? It’s because I just read Julie & Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen, by Julie Powell. This is a fucking fantastic book, based on Powell’s hilarious blog, in which she did cook every recipe in Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking. I read the blog a few times during the course of the year, and admired Powell’s excellent use of obscenity. But she really pulls it together nicely in the book, with a great sense of narrative (involving the love lives of her friends, as well as her cooking travails) and some wonderful meditations on feeding people, terrible Republicans, and the delicious obscenity of marrow bones.

It’s one thing when someone makes it big, and it turns out they’re a bit wealthy and well connected, or they have some exotic background that happens to gibe with today’s cultural obsession, or their life was transformed by some harrowing experience on a very tall mountain. But when someone who’s been coooking insane things and writing a blog and living in Queens gets a very juicy book deal, well… You (I) can’t help but feel like I should’ve had more of a plan. Because I didn’t think the world was interested in people living in Queens, and now it turns out they are–but maybe they have only enough interest to support one Queens-dweller, and that slot’s been taken.

The genius of Julie Powell’s blog is that she had a goal. An insane and edifying one that hooked foodies like soap operas hook listless stay-at-home moms. This goal-achieving blog concept seems to have spread too: Twenty a Day, for instance, aspires to eat at a set list of cheap restaurants. And there was that guy who documented every single thing he ate for a year…I think he made a book out of that.

These are clever ideas, and I know I should get one in a similar vein (but not too similar–I can’t very well cook my way through Diana Kennedy anymore, now can I?). I would feel accomplished and purpose-driven. But. But. But. I like not having a plan, to some degree. I like seeing what turns up. Which might just be a cheap excuse for not wanting to give up my comfy Cape of Slack in which I drape myself daily.

But that reminds me of another thing to whine about: According to numerous newspaper stories (one in the NYT, most recently) everyone in New York is on drugs. Which essentially I have no objection to, but they’re using them to work! Prescription-grade speed, a little coke, Xanax to chill out–how am I supposed to compete with this kind of white-collar doping? I’m going to drink my glass of whine–ha, purely an accident–I mean wine and mull it over. If anyone has any suggestions for fabulous feats to be accomplished on this blog, please let me know. I’ll reply to your email in a very leisurely fashion.

Vigilante Justice

I’m back. The good news is I ate insanely well, from Turkish rooftop chicken to Bulgarian yogurt-and-cucumber drink.

The bad news is that some creep stole my laptop (and, it appears, my Palm, so I can’t even retrieve my addresses) while I was away. As part of Operation You’ll Never Work in This Town Again, I’m posting his details here. He also owes Tamara $600 in back rent.

The perp:

Here’s his website. Seems like a nice enough guy, if not so savvy in his style choices.

Goes by Christopher Dunivan, Topher Dunivan, Chris Dunivan, Christopher Rudolph Dunivan, and occasionally Christopher Whiteley. (He’s _not_ Chris Dunivan, mild-mannered and respectable web designer.)

Additionally, he’s a church organist, originally from Augusta, Ga. (Skidaway Island). He even likes to “romp n’ stomp for Jesus on [the organ] from time to time”. Further proof that Christians ain’t what they used to be.

In all fairness, he, semi-psychopathically, took the trouble to email me back and say it was the construction workers that he let in to use the bathroom who took the laptop. Never mind that a normal, non-guilty person would’ve felt bad about letting the construction workers in. And that my landlord, whom I trust, says the workers were never in my house. He also, semi-psychopathically, went to the trouble of leaving an envelope with a deposit slip and _no check_ at Tamara’s bank–like, what, they wouldn’t notice? And Tamara talked to an acquaintance of his who saw him using a laptop at a cafe during the time he lived in my house–though he’d had no computer when he was at Tamara’s.

Vile man. The charming officer of the 114th are on the case. Letters are being drafted to various Episcopal churches where he’s been a member, as well as to the American Guild of Organists. If anyone spots him in NYC, especially while he’s using my computer (last spotted in Chelsea), or perhaps while hooking (it’s been known to happen, apparently), please throw him to the ground and call the cops. His name is on file.

Field Trip to Fulton Fish Market

Last night, in anticipation of Oyster Fest 2005, we trundled down to that venerable NYC establishment, the Fulton Fish Market–which hasn’t yet relocated to the Bronx, apparently, despite the countless nostalgic column inches already dedicated to its impending demise. (July, maybe even September, was the estimated move date somebody gave us last night, with a shrug.) But good thing we got our asses down there anyway, because the Fulton Fish Market really is a hell of a lot more than a bunch of concrete open-sided buildings filled with styrofoam boxes of fish and ice.

Part of the thrill is that it’s the middle of the night (we aimed for 1am, but in fact most vendors don’t start selling till 2am), and we’re in this fantastic marriage of grim and glorious urbanity: a dark, sketchy two blocks under the rumbling FDR, where the asphalt has gone to seed and the only lighting is from the glaring fluorescent-lit concrete bunkers that house about half of the vendors. But immediately to the east is the Brooklyn Bridge, all aglimmer, with the Manhattan Bridge right behind; lights are twinkling off the dark, slippery river, and it feels incredibly calm and gorgeous–if you can screen out the armies of guys shouting, and trundling right toward you on those little pallet tractor things. (All you “warehouse club” shoppers: This is the real deal!)

And it’s a bad idea to gawp at the river view because these guys are also wielding sharp knives and hooks. Hooks like I’ve only ever seen in On the Waterfront. I thought this genius tool had been rendered extinct by shipping containers, so it warmed my heart to see there’s still some commerce in America that requires the loving, individual attention of a big guy’s meaty paw and a nasty sharp hook. One guy we passed was gesturing wildly with his hook in his hand; he apologized when he saw us tourists coming through, because we’re the types who might end up with a hook in the ear if we’re not careful.

