Look for a new post the first week of every month!

Wednesday, February 1, 2017

TOUCH: Free public ironing on a cold night

As I spritz bay rum on the placket of the denim shirt and nuzzle the tip of the iron between the buttons, a plume of scented mist rises between me and the Tuesday-night scene at Pete's Candy Store, a Williamsburg bar. French hip-hop thrums through my headphones, as well as the paired headphones of the shirt's owner, a member of the band that will play next in Pete's back room. The warm steam and the cold night, the heated fabric—which has been touching this man all day—moving beneath my fingers, and the music pulsing through our headphones mingle in a heady rush.


Appraising my technique is a man in a black suit, a green bandanna tied around his forehead. This is James Hook, a self-described “journeyman-level” ironer and founder of the North Brooklyn Ironers’ Union, Local 278 (motto: “Solving the World’s Pressing Issues”; current membership: about three). On certain Tuesday nights, James—who goes by Jamie and sometimes also Iron Man—totes his Ikea board and “Sunbeam knockoff” iron to bars across northern Brooklyn, where he irons strangers’ clothes for free.


A tall man with a brush mustache, glasses, and a winsome expression, Jamie sees public ironing as part performance art, part spiritual practice, part erotic experience, part public service, and part experiment in civic action. “Ironing is a private chore that when made public opens up doors of social engagement,” Jamie says. “People in the bar get their clothes ironed, and the bar gets an ironer. It’s an interesting filter for the city, like a pocket in the social fabric that hasn’t really been explored.”


Music is key to the sensual experience. He provides an iPod, two sets of headphones, and a splitter, so he and his clients can listen to the same song. He matches the music to the garment: an Adidas tracksuit might be serenaded by the Beastie Boys; a Japanese headscarf might be smoothed to an Okinawan folk band. Public ironing with privately shared music creates kind of an ideal bar vibe: you’re participating in the soul of the bar as well as in communion with a stranger, you have permission to be silent while also being social, there's music and a sense of purpose, and you invite curiosity and command authority.


Jamie derives spiritual pleasure from smoothing strangers’ wrinkles. “I find ironing to be incredibly sensually pleasurable, and a big part of that is how each article inspires you mystically. What I’m aiming to do is give you an intimate experience with your clothing.”


Jamie's eyes light up when he recalls a few clients from summer 2016, when he began this project. “A really attractive woman took off a pair of short shorts, handed them to me, and just stood at the bar in her underwear while I ironed them.” A couple on a Tinder date both had their shirts ironed, then dashed out the door as the guy gave a raised-eyebrows thumbs-up to Jamie. He has participated in synchronized doubles ironing, for which the partners have to have not only the same technique but an intuitive connection.


All members of the union must travel with their own tools. Jamie’s bag—a canvas L.L. Bean Boat and Tote—contains the following:
  • a task lamp
  • two irons
  • a board
  • duct tape to prevent patrons from tripping over cords
  • a tip jar
  • a sound kit and headphones with a splitter
  • a spritz bottle filled with bay rum to freshen up fabric
  • white lab coats for him and his fellow journeymen
  • a silk courtesy robe for impromptu patrons
Tonight's clients include a thirty-year Williamsburg local with a Carhartt work shirt ("I want  a sharp crease right down the middle") and a girl with a schoolgirl miniskirt (Jamie uses a cross-handed technique to pin down the pleats) but, alas, no underwear.


Jamie approaches a British tourist in a wrinkled chambray shirt and touches her lightly on the arm (as he is wont to do). “You look like you could use an iron,” he says. She seems affronted at first, but Jamie works his charm, and a few moments later her shirt is on the board, her headphones are on, and she and Jamie are bopping their heads to John Coltrane. “When I first came in I was like, ‘Who is this guy telling me to iron my shirt?’ Now look at me,” she says. “This is a nice memory for me. This is the way to be warm in New York.”



Thursday, January 5, 2017

SOUND: Guitars made of wood from the "bones" of old New York City

Every weekend, no matter the weather, Rick Kelly bikes across the George Washington Bridge to the Palisades to see the trees. “I love the trees,” he says. “The trees speak to you.” When he gets back to Manhattan, he usually swings by McSorley’s Old Ale House for a pint. Rick has had his his eye on McSorley’s wood for a while now. He knows that hidden in its grains is not only history but music waiting to be released.


