tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13339662576656576802024-02-07T05:12:27.917-08:00Sense & the CityCity Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.comBlogger159125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-14185128729692625392022-01-05T06:50:00.000-08:002022-01-05T06:50:01.439-08:00Sense & the City is moving to a new website!<p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjwYm6URmTzPqNsbgUTmgoXSXX1OigWEvrQmq4GjfIZkeCom3twAHq3lT2o5Xmt6zRjTdf4SXr3YKVdklBHfRhn_K45j2aNLf8sq9fSqCq5oqkK51Nrtpmzi9GxTdOsO1DGdLYSP9U7e_BKZUQt1wDN8FURTP6AeHnKm6ORoPKjpUmdZzeG5Ro_n3Kv=s2848" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1226" data-original-width="2848" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjwYm6URmTzPqNsbgUTmgoXSXX1OigWEvrQmq4GjfIZkeCom3twAHq3lT2o5Xmt6zRjTdf4SXr3YKVdklBHfRhn_K45j2aNLf8sq9fSqCq5oqkK51Nrtpmzi9GxTdOsO1DGdLYSP9U7e_BKZUQt1wDN8FURTP6AeHnKm6ORoPKjpUmdZzeG5Ro_n3Kv=w400-h173" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> Sense & the City will be moving to a new location in 2022. 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Its labor-intensive was recipe splayed open on kitchen countertops, the pages flecked with chocolate and splotches of cherry juice.<p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i></i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyGJucG0ctBy1mL9bXQAhY2IOz2WmdInS1f-DO3GxfmnD4FOMy9nH9dRCl4Y6PbsVlwdIAFlpH89EgRVLXbMs3j-THSpS7i-i7b5SdHfuJSlwGUzd-_SozDBtPGUveVfL6k9I4zR0XAEY/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="661" data-original-width="727" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyGJucG0ctBy1mL9bXQAhY2IOz2WmdInS1f-DO3GxfmnD4FOMy9nH9dRCl4Y6PbsVlwdIAFlpH89EgRVLXbMs3j-THSpS7i-i7b5SdHfuJSlwGUzd-_SozDBtPGUveVfL6k9I4zR0XAEY/" width="264" /></a></i></span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /><i>Image from https://vintage.recipes/Nesselrode-Pudding</i></i></span></div><p></p>The pie is named after Count Karl Robert Nesselrode, a German diplomat who served as Russia's foreign minister and also happened to love chestnuts. He played various political roles across Europe during the reign of Napoleon, fighting his power at every turn, and died in St. Petersburg in 1862. Allegedly, his personal chef, Monsieur Mouy, created this pie for his boss after the signing of the Treaty of Paris, in 1856, which was not necessarily a victory for Nesselrode's political aims but marked the beginning of his retirement. As his eponymous pie soon would, Count Nesselrode faded into history.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPkPznfurwCNnlBWOyXzNxoPxh5sI59RdRpV5MZ8qqknxGsbLFeonVrfXVWQQ6964xQ47u9ApDe8CjQNtJ3Y5VA1YGETpHRSJlMwsSZJRKswbs_RusAg_MjwtTpPIy3s71hgryspigDzE/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="679" data-original-width="614" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPkPznfurwCNnlBWOyXzNxoPxh5sI59RdRpV5MZ8qqknxGsbLFeonVrfXVWQQ6964xQ47u9ApDe8CjQNtJ3Y5VA1YGETpHRSJlMwsSZJRKswbs_RusAg_MjwtTpPIy3s71hgryspigDzE/w362-h400/Screen+Shot+2021-12-19+at+12.56.32+PM.png" width="362" /></a></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Fine Art Images/Heritage Images</i></span><br /><br /></div>About a hundred years later, however, in the 1940s and '50s, the pie was mysteriously resurrected in a brownstone restaurant on Manhattan's Upper West Side. Hortense Spier delivered her Nesselrode pie to high-end restaurants across the city, particularly around Christmastime. Bakeries—including Mrs. Maxwell's, in East New York—attempted to re-create it, and newspapers and magazines printed variations on the recipe, with and without a crust, for ambitious home cooks. The signature ingredients were chestnut puree, rum or brandy, whipped cream, chocolate shavings, and candied red-and-green fruits for Yuletide. After the Spier family stopped baking it, the pie faded into oblivion—until Petra and Robert Paredez decided to try their hands at a Nesselrode at their shop, Petee's Pie Company, on the Lower East Side and in Clinton Hill.<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhK_4jP57hKF1S9I1jbEty34DMryB599CqObAEduFFHfmr0zaqgOUEugbw27VssTCnH22gzDVgWKHcO3WR9KcQ8yxcPaPEu_XDCu85w-VUlKC0SLlCrq4F2vLKlaVR0MIV8ZJiMCOohC3Cw2WFkwh9ZhAxV-Apf62WDSf0tZUJerP-Cgut7yvDt0X3c=s1800" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhK_4jP57hKF1S9I1jbEty34DMryB599CqObAEduFFHfmr0zaqgOUEugbw27VssTCnH22gzDVgWKHcO3WR9KcQ8yxcPaPEu_XDCu85w-VUlKC0SLlCrq4F2vLKlaVR0MIV8ZJiMCOohC3Cw2WFkwh9ZhAxV-Apf62WDSf0tZUJerP-Cgut7yvDt0X3c=w320-h400" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>In early December, Petee's Nesselrode stands out from the shop's other pies in the store's refrigerated case. It's a pile of chestnut custard, buoyed by gelatin (in the midcentury style), and overlaid with a grid of hard chocolate and studded with bulbs of whipped cream alternately crowned by rum-soaked cherries.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEijPcKyIt7ghYb5cN6W1s6mxoAmn5he-oO8Ut8ts8pt_t8E-mQDCrsojUnIqTvIcCkfKY5c6DlKT2718ZnBXPsu8TMgKl8Eul6hkdLlACYGGgsSPFHcX12qKfSdTuxajSstLvC0hZOR_wCC0x73gBz9mE1BjkkVRiDYUTWg-PRu6b0XwMMtJLzRPri9=s1800" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEijPcKyIt7ghYb5cN6W1s6mxoAmn5he-oO8Ut8ts8pt_t8E-mQDCrsojUnIqTvIcCkfKY5c6DlKT2718ZnBXPsu8TMgKl8Eul6hkdLlACYGGgsSPFHcX12qKfSdTuxajSstLvC0hZOR_wCC0x73gBz9mE1BjkkVRiDYUTWg-PRu6b0XwMMtJLzRPri9=w400-h320" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>The pie is so pillowy that it's difficult to cut a tidy slice. One can't help thinking that the firm chocolate lattice is like a net of struts holding it all together.</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiFy0ruCeGZZ0wPIxFfxNsRCnAwWDhhVrz3nmmt0lOJqFo6BdBuObk_tknl1IYCWlGVHtWAsgjoNMnbz1GNOqNybsmf4gmU6Bzo6BAdy1LiqRau0Un5qPcOr7SdoMd2WC-EqEslYzlo7NVZe6K4jFrIXCyovcMKFObvniVIjdHlZMbOQh_v7mfnVvag=s1800" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiFy0ruCeGZZ0wPIxFfxNsRCnAwWDhhVrz3nmmt0lOJqFo6BdBuObk_tknl1IYCWlGVHtWAsgjoNMnbz1GNOqNybsmf4gmU6Bzo6BAdy1LiqRau0Un5qPcOr7SdoMd2WC-EqEslYzlo7NVZe6K4jFrIXCyovcMKFObvniVIjdHlZMbOQh_v7mfnVvag=w320-h400" width="320" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>The flavor and texture present a study in contrasts: a dry, salty, buttery crust and the billowy, mouth-filling custard, which swims around in the mouth with even the smallest bite. The hot spike of rum against the creamy coolness. The hard, chilled chocolate lace, which crunches like icicles speared into each bite. The cheery, intense burst of candied fruit against the soft mounds of whipped cream. Each spoonful is a delight for the senses. Petee's Nesselrode pie can be bought only whole, not in slices, and only once a year, from Thanksgiving through Christmas. It wasn't long before our family's pie, which I had marked "for research purposes," had been sliced to a sliver, the box marked with smears of cream and crumbs. For a few days we had been transported to midcentury New York City—and to nineteenth-century Europe—through a pie as complex and evanescent in its flavor as its layered political and geographic history. We knew there was a chance we'd never taste it again.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8W7psOiBd1DcXDNT3kRT8GWO_RVHwPloSO386gg2tdEy5BxDvD6IMgc_aAQbiCNqHQjNC3fqzWYjNZgYQEZV5iZ3Q-mUzS0RN4yfzKoPUZoNLtBQpWeDslZxwrGCYzLj8sMagZymDTUBJjdOxaaNR024d7GrUzc3g-8kXlnlTjaJD-8EQ2bvhR14Y=s1800" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8W7psOiBd1DcXDNT3kRT8GWO_RVHwPloSO386gg2tdEy5BxDvD6IMgc_aAQbiCNqHQjNC3fqzWYjNZgYQEZV5iZ3Q-mUzS0RN4yfzKoPUZoNLtBQpWeDslZxwrGCYzLj8sMagZymDTUBJjdOxaaNR024d7GrUzc3g-8kXlnlTjaJD-8EQ2bvhR14Y=w320-h400" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div></div>City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-55904330854981379312021-11-23T12:19:00.000-08:002021-11-23T12:19:31.819-08:00SIGHT: Mariners Marsh Park: the eeriest place in New York City<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN0uR2m6edDDqBWQ63tMl1Ox3UJVtwCg01an0wsPbGP1libpmBDYXvClR2EBD9JNAPWnPMl6T4XsHbkHcPWGf4SlNiYO0coRaMW-jtfY-rtNMI_41w87_l1QtzSXmezu7QSUu5YFXFeqc/s2048/sign.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN0uR2m6edDDqBWQ63tMl1Ox3UJVtwCg01an0wsPbGP1libpmBDYXvClR2EBD9JNAPWnPMl6T4XsHbkHcPWGf4SlNiYO0coRaMW-jtfY-rtNMI_41w87_l1QtzSXmezu7QSUu5YFXFeqc/w320-h400/sign.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />Just a few days after Halloween, I headed to Mariners Marsh Park, in the northwest corner of Staten Island, for a solo autumn leaf-peeping hike. I soon found myself in one of the eeriest and most beautiful places I've encountered in the five boroughs. The park comprises 107 acres of pin oak forest, ten ponds, and wetlands. But hidden among the trees and marsh grasses are ghostly remains of the factories once located on this land (and, according to the New York City Parks website, Lenape Indian artifacts). I couldn't help feeling like I was trespassing as I squeezed through a gate rigged to admit only the most determined of explorers.<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_7FS4Yblv0tKFk4ximeTVPDFt_yr-czNgPmPze_lePM9u-DGGgjOiBFSnML7DaplKKZfmElwKe8OFsQAddenBsD-492VFCP_cTq25s8B_iK5NG3clBCasFUqU-NffMhsTfhWPKUiD29A/s2048/entrance.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_7FS4Yblv0tKFk4ximeTVPDFt_yr-czNgPmPze_lePM9u-DGGgjOiBFSnML7DaplKKZfmElwKe8OFsQAddenBsD-492VFCP_cTq25s8B_iK5NG3clBCasFUqU-NffMhsTfhWPKUiD29A/w320-h400/entrance.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>The park has been closed to the public since 2006 for an environmental investigation. In the 1900s, the land was home to an ironworks and, later, a shipbuilding foundry. The ponds that now reflect the autumn sky were man-made and were used by both industries. Beneath their serene surfaces lurk hazardous chemical residues; a few backhoes and piles of sandbags on their shores indicated that the area is being remediated. But on the day I visited, the machinery was silent. Rusted rain tracks appeared from the underbrush, leading into a tangle of vines. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK6qKzNYrzkJvbcIVe0z53GscnGSuaUdVRmVe1fq5kdMoXx27OUyu3YkCwJHof8xCaL6oEeOKwlmvjNgz9819F5n83anuwP2dVIs75s7Tr9fMqn2EnV7pzW9f4mt00L0FXxZTFtXV_xE8/s2048/tracks.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK6qKzNYrzkJvbcIVe0z53GscnGSuaUdVRmVe1fq5kdMoXx27OUyu3YkCwJHof8xCaL6oEeOKwlmvjNgz9819F5n83anuwP2dVIs75s7Tr9fMqn2EnV7pzW9f4mt00L0FXxZTFtXV_xE8/w320-h400/tracks.JPG" width="320" /></a></div></div><p></p><p>As I walked alongside the rails, I heard a ghostly whistle and clanging in the distance. Peering through a chain-link fence, I saw a modern freight train lurching past, spattered with graffiti spelling out "DO IT." The freight line of the Staten Island Railway skirts the southern end of the park, but this train seemed to be slicing through the wilderness.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh612RtZWQ4kXt_MLntITjhCdlSEICEw3R4tS6GeQeXN5_XrJxmZpuzYj36AXNsXa2c6QxFzij-UNT8bK9CDqRyswAJYFo9Y5Y_W_7Lm0HouHMVr4uwSdCE28VKHPB7dM3aI8sK82P_6ew/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh612RtZWQ4kXt_MLntITjhCdlSEICEw3R4tS6GeQeXN5_XrJxmZpuzYj36AXNsXa2c6QxFzij-UNT8bK9CDqRyswAJYFo9Y5Y_W_7Lm0HouHMVr4uwSdCE28VKHPB7dM3aI8sK82P_6ew/w300-h400/freight+train.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><p>In spots, the disused trail dissolved into a tunnel of vines; I had to duck to move forward, and despite the whine of the train, I felt impossibly far from humanity. If something happened to me, who would know? </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoThaMXRMUn0sPW-SDvbsQ2MFCHM4rF_8yWdCnlHUYjQBtXFSgd8OGZEvN1Hoj6dj188P4Uu9_kUEUXESHGN7CYiTHInQLgExdhq86nnzf3-f8IGGiCCskjl28P7CVZ_jiyoyMaGW6qZM/s2048/tunnel.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoThaMXRMUn0sPW-SDvbsQ2MFCHM4rF_8yWdCnlHUYjQBtXFSgd8OGZEvN1Hoj6dj188P4Uu9_kUEUXESHGN7CYiTHInQLgExdhq86nnzf3-f8IGGiCCskjl28P7CVZ_jiyoyMaGW6qZM/w400-h300/tunnel.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>There were signs of past visitors, however: rusted beer cans and even discarded clothing, seemingly belonging to a child.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBtY_J4ebL0rZ44OULCLwwx5ifb-qujsQw6BoekV_xFKGQgphSr9hRDRaSji1y0SK-DqGJtuOGRkGNrXlvRGtTc1BlXUyMYKz9XzmbeDPJm4xzVrQsjssd8Pf4Pk_JFCgJvn31tOR6xWY/s2048/clothes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBtY_J4ebL0rZ44OULCLwwx5ifb-qujsQw6BoekV_xFKGQgphSr9hRDRaSji1y0SK-DqGJtuOGRkGNrXlvRGtTc1BlXUyMYKz9XzmbeDPJm4xzVrQsjssd8Pf4Pk_JFCgJvn31tOR6xWY/w320-h400/clothes.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Though there are official trails, the signs are sparse and faded. I trusted my innate sense of direction (Google Maps was not much help), following vague turns, until I stumbled upon concrete mounds rising out of the leaf litter like the remains of a fortress from an ancient civilization.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-QbV9quQSBsUrAwc-K6HcMCxsEqx_Mb0j1R5X0zk8HfwZ-dxQFp_FUH-C6RJ3D3_klysUT7uGpWdXGK1Q-KTVbgLXLmuTFiNHArqhtIhfgP2VV26BXd3nbgD6kCItf2ZNLvps9r-yVk4/s2048/mound+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-QbV9quQSBsUrAwc-K6HcMCxsEqx_Mb0j1R5X0zk8HfwZ-dxQFp_FUH-C6RJ3D3_klysUT7uGpWdXGK1Q-KTVbgLXLmuTFiNHArqhtIhfgP2VV26BXd3nbgD6kCItf2ZNLvps9r-yVk4/w320-h400/mound+1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div></div><p></p><p>One section of wall had windows looking out on the underbrush.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH9vWF9yz3utfs4jCCQUEIjvxO5ZGkYUx8YBHYoVWWgDN_lQqfqaXyOek4qqla495Ay7dKmB4GTGhIUS9Jf0TchupYHnIBTvdDY0o-NE643sNpTukXH0ZYbcb6he2c9bPuCBLLB-2Gc3I/s2048/windows.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH9vWF9yz3utfs4jCCQUEIjvxO5ZGkYUx8YBHYoVWWgDN_lQqfqaXyOek4qqla495Ay7dKmB4GTGhIUS9Jf0TchupYHnIBTvdDY0o-NE643sNpTukXH0ZYbcb6he2c9bPuCBLLB-2Gc3I/w400-h300/windows.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>A section of brick wall lay atop the fallen leaves as if dropped from above. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_jijfj7Aa6VvXNmxY0U7lqzEwc1VV_Xv6a0bCedEsi-b1TLr1e3Alc7L4h86t0-SzNpaH5ciTO_Qz5bCd_TpWU3wKKTsTLBS_MgMqfYWSaKk2Hz6kxa2rtlNSfDLdzhKsRu8GtquHTp4/s2048/brick+wall.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_jijfj7Aa6VvXNmxY0U7lqzEwc1VV_Xv6a0bCedEsi-b1TLr1e3Alc7L4h86t0-SzNpaH5ciTO_Qz5bCd_TpWU3wKKTsTLBS_MgMqfYWSaKk2Hz6kxa2rtlNSfDLdzhKsRu8GtquHTp4/w320-h400/brick+wall.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>I bushwhacked through tall grasses, mud squelching underfoot, trying to recover the trail. After ten minutes of guessing which turns to take, Monument Pond appeared through the rushes, a serene pool reflecting the sky and treetops.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPzOsRsSUaA1tYovyhtZBDbs2ObajZK4gyij8LpBHDes5CexBrazuemOiYL-8vsL78RVOdnlHawwSurPfHLCZlpqloVtLGnsCCZUuhkra8UwgOmCbzGwZAozWOfB7DGgyoSOBQwlG5WfA/s2048/pond.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPzOsRsSUaA1tYovyhtZBDbs2ObajZK4gyij8LpBHDes5CexBrazuemOiYL-8vsL78RVOdnlHawwSurPfHLCZlpqloVtLGnsCCZUuhkra8UwgOmCbzGwZAozWOfB7DGgyoSOBQwlG5WfA/w400-h300/pond.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>On the shore were more ruins.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnrahNyrTW0bYj-g9oIk4zs5mWtSbu8ZYBkE1R6kg4NJ5oKnCVBYSgBm1ytLMuFlsxNRdmHaBizvXQHnVDdLopJkLKuQGMluGwuWeMGGOXvg1uERMBDmu5q9AGCTLSep1HdVz9pLF4iOU/s2048/pond+mound.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnrahNyrTW0bYj-g9oIk4zs5mWtSbu8ZYBkE1R6kg4NJ5oKnCVBYSgBm1ytLMuFlsxNRdmHaBizvXQHnVDdLopJkLKuQGMluGwuWeMGGOXvg1uERMBDmu5q9AGCTLSep1HdVz9pLF4iOU/w320-h400/pond+mound.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Suddenly, I spotted a slice of vivid pink through the trees. As I got closer, I saw it was a bird-spotting blind, the viewing holes transformed into the vacant eyes of a painted crocodile, like a carnival photo prop. The blind was in a clearing with picnic tables. Birdhouses swung from the trees. No one was in sight.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja7pBU-cqD1d1UET5z6Y5MAaCb8zX09-CBkGMEdxFONEla9rbUtN_17z1Ob-sjIMaYkWmmWEUkJYcxJIIKXH-0czJ4tTHLw5IezUjgX86glzePRLNsdau8iSwGtybDn2tReNGIYWFChaE/s2026/croc.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2026" data-original-width="2026" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja7pBU-cqD1d1UET5z6Y5MAaCb8zX09-CBkGMEdxFONEla9rbUtN_17z1Ob-sjIMaYkWmmWEUkJYcxJIIKXH-0czJ4tTHLw5IezUjgX86glzePRLNsdau8iSwGtybDn2tReNGIYWFChaE/w400-h400/croc.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>A four-pointed buck leaped out of the woods, stared at me, and disappeared, too fast for me to take a photo. Was it a ghost? Against the autumn sky, the phragmite stalks waved in the wind.</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYBh-P67mgoPGYzjG61dWh6VQXgGtT-3xoJIUukoYU8s_q7mftNokwwJkogwWuCdmKcKnKodVTOw-hmFfx4R1_oDUcU6quW_lWJnCpH3jFzH0i5vA_nHfQjx5FfmB9exz2fES4P8BmQiw/s2048/last+image.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYBh-P67mgoPGYzjG61dWh6VQXgGtT-3xoJIUukoYU8s_q7mftNokwwJkogwWuCdmKcKnKodVTOw-hmFfx4R1_oDUcU6quW_lWJnCpH3jFzH0i5vA_nHfQjx5FfmB9exz2fES4P8BmQiw/w320-h400/last+image.