Archive for February, 2009

Or sort of funny.  It’s my last week in New York and the city is really doing me a huge favor.  Whenever I start having a panic attack and getting blindingly nostalgic about the Big Apple, something crops up to remind me that this is no longer the way of life I crave.

Take the weather.  Teased with a couple of unseasonably warm days, it’s like a big kick in the teeth when we all get a painful reminder that it is, in fact, still winter.  Especially since I haven’t bought a new umbrella since the last one broke.  So on Wednesday, as I was walking the residential blocks of the upper east side and thinking about all of the neighborhoods in New York I haven’t explored thoroughly, New York literally started raining on my parade:  freezing downpour and everyone’s favorite forecast, “wintery mix.”  Drenched and frozen solid, there was nothing I could do but laugh it off- I’m too cheap to pay for a cab and I still had 6 blocks to walk to the subway.  It’s supposed to be 60 and sunny in Boulder the day I move back.  That’s a February temperature I can handle.

Then there’s the fact that everything here is just harder.  My quest for moving boxes has been particularly challenging.  In any other place in the world, you would simply get in your car, drive to the closest Home Depot, and buy some boxes.  Moving is stressful enough, buying packaging materials shouldn’t be.  In New York, however, the concept of driving to Home Depot is totally foreign.  So I WALKED several miles to the nearest Home Depot, which was in one of the less palatable areas of Brooklyn, only to find it was boarded up.  It’s probably for the better.  Carrying a bunch of boxes several miles was something I didn’t really think through, but I’m sure it would have been awful.  I found boxes the next day 2 blocks from my apartment, where carrying them home was a much more reasonable idea.  This should have been a fairly easy task, but 30 mph gusts of wind (ah, weather again) hit my boxes at just the right angle to send them flying out of my hands and into oncoming traffic more times than is comfortable.  So there I was, wild-eyed, panicky, yelling at people to get out of the way of the escaped cardboard monstrosities barreling down the street, cut up and bleeding from the makeshift handle the salesman had made from tape to “ease my trip home.”  Yeah right.  Worst 2 blocks I’ve ever walked.

So thanks, New York, for the send off.  Even though you’re like a petulant child, I still think you’re kind of cute.

It’s a transitional moment. Life factors coupled with an epic-worthy coming-of-age clarity (if I were to be so self-indulgent) dictate that I say so long to New York City and head back to the motherland, or more specifically, the People’s Republic of Boulder, to pursue other interests (namely, a sommelier certification and a wine business). It’s a good time to get out of finance, what with the impending end of the world, and I’m tired of praying I’ll get fired. I’m firing myself.

That means that this blog, which was once upon a time about my life in New York, will likely be almost entirely dedicated to my life in food and wine. It was headed that way, anyway, so I suppose it was inevitable. And though I’ll likely occasionally write about Boulder, too, it is unlikely that I’ll so thoroughly NOT fit in that I’ll have as many horrifically awkward stories to tell. One can always hope, though.

I am sad to leave New York, however, because there are things in this city that are impossible to find elsewhere. In celebration of the Big Apple, I’m making a list of the things and places I’ll miss most. Should you find yourself out this way, I encourage you to make it a walking tour. Not only will you see parts of New York that only I could have shown you, but you may get closer to unraveling the mystery of my soul. And I know that’s incredibly tempting. Note that my friends out here obviously make the top of this list, but because I don’t want you to creepily track them down if you don’t know them, I’m not making them part of the walking tour. Also, it took every fiber of my being not to just list restaurants, so I’m going to pretty much forgo food recommendations. I’m sure you’ll talk to me, anyway, for those.