Rick makes guitars made of wood reclaimed from “the bones of New York,” as he always phrases it. He calls these limited-edition instruments Bowery Guitars. His first New York City guitar was made from wood from Jim Jarmusch’s loft; clients have included Lou Reed, Patti Smith, and Bob Dylan, among others he’s too modest to name-drop. The shelves of his storefront and workshop, which occupies the converted backyard of an 1827 speakeasy on Carmine Street, are stacked with beams etched with their provenance, a veritable wooden library of New York landmarks.


Rick likes to ruminate on how much of the city—from roof rafters to floor joists—is built from “the king’s wood”: during the Revolutionary War, King George put a claim on East Coast virgin white pine forests to use for masts of his navy’s ships, as there were no native pine forests in Britain. The wood from those same forests was eventually brought on barges down the Hudson to build New York City, and it still hides in the frames of some of its oldest buildings.

The King’s Woods; image from http://www.ableebenezer.com/
As Rick discovered, “the king’s wood” is perfect not only for masts but for musical instruments. As the pine ages, its resins settle and create different resonances. Most of his guitars are modeled on 1950s Fenders, and the aged wood makes a new guitar sound almost like a vintage instrument: “Like a best-loved pair of jeans, it already feels loved and worn-in.” 


But perhaps more important, each guitar’s tone embodies the character of the building it’s made from. If you listen, maybe you can hear bacchanalian soirees in wood from the Chelsea Hotel, or incantations in the charred beams from the Serbian Orthodox Church that burned down in 2016. Wood from the bell tower of Trinity Church, taken down after September 11 because of heat damage, contains 160 years of ringing bells—and perhaps also resonances of that day of disaster. Imperfections—nail holes, knots, gouges, burn marks—only add to each guitar's patina.


On the morning I visit, he’s working on a guitar made from Chumley’s wood—the same model he made for Bob Dylan, who allegedly asked if his instrument contained dregs of all the beer he spilled on the legendary speakeasy’s floors over the years. Rick says Chumley’s wood always “has that smell, you know when you walk by a bar? Like stale booze.” In a fairly typical acquisition scheme, he acquired the wood one night as he was walking past the bar’s hidden entrance and saw construction workers gutting the building and throwing the old beams into a Dumpster. These days, he often gets tips in advance, but part of the adventure is always stumbling into history as it’s being cast aside.


As Rick chisels out the belly of a guitar, he periodically taps the wood to see what note it sounds: “tap tones” are wood’s natural resonances, and there’s only a certain amount a guitar maker can do to influence it. “It’s a vibration thing,” he says. “The guitar tells you what note it wants to be.”


From a guitar’s ingrained tap tones to the personality the wood acquires over generations of city life, each instrument is born not only to play notes but to convey the secrets of the city. Rick would rather see New York’s centuries-old buildings stand, but he figures at least he gets to give these landmarks a new life in music. As he puts it, “Every guitar has a story.”

Carmine Street Guitars is located at 42 Carmine Street in Manhattan.

Thursday, November 3, 2016

SOUND: "Breather" room in Rockefeller Center at Christmastime

It’s December in New York. You’ve walked, you’ve shopped, you’ve dropped something off and picked something up, you’ve seen a doctor, a show, a movie, you’ve waited on line, grabbed a drink, taken a walk—and now all you want is a few moments of quiet. What if—in the middle of one of the busiest cities in the world—you could pay by the hour for a few square feet of solitude?


Enter Breather, an app that allows you to rent a private space in the city for between half an hour and several hours. You can use the space to work, take a nap, make a call, have a meeting, take off your shoes, charge your devices—or simply to breathe, as suggested. The simple and tastefully furnished rooms come equipped with pencils, chargers, free WiFi, a candy jar, A/C, and a yoga mat. At your appointed time, you unlock the door with a code sent to your phone.


On the afternoon of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree lighting ceremony, I reserved a room in a “well-appointed office center” at Sixth Avenue and Forty-fourth Street (app description: “This hidden gem in the heart of midtown is the perfect place to host a meeting before catching a train back to the ‘burbs’”) and was soon pushing my way through tourists in Santa hats, panhandlers with soggy cardboard signs, and jewelers mumbling deals into cell phones.


The lobby was the paragon of anonymity, complete with “Wet Floor” signs and snowflake decorations. The room was appointed with an easy chair, table, a rack of light reading, a yoga mat, and a classic New York view of a brick wall.