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><div><br /></div></div></div>City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-37679414565291493702021-10-22T12:30:00.001-07:002021-10-22T12:30:53.621-07:00<p>Rice pudding—that humble, homely, nourishing dessert—has been an unsung staple of New York City cuisine for centuries, brought here in many varieties by waves of immigrants from around the world. The European version can be found everywhere from traditional Jewish and German delis to Delmonico's, and countless varieties are served at Asian, Middle Eastern, North African, Latin American, Caribbean, and South American restaurants. All usually include rice, milk, and sugar. Rice pudding was a mainstay of my own diet as a new arrival to the city in my early twenties. Kozy Shack rice pudding, the ubiquitous and inexpensive grocery store brand, often served as my breakfast and midnight snack in the same day. Rice to Riches, a space-age NoLiTa shop that sells nothing but rice pudding in flavors from "Play It Again, Butter Pecan" to "Sex, Drugs, and Rocky Road," fed my friends after late nights spent bar-hopping along Spring Street.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMPMN3Ph1O9XPoPwGryfMUQDQmfSE9A-IqtieciHPQP1xo5fiIKmCMoHJ8R11g9sW5adGtycOMk6QS5LxZO77kuYl6HjezQIGaGSBYXur67rmXUHlkjUXW74nuujnS9u4BlgkwqQUEY7I/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMPMN3Ph1O9XPoPwGryfMUQDQmfSE9A-IqtieciHPQP1xo5fiIKmCMoHJ8R11g9sW5adGtycOMk6QS5LxZO77kuYl6HjezQIGaGSBYXur67rmXUHlkjUXW74nuujnS9u4BlgkwqQUEY7I/w400-h400/C71225D3-FFA3-4A35-B40F-A139761A4C10.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br style="text-align: center;" />As it turns out, Kozy Shack rice pudding was born in New York City at a deli called the Cozy Shack on Brooklyn's Seneca Avenue. The deli was known for its homemade, kettle-cooked rice pudding as well as for its sandwiches, and a deliveryman named Vinnie Gruppuso became such a fan of the pudding that in 1967 he decided to buy the rights to the recipe and rebranded the deli's name for the package. With the help of his friend Sam Walton, founder of Sam's Club and other big-box stores, Kozy Shack made its way onto grocery store shelves and into home fridges across the country. One of the things that drew me to Kozy Shack as a twentysomething was its surprisingly simple list of ingredients for a mass-produced product: milk, eggs, rice, and sugar, which remains the recipe today.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-uKpPcLcem-fL7qRVlUaqTu0qNlhj-h5hZ56NL3l7xKavbLEu9sX0yV2NBwIjY9gDzIkimkuMMxD1HpuBcOnsWbHDPJ7VxBZ6vPnwshMaVUIHioVkyC7iV1mSV5StBuvUPy7hi-qFRhc/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-uKpPcLcem-fL7qRVlUaqTu0qNlhj-h5hZ56NL3l7xKavbLEu9sX0yV2NBwIjY9gDzIkimkuMMxD1HpuBcOnsWbHDPJ7VxBZ6vPnwshMaVUIHioVkyC7iV1mSV5StBuvUPy7hi-qFRhc/w400-h300/IMG_0130.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />The rice pudding that fed German immigrants in the nineteenth century wasn't too different from Kozy Shack's, so I decided to find the most traditional version still made here today. I headed to Glendale, Queens, to Stammitsch Pork Store, one of the city's last remaining German delis, in a Tudor storefront with heart-shaped cutouts in the shutters and mums in the windowboxes.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXyz0gKp84nwKpkL-yLd338TK9igkDVehldURzGlfvYkDWS1fl7Bw3GhhneSl8jPt8REH4OZkAGz3V9sjo6Ybv2lcNy3sHzXPgBef6U5itXtv06FEIlGqV0KPJlxgnSlP2nQPqac481I8/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXyz0gKp84nwKpkL-yLd338TK9igkDVehldURzGlfvYkDWS1fl7Bw3GhhneSl8jPt8REH4OZkAGz3V9sjo6Ybv2lcNy3sHzXPgBef6U5itXtv06FEIlGqV0KPJlxgnSlP2nQPqac481I8/w400-h400/3B0B0DF2-B310-444A-95AB-E415F61BF00D.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I was surprised to be greeted by an extensive selection of German shampoos and stacks of gray felt Oktoberfest hats, but at the back was a pristine deli case tended by staff in crisp white aprons and paper caps. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo60fJdvJfYrqlMRbZD-wLrAqzFYyglGym-idcMsbS_ysMp2otB9sWwB-eiwqYj5BzQYn8XJv_J6kPrublxCyrhPlzFYGYX316wJo8jZTxT2hgaH-53ZmccnT9Pp6LxYvK13KDQ4_3yVw/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2008" data-original-width="2048" height="392" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo60fJdvJfYrqlMRbZD-wLrAqzFYyglGym-idcMsbS_ysMp2otB9sWwB-eiwqYj5BzQYn8XJv_J6kPrublxCyrhPlzFYGYX316wJo8jZTxT2hgaH-53ZmccnT9Pp6LxYvK13KDQ4_3yVw/w400-h392/2D1A566E-7E78-475C-9709-44DEE4128675.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>The fabled rice pudding was sold by the pound, scooped from an aluminum tray into a plastic tub and slapped with a sticker label. Decanted at home, it had panes of shiny smoothness from the milk skin that cracked into jiggling shards with the edge of a spoon. <p></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz5AzmAijPFxwjs_OQg11RZC1nkRPdpEeWv26zwitmoPm568CZcZJ7Ez3-xFXCqJacY6ZKIrmSxpU0H_VjXszG0JOIDW3BbNzvIUoJuXNV5QVXDJww53kaf1wz4u-G1Ar-Kpa6E5WOitI/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz5AzmAijPFxwjs_OQg11RZC1nkRPdpEeWv26zwitmoPm568CZcZJ7Ez3-xFXCqJacY6ZKIrmSxpU0H_VjXszG0JOIDW3BbNzvIUoJuXNV5QVXDJww53kaf1wz4u-G1Ar-Kpa6E5WOitI/w400-h400/FD9B46DF-3134-46AC-BD18-E78B5F69EC5F.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div><p>The firm, nutty grains of rice broke into the faintly sweet, eggy, creamy base, spiked by the occasional sour, dry shock of cinnamon. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH-uyneIpeeM6y0DI0vJjwyVKZde9QrYg5pkAMxpsnC-WQB4Bkt7PNHxDxrnBLCJHiDXJ_Ryp6lUCjuqaZ4JS1ivUaHMU7FpTgAADrRmV5SeJtseQRe_QG_pZ9EqLPzHYk9_-D9hkJcCs/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH-uyneIpeeM6y0DI0vJjwyVKZde9QrYg5pkAMxpsnC-WQB4Bkt7PNHxDxrnBLCJHiDXJ_Ryp6lUCjuqaZ4JS1ivUaHMU7FpTgAADrRmV5SeJtseQRe_QG_pZ9EqLPzHYk9_-D9hkJcCs/w320-h400/5953C7A7-2485-4CAE-8DE6-0AE61BD4C0D6.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div>I'm sure many new immigrants to New York would raise an eyebrow at the idea of a path from "rice to riches," but the sticky, glutinous sound of a spoon sinking into the pudding and the first taste of blandly sweet custard brought me back to my early, innocent, hungry days in the city and the comfort of a simple, healthy, rib-sticking dessert.<br /><br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-1456691613666940702021-09-20T12:32:00.002-07:002021-09-20T20:11:21.371-07:00SMELL: The fragrance of One World Observatory<style type="text/css">
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</style><i><span style="font-size: medium;">[Note: This post was written just before the pandemic lockdown of spring 2020. I imagine that any noteworthy scents in the observatory today might be stifled by masks or, for certain patrons, by lingering COVID-related anosmia, or loss of smell.]</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Some might not even notice it at first: a floral scent that wafts through the lobby of One World Observatory. </span><br /><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The scent, named "One World," was designed by a fragrance manufacturer to evoke trees native to New York: to aromatically root the city's tallest building to the earth, 1,700 feet below, from behind hermetically sealed panoramic glass windows. Earth and sky, the high and the low, connected through each visitor's nose.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Just before the pandemic, in spring 2020, I decided to get a perspective on this elusive scent from those who spend all day immersed in it. First I talked to Michael, </span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">a security guard posted at the entrance to the One World Observatory elevator bank.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> "</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I guess it’s supposed to evoke New York?" he said, wrinkling his nose. "No, I’m not a fan," he said after a pause. "It’s a little much, to tell you the truth."</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAbvykjGkU8hyphenhyphenzkOUJaBlkMomZQHqaeRvxBYmi6HUHfUAVxAH4_ftmXk6GXMoNzxpx418eH6gjgA8JhJJdADiVY0t0r-0fHiW5eBMoPUyYXX2CoouYJQHQ49Dl82nfv8L8X4UJtA0xxNs/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAbvykjGkU8hyphenhyphenzkOUJaBlkMomZQHqaeRvxBYmi6HUHfUAVxAH4_ftmXk6GXMoNzxpx418eH6gjgA8JhJJdADiVY0t0r-0fHiW5eBMoPUyYXX2CoouYJQHQ49Dl82nfv8L8X4UJtA0xxNs/w400-h400/tunnel.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">The One World Scent is surreptitiously diffused through air conditioning vents—tucked behind skyline silhouettes—which frame the observatory's windows.</span></div><div class="p1">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Near the café, the smell mingles with that of coffee and reheated pizza. A food service worker fans a paper plate over a grill of spinning hot dogs, sending curls of meaty steam into the One World mist.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In the gift shop, where t</span><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">wo women in sun hats fondle sweatshirt sleeves,</span><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">the smell acquires a hint of hot, floral dryer lint. Three women pressed to the window debate ordering an Uber to their dinner reservation at Cipriani.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">When I asked </span><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">a security guard named Kareem</span><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">if he'd noticed the signature scent, he reflected a moment, then told me, "I don’t want to call it a 'new car smell,' but to me I guess it does smell new, clean. It’s an office smell—like, to help with the experience?" </span></div><div class="p1">
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<br />City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-2030848194952784112021-08-22T11:16:00.004-07:002021-08-23T08:58:18.747-07:00SOUND: Macy's wooden escalators<div>In summer, many New Yorkers head to Coney Island to ride the Cyclone, delighting in the rattles and creaks of the roller coaster's wooden trestle as they hurtle through its turns and drops. For wooden-ride aficionados looking for some mellower ups and downs in the off-season, I recommend Macy's escalators, about the same age as the Cyclone but, as it turns out, a bit harder to find. You enter the department store on the Seventh Avenue side and follow some encouraging signs.</div><div>
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Your hopes rise when you glimpse the handsome wooden escalator bank, hewn from original oak and ash in the 1920s and '30s, when the moving stairs were constructed by the Otis Escalator Company. But you soon find that the treads are made of aluminum and utter hardly more than a mechanical purr.<br />
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You mount one metal escalator after another, climbing into the aerie of one of the largest stores on earth. You glide past Better Sportswear, the Fur Salon, Hosiery, Pinkberry, trailing your fingers along the wooden slopes, which still have evenly spaced bumps to catch stray handbags, packages, or small children. Cupping your hand around these worn knobs in passing offers reassurance that maybe the full <a href="http://talk.nycsubway.org/perl/read?subtalk=640173" target="_blank">handrailfanning</a> experience is to come.<br />
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And finally, as you round the bend onto the eighth floor (Housewares, Bridal Salon, De Gustibus Cooking School), you hear it: the rattling, clattering <i>ba-bump, ba-bump</i>. As it turns out, there are only two wooden escalators left in the store, shuttling passengers between the eighth and ninth floors.<br />
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It's a chewy, bumpy sound, the hardwood creaking as the wooden treads slide from between the teeth of the comb plate. The stairs are bordered on each side by a length of bristles, intended to keep debris from falling through the cracks—but which also provide a shoeshine en route.<br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">You can feel the life force in the wood of the treads beneath your soles, a warmth: it's almost calming, if an escalator can provide comfort. There's a springiness to the half-inch-wide cleats, which have been worn down by decades of shoppers' feet. </span>At the eighth-floor landing, where the old passes its baton to the new, I noticed some repair work being done. Anyone wishing to descend to the seventh floor has to use the elevator.</div>
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A sign indicates that the metal escalator has potential hazards involving its "pinch points" and "moving equipment," and that work would be needed to help it "maintain control."<br />
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Meanwhile, the wooden escalator clatters and clunks reliably past just a few feet away.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS-JrF10vM-3MuhPw0cgdK3tQnLkuapTLeKpDbgevJ09AEQs9eu8yNPCLjkBBdVZzkTPv_EIthO0DUf4cl5ao2UdQiOysfNcuOHsyjvr1lEY6cUT57cmJ2zPHupC8tgSMtMVp7Y70AliA/s2048/B9B6A995-3CC7-41E3-A5AB-0A8B5EA1CCF5.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS-JrF10vM-3MuhPw0cgdK3tQnLkuapTLeKpDbgevJ09AEQs9eu8yNPCLjkBBdVZzkTPv_EIthO0DUf4cl5ao2UdQiOysfNcuOHsyjvr1lEY6cUT57cmJ2zPHupC8tgSMtMVp7Y70AliA/w400-h400/B9B6A995-3CC7-41E3-A5AB-0A8B5EA1CCF5.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></div>
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</div>City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-5566208294262682412021-07-26T18:43:00.001-07:002021-07-26T18:44:35.753-07:00SIGHT: Seven sights for the seventh month<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Verdana, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 11.64px; text-align: left;">In the Sense & the City annaul tradition, </span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Verdana, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 11.64px; text-align: left;">in honor of the seventh month </span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Verdana, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 11.64px; text-align: left;">I present seven of my favorite sights from around the city.</span></div><p></p><p><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Verdana, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 11.64px;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinkP5DA-Ldo8y9O71LKY0YVKOJ6ma302RXePU6a9PBWMGoL5gu780YnkrrFtxnWsm-3Zj85N35SSgJdI7yRVhenrRcxWMCmrSU82TCctLyQ_HD36dQJ7DTTkBd0qUahJPjazQjzGSwi0k/s2048/SLKN7860.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjajMBHq-YUC97biMYGC4ogM1aggwkYx8O1GNaPVUEue3cFIQPcNVqgh78qtpZ866KxGCUcj2gFGaEDwj32ZS0DD-rFISuhYpSCFQ2qjgpTxeYE_u6tQk97tg-ojaBj5o9vh2T4muvQm_A/w400-h400/IMG_8056.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;">1. The late-night private trash trucks with year-round Christmas-colored lights bearing down on you in the dark</div></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIkUk9YHAHDFLSZLuPwn3aVarW9Xqy1Wu5ODCVEKKu_EsKG9WRv6Tgh2IDDMIhtKFQtg_Zkz43kDNa8Qbr82upxIJPhLGdvdSwEqgGuT_FXitnl10LDu_gjmWl5FCRU4QBfGObIWvjIgQ/s1440/OEKK1158.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1439" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIkUk9YHAHDFLSZLuPwn3aVarW9Xqy1Wu5ODCVEKKu_EsKG9WRv6Tgh2IDDMIhtKFQtg_Zkz43kDNa8Qbr82upxIJPhLGdvdSwEqgGuT_FXitnl10LDu_gjmWl5FCRU4QBfGObIWvjIgQ/w400-h400/OEKK1158.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">2. "Bizarre emergency 100% couture tailoring" with Playboy Bunny logo in Flatlands, Brooklyn</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcAfH6lsP50vVlyW7A4o9XqsD74u1j6COI3ytebQjBsAgtwT_K4qUdLjZVn57T0dbb9xAaT0tigwiK8RViZZcPSRJJkUMFH38-C5gFS8OCWxj5Qw-JsvM1QjqniS0hIR2nNogxHm294sA/s2048/EE54771D-8465-4C9C-892F-42A6B7C4DB0F.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcAfH6lsP50vVlyW7A4o9XqsD74u1j6COI3ytebQjBsAgtwT_K4qUdLjZVn57T0dbb9xAaT0tigwiK8RViZZcPSRJJkUMFH38-C5gFS8OCWxj5Qw-JsvM1QjqniS0hIR2nNogxHm294sA/w400-h400/EE54771D-8465-4C9C-892F-42A6B7C4DB0F.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">3. The halved lemons street vendors use to dip their fingertips into to make them sticky before separating a plastic bag from the sheaf</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii6jSX5Wb_ebN7-UG242T2wh3n14YaoG3I_WSOa14iGfcqhDxBLqcib0-6UdVMj2doM4iHofhr9-lWeAp6c3xm5hUmNMjmPntGTsV1BfEg6ShgScJqEFlGDv3FMztsJkn2Bhw7I28rFx0/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1605" data-original-width="2048" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii6jSX5Wb_ebN7-UG242T2wh3n14YaoG3I_WSOa14iGfcqhDxBLqcib0-6UdVMj2doM4iHofhr9-lWeAp6c3xm5hUmNMjmPntGTsV1BfEg6ShgScJqEFlGDv3FMztsJkn2Bhw7I28rFx0/w400-h314/IMG_8002.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">4. The beautifully arranged mop and broom display at Amigo 99-cent at </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Brooklyn Junction</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfLkKJivRX5aIKMXpc-RFvmGEIN3qEq_DDAj7Q9pvatR4C7r76GyN42YGdmZcr15PZqhzisjVaozUkGkq8KUM0vTq_G2tTF0HZN_wqIFONVbBGHg3F1bqa9SWBmMXK9nwgfKIk_E58HL8/s2048/FF42C7D6-CC2A-4BB1-A336-A1A5D41DFF72.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfLkKJivRX5aIKMXpc-RFvmGEIN3qEq_DDAj7Q9pvatR4C7r76GyN42YGdmZcr15PZqhzisjVaozUkGkq8KUM0vTq_G2tTF0HZN_wqIFONVbBGHg3F1bqa9SWBmMXK9nwgfKIk_E58HL8/w400-h400/FF42C7D6-CC2A-4BB1-A336-A1A5D41DFF72.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">5. The lurid blue and green plastic ring of the Nutcracker, a semi-contraband homebrewed beach concoction of various liquors and syrups hawked on Rockaways beaches and elsewhere: "NUTcrackers, get your NUTcrackers."