The market is not a consumer-friendly place–there are no signs telling you where to park, and it seems impossible to get past a phalanx of refrigerated semis lined up to the north. There’s no cheery market agent, as at the Greenmarket, say, to ask for guidance. We parked in a seemingly random spot by some overpass pylon and hoped for the best.

But it is a surprisingly friendly place overall. It did help that one of our company was a bodacious, outgoing redhead who was genuinely fascinated with these guys’ work. When a sweatshop full of filet-ers noticed us peering into their little aisle workroom, they waved us in, encouraged us to squeeze down the little aisle between them (it was a disassembly line: guys on one side filleted, slipping the carcasses into silvery, squishy heaps at their feet, while guys on the other side skinned the filets) and stare and chat and take pictures. “You’ve had a couple beers?” the Mexican guy I talked to asked me, assuming, I guess, that the only people who would stumble in here at 1am would be drunkards with nothing better to do. No, darlin’, I’m drunk on the beauty of wholesale commerce, I wanted to say, as for once I was genuinely sober.

This was still early, before the market really opened. Quite a lot happened in the hour we whiled away at the Paris Cafe bar (where everyone had been quick to direct us, natch), and when we came back, the bustle had doubled. It was short work to buy 200 oysters and 200 clams, then cart them back to the car, dodging pallet-tractors and hooks all the way. We took another quick stroll around before we left, to see a gigantic plum-red tuna being hacked apart, gold-pink snappers, shad roe (which looked like agglomerations of the lungs I’ve pulled out of quails) and lots of crabs, all rolling-eyed and foaming at the mouth out of panic. I pet some of the crabs on the head to calm them, but crustaceans don’t really respond to that the way mammals do–all the more reason to eat ’em.

We’d seen all we could see (even the truck from Taverna Kyclades, the fish resto near my house, arriving; I have fresh respect for them), and the guys had gotten as much of an eyeful as they wanted. (“I’ve never really noticed Katie’s ass,” Peter said as we walked behind her and heard the whoops of praise from either side, “but in this setting, I somehow have a fresh appreciation for it.”) Oh, and we’d eaten a mysterious chicken-sandwich-in-a-plastic-bag–funny, there were no fishy foods on offer. So we got in the car and drove home, dropping Peter at Penn Station to catch his 3:15am train to Boston. I haven’t been up that late and roaming around without the aid of drugs since I can remember.

So now I know you can get 400 shellfish for little more than $100, and be generously and graciously complimented on your physique and charm by men in rubber bib overalls at 3am. But of course, this is all set to change, and we know that change is bad. The Fulton Fish Market is essential, the seafood hub for not just NYC but a lot of the Northeast, and its social value is measured precisely by the prime real estate, with its gorgeous river view, it sits on. When it gets shunted up to the Bronx, I imagine these guys will feel more than a bit marginalized. But who am I to say? Hunts Point will be indoors (it was pissing rain all last night), and air-conditioned. And it will be closer to my house. Throw in a bushel of crabs, and maybe I can handle a little change.

I heart NYC

I just heard a little promo for my local station that just gave a me a little twinge of aaaawwww. This woman says why she likes New York City, after describing all the wacky people she saw on the blackout day in 2003: “I’ll never be bored, I’ll never be lonely, and I’ll never have to own a car.” Amen. But drat–I guess I’ll actually have to give money to public radio now.

Anticipating the Bluebird.

I’m home, finally, back to the mudless world. The Bluebird is ready! Tomorrow I take her out for my very first spin! (Yes, Peter’s blogs have multiplied already. And he’s getting more hits on the bike one than I’ve ever gotten on this. Specialization is the answer, I suppose.)

Also, I get more seltzer tomorrow. Oh, Mr. Bubbles, my dream man. But he can’t build bikes.

National Pig Day, plus Mr. Bubbles

Yesterday, March 1, was National Pig Day, it seems. Silly me–I thought that meant pork, so I ordered a BLT at the Time Inc caf (taking petty pleasure in saying “EXTRA MAYO, please!” right next to the woman who’d just order the Lite Tuna on wheat). But then I did a little googling, and it looks like they mean real, live pigs are to be celebrated on National Pig Day. I read about how smart and sensitive and cute they are. And I’m still hungry for bacon.

Which reminds me, the current issue of Saveur has an article titled something like “The Best Food in the World.” About bacon, of course. Recipes for bacon tempura, for bacon covered with brown sugar, you name it. The eds characterize bacon as “savior of sluggish breakfasts, benefactor of the midday meal [mmm, BLTs], daring animator of the dinner table….Mocker of diets, tempter of vegetarians,…furtive lagniappe for the cook savvy to have cooked a bit more of it than he or she, strictly speaking, needs.” Indeed.

In other great news, I got my first delivery from Mr. Bubbles, the last remaining seltzer delivery man in NYC. Yes, at $20 for 10 26 oz. bottles, plus tip to the guy who lugs the 70-pound crate up the stairs, it’s kind of an indulgence. Especially because I’m hardly at home any more. But I want there to be fizzy water there when I am there, right?

So, Walter is everything you could hope for in a seltzer delivery guy (no leering, people–it’s just water!)–he’s kinda burly, he’s really into what he does, he has a Bronx-y accent, and he starts telling you tales about all his other customers. Like the mid-80s Italian couple around the corner who have a huge garden, and the guy makes his own grappa. And the managing editor of Time magazine. And all the other food writers around the city. I feel like I’ve been initiated into some secret club. Made all the more secretive by the fact that Walter has a habit of saying, “…if you get what I’m saying” after almost every sentence, so that everything he says sounds like some cryptic double entendre that I should be picking up on. Ohhhh. Right. Fizzy water.