1. The Q Train. I have a history of irrational attachment to inanimate objects, but possibly the most illogical of these is my attachment to the Q train. It is a convenient train. It goes from Brooklyn to Midtown Manhattan with very few stops. It travels above ground, offering spectacular views of the bridges and river. Sometimes, you get to ride on the new Q cars, which are incredibly modern and clean because there’s been less chance to soil the interior with bodily fluids. That big yellow circle is inviting. So yes, I suppose there’s reason for my love. But the morning I found myself walking 2 miles out of my way while hungover just so I could ride this baby, I knew I had a problem. And the thing is, I’d do it again. Yep. Because I love it, SO MUCH.

2. Pho Viet Huong. I have no rational explanation for the fact that the only restaurant I’ve been to in New York over and over again (besides the takeout havens near my house and Chipotle) is this random Vietnamese place in Chinatown. It’s your basic hole in the wall soup kitchen, where you get big bowls brimming with noodles and pork, but something about the mediocre service and lack of atmosphere keep me coming back for more. The price is right (it’s like, the only place in New York I can eat for less that $10), and the hot sauce ain’t bad either.

3. The Stanton Public. After you eat at Pho Viet Huong, walk over on Canal to Bowery, up to Stanton, and find the Stanton Public. Every time I eat at Pho Viet Huong with Jessica, we do this. And then we have several delicious and relatively cheap beers and talk about several delicious and relatively deep topics. Stanton Public is best in the summer, when this takes place on the porch.

4. The Bowling Green 4/5 stop. Really just in the mornings, when the station supervisor yells “good morning” to all the commuters, in her booming, musical voice. I will have a good morning, thanks, at least until I enter my office.

5. Union Street between Prospect Park West and 5^th Av in Brooklyn, especially during a snowfall. The home of my yoga studio, the Brooklyn co-op, and the Tea Lounge, this little street has been good to me. And when I’ve wandered down it during a snow-fall, I’ve had cheesy emotions that have caused me to do things like spin around in a little circle, squeal, and smile toothily at frightened passing strangers.

6. The Fat Cat. Sure it’s just a dirty basement NYU bar, but it’s filled with a lot of things I like including but not limited to: chess, pool, ping pong, live jazz, good beer on tap, and campari. Wear black and skinny jeans, if you can fit in them. I can’t so I normally just go for broke in a Hawaiian-patterned muumuu.

7. The neighborhood streets of the West Village. Okay, yes, you could go to this neighborhood if I didn’t direct you there. But you might not go just to walk around and think about how awesome your life would be if you could afford one of the monstrosities (by New York standards) in the area. Possibly the best way to do this is to bring a friend and talk about how you are going to design your future wine cellar (when this gets old, debate whether that future wine cellar is better-suited in your main home or your Napa vacation home).

8. My awkward interactions with the young man at the local Greek restaurant. Ah, Cooper. How often I’ve thought of crafting a Postsecret or Craigslist missed connection dedicated to you. Your endless offerings of free baklava (and bottles of water when I insist I’m only eating the salad) are best followed up with a request for a phone number, or at least a facebook friendship. Though I may have gently rejected at least one of those solicitations, it would have eliminated the almost unbearable unease that existed as you stared a little too long into my eyes while I waited for my gyro. Narcissistic attention whore that I am, I’ll miss the times when you chased me down the street to tell me my dress looked nice, even though it resulted in some of the most uncomfortable 2.5 minute interactions known to man.

9. Prospect Heights, as a whole. Not long ago, my mom accompanied me to my new neighborhood, and after a wrong turn led us down a dark and seemingly sketchy street, she threatened to take me home. Since then, I’ve gotten used to the fact that my hood is a little rough around the edges, I’m going to get holla-ed at on my way home from the subway, and people may refuse to come there alone at night. And you know something? I like it that way. And so I will miss walking by the barbershop where 5 black men are sitting around a game of chess. I’ll miss the African hair-braiding salons. I’ll miss the slew of ethnic food. And I’ll miss the comments that prove I’m slightly out of place. Were I to stay in New York any longer, I don’t think I’d want to live anywhere else.