</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0d1zLyXr8qNJrCL8r705m3ohGaYNMo_lsUhzeeq0pRm0Y7P3UnW5gyYuWUVdTx8iu3FG64blAJhvpYIM7q5GWm5XUnZq7odP2KMyG1OU88Vs7AcDm8ZB7a6MZRPHNwgtH_dE41vLKEs0/s2048/SLKN7860+2.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0d1zLyXr8qNJrCL8r705m3ohGaYNMo_lsUhzeeq0pRm0Y7P3UnW5gyYuWUVdTx8iu3FG64blAJhvpYIM7q5GWm5XUnZq7odP2KMyG1OU88Vs7AcDm8ZB7a6MZRPHNwgtH_dE41vLKEs0/w400-h400/SLKN7860+2.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">6. This gingerbread house on a side street in Charlotte Gardens, the Bronx</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR16zP4MMDXeweSdtrDQakdGbUPrCIqd5PGEjLlTiyx0cq_l8mgetPG4fIUJhvypvlPm1e37bdfjUJO_oMH09HKaZmf_l-pGivv0g5gGeUOD2NTdMZ_yKCKJJnbs_SeXEXo0vQp-Onucg/s1080/0D1C86CC-3B85-4E99-80BE-923E4AC8A7BD.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR16zP4MMDXeweSdtrDQakdGbUPrCIqd5PGEjLlTiyx0cq_l8mgetPG4fIUJhvypvlPm1e37bdfjUJO_oMH09HKaZmf_l-pGivv0g5gGeUOD2NTdMZ_yKCKJJnbs_SeXEXo0vQp-Onucg/w400-h400/0D1C86CC-3B85-4E99-80BE-923E4AC8A7BD.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">7. The "World's Most Famous Tree" in Bergen Beach, Brooklyn, begun in 2007 by local Eugene Fellner with a stuffed tiger</div><p></p><p><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Verdana, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 11.64px;"><br /></span></p>City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-31654025345916945762021-06-22T09:59:00.002-07:002021-06-22T09:59:45.356-07:00TASTE: Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray soda<p><span style="font-size: medium;">In the refrigerators of New York City bodegas, you can often find cans of Dr. Brown's black cherry soda, root beer, cream soda, and ginger ale. But what a thrill it is to spot a pop of bright green among the ranks: the elusive Cel-Ray, a historic New York City celery soda also known as "Jewish champagne." At some Jewish delis and appetizing shops, Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray's shelf space is so sacred that it is labeled, to make sure its slots are not usurped by a pushy Dr. Pepper.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQHC2PprvQWFikCpuXWcjoSimCPd0273xETOc-BRzp30I4ALtZSV39t9RKehW-Vnxf_ppXN_k_RYDomF8lTxo2W9T2-IfBczCP8hf0_wLaz_Z8SCYqv8MVBs9ZXTyUs2qE5sFL_b7D478/s2048/IMG_8786.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQHC2PprvQWFikCpuXWcjoSimCPd0273xETOc-BRzp30I4ALtZSV39t9RKehW-Vnxf_ppXN_k_RYDomF8lTxo2W9T2-IfBczCP8hf0_wLaz_Z8SCYqv8MVBs9ZXTyUs2qE5sFL_b7D478/w300-h400/IMG_8786.JPG" width="300" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Though you can, of course, buy Cel-Ray online, I headed to the most authentic source I could think of: Gottlieb's Restaurant, in South Williamsburg. The circa 1962 delicatessen and cafeteria is one of the few remaining glatt kosher delis in the United States, and adheres to the strictest kosher standards. <br /><br /></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqHRadHkP5GIrCjH8T61vtGZ__BaUNZfFc7bDszbtG0V0JMWtTLDUiu90YWOWoxkJ2DoIy5jhs7kPnmREJB_KDR6p9CkKUsMiFnxVKn0h3dgqXOqwFbadF2IZfOKxyxEXOUchNMLzh528/s2048/746D0949-735C-4CCC-8DB8-FE53E799F1F7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqHRadHkP5GIrCjH8T61vtGZ__BaUNZfFc7bDszbtG0V0JMWtTLDUiu90YWOWoxkJ2DoIy5jhs7kPnmREJB_KDR6p9CkKUsMiFnxVKn0h3dgqXOqwFbadF2IZfOKxyxEXOUchNMLzh528/w400-h400/746D0949-735C-4CCC-8DB8-FE53E799F1F7.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In the midcentury dining room—complete with wood-paneled walls, sconces, and tiled fluorescent lights—the coat rack was topped black shtreimel hats and draped with long black coats. A pair of tourists provided the only spot of color among the customers, though they had ignored (or hadn't noticed) the "No shorts, no sleeveless" dress code posted by the door. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhazn2hdvGiQMZ-aaRHRgAZKdDZ0fuWvfqPR3xCkSycTQcqmQ4V8gR-g2pWspAfb1rl4m5AILmSFLDb5J_y5Fo4gqoqMDA0ghNHFvijjOTeigHhT5JnUk5P_epVE34YOTXuBhZifjecTe4/s2048/DE1B62C6-A398-496E-B078-294400527E75.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhazn2hdvGiQMZ-aaRHRgAZKdDZ0fuWvfqPR3xCkSycTQcqmQ4V8gR-g2pWspAfb1rl4m5AILmSFLDb5J_y5Fo4gqoqMDA0ghNHFvijjOTeigHhT5JnUk5P_epVE34YOTXuBhZifjecTe4/w400-h400/DE1B62C6-A398-496E-B078-294400527E75.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">In a refrigerated case at the back, I was delighted to spot a huddle of bright green Cel-Ray cans. I'd heard that the wonders of the soda shine through when it's paired with dense, salty, fatty Jewish deli foods, so I ordered a flaky, sesame seed-studded potato knish to go.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhyphenhyphenbwl50QMxuttkZJW8KBOyDZfPXj7-siHLNJfgxg1Hbkfk5Ih6ahjK36Bvlcyqnd6KbfdLtZ3e3yIRT6UwKoEDTWfqX2LvZecmQSjwR9wfL41TJiC1xwkBiDds1-r5khpa9_xwzYQkiE/s2048/EA312C7F-8836-4A7D-ACBF-0050674D214C.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhyphenhyphenbwl50QMxuttkZJW8KBOyDZfPXj7-siHLNJfgxg1Hbkfk5Ih6ahjK36Bvlcyqnd6KbfdLtZ3e3yIRT6UwKoEDTWfqX2LvZecmQSjwR9wfL41TJiC1xwkBiDds1-r5khpa9_xwzYQkiE/w400-h400/EA312C7F-8836-4A7D-ACBF-0050674D214C.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>According to Arthur Schwartz's <i>New York City Food: An Opinionated History of More Than 100 Legendary Recipes</i>, Cel-Ray was developed in 1869 by Dr. Brown, a physician from the Lower East Side. </span><span>Though the soda had the same basic ingredients then as it does today—celery seed extract, seltzer, and sweetener (now high-fructose corn syrup)—it was reportedly so thick it was hard to swallow, earning the drink its original salubrious name "Dr. Brown's Celery Tonic." The tonic, which was doled out by the spoonful at New York pharmacies, was intended to soothe digestion and nourish immigrant children. But the US government didn't think it quite made the cut as a bonafide health tonic, and the name was changed to "Cel-Ray." In the early nineteenth century, celery was considered a superfood. Celery extract appeared in everything from soaps to chewing gum; there were even special glass vases and "boats" i</span><span>ntended to display the fashionable herb around the home. Furthermore, carbonated beverages were coming into their own with the invention of new bottling technologies, and it was discovered that bubbles helped Dr. Brown's thick tonic go down more easily. Jewish immigrants with experience in beet-sugar processing in their home countries found ready employment in the burgeoning US soda industry, and Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray soda took off.</span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLUg0YFikgMKMpVpn0yOpkXddAq53axmTZnghSJSNKz5FjkuJxgn-dOFMs47JiZTb6Ef6dUzrXar7a8ZhgvNsp03yrDTJ7XIUgrBvXMhpAPI1F44uhui8xub71y9em3d4iFs0eIk-63Vs/s2048/6ADD7B27-DD89-416A-B379-C90727B3F3C6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLUg0YFikgMKMpVpn0yOpkXddAq53axmTZnghSJSNKz5FjkuJxgn-dOFMs47JiZTb6Ef6dUzrXar7a8ZhgvNsp03yrDTJ7XIUgrBvXMhpAPI1F44uhui8xub71y9em3d4iFs0eIk-63Vs/w400-h400/6ADD7B27-DD89-416A-B379-C90727B3F3C6.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I brought my knish and can home and popped the tab. The liquid fizzing into the glass was golden, like ginger ale (did I imagine a faint green palor?), but had the distinct cool, clear, vegetal aroma of celery.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7wa5SBDpQaLxBCtUQgkV_4lC4T1T13RnJgEjJ5pqv_064u6E7dKGvaFT5ff5_8VzLXjFLhSkbhlMCXS-osoEOfOHLvw8J0g0_QIT7brIKbBffH-D4vzlt-9F_w77v5vGdeIE2m0U5N2c/s2048/733E7282-A418-4B20-BC05-E080D4703F81.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7wa5SBDpQaLxBCtUQgkV_4lC4T1T13RnJgEjJ5pqv_064u6E7dKGvaFT5ff5_8VzLXjFLhSkbhlMCXS-osoEOfOHLvw8J0g0_QIT7brIKbBffH-D4vzlt-9F_w77v5vGdeIE2m0U5N2c/w400-h400/733E7282-A418-4B20-BC05-E080D4703F81.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><p></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The celery scent disappeared with the first sip, however. The taste was like honeyed water that tingled on the tongue, though the sweetness was undercut by the botanical notes and a slightly bitter aftertaste, with an effervescence that seemed to be searching around for something to pair with. So I cut into the knish and popped a warm, unctuous bite into my mouth, followed by a swig of Cel-Ray. The knish was greasy and salty, the tonic cool and vanilla-laced and slightly peppery. The carbonation cut through the heaviness of the hunk of dough and potato, and the yeasty smell of the pastry was offset by the tang of the drink. It was the perfect pairing.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFHhcEe-e7cOL5clxXUv5OIfi9G45jlUvcmHIpqalTJwIQzbdZdTnC-vFuZJALLUY0mk6uRn8EgkFS9dWDFTNQfDUAtj-44vUTpairdMhgZGsFmin24sZRMTcrI58w3ORcFC9HcVN2qYs/s2048/0D9C96ED-3570-413F-9F1E-947482A80A57.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFHhcEe-e7cOL5clxXUv5OIfi9G45jlUvcmHIpqalTJwIQzbdZdTnC-vFuZJALLUY0mk6uRn8EgkFS9dWDFTNQfDUAtj-44vUTpairdMhgZGsFmin24sZRMTcrI58w3ORcFC9HcVN2qYs/w400-h400/0D9C96ED-3570-413F-9F1E-947482A80A57.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>A few days later, I called Shelsky's a modern Jewish deli in Park Slope, </span>catering to the bagels-and-lox crowd. When I asked if they carried Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray, the guy on the phone said, "You bet we do. It's my favorite item on the menu."</span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p><br /></p>City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-51238344561853857202021-05-20T06:05:00.005-07:002021-05-20T06:05:54.079-07:00SOUND: Pigeon auction <p>On Sundays at 10 a.m., this alleyway in West Babylon, New York, fills with the sounds of cooing and clucking, wings beating against chicken wire, and the guffaws and grumblings of a group of longtime friends and foes.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKm_74Dltr-uBJTKMwKYZ4SbGo8z6FsJ6yWWAxA1eJepWcQXhCVyVK_FmCHUBklQJ_vCcw0O7R1OXw2mDi_YaSCUZ-smiTNqBoAuQnLGNuWWtUyHl1lp9UaTLB6jJx3fykz3sKXzUaxcA/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKm_74Dltr-uBJTKMwKYZ4SbGo8z6FsJ6yWWAxA1eJepWcQXhCVyVK_FmCHUBklQJ_vCcw0O7R1OXw2mDi_YaSCUZ-smiTNqBoAuQnLGNuWWtUyHl1lp9UaTLB6jJx3fykz3sKXzUaxcA/w400-h400/alleyway.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><p>Across the street, alongside the chain-link fence abutting Wellwood Jewish Cemetery, doors of pickup trucks bang shut as men carrying slatted wooden boxes stride toward the alley. On their car windows, alongside Mets bumper stickers, you might spot a subtle pigeon decal. A few stray feathers drift across the asphalt. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2rsX-dkEw1euP5Oqa901R8BobhFSnd2pgA2QVg2nXuEe2Wsf9ZWYEtQcHWGX3kgMX1Qsh2cbxlBbi1seqhoRNBZMCExsvpNtBDRrWorpGYEl2VqZ0956MZqVe7ng8gxfFnVBDk_sl70s/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1217" data-original-width="1039" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2rsX-dkEw1euP5Oqa901R8BobhFSnd2pgA2QVg2nXuEe2Wsf9ZWYEtQcHWGX3kgMX1Qsh2cbxlBbi1seqhoRNBZMCExsvpNtBDRrWorpGYEl2VqZ0956MZqVe7ng8gxfFnVBDk_sl70s/w342-h400/decal+2.JPG" width="342" /></a></div></div>If you are a pigeon fancier—also known a mumblers or a flier—from the New York metro area, the auction at E. F. Pigeon is the place to be on a Sunday morning. As the bidding gets organized inside a warehouse space off the alley, the fliers gather around an outdoor coop in the parking lot for coffee and a smoke. There are shoulder claps, gibes, and side-eyes as friends and competitors arrive. The pigeons mill about in their cages, murmuring and churring like the men.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiezJjzCXdPFQyGhxN3bwl1iGcseqq9pYiegW07VQ8oU9BYXJuDaqW-t6i9Pa8q08QF98HBYzbvZLAR1VL4FhfjqC-kN8vAMyddZ3SJ_hhl7tme_ixV5NwnJo4V2VQC2hRLSyF3OACCghk/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiezJjzCXdPFQyGhxN3bwl1iGcseqq9pYiegW07VQ8oU9BYXJuDaqW-t6i9Pa8q08QF98HBYzbvZLAR1VL4FhfjqC-kN8vAMyddZ3SJ_hhl7tme_ixV5NwnJo4V2VQC2hRLSyF3OACCghk/w400-h400/outdoor.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><p>Inside, the smooth, rolling calls of auctioneer George Ruotolo begin to echo off the metal ceiling and carry out to the lot: "<i>Ten</i> bucks apiece, <i>ten </i>dollars once, <i>ten</i> dollars twice!" Ruotolo, who is a hair stylist in his other incarnation, sports a smooth comb-back and a camo shirt, and has a thick Long Island accent. He perches on a crate above a stack of cages filled with birds. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipAoUsPnJM-MUSmHi6zldUMN9YK4KmAp-EwkmyzryFWsAvQhj7CVAwfjV1E5h3mfzDwKmVecwBByECC7OR9ql9fYFsaNhhvkkLtTJFJ2UCfA-zDC1RX14wigMloDZlQaBetPO3VZUT7HQ/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipAoUsPnJM-MUSmHi6zldUMN9YK4KmAp-EwkmyzryFWsAvQhj7CVAwfjV1E5h3mfzDwKmVecwBByECC7OR9ql9fYFsaNhhvkkLtTJFJ2UCfA-zDC1RX14wigMloDZlQaBetPO3VZUT7HQ/w400-h400/auction.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div><br />About twenty men and a couple of women—almost all middle-aged and of varied racial backgrounds—are gathered before him, eyes fixed on the birds in his hands. <div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpoak469cc70yeJHIH3fynwhyC8tKqq8NyPWUOMAR07ZsAAzRuhvJb6gnr6fMet8fKvDWx-yXS1tdHvmsq6aorHdZVuPK9gtzWnzxNOxO9glqiZ2Cx3eztTIgxzPuIlFkIOqlx998C1mc/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpoak469cc70yeJHIH3fynwhyC8tKqq8NyPWUOMAR07ZsAAzRuhvJb6gnr6fMet8fKvDWx-yXS1tdHvmsq6aorHdZVuPK9gtzWnzxNOxO9glqiZ2Cx3eztTIgxzPuIlFkIOqlx998C1mc/w400-h400/stack.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div></div><p>Almost everyone is wearing a mask, but there's no social distancing going on here: you have to get close to see the birds, which come in myriad colors and lustrous plumages. These are not street pigeons: they are immaculately groomed and cared for. Most of the fliers know one another and their pigeon proclivities, but if you're a newcomer, the first question is "What's your breed?"</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_DJaBmx1XxJ38rha_a56u5JlNFA8Klc8cdPjdKNPZu0INV2HCwLY2qSX2Aggozs_SBJyTgYET8PVvqotMTbwAeSOqRdgSTeWu8TGBg7G28bfhWQ9-xO9uBpug_q8QdoXyVIqDjuohtyw/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_DJaBmx1XxJ38rha_a56u5JlNFA8Klc8cdPjdKNPZu0INV2HCwLY2qSX2Aggozs_SBJyTgYET8PVvqotMTbwAeSOqRdgSTeWu8TGBg7G28bfhWQ9-xO9uBpug_q8QdoXyVIqDjuohtyw/w400-h400/pigeons+close.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div>The warehouse is outfitted with stacks of pigeon feed bags and an assortment of office chairs, where the fliers perch to trade notes and gossip. At the front, a woman sells coffee and alfajores cookies next to a display of miniature roosters, also for sale, whose insistent cockadoodledoos occasionally drown out the auctioneer.<div><br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj52Oi14wrkqRqlqDUl7y6t-xNZtGD3sXCzDD69nONNcEf56BELS9vMeSCoRC1yv2f3BjH0z42KZb3WEMDemGjHSgFlGlnSnSSreOckJ9VemeXzELOyHzWOexYJy0FvDaj4I7F2YvFMtdU/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj52Oi14wrkqRqlqDUl7y6t-xNZtGD3sXCzDD69nONNcEf56BELS9vMeSCoRC1yv2f3BjH0z42KZb3WEMDemGjHSgFlGlnSnSSreOckJ9VemeXzELOyHzWOexYJy0FvDaj4I7F2YvFMtdU/w400-h400/on+rolling.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div></div></div><div>Ruotolo reaches into a cage and extracts a bird, cupping its body and gently pinning down its wings as he raises it above his head, rotating it to display its features. The pigeon seems unphased. "Talk to me, guys, talk to me. No bids? Okay, he's going down." The pigeon is placed a cage on the floor and the next bird is extracted. The going rate is about ten dollars per bird, though sometimes they are sold in pairs or even trios. "Nice young homer here, fellas, <i>check it out,</i>" he calls. Many of the buyers are pigeon racers, who keep coops in their yards or on their rooftops and breed the homing pigeons they buy here, training them to fly increasingly long distances. One breeder tells me a popular release spot is a parking lot by the foot of the Verrazano Bridge: fliers drive there, let their birds free, start their timers, and race home to clock their arrival.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwvFWqBRz3qbUZDGjsFIYNs8v9w9WS9ZgItey3FdqzxCVtrzBh30Eezy62qWGpz9g6bgm0KbtqN2vqhXXBRdZhpjK_MR-Np8Zo7crNDh1AZrCeNY-IiwwBqEXOf-99Y9zygwh3Bgy3usE/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwvFWqBRz3qbUZDGjsFIYNs8v9w9WS9ZgItey3FdqzxCVtrzBh30Eezy62qWGpz9g6bgm0KbtqN2vqhXXBRdZhpjK_MR-Np8Zo7crNDh1AZrCeNY-IiwwBqEXOf-99Y9zygwh3Bgy3usE/w400-h400/George.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div></div></div></div></div><p>"Sold!" he shouts. "Here ya go, pal." Cash and birds are exchanged across the tops of the cages. The birds appear calm and alert in their new owners' hands. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmP6GEzmPgqsgtWrnDO3runA4c0tpx2d9L9_Dozq18Rgw7J6Hu5jcNCrE-NV0IhqCkAbkrIYUFyFEisVSRubrqk6tfGB2mDZ-1HGKeW07ziUfLqhp4Q-a6kT1OxrvYRZZyi92rhxh8tJA/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmP6GEzmPgqsgtWrnDO3runA4c0tpx2d9L9_Dozq18Rgw7J6Hu5jcNCrE-NV0IhqCkAbkrIYUFyFEisVSRubrqk6tfGB2mDZ-1HGKeW07ziUfLqhp4Q-a6kT1OxrvYRZZyi92rhxh8tJA/" width="240" /></a></div></div></div><p>One guy, who is documenting each sale on his phone, wears a pigeon-themed sweatshirt and a mask printed with "Brooklyn We Fly Hard."</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3OvrMAaOYmBfQtEeVeQVwGhFuLoBtpp_Edt_KWtAkf9aCbJsU_1pG1D0d0U2Gl5mGy5GBT51TxOrK6YYCzDd5N_7sX0nylThPA5nyZju97zPMA6JEMcH3ySVNofajUaee8PIS6p9r2a0/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3OvrMAaOYmBfQtEeVeQVwGhFuLoBtpp_Edt_KWtAkf9aCbJsU_1pG1D0d0U2Gl5mGy5GBT51TxOrK6YYCzDd5N_7sX0nylThPA5nyZju97zPMA6JEMcH3ySVNofajUaee8PIS6p9r2a0/w400-h400/mask.