I closed the door and was immediately encased in those two rare New York conditions: silence and solitude. If I pitched my ears I could hear the soothing whir of what might have been a white-noise machine implanted in the ceiling, the faint scratch of a speaker-phone conference call down the hall, and distant sirens and horns, but for the most part I experienced a few moments of serene, anonymous stillness.

Suddenly, I was struck by a frantic urge to take full advantage of the $14.50 I’d paid for half an hour in this 102-square-foot space. I unrolled the mat, did some stretches—then grabbed a throw pillow and lay down on the floor for a rest. I was checking things off a to-do list—no different from what I’d be doing outside.


I was even starting to feel a little lonely when I noticed that through the glass panel next to the door, a man in a blue V-neck was peering at me from his office across the hall. Feeling self-conscious, I hopped up and grabbed a photo book about cats from the wall rack and settled into the armchair beneath a duet of succulents in wall planters.

Time was running out and I realized I hadn’t yet used the table or looked at all the books. I swapped the cat book for How to Find Fulfilling Work. I checked the elapsed time on my phone, hopped up again, and craned my neck past the brick-wall view. I could imagine the sounds in my mind, but it was like watching a silent movie: police setting up barricades, crowds pushing through toward Fifth Avenue, Salvation Army Santas ringing bells, throngs of honking taxis in light rain. I saw the reflection of my quiet room, coat hung on the door, set against the city.


My phone alerted me that my Breather time was almost up. I threw my ID badge into the trash (other contents: a Dentyne Ice package and a Starbucks napkin) and exited down the hushed hallway.

Out on the sidewalk, I got trapped behind a pack of girls and women decked out shades of pink and purple, headed toward the tree lighting.


“We have to make sure we don’t lose Grandma or Laurie,” the little girl’s mom said.

“Why?” the girl asked.

“It’s just a busy place, that’s all.”

“New York never stops,” said the little girl, with awe and exasperation.

“That’s what they say,” her mom replied.








Tuesday, November 1, 2016

TASTE: The lost autumn flavor of Hungarian gesztenyepüré

With autumn in New York comes the iconic Midtown smell of roasted chestnuts warmed by incandescent light bulbs in foil pans hung from hot-dog carts.


But a lesser-known urban chestnut experience is a relic of New York’s immigrant history: gesztenyepüré (pronounced “GEST-en-yay-pur-day”)a traditional and still-popular Hungarian dessert of pureed chestnut paste mixed with a splash of rum and vanilla, pressed through a potato ricer into vermicelli-like strands and topped with whipped cream. In the early 1900s, gesztenyepüré was a menu staple at the Hungarian restaurants on the Upper and Lower East Side. As far as I know, today gesztenyepüré is served at only one remaining restaurant in New York: Budapest Café and Restaurant, also known as André’s Café and Bakery, at Eighty-fifth Street and Second Avenue in the heart of what was once New York’s Little Hungary.


Walking into Budapest Café on a recent afternoon, I was greeted by an almost entirely Hungarian clientele, hunkering down over plates of chicken paprikash and queuing for fresh bread and strudel at the front counter. The warm chestnut tones of the narrow dining room—which features brick walls decorated with photos of Budapest and a pressed faux copper ceiling—quickly whetted my appetite for this sweet incarnation of the city’s favorite street nut.


When the glass dish of gesztenyepüré and a spoon were finally slapped down on my table by the harried waitstaff, it was a sight to behold: at once beautiful and hideous. You could appreciate it as a nest of golden, delicate chestnut noodles spilling over the brim and crowned in whipped cream—or as a dish of delicate dog food (crowned in whipped cream).


The taste is also a paradox: gesztenyepüré is at once ethereal and leaden. Though they look dense, the chestnut vermicelli are actually fluffy, almost Styrofoam-like, dissolving under the lightest touch. But the flavor is rich and heavy: a sweet, grainy nuttiness, a faint tangy kick of rum and vanilla, melding with the smooth whipped cream, here both on top of and below the pile of chestnut. The dessert appears moist but on first bite is dry, quickly becoming saucy as it melts into mush. It looks like it might be warm, but is in fact chilled. It appears crumbly but is actually squishy.


It’s rare to find a dessert that inspires as much mid-bite rumination as gesztenyepüré. In New York City, the flavor of chestnuts signals autumn, but to a Hungarian immigrant a hundred years ago, the flavor of chestnuts must have signaled home.