10. The energy. Emily once said something that I think puts it best: “New York is vivid. Everything else sort of pales in comparison.” Though I’m sure the lovely people of Boulder will have their own energy (hopefully revolving around yoga, mountain beauty, and eating organic), I feel a twinge of what I’m giving up. For better or worse, this city is a part of me now… and life at a slower pace will take some getting used to.

And for some reason, this is making me preemptively nostalgic: http://niemann.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/02/02/i-lego-ny/?em

In honor of my friend who hates trend stories (http://urbzen.com/2009/02/03/will-bs-for-bylines/), I’m going to comment on another one:  http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/05/fashion/05things.html

I’ll admit, I participated in this trend and posted 25 random (1 or 2 might have been heartfelt) things about myself for my 653 facebook friends to read.  And since I, for one, believe everything I read on facebook and think everyone else should, too, 633 of them probably think they know me a lot better (and hey, they probably do).  I’ve also read this note every time my friends posted it or were tagged in someone else’s note.  Since I’m the ultimate creep, I now may even know 25 random things about YOU, which I’ll be sure to remember and repeat back to you should I ever meet you in a dimly lit alley or bar.

Since I’m a blogger (and not a journalist), and thereby, a narcissist, my further commentary on this article is just going to be to repost my list of 25 random things about me so that the greater world, who can’t see my private profile, can understand my soul.  And by repost I mean abridge (because if I edited it on facebook, the chain would be broken and the world would implode).

1. mmmm…bacon
2. mmmm…chipotle
3. mmmm…truffle (oil)
4. mmmm…chateauneuf-du-pape
5. mmmm…sancerre
6. shameless self-promotion
7. dinner parties
8. awkward stories
9. Thomas Keller
10. airline miles
11. the idea (but not practice) of pet ownership
12. hangover runs/brutal self-punishment
13. minimal fridge contents
14. ADD
15. OCD
16. Jeff Buckley syndrome
17. rooftops (linked to number 15)
18. mmmm…bacon

You know something?  Abridging it makes me want to stop at 18 (would have been 17 except I don’t do odd numbers).  And THAT probably is way more telling than my list.

from most refined to least refined

New York has a way of maximizing space like no other city.  Mediocre real estate minimizes rent.  In celebration of saving money in a recession, I’m going to do a couple of posts on the cool things found in New York basements.  This one is the first.  Note that if I were in the picture above, I would be on the far right.

With Ben, “Let’s meet for dinner” is never as casual or as last-minute as it sounds. The man maintains a spreadsheet of all the restaurants he’s eaten at or wants to eat at in New York, complete with reviews from Zagat and his own personal take, if he’s been. I’ve never seen it, but I doubt it’s a simple spreadsheet. He works in finance, so it’s likely he’s made this spreadsheet a mind-blowing database and a larger wealth of information than any search engine. Basically, if Ben invites you to dinner, take him up on the offer. He has a foolproof way to “casually” pick a great place.

Last night, I got the “let’s meet for dinner” call at 5:10. At 5:40, I was in a cab, cruising toward 211 E. 43^rd street, with the knowledge that I was hitting a Japanese restaurant, but with no idea what might be in store. I got a text while in the cab. “No sign out front, don’t be fooled. In basement of office building. Bar seats. Be on time, they give our spot away after 15 minutes.” Of course. Manhattan loves exclusivity and surprise. You know you’ve made it if you have no street advertising but still manage to keep a full reservation list.

The cab dropped me off, and I entered the office building with a small amount of uncertainty. “No sign out front” usually means there’s a sign inside once you manage to figure out the right building. I saw nothing. I persevered, though, and headed down the fluorescently lit hallway only to nearly miss the door with the tiny sign that said “Sakagura.” Down into the dungeon I went, to find Ben, standing outside of a veritable wooden garden shed.