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><p></p><p>Over a stack of pigeon feed, two white-haired men in windbreakers gossip about a retirement community a friend has moved two. "Lotsa swingers down there, I hear. That's where I wanna go. I wanna get outta my house and <i>swing</i>!" But their attention is diverted by a trio of white birds that's creating a flurry of bids. "Fifty-five! Sixty-five! Ho!" The crowd yells: "Shit!" The auctioneer calls: "Eighty! Let's hear it!" "Ow!" the crowd responds. In their cages and boxes, the birds flutter, picking up on the excitement. The three birds sell for eighty-five dollars. Someone jeers, "He just got his retirement check!" </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiavGITz1BvOXwMmMPu0X9mbF8cS1AB1_SHjjvdS4JdGt_BTto2ArAjnUr1dOqEa30jLZeV8JzGR_tQUsN8ubpzJ49PsmivW0hxSxbs1naj2DWIKdwUHOKDLpKXfookzz4HJcyiP5_cFZw/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiavGITz1BvOXwMmMPu0X9mbF8cS1AB1_SHjjvdS4JdGt_BTto2ArAjnUr1dOqEa30jLZeV8JzGR_tQUsN8ubpzJ49PsmivW0hxSxbs1naj2DWIKdwUHOKDLpKXfookzz4HJcyiP5_cFZw/w400-h400/box.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div></div><p></p><p>Behind the auction block is a separate room where the pigeons are bred. Pigeons mate for life, and each couple has its own cage, the male and female taking turns sitting on the eggs, which are nested in terra-cotta dishes.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjCnfCImV-wht-xJPel836whrJblIo2-Vfu98B02h8Tj2-UO27xhDwYdYpJ6czDCmXPJumyJSkUDPCbP-o67SRuLEKRBe1-M-PxLsVdCn4o2i4bFRjne8yPjplkDOugQ82D9EBZ-dgo9s/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1836" data-original-width="1836" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjCnfCImV-wht-xJPel836whrJblIo2-Vfu98B02h8Tj2-UO27xhDwYdYpJ6czDCmXPJumyJSkUDPCbP-o67SRuLEKRBe1-M-PxLsVdCn4o2i4bFRjne8yPjplkDOugQ82D9EBZ-dgo9s/w400-h400/bird+on.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><br />The room smells like hay and seeds with an acidic undercurrent of pigeon guano. The pigeons cheep and cluck and preen and purr, filling the warm space with an attentive parental energy. The pigeons seem to be trading notes through the cage bars just like the fliers on the other side of the wall.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3B5Ml_wRTBGwDyASJ5V9zTymI-J8qIYPRdUeJYW0b0rki2qQX2CMH6c6C1CD7mD6337cyL02fVB0kD83nAGKnGITsmAl1q8uRSak9hSL2IiL4fG5W2eU5QgDLTIJyzPYHmiY8aU-Y3F8/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3B5Ml_wRTBGwDyASJ5V9zTymI-J8qIYPRdUeJYW0b0rki2qQX2CMH6c6C1CD7mD6337cyL02fVB0kD83nAGKnGITsmAl1q8uRSak9hSL2IiL4fG5W2eU5QgDLTIJyzPYHmiY8aU-Y3F8/w400-h400/in+breeding.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p style="text-align: left;">Though baby pigeons are a perpetual urban mystery, they're easy to find here, soon to be held aloft above a crowd and, after that, to swoop over Long Island lawns and Brooklyn rooftops.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: center;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXmbnH3zI5rZ0T5TMemsRVxgFHFlFFiYn9hORL2Ahyphenhyphen9vTDbkZRpqtfb_ucye9VUF-qATdaOvph58lNRxOhqXOGVr8a-gXHZ-RyiLCGlqXETM2IZEiyeyBXI7GYbMPIM-AmZzUniwrf_4E/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXmbnH3zI5rZ0T5TMemsRVxgFHFlFFiYn9hORL2Ahyphenhyphen9vTDbkZRpqtfb_ucye9VUF-qATdaOvph58lNRxOhqXOGVr8a-gXHZ-RyiLCGlqXETM2IZEiyeyBXI7GYbMPIM-AmZzUniwrf_4E/w400-h400/babies+bir.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: center;">Besides the lack of women in the crowd, there's a dearth of young people interested in pigeon racing. One man remarks: </span><span style="text-align: center;">"The kids these days, they're all—" He bows his head and taps his thumbs on an imaginary smartphone.</span><span style="text-align: center;"> So</span><span style="text-align: center;"> the group is particularly excited by the arrival of a young pigeon enthusiast and his stuffed-animal pigeon. He is peppered with questions and advice: "What's your favorite breed?" "Where do you live—you say you got a rooftop?" "So you wanna race 'em?" "Gotta start the flock small, build from there." The stuffed pigeon soon finds itself hoisted above the crowd: "A hundred fifty for this pigeon!" Out in the lot, one man says to another: "You see everything at this auction."</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVMpWP26r4504YylsOjh4zABjjMiKOi3izpuTGMs3TYpDXUtWvJSdMgxoE1i4bpludibXmWr8OY0UDaY6AZscjqKMcYAB8HB30e3neBZ_k5tS0l6zrE6KLf4_L24ZJPzu3WauJ3jX3798/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVMpWP26r4504YylsOjh4zABjjMiKOi3izpuTGMs3TYpDXUtWvJSdMgxoE1i4bpludibXmWr8OY0UDaY6AZscjqKMcYAB8HB30e3neBZ_k5tS0l6zrE6KLf4_L24ZJPzu3WauJ3jX3798/w400-h400/Arturo.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p></div></div></div>City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-72014912362552031572021-04-15T19:41:00.003-07:002021-04-16T04:42:01.185-07:00MULTISENSORY: Ramblersville, Queens: New York's smallest neighborhood<p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Welcome to Broadway, in Queens, New York. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5G69H2vo5Ev5L5cQjwjYghvqtuFIL4r0c-teKC3hm45Yf4wAtXxGHbxsebadM_Iv6jJv6E3jB1VTg_lcd1VhL7Q7rpxrFoFnzvKRoRBDC94ViphX0G6JF_eJB96Gz_htsEjs9F6VrQQM/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5G69H2vo5Ev5L5cQjwjYghvqtuFIL4r0c-teKC3hm45Yf4wAtXxGHbxsebadM_Iv6jJv6E3jB1VTg_lcd1VhL7Q7rpxrFoFnzvKRoRBDC94ViphX0G6JF_eJB96Gz_htsEjs9F6VrQQM/w400-h400/C6DB9D6C-074B-4242-90EE-F2800AC79FD5.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Though each of the five boroughs has a Broadway, this one, in the tiny nautical hamlet of Ramblersville, is about as far as one can imagine from the spinning lights and hot dog steam of Times Square. At the intersection of Broadway and Church Street, boats are parked alongside pickup trucks, and the air smells like tar paper, damp wood, and seaweed.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi32DQ8rxSCog82ayVO_Qmlvmvu4M5URAc6j_nKGfHmFbMnoCQR7GwlR9O6JU3AnaooiKyvqQJEyCpTIXMALY7HZ9rqjIcz7PHVS74U20znyF20SOXEOOMxHRAwYWIQRJY0gYIg_xZlx8A/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi32DQ8rxSCog82ayVO_Qmlvmvu4M5URAc6j_nKGfHmFbMnoCQR7GwlR9O6JU3AnaooiKyvqQJEyCpTIXMALY7HZ9rqjIcz7PHVS74U20znyF20SOXEOOMxHRAwYWIQRJY0gYIg_xZlx8A/w400-h400/27E91B40-12A5-4BA9-B72F-C85153C7DB37.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Ramblersville, also known as Hamilton Beach, is arguably the smallest neighborhood in New York City. It comprises three spits of land, wedged between Howard Beach and JFK International Airport, that reach into a hooked strip of water known as Hawtree Basin, which joins Bergen Basin and Shellbank Basin to flow out into Jamaica Bay. </div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAOHVkSdc0a2NjMFYeJTMfkWOnEdN80kE_4IIRC3v54wKhC4L9Zfhgxey2pj25cs5M93k0jV0d4EfXbEA3L7uEL2aDGVhm_PoxE3_jtAwr6N4rvYAm2YEOyQLslF7kPtsPMkl7NcnGLzo/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="377" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAOHVkSdc0a2NjMFYeJTMfkWOnEdN80kE_4IIRC3v54wKhC4L9Zfhgxey2pj25cs5M93k0jV0d4EfXbEA3L7uEL2aDGVhm_PoxE3_jtAwr6N4rvYAm2YEOyQLslF7kPtsPMkl7NcnGLzo/w377-h400/image.png" width="377" /></a></div></div><p>Water is a way of life here. All Ramblersville streets dead-end in Hawtree Basin, and bridges crisscross the canals. On a weekend afternoon in early spring, the air fills with sounds that could be from another era: the cawing of seagulls; the hollow hammering of a men patching a wooden dock; dogs barking at front doors, leaving nose streaks on the storm glass; and mothers calling to their kids, who zizz past on on bikes, weaving between the cul-de-sacs.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6qB287zxJm8AA3noAzbbtYrB8M9tF4ByiXcSzeSJWL7hGUeWIQtX1qlTuIlkaFI6cb85Zz39wN0nDZK30YXmRTCibKVR_uJOrk21y3buFdExvUCV8JUeOB1gdKhJtymtgfMqkJCiCxo4/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1809" data-original-width="2048" height="353" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6qB287zxJm8AA3noAzbbtYrB8M9tF4ByiXcSzeSJWL7hGUeWIQtX1qlTuIlkaFI6cb85Zz39wN0nDZK30YXmRTCibKVR_uJOrk21y3buFdExvUCV8JUeOB1gdKhJtymtgfMqkJCiCxo4/w400-h353/2CD48BA8-043A-418C-85BF-C51ACAD14587.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>Many of the houses are raised on pilings over the water, and ducks, swans, and geese drift just a few feet below living room floors.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkrWrJ6Y9WwdNGQtxTrYNyi4X9LzHtgo1Z3LyiKuqrVFeKwAvDkN_X2AOBUqUnbGBgAMoV6ndQXleJqCDx5JNLxyCgNM-v0P_vG59ILEqBnr2mlNC0Qv-PswDRk5K3qcfcBJ8JN3tBsZA/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkrWrJ6Y9WwdNGQtxTrYNyi4X9LzHtgo1Z3LyiKuqrVFeKwAvDkN_X2AOBUqUnbGBgAMoV6ndQXleJqCDx5JNLxyCgNM-v0P_vG59ILEqBnr2mlNC0Qv-PswDRk5K3qcfcBJ8JN3tBsZA/w400-h400/3A573BE8-0E5F-4808-87B9-BAC33ED51D2B.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div></div></div><p>Ramblersville is a neighborhood of rainbow whirligigs and patriotic flags, of Easter and Saint Patrick's Day decorations and mailboxes shaped like churches, barns, lighthouses, or sometimes all three. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcpP9auhGDPE_a0eYlFqVnouURy9VXJDEDZH9eExgOJUQgEgWur9-RnDdES49J4ZkWqf9GsXoy_2vKxKz6rbpE8uQY0jrVGcWPO8TDiJO-K0-6qwOSykorqT3avC5yp1ZxiH-5T0JC5Oo/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcpP9auhGDPE_a0eYlFqVnouURy9VXJDEDZH9eExgOJUQgEgWur9-RnDdES49J4ZkWqf9GsXoy_2vKxKz6rbpE8uQY0jrVGcWPO8TDiJO-K0-6qwOSykorqT3avC5yp1ZxiH-5T0JC5Oo/w400-h400/mailbox.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Though planes from JFK rumble close over rooftops and the A train rattles past just yards from the doorsteps (the gleaming Howard Beach AirTrain station is a short walk away across a marsh), this neighborhood feels out of step with urban life. One street, Bayview Avenue, is a wooden boardwalk flanked by picket fences. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZkKNjZWNxHwwvVWrqYwMyxGyeEO7rePZP_xDpH2ahjwOmrVLoB3FIPEbm8BCUrquDeoZtrl5GyHN0ffh0nE2n6NE5eTpnJ4PM9BZcYjmkewclbYDHVJ0FkJQo3ixZ236F4Kv62yURk9c/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZkKNjZWNxHwwvVWrqYwMyxGyeEO7rePZP_xDpH2ahjwOmrVLoB3FIPEbm8BCUrquDeoZtrl5GyHN0ffh0nE2n6NE5eTpnJ4PM9BZcYjmkewclbYDHVJ0FkJQo3ixZ236F4Kv62yURk9c/w400-h400/8566A0B1-90EB-465F-93EF-DA653177A9C9.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div><p>Boats are ubiquitous: parked on trailers in driveways, bumping against docks, belly up by the sides of roads, and stashed in vacant lots surrounded by beach grass.</p></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9hMetu27eP_phxYaSpcJpx29O56xXGgJ_lJs5NdrWV0uB2Zn4zZfLlHrWwdBErWzZS07MOiBOF8u84EEa7fc9mlaG508SFsr8HTiz9KkRxCjyqXHocfZXE4doc3QNMAUmdeZxk5NnpZc/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9hMetu27eP_phxYaSpcJpx29O56xXGgJ_lJs5NdrWV0uB2Zn4zZfLlHrWwdBErWzZS07MOiBOF8u84EEa7fc9mlaG508SFsr8HTiz9KkRxCjyqXHocfZXE4doc3QNMAUmdeZxk5NnpZc/w400-h400/A75C411B-A210-46D0-BAD3-AE43FEA9CF3E.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div></div><div>If the chickens in this yard were to take flight, </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGOG0tjJxQNEWStmU-z9n5NtdnEQGy4EKm5QP1yFSP1n5VRsYNS5n6EX2dyQ_yUgh_esRhl5YxeYIAkJ_Jf_qHUKB-INeP5-foWwWWZBsZkMjBu8fsyE9CiHwyL1uH6xjSB3TwlyW30Kw/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGOG0tjJxQNEWStmU-z9n5NtdnEQGy4EKm5QP1yFSP1n5VRsYNS5n6EX2dyQ_yUgh_esRhl5YxeYIAkJ_Jf_qHUKB-INeP5-foWwWWZBsZkMjBu8fsyE9CiHwyL1uH6xjSB3TwlyW30Kw/w400-h400/A764AB4B-3636-4BA0-8B20-2EAC3A159205.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div><br />they'd see the sparkling waters of Jamaica Bay connecting this sleepy neighborhood to the world.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioInTQ6bB2P8PCX_Gg5iAhLAFE5IGbFZzadyxwVNYlTmp7KgiRVSr8V5fyAEI5ENnlHajWgWU9Kc_MS9GYBPBQ8lZng7aLdPdMrGMceC_37T_o6oZvgN_JQNeasOTK_s4gc0fzSAo3Zfw/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioInTQ6bB2P8PCX_Gg5iAhLAFE5IGbFZzadyxwVNYlTmp7KgiRVSr8V5fyAEI5ENnlHajWgWU9Kc_MS9GYBPBQ8lZng7aLdPdMrGMceC_37T_o6oZvgN_JQNeasOTK_s4gc0fzSAo3Zfw/w400-h400/534660F0-8502-45B2-AAAE-C8B97824C16B.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div>Beneath each of the Dead End signs along 104th Street—which is as close to a Main Street as Ramblersville has, despite its Broadway—some local children have tacked wooden stars painted with inspirational messages. Most have faded in the sea breeze, but one message is still visible: "You can do whatever you think you can." This seems an apt reminder that there is always more to explore in New York, even when you think you've come to its end.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiv1aKGYLO9LKUn-cMisiQh6kwYHsjctzp2Z9nVXbjH_KJPK5K4T1hChmRXczNU_ZvX5XPGMV2Qjm4tRjEW1bMmCaJEBthhD-ZjQCidHfsL6iZZ1tmraxwE2CuZM9YBlAE1h6m5Hz_XEM/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiv1aKGYLO9LKUn-cMisiQh6kwYHsjctzp2Z9nVXbjH_KJPK5K4T1hChmRXczNU_ZvX5XPGMV2Qjm4tRjEW1bMmCaJEBthhD-ZjQCidHfsL6iZZ1tmraxwE2CuZM9YBlAE1h6m5Hz_XEM/w400-h400/DEBDF659-406C-4A78-9A09-DB49090C2F14.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /></div>City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-50305749358277902232021-02-22T13:26:00.006-08:002021-02-22T13:37:05.874-08:00TASTE: Biscuit tortoni, a classic New York confection<p>I admit that I find it hard to resist any food served in a paper cup. Having tasted the <a href="http://citylore-senseandthecity.blogspot.com/2018/10/taste-charlotte-russe-from-holtermanns.html">Charlotte Russe</a>, a cake-and-cream dessert that pops up from a polka-dotted paper sleeve, I thought I'd tried all the iconic New York City foods presented this way. I was delighted, therefore, to learn about the biscuit tortoni, a concoction of frozen almond-flavored custard mixed with crushed amaretti biscuits, topped with crumbled almonds and a frozen maraschino cherry, and served in a pleated wax paper soufflé cup.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj51qmAI3urGcKElvo_ylipU6mtiS5N-PSQkZuLiifFcYVA33uOdvIGeqdE5BnS-iqMV19svcEuToHpZ_c_l7u2RiDg37XQ9CUVMIN4I2t14YvR44KOFCba2eg7awCyDqZ0OO9xiOz4w80/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj51qmAI3urGcKElvo_ylipU6mtiS5N-PSQkZuLiifFcYVA33uOdvIGeqdE5BnS-iqMV19svcEuToHpZ_c_l7u2RiDg37XQ9CUVMIN4I2t14YvR44KOFCba2eg7awCyDqZ0OO9xiOz4w80/w400-h400/9842BB37-B2DD-4C3B-AAEA-3257408AB8DE.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div><p></p><p>According to Arthur Schwartz's book <i>New York City Food: An Opinionated History and More Than 100 Recipes</i>, the biscuit tortoni originated in eighteenth-century Paris, where a certain Neapolitan named Signor Tortoni opened an ice cream café where the dessert was first served. From Café Tortoni it made its way a century later to New York City; no one quite knows how. Schwartz claims that biscuit tortoni is unheard-of in Naples today. In New York, as Amanda Hesser mentions in a <i>New York Times</i> tribute to the confection, it became a staple in Italian American restaurants, from the Waldorf-Astoria to casual red-sauce joints and to street carts. Édouard Manet memorialized Café Tortoni in a painting, though the dour subject seems to be fueling his writing with a beer rather than a tortoni.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjGkoJQ0EhFzeDPlyE7HNWIICeg2uwjVBXRfa-JwQQep9vMfgRL52ObBisSiKB4mqyJ_DJ9VafsVNOPSFe3GsPaf0b8djwa0B2yj5OjCcAY-Tey0siW-muqsPrkUIOJCkT4udOPeDQcO8/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="1024" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjGkoJQ0EhFzeDPlyE7HNWIICeg2uwjVBXRfa-JwQQep9vMfgRL52ObBisSiKB4mqyJ_DJ9VafsVNOPSFe3GsPaf0b8djwa0B2yj5OjCcAY-Tey0siW-muqsPrkUIOJCkT4udOPeDQcO8/w400-h312/%25C3%2589douard_Manet_Chez_Tortoni.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Chez Tortoni</i> by Édouard Manet. Reproduced from Wikimedia Commons</span></div></div></div><br />These days, there are few places this classic New York City dessert can be found. One is restaurant in the West Village, Villa Mosconi, which has an entire <a href="https://villamosconi.com/italian-food-wine/villa-mosconis-where-you-can-still-get-a-biscuit-tortoni/">webpage devoted to the dessert</a> but is, unfortunately, closed at the moment. Plus, I decided I wanted to eat my tortoni like a nineteenth-century child might have: on the street, with traffic rushing by. So on a recent snowy day I headed to Villabate Alba, a Sicilian bakery on Eighteenth Avenue in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, which beckons visitors with a human-size cone of gelato.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCBjjfXv08atLH6crc4ij7uSre_WVQhEBO0H6f37cqM45C1TKyMKp4xSZW6ftbGslMZTp8FdUheS7UNUXEWfyfPwb0PBqIDW9HxCLQ8gjicYUf_kqiv897pjE_mIysYQLqgisewTVBhco/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCBjjfXv08atLH6crc4ij7uSre_WVQhEBO0H6f37cqM45C1TKyMKp4xSZW6ftbGslMZTp8FdUheS7UNUXEWfyfPwb0PBqIDW9HxCLQ8gjicYUf_kqiv897pjE_mIysYQLqgisewTVBhco/w400-h400/outside+store.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><p>Stepping inside Villabate Alba is like stepping into a wedding cake. The ceiling features a fresco of clouds and angels, statuary of the Holy Family and Rangers memorabilia decorate the tops of the displays, and marzipan fruit, rainbow cookies, and cakes dripping with decorations gleam beneath the glass. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKiY9oCbvCt9W7BWuluP3Zr_Pu-3bcIRJANqA4Rc96Bp3tF8XKErFIdWdaVf5ZqoRIi1TtPVrRMUM8zmmXleUJ4NaeQGbV8K5xkZrY83Hc5FvFy-kr3issiUzcLEaFMa85jD9JYkJUedY/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKiY9oCbvCt9W7BWuluP3Zr_Pu-3bcIRJANqA4Rc96Bp3tF8XKErFIdWdaVf5ZqoRIi1TtPVrRMUM8zmmXleUJ4NaeQGbV8K5xkZrY83Hc5FvFy-kr3issiUzcLEaFMa85jD9JYkJUedY/w400-h400/9442C4B7-90F3-487D-B614-33D16BDF62D7.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />A mute maître d' wearing a baseball cap labeled "Pristine" directs visitors with glares and hand gestures and straightens the carpets and retractable stanchions. An Italian radio station plinks from the speakers, and everyone orders in Italian. This place is the real deal.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW_9YjVsoN4cjer2u7m1gVyCzZQ57uKHiCzOi3tsYc7a3ZxD4BkO3P69usOjCzMHnLTdwF0L25kBNZtIRLv5urzuZg7Nb4QhgXCgPxKmkThP9B-1VaudQAOMp8TRwynaCLvkjL8m7-QKo/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW_9YjVsoN4cjer2u7m1gVyCzZQ57uKHiCzOi3tsYc7a3ZxD4BkO3P69usOjCzMHnLTdwF0L25kBNZtIRLv5urzuZg7Nb4QhgXCgPxKmkThP9B-1VaudQAOMp8TRwynaCLvkjL8m7-QKo/w400-h400/inside+store.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div><br /><p>I pinch the paper cup—known in Italian as a <i>coviglie—</i>between my fingers and carve my spoon through the topping of crumbled amaretti cookies into the frozen custard. It's slightly gummy and chewy and not too sweet. The cream has a foamy quality despite its thickness: it tastses more like a frozen whipped mousse than ice cream. The almond flavor and crunch of the topping add bite to the creaminess. One of my favorite features of frozen desserts served in paper cups is that they melt from the outside in, responding to the heat of your fingers, and the cup softens and squishes and almost becomes part of your hand. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQHGeuoOH3317eQ64xi3snXLqbu9T3gFlH-Tx_7YmtknPf0bxI9QpWD6HAY_AInWH8RgnL3314_KjHLU3ivsAqGY8l0BNiMRLCBR1qGEjcNx9EIe24xbwzVbpk3CyWrNEmv_usLmVNXA/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQHGeuoOH3317eQ64xi3snXLqbu9T3gFlH-Tx_7YmtknPf0bxI9QpWD6HAY_AInWH8RgnL3314_KjHLU3ivsAqGY8l0BNiMRLCBR1qGEjcNx9EIe24xbwzVbpk3CyWrNEmv_usLmVNXA/" width="240" /></a></div><br /></div>The frozen maraschino cherry provided a burst of crystallized saccharine delight, the flesh of the fruit glimmering in crystals against the teeth, its artificial sweetness a nice counterpart to the mellow custard. Alternating bites of icy sweet cherry and soft, almond-scented, biscuit-studded cream proved the best way of enjoying this dessert.<div><br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6RARspDhSoxXMnaj85TpFcN8m6tD9s-DsIZ7WKP9rKCcSmMBv8OWyo4JmiqFlLS3KKeX2yvXqd8mCzyhdZmsOJLRBYJ0o9dvJVBVedZnNQCIwcag3Ym9sRdlyyPFbgOMXPA04DyybB4A/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6RARspDhSoxXMnaj85TpFcN8m6tD9s-DsIZ7WKP9rKCcSmMBv8OWyo4JmiqFlLS3KKeX2yvXqd8mCzyhdZmsOJLRBYJ0o9dvJVBVedZnNQCIwcag3Ym9sRdlyyPFbgOMXPA04DyybB4A/w400-h400/5D64ED8A-5EC1-4025-ADB5-AEB0A4CF5101.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div>As I drove home through the Brooklyn streetscape of gray buildings and grayer snow, I happened upon this block of West Ninth Street, where a stretch of tidy houses offered a burst of color and fanciful decorations—stripes, rooftop spires and filigree, pink and yellow and golden paint. It was not unlike Villabate Alba and its biscuit tortoni, whose cold, bright flavor lingered on my tongue through the rest of the dreary day.<br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /><p></p></div></div></div>City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-41480582323780095752021-01-27T09:21:00.003-08:002021-01-28T05:47:03.880-08:00SOUND: The Iron Triangle in Willets Point<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div></div><div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggnkso7u9S4yTh3qix75lB1f5RGCGMKN0H5Rl5PGSdJhrNF5BZKDJO5Bw9OiHfLHVmEi67_7I-QiL2GOE6zkU5i4sFjFhtDbMGBELNztRMEMlcYoE4Lq4wPDVJ3BldMiaET6JjFn4ycDM/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggnkso7u9S4yTh3qix75lB1f5RGCGMKN0H5Rl5PGSdJhrNF5BZKDJO5Bw9OiHfLHVmEi67_7I-QiL2GOE6zkU5i4sFjFhtDbMGBELNztRMEMlcYoE4Lq4wPDVJ3BldMiaET6JjFn4ycDM/w400-h400/citi+field.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div><br />As I exit the expressway toward Willets Point Boulevard, men flag me down at the stoplight. "Hola, Mami! You need car repair? This way!" To my right, the billboards of Citi Field pierce the sky.</div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPPTHVk3Aq1WGLBmVv4vT_dfj-OBZlBIJJ9hO3OAHf3Z5oNFTLm16kvtJHoh-oQ5q1OvSVE4hyphenhyphen5KL4WBSZHVztYItgNp_vI0ubCC7bje7tdWZmObjlIYCXf18Fkrs2IuxqvFe3vgyPPjo/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPPTHVk3Aq1WGLBmVv4vT_dfj-OBZlBIJJ9hO3OAHf3Z5oNFTLm16kvtJHoh-oQ5q1OvSVE4hyphenhyphen5KL4WBSZHVztYItgNp_vI0ubCC7bje7tdWZmObjlIYCXf18Fkrs2IuxqvFe3vgyPPjo/w400-h400/sunshade.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div></div>But the men are waving me to the left, where a man hunkers under a beach umbrella, fanning a trash-can fire. A structure of corrugated metal and stacked shipping containers, topped with piles of tires and broken windshields, teeters behind him like an absurd automotive wedding cake. With a flattened cardboard box, he swats at passersby, who raise their hands in greeting.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxxXbZXeDKOrRQVw_H0KzqDeUwPFKizoPnA3erX6AYobbBtU97VkUAZBE1_Pn94REBhoErP6Xc17tkd9QqyGFzNSqVrTpcn-dO-86AXxFkedjPtK9lOU18wlcQkPBBMjUNiKr40hVApVA/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxxXbZXeDKOrRQVw_H0KzqDeUwPFKizoPnA3erX6AYobbBtU97VkUAZBE1_Pn94REBhoErP6Xc17tkd9QqyGFzNSqVrTpcn-dO-86AXxFkedjPtK9lOU18wlcQkPBBMjUNiKr40hVApVA/w400-h400/wall+of+doors.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></div></div></div><div>Welcome to the Iron Triangle, a roughly six-block shantytown of more than two hundred auto-repair businesses, chop shops, and salvage yards operating out of Quonset huts, hovels, and even RVs, that has existed in Willets Point in some form since the 1930s.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh34PRI6wSjHEBAzK1Be0LDGji8P17Jl85SXWCeT3xqBwjIgUA52WxXo9kASQI5I2_MrzKk5eDFoL3q9UuDmN43yACR75jWRuC-IZbnbSNrHLRoL6dOdjPd6KI0cGrXYFCykn1XvJGr9SM/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh34PRI6wSjHEBAzK1Be0LDGji8P17Jl85SXWCeT3xqBwjIgUA52WxXo9kASQI5I2_MrzKk5eDFoL3q9UuDmN43yACR75jWRuC-IZbnbSNrHLRoL6dOdjPd6KI0cGrXYFCykn1XvJGr9SM/w400-h400/RV.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div><br />Their shop names exude promise: Sunrise, Good Luck, Happy, Rich, New Beginning. The 250-odd businesses here make up the most concentrated, efficient, and competitive auto-repair zone in New York City. Here you can get your flat fixed, muffler welded, hubcaps replaced, dented door banged out, upholstery patched, or upgrade your exhaust tip—fast and for cheap—in the hands of the Iron Triangle's roughly 1,500 skilled workers, who these days are mostly low- and middle-income and Hispanic.</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA5UWrwqB3q6RvJTM2o1_zrAVGVQpuwIqS1K3JxWt2rB96N9OldVlHFtUevCJov8QCnDD5XqqhRJyzfmxDrtNNwI9iruDf0HCOpqZMRSqDY_QPm9czGcLggiRjkMrrVTR_hrrcru0V7DQ/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1661" data-original-width="2048" height="324" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA5UWrwqB3q6RvJTM2o1_zrAVGVQpuwIqS1K3JxWt2rB96N9OldVlHFtUevCJov8QCnDD5XqqhRJyzfmxDrtNNwI9iruDf0HCOpqZMRSqDY_QPm9czGcLggiRjkMrrVTR_hrrcru0V7DQ/w400-h324/overview.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div></div>In this urban underbelly, there seem to be lots of unwritten rules. No to honking. Yes to haggling. It's mostly a men's world, though I saw some women and even children epoxying cars and selling coffee. Vehicles queue up, chatting through open windows as they wait for quotes. They are families in minivans who need a transmission, livery car drivers in search of a side mirror, a guy in a Porsche looking for a window tint. People come from across the tri-state area knowing they'll get a good deal. So the shops compete, and even in these blighted surroundings, presentation is an art. From rim racks,</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyioYV93e-p8zWZkCZKplYGwi_N32DMHTQs7455YfYVeAp3PLN2pJap0uCDhkQjXQXSHij_9WSDZggrQ6ihPJElYJF9rYJYuYS2jfOKa6yxg20xAY2Mp9Fg9vAod9x8aqKEaDQFS7-Ngk/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyioYV93e-p8zWZkCZKplYGwi_N32DMHTQs7455YfYVeAp3PLN2pJap0uCDhkQjXQXSHij_9WSDZggrQ6ihPJElYJF9rYJYuYS2jfOKa6yxg20xAY2Mp9Fg9vAod9x8aqKEaDQFS7-Ngk/w400-h400/rims.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div></div><div><div>to tailpipe trees,</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrX-i4CzKrNhsl6cVCNRI_2vo9VDae1zxZDxePhPkioK5Alw8IzYVSBsNKxEMhuJ-gCEvo5T-d-WgdaxatkLWtsR_aifoFfN22JK1_D_NFXOTwUN26c4RVTJaUcfKLyzv6pS1jrCfLuLY/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrX-i4CzKrNhsl6cVCNRI_2vo9VDae1zxZDxePhPkioK5Alw8IzYVSBsNKxEMhuJ-gCEvo5T-d-WgdaxatkLWtsR_aifoFfN22JK1_D_NFXOTwUN26c4RVTJaUcfKLyzv6pS1jrCfLuLY/w400-h400/tailpipe+tree.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div><br />to tessellated tire stacks.</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1MULhJ8kZfDK89eiuxSNKbGludTtDgThE-h71lEwXRGChT0yyMa_eIFuIyL3rruvbsh7wAkSfsYL3V1LeW8ZQPeCD8tNsBg5hv-iPxLWrWEXmYOi06CisQH8bQey1oDLdN3Cy2rPKp8c/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1703" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1MULhJ8kZfDK89eiuxSNKbGludTtDgThE-h71lEwXRGChT0yyMa_eIFuIyL3rruvbsh7wAkSfsYL3V1LeW8ZQPeCD8tNsBg5hv-iPxLWrWEXmYOi06CisQH8bQey1oDLdN3Cy2rPKp8c/" width="289" /></a></div><br /></div></div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">But if you're one of the few visitors exploring on foot, the Iron Triangle offers a rare synergistic symphony. Sawzalls zizz as they slice into tailpipes.</div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkQ0fZH4xam9JZIg1aNK-yI3ntnPKRbrQZgU7kTq1EQxM5ymTt_4Vx4WpX9-U4H2uCfkmiGJVQ4O864o-c1ITw2qv11IC_-r722PyeRBC66Pes2IQNnXIMxuYndjQmkdyZp0KzGGAcUaA/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1693" data-original-width="1693" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkQ0fZH4xam9JZIg1aNK-yI3ntnPKRbrQZgU7kTq1EQxM5ymTt_4Vx4WpX9-U4H2uCfkmiGJVQ4O864o-c1ITw2qv11IC_-r722PyeRBC66Pes2IQNnXIMxuYndjQmkdyZp0KzGGAcUaA/w400-h400/9EA42F7F-7A32-433A-9A1D-E3E5EC6D0FC5.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Buffers whir; sparks sizzle.</p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTHdi4WZ1r_4NW_h2Obi614EFmfql0cGcBEoezgt-BtNfkqdso-PiMoFuGNXbK5hh14MWOc1ZhCNt4bVD656X1BCl2XzFI5A9j8qFFQsUndlib4VCU7DeTYszQb3vySsRlFK-U0o3h4Qc/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1516" data-original-width="1516" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTHdi4WZ1r_4NW_h2Obi614EFmfql0cGcBEoezgt-BtNfkqdso-PiMoFuGNXbK5hh14MWOc1ZhCNt4bVD656X1BCl2XzFI5A9j8qFFQsUndlib4VCU7DeTYszQb3vySsRlFK-U0o3h4Qc/w400-h400/buffing.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Everywhere, clanging and tapping and banging reverberate off metal walls. Socket wrenches stutter. Hydraulic lifts hiss.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxBmQjHYjWQGM0ZBraSo55aJ5aBPchWqN22YpJdCv0AnN2Vadfx0WHUqsO0S-lGtpnyhcX0Qr-CJ01u36l4kt197zEexUYoUkNTr6QDiRCIge9MwCAasnJ13zGSIBkiretvSagNb4A7a4/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxBmQjHYjWQGM0ZBraSo55aJ5aBPchWqN22YpJdCv0AnN2Vadfx0WHUqsO0S-lGtpnyhcX0Qr-CJ01u36l4kt197zEexUYoUkNTr6QDiRCIge9MwCAasnJ13zGSIBkiretvSagNb4A7a4/w400-h400/metal+repair.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div></div></div>Shopping carts rattle over the rutted streets, pushed by men collecting scrap metal to sell—or peddling tube socks, like this man.</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKPPILB6ENS0w7BCv7tEor9JCaHTD2lT7f7NzA-a8HMH8CnZx6AaI3UQEBDobmHfcbluoYYEvIW1QElKi9x49zjIsy-uNWrrR4rfjLUTkSfWUoJWFyjwqglqLphIh-edHnp_JUQwX_YQU/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1607" data-original-width="1607" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKPPILB6ENS0w7BCv7tEor9JCaHTD2lT7f7NzA-a8HMH8CnZx6AaI3UQEBDobmHfcbluoYYEvIW1QElKi9x49zjIsy-uNWrrR4rfjLUTkSfWUoJWFyjwqglqLphIh-edHnp_JUQwX_YQU/w400-h400/tube+sock+cart.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>The Iron Triangle is located on a flood plain at the confluence of Flushing Creek and Flushing Bay. Seagulls caw above the marsh grasses. Every few minutes the rumble of a low-flying plane from La Guardia pierces the clouds.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Gv3gDFp1l3HwA-Ote40W-5KYpKtS6JQmLB3Ui0f4rTqjOCm6ZYir_ZMA45R0a5IVybm3yCMglSNEwhCq4Jl7a0Dhn0mC9ILQXtmpWeNHvmqcOqMWNKPhOx4ZKaSeK1JNtNBN8Vd0BlQ/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Gv3gDFp1l3HwA-Ote40W-5KYpKtS6JQmLB3Ui0f4rTqjOCm6ZYir_ZMA45R0a5IVybm3yCMglSNEwhCq4Jl7a0Dhn0mC9ILQXtmpWeNHvmqcOqMWNKPhOx4ZKaSeK1JNtNBN8Vd0BlQ/w400-h400/seagulls.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div><br /></div><div>The roads here are unpaved and exempt from street-cleaning rules. Cars drive slowly, careful not to splash the workers as tires slosh and slap through the mud, popping the mini liquor bottles and plastic clamshells that clog the puddles. There are no traffic signs, sidewalks, or stoplights. Loitering men direct cars in a coded language of hand signals, whistles, and "Heeey-ep!"s.</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZPcOrHC5mCoWNBTB107eJdmp3YQJFZZhuQlfsaWkiq06pL_JYUNbfBG1sV8xT3VLCXzL8YwQFvX3usZBihtLPlgqd7RRoZRONNS7Q7UvGP1HmYwHQAucnXkSkMxD5-yaXldds5mmqM1M/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZPcOrHC5mCoWNBTB107eJdmp3YQJFZZhuQlfsaWkiq06pL_JYUNbfBG1sV8xT3VLCXzL8YwQFvX3usZBihtLPlgqd7RRoZRONNS7Q7UvGP1HmYwHQAucnXkSkMxD5-yaXldds5mmqM1M/w400-h400/unpaved+streets.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div></div><div>The 7 train squeals past on the elevated tracks. Every so often, amid the cacophony of metal, you hear the mewl of an alley cat. They slink out of minuscule doorways, rubbing their backs against the corrugated tin. </div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBildhvSrJflFwHEKimfIhNjZMZhIrQRcWsv6MsTIcfQJ4BoWuOnJ5aSBEvwri0L4O-qEE22RUFndah1MUQ_nkR49CrCwUlELuqyL5W2MPeZFF45M0973ZFwbtmoqbGoCdzMYhP30apmI/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1670" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBildhvSrJflFwHEKimfIhNjZMZhIrQRcWsv6MsTIcfQJ4BoWuOnJ5aSBEvwri0L4O-qEE22RUFndah1MUQ_nkR49CrCwUlELuqyL5W2MPeZFF45M0973ZFwbtmoqbGoCdzMYhP30apmI/w327-h400/tiny+door.JPG" width="327" /></a></div><br /></div><div>Salsa and merengue plink from the open windows of idling cars and the trunks of minivans serving as makeshift cafés. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBmZgLIT-VEwU7wLxx2hfXfzIt9KFYnghMgCeLgUBVytF6T0xvsJyuTQSFmRxuSKz0Po2eLHNrU4MEBvIEzcDcj84eif7z3r-dO1GYaiMu4YwJZRjf8B4W-425NgCsIR3SxadNa9SAWlI/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1656" data-original-width="1656" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBmZgLIT-VEwU7wLxx2hfXfzIt9KFYnghMgCeLgUBVytF6T0xvsJyuTQSFmRxuSKz0Po2eLHNrU4MEBvIEzcDcj84eif7z3r-dO1GYaiMu4YwJZRjf8B4W-425NgCsIR3SxadNa9SAWlI/w400-h400/minivan+cafe.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div></div></div>There are no bathrooms, since the area is cut off from the city sewer system.</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSK5nLamX19BvkdJrDzkOlB9rVk6DmIqnDnazdSekMrck5NvDqS4BGQY753k1EqbThyphenhyphenQjPCmvm7ah7yvhXchPk7GnM3yQwHyJR0sfc4lLw8loWXOsKFiJ4WUfnYmgKGHYuxbrkcJjDBpc/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSK5nLamX19BvkdJrDzkOlB9rVk6DmIqnDnazdSekMrck5NvDqS4BGQY753k1EqbThyphenhyphenQjPCmvm7ah7yvhXchPk7GnM3yQwHyJR0sfc4lLw8loWXOsKFiJ4WUfnYmgKGHYuxbrkcJjDBpc/w400-h400/no+pipi.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">For over a decade, starting under Mayor Bloomberg, <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2018/02/05/nyregion/willets-point-redevelopment-de-blasio.html">much-contested and renegotiated plans</a> have been in the works to redevelop the Iron Triangle. At various points, they have included a mall, a hotel, parking lots, a school, affordable housing, and parks. In the process, under the threat of eminent domain, many businesses have already been razed, evicted, or relocated, and streets have been closed. Remaining businesses have lost customers. A final plan was approved by the De Blasio administration in 2018—but then came the pandemic. For the moment, the fate of the Iron Triangle hangs in abeyance.</p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAnr6tio6zeRZecscnSadxb-m4xNKTl4hwSX-3rBbCNVeLR2pTec65KihMv7VRkUA8X7aqKiWx619P4PGB1kmk6J_MIUR3doBWEKA8mprDjlYMZ6JjhPt8dKsp0SLcs4vnIUyxjv42ZQE/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAnr6tio6zeRZecscnSadxb-m4xNKTl4hwSX-3rBbCNVeLR2pTec65KihMv7VRkUA8X7aqKiWx619P4PGB1kmk6J_MIUR3doBWEKA8mprDjlYMZ6JjhPt8dKsp0SLcs4vnIUyxjv42ZQE/w400-h400/car+emerging.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">In the meantime, the community is making the best of what they've got. This is a place where everyone has a role, from the scrap-metal dealer to the empanada vendor to the flat fixer. And those roles are interdependent: if the businesses are relocated, the Iron Triangle loses its cohesive strength. </p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVjnCeXfh2YbUxG8HYrQxqJtn48FX5LOBvXihR8zAa735_XkccfSV_GedIMtZKu5DlFLaxMeDB46gnbB_hXvAYSqDByGH45OUfJ3AwCpThraDh-Jw3fgBj5XRdQZ3vS8lezZUrVjgpgBE/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVjnCeXfh2YbUxG8HYrQxqJtn48FX5LOBvXihR8zAa735_XkccfSV_GedIMtZKu5DlFLaxMeDB46gnbB_hXvAYSqDByGH45OUfJ3AwCpThraDh-Jw3fgBj5XRdQZ3vS8lezZUrVjgpgBE/w400-h400/stacks+of+parts.