“Shunk, you’re going to love this place,” he said with a grin. Touche. We were led by an adorable Japanese woman with an accent that was impossible to understand to our place at the bar, which blended in with the low tables and the wooden hut walls. Warm towels followed immediately, as did the immense sake list, most of which was in Japanese, and the menu. I was in a different world, populated by adorable sake glasses and chopsticks holders, and completely unlike a New York City basement. Even at the bar, the place was undeniably cozy.

Ben and I have a thing for sake, mostly based on the fact that it’s a funny alcohol to have a thing for, but when it comes to ordering from a sake dictionary, we’re kind of like the wine patrons who nervously scan the list and then order the second cheapest bottle. This may be why it was so easy to sell us on the special 23 flight. Naturally, or at least naturally for this Japanese paradise, the sake maker was on hand to give his spiel, which consisted mostly of the sake sommelier telling us how rare the sake we were drinking is, and the sake maker using props (mostly rice and refined rice) to communicate that his sake was so smooth because it was so refined. Ben and I had hit the learning jackpot. After grilling our new friends about everything from food pairings to tasting etiquette (which they patiently answered, despite a small language barrier), they snapped our photo (probably for the novelty factor) and gave us a gift: a miniature Japanese dinner, complete with a miniature bottle of real sake. Adorable. I’ll be sure to display it next to my Hello Kitty collection.

That box is a tiny bottle of sake

Good vibes continued to emanate as Ben and I settled into our selected follow-up bottle and smorgasbord of appetizers. I could literally have eaten one of everything on the Sakagura menu. And to make it harder, everything was excellent. The chilled tofu was so silky it was basically yogurt, the homemade soy sauce prompted us to order bowls of rice so we could experience the salty flavor in all of its glory, and the spicy cod roe was simultaneously delicate and powerful, a one-two punch of why we love Japan. Our entrees, lamb chops and seared toro, were a perfect combination. I’d never had lamb in a Japanese restaurant, but after the meat fell off the bone, as tender as sashimi, I was convinced there was no reason for this other than ignorance.

Dinner conversation naturally evolved around the balance of tastes and why Asia is wonderful, which meant that our minds never strayed from the beauty of the Sakagura moment, a rare presence of mind in a restaurant that means I’ll remember the details for years to come. It was like coming in from the cold to my grandma’s house, if my grandma were tiny, quiet, smiley, and Japanese.

How my grandma serves me sake

We waited for our bill over a cup of green tea, judging the couples on 3^rd dates who were simultaneously trying to impress each other and restrain themselves from groping each other in the low lighting.  Sakagura is the perfect place for a 3^rd date, but it’s also a great place to go for a long night away from reality, tucked in a Japanese garden, far from a winter night in New York. Kanpai. Ben’s spreadsheet wins again.

Sakagura, 211 E. 43rd St, New York, NY; www.sakagura.com

Never have I read an article before and found myself saying aloud, yes! I get this! I UNDERSTAND YOUR PLIGHT! But here’s the exception: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/28900351/

As a sort of therapy, I’m going to release some stress and write about a grammar-related incident that’s been on my mind.

About 3 months ago, I was trying to decide whether to join Crunch Gym or New York Sports Club. Crunch is cooler, cheaper, and more convenient, so it should have been the obvious choice. Crunch’s slogan, however, plastered all over the outside of the building and on the walls, was “No Judgement.” And yes, that’s how they spelled judgment. With the extra e. Every time I walked by Crunch when I got off my subway, I would grind my teeth. I found myself trying to justify it. Maybe it’s irony, I thought, maybe they put that extra e in there so they could really show that they have no judgment, even when it comes to spelling mistakes. I finally joined Crunch, but I also wrote them an email to tell them about their costly mistake.

You know? I feel better. Feel free to share your grammar woes. It helps.

I also repost my facebook wall posts if I find a mistake. Sometimes even if it’s a couple of days later.

Thanks, Zach, for the links; I think Diane Mapes is my soul mate.

Thanks, Zach, also, for always looking out for my OCD (and love for bacon, but I guess that’s unrelated to grammar).