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />But in this limbo year, people still turn left off the exit ramp, away from Citi Field's Porsche Grille gastropub and toward the stacks of Porsche grilles, hoping one will be a match. Though the stadium is silent, here the sounds of cameraderie, and of people making a living with their hands, ring out in the winter air.<p></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYNDMQ99Zskyr7kCYvIy7w1Fha4XvlhBx9Cqi75cWlvmLLR2uqZ821itkXJW79KSQoiw2C_Wm6lqe-D38HUT7bydtFjQ8LBo36OIRVTaIGSDI4c-UuTRQ18tviGTg0BXJ3h2lQMYjaWPs/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYNDMQ99Zskyr7kCYvIy7w1Fha4XvlhBx9Cqi75cWlvmLLR2uqZ821itkXJW79KSQoiw2C_Wm6lqe-D38HUT7bydtFjQ8LBo36OIRVTaIGSDI4c-UuTRQ18tviGTg0BXJ3h2lQMYjaWPs/w400-h300/exit+sign.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><i>The Iron Triangle is located on the wedge of land where Flushing Creek and Flushing Bay meet, between Willets Point Boulevard, Seaver Way, and Northern Boulevard.</i><p></p></div></div></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik0t7qtU8CXYOmbqV6jxCyI2tQ2jCs0FltE33bT1l1aOSDKd1XZSPKBnvtMN29uEYKLtS2NyqpwFbBLhFnDSBUgCq1rfStqJvsZzd4gzw2UNb6RTCsSZD0znLS6NCTOG8iBJsls9uGpOo/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="439" data-original-width="447" height="393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik0t7qtU8CXYOmbqV6jxCyI2tQ2jCs0FltE33bT1l1aOSDKd1XZSPKBnvtMN29uEYKLtS2NyqpwFbBLhFnDSBUgCq1rfStqJvsZzd4gzw2UNb6RTCsSZD0znLS6NCTOG8iBJsls9uGpOo/w400-h393/Screen+Shot+2021-01-28+at+8.46.45+AM.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></i></div>City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-69898666782659492182020-12-17T11:08:00.005-08:002020-12-17T11:14:23.500-08:00SOUND: Quiet pandemic ice skating at Rockefeller Center<p>Though I am a native New Yorker and have lived in the city for more than twenty years, I had never been ice skating at Rockefeller Center. Like the tourists, every year I pushed through the crowds to gaze down at the lucky skaters twirling and slipping and laughing and holding hands beneath the massive twinkling Christmas tree. But, always, the lines were too long, it was too expensive, the rink seemed too small with the crowds.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-_WWYPNqZqAxdzDi1e3_BEsXCPnP8QyWXR8YMHZt-GZmbODW7QyMXRViRYedzwgmIoahjNVnaMDMisXFQ_DSs6Gmno5ImEAO8cbWw0sS2wPQ0CGXTdcKBhL6ibhyphenhyphenyZZXkHY38JQLvIrE/s2048/4794E8B6-E9C6-496A-BAC7-85D5B1AB8D44.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-_WWYPNqZqAxdzDi1e3_BEsXCPnP8QyWXR8YMHZt-GZmbODW7QyMXRViRYedzwgmIoahjNVnaMDMisXFQ_DSs6Gmno5ImEAO8cbWw0sS2wPQ0CGXTdcKBhL6ibhyphenhyphenyZZXkHY38JQLvIrE/w400-h400/4794E8B6-E9C6-496A-BAC7-85D5B1AB8D44.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>Not so this year. I bought a timed-entry ticket on a Monday and showed up at 9:20 a.m. the next day to a deserted Rockefeller Center. Forty-Ninth Street was a canyon dotted with social-distancing stickers, metal guardrails, and security guards patrolling the emptiness with eagle eyes above dark masks. The music from the rink echoed all the way to the shuttered Radio City Music Hall.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6HvX1P-V3m3LcCqSyLrtbHdNmpx29LlfHZjAxPhlsrgkR9YB3B2FVxOg_hioLb9SSm5y31infdXUwbmSZnVA7HgZxi3eh_aMFB72yyNAVQ3rGEjYZw13y4MRvBc4rYbU_aSuxceg3vCc/s2048/A16A7C03-7E0F-4D08-B667-40207138CC36.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6HvX1P-V3m3LcCqSyLrtbHdNmpx29LlfHZjAxPhlsrgkR9YB3B2FVxOg_hioLb9SSm5y31infdXUwbmSZnVA7HgZxi3eh_aMFB72yyNAVQ3rGEjYZw13y4MRvBc4rYbU_aSuxceg3vCc/w400-h400/A16A7C03-7E0F-4D08-B667-40207138CC36.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>I approached the tree and found I was its only visitor. It was so quiet, I could hear the whisking of a custodian's broom sweeping up its shed pine needles. It felt like I had a backstage pass to the epicenter of the American holiday season.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7EyBT0gawdyiEL6ZknlVrIK6ev2RvU2PcbE4JK5Gc86F8CUxERxL4GhlFB1QSHUcIHQ8uIBYMDFWgl9avz3ZA2uUZvt0xf7npCHgm9AmEqkwEiUKpnbImSsxSJlLXv9y0ZEhghRa7auM/s2048/D47CF6F3-1C91-4058-AFF3-CA29E185CD80.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7EyBT0gawdyiEL6ZknlVrIK6ev2RvU2PcbE4JK5Gc86F8CUxERxL4GhlFB1QSHUcIHQ8uIBYMDFWgl9avz3ZA2uUZvt0xf7npCHgm9AmEqkwEiUKpnbImSsxSJlLXv9y0ZEhghRa7auM/s320/D47CF6F3-1C91-4058-AFF3-CA29E185CD80.JPG" /></a></div><p></p><p>Music streamed out of rink-side speakers—"Run, Run Rudolph," "Don't Go Breaking My Heart." A lone man in a sweatsuit danced by himself on the sidewalk, grinning at me. The pulleys on the gold and silver flags plinked against the flagpoles as they flapped in the breeze.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Fov_nI-Mmu7PNG9XuGt3v9OWh5BAccfVEYfut_K1SY1J8JEDlKFmDk2WwgE7_YOA_91Ksdn9C7BkKcP3w5bHV858BMeE_mtX1bF5NqWoO2d2N_aHzzYlenqVjLM7nV5V7dGEyrGWBS4/s1839/47017DA2-401C-4C96-9383-8D6388BFFBC4.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1839" data-original-width="1839" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Fov_nI-Mmu7PNG9XuGt3v9OWh5BAccfVEYfut_K1SY1J8JEDlKFmDk2WwgE7_YOA_91Ksdn9C7BkKcP3w5bHV858BMeE_mtX1bF5NqWoO2d2N_aHzzYlenqVjLM7nV5V7dGEyrGWBS4/w400-h400/47017DA2-401C-4C96-9383-8D6388BFFBC4.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>Down below, the Zamboni made its rounds, swishing across the ice and leaving a glassy trail in its wake. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI0daAjn_aR2kRTFtpxawHCcvwLaD4oSs4hkXV0RHkjV7FejdSWnw6ZsRVNYZEJokSk_VunnTqUO6EXabiMH3hc2NBHIbGe6tWivo-ZXNfELvSx_nFOmowSEOb6KjSK3o0YOInZrrenI0/s2048/E8953395-3B64-48D7-B23B-B861D278B445.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI0daAjn_aR2kRTFtpxawHCcvwLaD4oSs4hkXV0RHkjV7FejdSWnw6ZsRVNYZEJokSk_VunnTqUO6EXabiMH3hc2NBHIbGe6tWivo-ZXNfELvSx_nFOmowSEOb6KjSK3o0YOInZrrenI0/w400-h400/E8953395-3B64-48D7-B23B-B861D278B445.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Though I noted that Prometheus was wearing a mask this year, the wire angels lining the promenade blasted their trumpets with little regard to the risks of wind instruments. The line to take the iconic shot from Fifth Avenue stretches around the block most years, but today a guy jogging past barely broke his stride to take a selfie. (Imagine taking a morning jog through Rockefeller Center at peak Christmas season!) </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMgTTmJIcw53qWreIibCkyxpkZrE-fG6q3FOB61EiaktJfWNwiopSL7mvnTWNZwv5IJ_2cmugvZWrYDNYItflVUogYnJRcVtABumX9W8aonPBV40E0IP5l4y5_uxF-NuzCvXRkQ1DJik8/s2048/3E56207F-655E-4F4E-984A-86857F57FC56.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMgTTmJIcw53qWreIibCkyxpkZrE-fG6q3FOB61EiaktJfWNwiopSL7mvnTWNZwv5IJ_2cmugvZWrYDNYItflVUogYnJRcVtABumX9W8aonPBV40E0IP5l4y5_uxF-NuzCvXRkQ1DJik8/w400-h400/3E56207F-655E-4F4E-984A-86857F57FC56.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />Finally, my appointed time was called and I hopped down the stairs to the rink alongside three or four other people. The rink was so empty, the strobe lights created paths across the ice.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKh_m7YIpUjye0nD-vNjzVFWs2N08618izRkRA93jsJIZgvy4iqWWJAedma7JmUsb6gFd7vT1A2PpEA3fkmetkdbuMLTtgnhN9yTsHV5hK4ENKsZ5duRZ_MEJkJKFyLfd6eb_206qP7YY/s2048/C89C7566-5EE1-4074-A359-3B4D913FC541.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKh_m7YIpUjye0nD-vNjzVFWs2N08618izRkRA93jsJIZgvy4iqWWJAedma7JmUsb6gFd7vT1A2PpEA3fkmetkdbuMLTtgnhN9yTsHV5hK4ENKsZ5duRZ_MEJkJKFyLfd6eb_206qP7YY/w400-h400/C89C7566-5EE1-4074-A359-3B4D913FC541.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Disinfected skates strapped on, I soared across the ice past the usual suspects, all wearing one mitten and clutching a cell phone in the other hand: the little girl pushing a penguin helper; the hosts scratching across the ice in a wide-angled brake; the diva in Spandex practicing twirls in the center; the giggling couple holding hands and clinging to the side rail; a group of smooth-haired twentysomethings adjusting their "Bonjour Bitches" ski hats before cocking their heads for a photo. It was a rare thrill to speed through Midown, skyscrapers towering above, the scent of pine in the air.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Dk9UV957s08Md114zBoNWoeg80_gSESkjKOIrgygdCcaNVmSFu4LkgtHW0B1PqXzOeuVHedSy1dnZFsCpF_KVP92tthzxG2U1dmxhyphenhyphend3f4yWuiEc7Z38WhD4ttIqHLFL7btleicVuuA/s2048/5DC76ACB-974E-44C3-A77B-DA2197502B18.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Dk9UV957s08Md114zBoNWoeg80_gSESkjKOIrgygdCcaNVmSFu4LkgtHW0B1PqXzOeuVHedSy1dnZFsCpF_KVP92tthzxG2U1dmxhyphenhyphend3f4yWuiEc7Z38WhD4ttIqHLFL7btleicVuuA/w400-h400/5DC76ACB-974E-44C3-A77B-DA2197502B18.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I stopped for my own masked selfie with Prometheus. I could hear the frothing fountain above the strains of "Holly Jolly Christmas." That supreme trickster tried steal my hat, but there was no one around to notice.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifN5QMuZ4N2MECL-gOt0SA7pO1kdBQIQIB74__cFDGitSVQrA9CbFiY6O2Xej1kDtwtvMN99UBGxw9BYlCNUttj4H3ZgTI10LtEFc2l7vCE7MfQQ7fjd49ozg65A6jcS1ZpdYVk5O92Lo/s2048/E02B94D0-E9CC-4162-BB70-F12CB9AB7C0C.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1684" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifN5QMuZ4N2MECL-gOt0SA7pO1kdBQIQIB74__cFDGitSVQrA9CbFiY6O2Xej1kDtwtvMN99UBGxw9BYlCNUttj4H3ZgTI10LtEFc2l7vCE7MfQQ7fjd49ozg65A6jcS1ZpdYVk5O92Lo/s320/E02B94D0-E9CC-4162-BB70-F12CB9AB7C0C.jpg" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-74787341099519749052020-11-20T05:45:00.005-08:002020-11-20T10:23:10.012-08:00SIGHT: The Most Socially Distant Spot in New York City<p>According to naturalist and native Staten Islander Bruce Kershner, author of the book <i>Secret Places of Staten Island</i>, the wildest place in New York City is on the northern edge of Hourglass Pond, in the middle of the Staten Island Greenbelt. Kershner defines "wildest" as "that natural point of land (not water or marsh) that is the most remote from streets and homes," two conventional markers of civilization. When you are standing at this place in the forest, he claims, the nearest street or home is 1,700 feet to the east or west; 3,200 feet to the north; and 2,500 feet to the south: in other words, many multitudes of six feet away. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBC5bj1f0X7TGgd7KdxIcZCNrpoIrIu1DPnSc36Xz_qdaHnZARGNaJgqpoMfROAjxszLUEZZjlbkHcJ0wkOJBufc6PjayYFN0A9ajahyXUS37OLOOO-dhsJBJTKxy4hG-rK3XqyAcFuXM/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBC5bj1f0X7TGgd7KdxIcZCNrpoIrIu1DPnSc36Xz_qdaHnZARGNaJgqpoMfROAjxszLUEZZjlbkHcJ0wkOJBufc6PjayYFN0A9ajahyXUS37OLOOO-dhsJBJTKxy4hG-rK3XqyAcFuXM/w400-h400/0827EB1F-8B7A-4EC8-8AD6-A6FDDAAB0F40.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Detail of map from <i>Secret Places of Staten Island</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div>One recent afternoon, I decided to leave behind the urban landscape of "six feet apart" floor stickers and feet spray-painted on sidewalks and follow Kershner's arrows to make my own footprints in the local forest. How would it feel to be optimally socially distant from other New Yorkers?<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHyNFeqln2pyh2Qs99ytfKoz4g0IKM3yh0pBhJQWmS8qbOKP4foKBKfzBU0NNqrdPZcS1t7F1VGGfyeThqBamBBOse6Xn-vm0uKtE-NChlbwMDzMManJm3fn-eF1Y8B7UIydxXJRGlOy4/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHyNFeqln2pyh2Qs99ytfKoz4g0IKM3yh0pBhJQWmS8qbOKP4foKBKfzBU0NNqrdPZcS1t7F1VGGfyeThqBamBBOse6Xn-vm0uKtE-NChlbwMDzMManJm3fn-eF1Y8B7UIydxXJRGlOy4/" width="300" /></a></div><br /></div><div>With Kershner's book in hand, I followed his turn-by-turn directions and yellow and blue tree blazes into High Rock Park. After passing a few hikers and one mountain biker, I was alone with the crunch of leaves, the distant whishing of the Staten Island Expressway, and the drone of an occasional airplane. Prickly chestnuts plopped onto the path. Squirrels chattered. The wind sighed through branches.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtacFAKYEZSDjlfJuIrjjE3SWvvKVqBLdL18g9Z-iRFx2mkgpRFK9jmSFcZujzDXEpgrWhtBVTpPE9vFzosaj_ZJBMiBWVQBLMKab_LEl84OTl23J6NKsPQGWG2nxynDiEFzsCK8cjMGE/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtacFAKYEZSDjlfJuIrjjE3SWvvKVqBLdL18g9Z-iRFx2mkgpRFK9jmSFcZujzDXEpgrWhtBVTpPE9vFzosaj_ZJBMiBWVQBLMKab_LEl84OTl23J6NKsPQGWG2nxynDiEFzsCK8cjMGE/" width="300" /></a></div></div><br /></div>But although there were no streets or homes within sight, signs of humanity—and reminders of current global events—continually emerged among the trees. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiyrZUPOFPVUPiHkaRGa50ynI4xuzhTdOcOoXNcxpNmpOHhk8_to95V_7x9gCtn8z_g8QOUJ-B3xec_WmtDd0Fu-VALWIuDL8ARARB9wRXhn2xXF-08nHyhtek-KzsTSURhOByQI0HsfM/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiyrZUPOFPVUPiHkaRGa50ynI4xuzhTdOcOoXNcxpNmpOHhk8_to95V_7x9gCtn8z_g8QOUJ-B3xec_WmtDd0Fu-VALWIuDL8ARARB9wRXhn2xXF-08nHyhtek-KzsTSURhOByQI0HsfM/w400-h400/0803B501-27F0-44D7-BF66-9E054C0B802B.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div>Prior to this hike, I'd consulted ecologist Rebecca Means, the cofounder, along with her husband, of <a href="https://www.projectremote.com/" target="_blank">Project Remote</a>. Together with their young daughter, they are mapping the most remote spot in each state and enlisting citizen scientists to record other remote places. When I asked her where that place in New York City might be, she said she didn't have that data yet, but offered these thoughts: "How you define 'remote' definitely matters! There are many definitions... and where you want to travel to be remote depends on what kind of remoteness you are seeking. Is it distance from services? people? roads? cities? human structures? trails? Also, does the spot have to be on land (inhabitable), or can it be in the middle of a lake or ocean? The other side of this, when seeking remoteness, is what you can actually measure. There are not data for every foot trail and human structure or sound, so that complicates your ability to say you are far from those variables."</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6pgBD89Rne5BbsKWY_QS1azab_9waqSRj1w6JHHDjvCFbd8bcMYXUUCfwhlQkU62IrybS1ngn5urouxNPoKMOih6_5vJhS5IaL-1W1Kt9_rOiQy6VgLFY_vQ7f5_iZ2nz0K_HMFurxAg/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1360" data-original-width="828" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6pgBD89Rne5BbsKWY_QS1azab_9waqSRj1w6JHHDjvCFbd8bcMYXUUCfwhlQkU62IrybS1ngn5urouxNPoKMOih6_5vJhS5IaL-1W1Kt9_rOiQy6VgLFY_vQ7f5_iZ2nz0K_HMFurxAg/w243-h400/5BA776CA-0115-44D4-B354-10BD89E634D7_1_201_a.jpeg" width="243" /></a></div><br /></div>About ten minutes into the hike, the trail skirted a cemetery, its monuments festooned with flowers and American flags. Dump trucks trundled mounds of fresh dirt. A sedan pulled up and a hunched man in a face mask got out and shuffled toward a grave, where he stopped and bowed his head.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixFHXm38Pbu9OFo17VY5RDaLYZSYOdrXBOqpQEYe2H01VAWLm4eyS33z3DKIY8Qm-vIiuI1NGtX1MHLapFhF2heVj_ympntkg0g4ML64qY8esa4KACTHGJXdvYccs6RsJt_YIJbqFdG3Y/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixFHXm38Pbu9OFo17VY5RDaLYZSYOdrXBOqpQEYe2H01VAWLm4eyS33z3DKIY8Qm-vIiuI1NGtX1MHLapFhF2heVj_ympntkg0g4ML64qY8esa4KACTHGJXdvYccs6RsJt_YIJbqFdG3Y/w400-h400/86D16508-B240-405D-AECC-BECECFE326E9.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div></div><div><br /></div><div>A few minutes later, I glimpsed a strip of bright green beyond the tree trunks and heard the drone of a lawnmower. It turned out to be a golf course, with the Brooklyn skyline hazy in the distance.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxkcx2ScOAONzbXXYMvg1xoNRtsphUTluDons2-CLbnnRqAmRWbf24WRTU1VAJPEmndS4rdzPNsMxEIuD43yXvQ8uTXWrSXYX1AjzqYniqWnrmL3wGD2v0M26NWA7W_vnXIUXvWL1UXwQ/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxkcx2ScOAONzbXXYMvg1xoNRtsphUTluDons2-CLbnnRqAmRWbf24WRTU1VAJPEmndS4rdzPNsMxEIuD43yXvQ8uTXWrSXYX1AjzqYniqWnrmL3wGD2v0M26NWA7W_vnXIUXvWL1UXwQ/w400-h400/11E118E7-BAED-472E-935F-7E434E8FD4FA.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>A little farther on, along the shores of a lake, the darkened lean-tos of a camp belonging to the now-scandalized Boy Scouts lurked through the trees. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjWy2zc2xX9Ec-HYuYSDLRstnGBgARl2edZeBLozWa9hOhujU1BrVUbQs7O0JbfW3iEVBjZyfReVkpea-MP97rEaMPhhBJI5h3S2zUcvna_s01jEG-Nh7VpTmMLvGdNjZKbFIfeD63X6I/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjWy2zc2xX9Ec-HYuYSDLRstnGBgARl2edZeBLozWa9hOhujU1BrVUbQs7O0JbfW3iEVBjZyfReVkpea-MP97rEaMPhhBJI5h3S2zUcvna_s01jEG-Nh7VpTmMLvGdNjZKbFIfeD63X6I/" width="300" /></a></div></div><br />Triangulating between Kershner's book, Google Maps, and a Greenbelt trail map, I scrambled downhill and came upon a fallen tree. With its X shape, I decided it unofficially marked the most socially distant spot in New York City. </div></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtuN_a3xYeqeMA23oIHvGxDnUuT8iaR3dfX_vlvH7z5C5zmKYuZOnE-v-GTiGaKb2N9PotMbfTw1ATLuXYqleJDSJ94vrODdZAp6n6QvQ5M6YryAfMzmLeKf_Q1PDh5m2eCaYY7h0xKD0/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtuN_a3xYeqeMA23oIHvGxDnUuT8iaR3dfX_vlvH7z5C5zmKYuZOnE-v-GTiGaKb2N9PotMbfTw1ATLuXYqleJDSJ94vrODdZAp6n6QvQ5M6YryAfMzmLeKf_Q1PDh5m2eCaYY7h0xKD0/" width="225" /></a></div></div><br /></div><div>I sat down and watched stately Canada geese drifting past on Hourglass Pond, whose name seemed fitting for autumn 2020, with its surging death tolls and countdown to a new administration. From this spot, there was no sign of cemeteries, lean-tos, or golf courses. Wild woodland and glassy ponds stretched far in every direction.</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_8SXpzld6o1AoEly-xZANQsdlLzNF6tLMpZU1Q8YlnBrisE1xNr_153H7_BRYUgJSd1ve_sGzPiFME6hyphenhyphenyhZswYbLqdYekdAn3bdx2IwbFIzthSmgeENeqvOsLBE8Nw9nj5qUXFO_OC8/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="422" data-original-width="1863" height="90" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_8SXpzld6o1AoEly-xZANQsdlLzNF6tLMpZU1Q8YlnBrisE1xNr_153H7_BRYUgJSd1ve_sGzPiFME6hyphenhyphenyhZswYbLqdYekdAn3bdx2IwbFIzthSmgeENeqvOsLBE8Nw9nj5qUXFO_OC8/w400-h90/DA1CAEF4-9A70-489D-A668-C469115766CA_1_105_c.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div></div></div><br /></div><div>As Rebecca Means pointed out, "No matter how you define 'remote,' it is an adventure trying to get there"—especially in the middle of one of the largest cities in the world.</div><div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPw9nMaEQwOh2LGDVzZTVjZqQaLgm8YvZMIEnz4RzlqDYJ1DnG9T9hOwUS-mvv0TDxKcUxz04kqvnwzkZuznesDetM6p0IBwiFpvaTcK8oIq2WMSXSCs-i1k64tePnUSRE1Qho4Via0c/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1439" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPw9nMaEQwOh2LGDVzZTVjZqQaLgm8YvZMIEnz4RzlqDYJ1DnG9T9hOwUS-mvv0TDxKcUxz04kqvnwzkZuznesDetM6p0IBwiFpvaTcK8oIq2WMSXSCs-i1k64tePnUSRE1Qho4Via0c/w400-h400/19EF13A2-5707-41F6-910A-F183D4BDCC6B.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div></div></div><div><p></p><p><br /></p></div>City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-35186260271950173062020-03-10T06:31:00.002-07:002020-03-10T06:31:23.330-07:00TASTE: The perfect New York City snack from Lahore Deli taxi stand<div class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Every time I'm in SoHo, whether I'm hungry or not, I duck into the shadows of Crosby Street and head toward the glowing sign: Lahore: Feel the Taste of East.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Twenty-four hours a day, this Pakistani cabby stand, wedged between an air shaft and a dermatology practice, serves up the perfect New York City snack: a vegetable samosa and a cup of chai tea. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Besides the taste—a melding of sweet and savory, soft and crispy—the perfection comes from the deli itself and the locals who frequent it: taxi drivers and professionals, fashion editors and students, construction workers and cops.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The 175-square-foot space is a masterpiece of efficiency and a microcosm of cross-culturalism and New York City's cabby subculture. The cooks duck in and out of the kitchen via a three-foot swinging door beneath the counter. </span>Ketchup and salt abut canisters of mixed pickles and chaat masala. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Clamshells of special cake rusk and Peanut Pistas flank the orange Coleman water cooler hulking in a corner beneath tubs of mayonnaise, boxes of rubber gloves, toilet paper, a TV screen, and a tangle of ethernet cables </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The battered door sports a bulletin board peppered with handwritten pleas and offers: for night-drive shifts in Canarsie, for single bedrooms for rent in Elmhurst, for DMV and TLC summonses attorneys. Folded kilims are tucked into a metal file sorter beside bundles of paper towels.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This stretch of East Houston was once known as Gasoline Alley for its many filling stations; until it closed, in 2016, cab drivers would refuel or change shifts at the BP across the street, then pop into Lahore for a chicken cutlet sandwich, tea, a packet of Pepto-Bismol, or to use the bathroom, which has a glowing "in use" light above the door. The BP has been replaced by a gleaming office building, but the cab drivers still find their way here.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The man behind the counter will greet you with "Hello, Brother" or "Hello, Sister," looking up from a cricket game fizzling from a TV tucked beneath the counter. Y</span><span style="text-align: center;">ou'll reply: "A samosa and a chai with two sugars, please." The samosas are kept in a glass case, alongside trays of rice and other halal meat and vegetable dishes, all delicious. But you're here for the samosa.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large; text-align: center;">He will slip the deep-fried pastry into a paper bag and pop it in the microwave while he ladles out your chai. The samosa, pleated and folded into a puffy sailboat shape, emerges pillowy and soggy, but the edges retain their crispness. The grease saturates the napkins and the paper bag, but that's part of the charm. </span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large; text-align: center;">T</span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large; text-align: center;">ake a seat on one of the four wobbly counter stools and eavesdrop—or perch beside a construction cone on the stoop outside. The cool bumps of the glass bulbs in the steps add another dimension to the experience. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: center;">Bite off one of the two crisp corners and a plume of microwaved steam will rise from the filling. </span><span style="text-align: center;">Your teeth sink through the crust into the mush of potato and peas spiked with fennel and cumin. Flip back the plastic lid on your cup of chai; the little flap will hit you in the nose as a prelude to the </span><span style="text-align: center;">hot swish of milk and rush of sugar.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">One afternoon as I was sipping my chai, a customer strode in</span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">. "Hello, Brother," he was greeted with a nod. "You know," the man said, pushing a pair of Beats headphones onto his temples, "y</span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">ou guys never tell me about all the <i>good</i> stuff you got back there. What’s that—fish sandwiches or what? On a bun or over rice or what? You got white rice? I don’t want white rice! You don’t have gold rice? All right, gimme the rice, put some fish over it. Little okra on the side." Two minutes later: </span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">"</span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Brother, that'll be ten dollars." </span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">The customer slapped the bills onto the counter and bestowed smiles all around. "It’s great food," he said, pushing his headphones back over his ears. "Like a secret spot." Then he bounced down the stairs and out into the afternoon.</span></div>
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City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-89137919525190359782020-02-10T06:53:00.000-08:002020-02-10T06:53:07.026-08:00SMELL: Ice skating and hot-tubbing... at the airport?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Sure, there are many unusual places to ice skate in New York City: by the seaside at Abe Stark Rink in Coney Island, on the rooftop of Brooklyn's William Vale Hotel, or in a narrow courtyard between buildings at Industry City. Last winter, there was even an <a href="https://www.timeout.com/newyork/news/bloomingdales-is-putting-an-ice-skating-rink-in-their-basement-for-the-holidays-110818" target="_blank">ice rink tucked into the men's department at Bloomingdale's</a>.<br />
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But this winter, the TWA Hotel—housed in the iconic Eero Saarinen terminal at John F. Kennedy International Airport—has installed a <a href="https://www.twahotel.com/runway-rink" target="_blank">Runway Rink</a>.<br />
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How many chances will you have to ice skate right on the tarmac, in the shadow of a 1958 Lockheed Constellation plane–turned–cocktail bar, with the scent of jet fuel in the air? Though air travel is often marked by halting progress, here you can glide past the battalions of Smarte Cartes, the honking taxis and flashing hazard lights, the harried travelers bumping their suitcases over the curb.<br />
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Though the rink is just steps from JetBlue's Terminal 5 departures gates, you feel worlds away from with a box of Sno-Caps in your pocket (purchased from the rink-side ski chalet) and Beyoncé thumping through the loudspeakers.<br />
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The 56-by-44-foot rink is made from 3,500 gallons of New York City tap water kept frozen by tubes filled with coolant that run between the tarmac and the rink. A mini Zamboni makes the rounds every so often, keeping the surface slick.<br />
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On a recent Sunday, the rink was almost empty: just two tween girls choreographing selfie videos and an Orthodox Jewish family taking their toddlers for their first spins aboard complimentary plastic push-and-ride ice whales.<br />
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After a tour of the ice, you can retire to the plush red Sunken Lounge, where you can sip a Shirley Temple and watch the skaters spinning in circles through the canted windows, an uncanny sight at one of the largest airports in the country.</div>
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Or... you can head up to the 64-foot-long rooftop "infinity pool–cuzzi" overlooking one of the airport's busiest runways. The ninety-five-degree water splashes over the edge, seeming to cascade onto the tarmac, where planes roar past, lift into the sky, and bump down to earth. Steam rises from the 95-degree water, mingling with the scent of chlorine, jet fuel, tar, and rubber. Though during the summer months, the pool may require a day pass, it's free to all in the winter.</div>
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On a recent windy February afternoon, one corner of the pool was occupied by a plane spotter, margarita in hand, snapping photos as a Swiss Air jet soared into the air. Then a group of hipsters arrived, complete with New Yorker tote bags and knit beanies. "It wasn't so hard to get here," one of them said, bobbing in the water as an Iberia airlines jet taxied to the gate. "We just took the L train to the A...."</div>
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City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-76527866366007085702020-01-10T10:06:00.000-08:002020-01-10T10:06:13.932-08:00MULTISENSORY: Luxury Escapism: a virtual reality spaIt's true that at Luxury Escapism, a new multisensory spa in DUMBO, you'll find waffle-weave robes, dim lights, and a decanter of cucumber water.<br />
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But in place of lavender eye masks, you'll find electronic goggles called "eye massagers." In place of massage tables draped with towels, you'll find vibrating beds with gravity blankets. In place of almonds, you'll find Hi-Chew "intensely chewy candy." In place of new age music, you'll find a "sonic sauna." And in place of flickering candles, you'll find strobe lights and virtual reality goggles that transport you into geometric projections of infinity.<br />
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"I feel like I'm in a cross between West Elm and the Sharper Image," my companion whispered as we padded around the basement space in our courtesy slippers and robes. The pink light notwithstanding, the room—divided into eleven experiential zones—had that familiar millennial immersive-experience vibe: all tactile surfaces and activity stations and, arrayed on every surface, VR goggles. Here was self-care with a thrumming bass line of tech. It goes without saying that the entrance to Luxury Escapism is through an unmarked basement door.<br />
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However, even though the spa advertises its Instagram handle on its postcards, the posing-and-posting impulse is held in check by two ground rules: no phones and no talking above a whisper. (I got a press pass.) Instead, the spa promises to connect you with the present moment through "technology that actually feels good." If you're expecting a facial and a hot-stone massage, you've come to the wrong place—though there are faux hot stones set around an electric campfire.<br />
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On the night I visited, the ten or so other spa-goers were mostly young couples who seemed thrilled by a novel New York City date night. And while it is true that (as far as I know) there is no other place in New York City quite like this, our expectation of novelty—foundational to the immersive and pop-up experiences that abound these days—is becoming increasingly familiar.<br />
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Goggles of many sorts abound at Luxury Escapism. I decided to begin in the Yogibo Lounge, where I picked up my first pair: an electronic eye-massaging mask. It felt sort of like a blood pressure cuff inflating and deflating over my eyeballs while emitting wheezy puffs. A set of VR goggles catapulted me into a 3-D jungle; thankfully, the comfortable Yogibo beanbag kept me grounded. Soon an attendant beckoned me to "Rainbow Therapy," one of the spa's two timed experiences.<br />
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I lay down on a water bed and closed my eyes. The room darkened and the bed began to convulse. Strobe lights pulsed through my eyelids. Though I could control the intensity and vibrations, I felt a panic attack coming on. To stay sane, I silently chanted the mantra, "I am healthy and fit. Probably I will not have a stroke."<br />
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Next, I ducked into what would be my favorite experience, the Kinetic Sand Dome, a yurt with kinetic (moldable) sand, scoops, and slicers. The tactile experience was heightened by—goggles! But these were a non-VR pair with a lens that somehow separated my hands from my body. As my friend put it, "I feel like I'm watching an instructional video of myself in real time."<br />
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The next stop was called Lux TV: a couch in front of a TV showing grainy footage of ASMR installations, and a table of fidgets to calm your hands.<br />
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As my friend and I were playing in the Sound Stones playpen—a gravel-floored space outfitted with simple, childlike musical instruments and a headset you could use to manipulate the sounds—we were called into the Sonic Spa, the second timed experience. After the door closed on the small, windowless room, we plunged into total darkness alongside several strangers: panic attack #2. But then the soundscape began—a melange of birdsong, sticks breaking, snow crunching, cicadas. The darkness ended up being a welcome break from the audiovisual input.<br />
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VR goggles had greeted me at nearly every turn, from the Fuzzidarium, a room swathed in white fur; to a pair of hammock chairs; to the vibrating beds of the Senscape, where I took a float down a virtual stream; to the Cosmic Steam Room, where, using hand gestures paired with goggles, you could manipulate images projected on a scrim.<br />
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As the two hours were nearly up, I decided to cleanse my sensory palate with a Hi-Chew, one of those candies that is simultaneously stressful (it's claustrophobic! it fills the mouth entirely and sticks the teeth together! it seems it will never be swallowed!) and satisfying (the burst of fruit flavor! the teeth-sinking texture! the intensity!). For the forty-five seconds it takes to consume one, you can think of little else: it forces you into the present moment.<br />
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So it was for me at Luxury Escapism. Then I swallowed a paper cup of cucumber-infused water and the candy was gone.City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-91511207718697166112019-12-16T07:10:00.002-08:002019-12-16T07:10:29.794-08:00SIGHT: Secret Christmas tree memorial for departed petsIt could take hours to find—or minutes, if you happen upon the right sequence of paths in the labyrinthine Ramble of Central Park<br />
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At first it's just a flutter in the corner of your eye, a pattern to the light. Then it emerges from behind a tangle of bare branches: an ordinary evergreen tree, not too different from the two trees flanking it, except that on Sunday in mid-December, it seems to be receiving an unusual number of visitors.</div>
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Get closer still, and you'll see why. The tree is bedecked in dozens of Christmas ornaments. Upon closer inspection, you'll notice that most of the ornaments are homemade and are dedicated to pets who have died. Photos of each animal have been laminated and strung with ribbon or encased in Ziploc bags to protect them from the weather.</div>
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There are dog treats for good behavior in heaven,</div>
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a beribboned collar as a reminder of favorite city walks,</div>
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or a bit of honey for the afterlife.</div>
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There are curious talismans, including one made of hair, glitter, and ribbon—with a checkered taxicab theme.</div>
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There are no backyard chickens or urban sheep. <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2019/10/02/nyregion/ming-tiger-harlem-dies.html" target="_blank">Ming the tiger</a>, who was raised in an apartment in a Harlem housing project and died this autumn, has not yet been commemorated. Most of the pets are cats or dogs, but there are a few outliers: a bunny named Winnie,</div>
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a box turtle named Sherman,</div>
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and a budgie named Buddha.</div>
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Some of the ornaments are simply a photo and a Sharpied name. But others have odes to the lives of pets in the heart of a big city.</div>
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I had brought with me an ornament—laminated for free by a sympathetic Print Services worker at Staples—memorializing our family's two goldfish, Ralph and Frank. They turned out to be the only fish on the tree.</div>
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As I walked away, I heard the plastic ornaments rattling against one another in the breeze. In this secluded grove in one of the few wild places left in Manhattan, these homemade offerings provide an intimate glimpse into the lives, apartments, and hearts of New Yorkers and of the creatures who offer them unconditional love and predictability in an unpredictable city.<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The location of the pet memorial tree is kept a secret by its keepers, but if you are lucky you may stumble upon it during a stroll through the Ramble.</span></i><br />
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City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-92041123483497103802019-11-13T12:02:00.000-08:002019-11-22T18:59:20.539-08:00SOUND: ASMR sound bath in a Bushwich church basement<style type="text/css">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I first discovered ASMR one evening as I was standing in my then boyfriend's kitchen, idly rolling a grapefruit across his marble countertop. It made a thuddy, rubbery swishing sound. "Do you hear that?" I asked. He listened, then replied judiciously (wistfully?): "Hm. I just don't hear it the way you do." Though we eventually got married, we still don't always hear things the same way.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">It turns out there are others who appreciate life's small, satisfying sounds. What I experienced is called an autonomous sensory meridian response (ASMR): the relaxing, sometimes scalp-tingling feeling some people have in response to a series of repeated sensations, usually auditory, tactile, or visual, such as the crinkling of a wrapped Band-Aid, a makeup brush against one's cheek, or a knife slicing through a just-decanted cylinder of cranberry jelly. Though arguably ASMR has existed for millennia (a crackling wood fire is a common trigger), about ten years ago it became an </span><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2019/04/04/magazine/how-asmr-videos-became-a-sensation-youtube.html" target="_blank">internet phenomenon</a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">. And on a recent night, it was what led me to a Bushwick church basement to attend </span><i><a href="http://houseworld.nyc/waves" target="_blank">Waves</a></i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">, an ASMR-stimulating sound bath.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">After descending stairs beneath a neon sine wave and whispering a password through a peephole, I entered a basement room outfitted with a desk, a lamp, and a seashell.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Each participant was given a pair of latex gloves and a handful of glass beads. Another door opened, and we were led into a vintage gymnasium. Yoga mats with pillows were arrayed like wheel spokes around a hub of instruments. An electronic drone bounced off the shadowy basketball hoops and chiaroscuro walls. The lights dimmed to near black.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Two figures in conical hats draped with fabric strips shuffled into the room, the cottony flapping of their robes providing the first taste of ASMR. I heard a faint crackling and soon smelled the waftings of campfire smoke as the figures circled the room with sticks of palo santo incense. The tinkling of tiny, fingery bells encircled us in lacy acoustics and cleansed the air.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />"</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I wanted to offer New York City a mysterious and theatrical sound bath with music and costumes," Andrew Hoepfner, one of the robed figures, later told me. Hoepfner is the creator of </span><i style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Waves </i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">and co-creator of the </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">live ASMR experience known as </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><a href="https://whisperlodge.nyc/" target="_blank">Whisperlodge</a></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">. He told me that </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><i>Waves</i> was inspired by sound baths he'd attended that incorporated "</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">the full smorgasbord of trappings," from disco balls to animal statuary. With <i>Waves</i>, he wanted instead to "s</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">hine the spotlight on little details we all like, whether or not you get tingles."</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"> Both he and his assistant--tonight a man named Will--</span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">remain incognito throughout the experience.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">With my eyes closed and reclined on my mat, I heard the hollow glugs of water being sloshed around in glass jars with tin lids. Andrew poured the water back and forth between jars, producing a simultaneous rise and descent in pitch as one jar filled and the other emptied.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">They next ran their fingers along the teeth of two plastic combs, sometimes tantalizingly slowly, releasing each tine before clicking onto the next, and sometimes fast, creating a tinkling, zippery ripping, holding the combs next to each participant's ear. I couldn't help smiling, though I didn't quite get the tingles. Punctuating the ASMR noises was the plangent, elephantine squeeze of a harmonium.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Andrew ran a stick over the back of a wooden frog with a ridged spine, creating a nutty, knuckly sound.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">A Tibetan singing bowl keened and hummed, like a finger run over the rim of a wineglass.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Andrew then asked us to slip on our latex gloves and rub our fingers together to "make noise for the room," then to bring our fingertips next to our ears and "softly, secretly, make some sounds just for you." The powdery whisper felt intimate and alive, like the static between tracks on an LP. When we cupped the glass beads in our gloved hands, they washed against one another with watery clicks. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Then Andrew and Will swept around the room, crumpling sheets of tissue paper with a crashing roar, then bending rolls of thicker paper back and forth, which sounded like a flag whipping in the wind. Held next to my ear, the tissue had the effervescence of lather foaming on one's ears during a shampoo. T</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">hen came the springy pings of a thumb piano.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">After a wafting of sage incense, Andrew played the ocean drum, which is filled with metal beads that sweep against stretched fabric like wind blowing sheets of rain across an expanse of water. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Andrew flashed about the room, casting his shadow across the pressed-tin ceiling.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I realized that noises that might otherwise have annoyed me had now become part of the ASMR landscape: the rustling of a parka, joints cracking, a zipper, snoring (!), and even the meteoric growling of a rumbling stomach. </span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My most recent <i>Waves</i> sound bath happened to take place on Election Day; Andrew had forgotten that the church is used as a polling site. On that night, the sounds of the show were punctuated by heavy footsteps and the scraping of table legs in the room above us. It occurred to me that this might be a litmus test for ASMR: from the pings of a hair comb to democracy in action.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">For tickets to the next <i>Waves</i> sound bath at <a href="https://www.gymnopedie.nyc/" target="_blank">Gymnopedie</a>, Hoepfner's arts and performance space in Bushwick, click <a href="https://www.artful.ly/houseworld/store/events/18425" target="_blank">here</a>. The photos above were taken after the sound bath; no photography is permitted during the experience.</span></span></div>
City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-6029049445637253782019-10-10T06:00:00.000-07:002019-10-11T08:25:14.197-07:00MULTISENSORY: Urban forest bathing<style type="text/css">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">The buildings of Central Park West rose beyond the treetops as Brooke Mellen, the owner of Cultured Forest, a local forest bathing and nature therapy group, instructed us to face each of the four cardinal directions. "Which one feels best?" she asked. This was the opening of what would be a two-hour session of <i>shinrin-yoku</i>, or forest bathing,<i> </i>in a setting far removed from the practice's roots in 1980s Japan. To me, the most comfortable direction was west, toward the city, with the sunlight on my left arm.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">I admit that when I first heard the term "forest bathing," I pictured myself splayed on the forest floor, gazing up at the treetops, or perhaps sprawled facedown, nuzzling into a bed of moss and pine needles.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">So I was surprised to find that, at least in the United States, forest bathing includes few moments of rest. As described by the US-based Association of Nature and Forest Therapy, here <i>shinrin-yoku </i>is "a practice of developing a deepening relationship of reciprocity, in which the forest and the practitioner find a way to work together that supports the wholeness and wellness of each. In forest therapy, there is a clearly defined sequence of guided events that provides structure to the experience, while embracing the many opportunities for creativity and serendipity offered by the forest and the individual inspiration of each guide." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">As we concluded our opening ceremony, peals of laughter and waftings of palo santo incense drifted toward us from a nearby group of French picnickers. Rather than feeling annoyed, I smiled at the thought of this group engaging in their own form of forest therapy, albeit with wine and cheese. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Next, we stopped at the junction of two paths. Brooke had us reach into a bag of stones and select one to infuse with good intentions for the person across from us. Mine was prickly and glinted with mica. We squeezed our rocks and tried to exchange them without opening our eyes. My partner and I crashed into each other, but succeded in passing off our stones. Hers was still warm from her hand.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">We strolled on to our next location, observing the movements in the park around us. A dog leaped to catch a squeaky ball. Chipmunks rustled in the underbrush. Bees hovered over flowers. A topless man did calisthenics on a picnic blanket. As usual in the city, everyone was doing their own thing, but on this fall day their disparate activities seemed to be in sync.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Brooke led us to a secluded grove, where she encouraged us to spend ten minutes immersing ourselves in the forest. Aha! Forest bathing at last. I found a slab of Manhattan schist and lay on my back, inhaling the tannic scent of early autumn and letting the breeze wash across my face.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">My reverie did not last long, however, as three men emerged from the trees lugging bulging trash bags. They were soon followed by a man on a bike. "What y'all doing here?" he chastised one member of our group. "I was smokin' some weed--or I was <i>about</i> to smoke some weed till all y'all came along!" As it turned out, he was a forest bather himself, though perhaps not by choice. The eye of his tiger-print blanket glared out at me from beneath some trees.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">After a few more activities, including communing with a tree and throwing stones representing our burdens into a waterfall pool, Brooke had us create Andy Goldsworth–esque art installations in the woods. As I rooted around the forest floor, I kept coming across pieces of litter</span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">: </span><span style="font-size: small;">four blue cigarillo sheaths,</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;">a Magnum condom packet, sublingual film for narcotics overdoses, a Honey Bun wrapper, nickel bags. All seemed to be tokens of the ways humans escape from themselves and their surroundings. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Rather than reject the detritus, I decided to incorporate it into a mandala to honor the dark underbelly of the city's woodland. Brooke had told me she sometimes arrives ahead of the session to pick up litter from each of the sites, but in this case I was glad she hadn't. Even if the point of forest bathing is nature appreciation and contemplation, it seemed disingenuous to ignore the reminders of our urban setting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Our last stop was a boardwalk overlooking a burbling stream, where Brooke unveiled a forest-themed tea ceremony from her backpack, including a thermos of dandelion tea and a box of maple leaf sandwich cookies. She passed around a balm made from hinoki cypress, native to Japan, to rub on our wrists to stimulate our sense of smell. Then she sang a heartfelt rendition of the Beatles' song "Blackbird," her voice mingling with the rushing water. An elderly birder with binoculars around his neck paused to listen, smiled, and mentioned a wood thrush he'd spotted near the stream, another urban forest bather making the woods his own.</span><br />
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<br />City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-61224132371910848702019-09-11T07:00:00.000-07:002019-09-19T14:59:35.905-07:00MULTISENSORY: A two-vine winery on a Carnegie Hill brownstone rooftop<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond";"><span style="font-size: large;">When Latif Jiji was twelve years old, he would pass by
his father’s wine barrel near their kitchen in Basra, Iraq, lift the lid, and
inhale. Seduced by the scent, he sometimes dipped in a finger and licked the
juice from his fingertip. (His father, an amateur vintner, hadn’t yet figured
out that wine should not be stored in containers with loose covers.) </span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;">“That was the origin of my daring to repeat it. It’s all based on feeling, intuition,” </span><span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;">Latif, now in his nineties, says.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;">Those stolen moments were the sensory spark of Chateau Latif, </span><span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;">Manhattan’s
only vineyard and winery, which evolved by accident in the backyard of his
family’s Carnegie Hill brownstone. “I’m not really into fine wine tasting or
anything like that,” he says. “The taste of my father’s wine is the one that
has stayed with me.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;">In 1977, Latif snuck a Niagara
grapevine into his garden, which had previously been his wife’s domain. Then he
sort of forgot about it. But seven years later, after he returned from a
summer vacation, he noticed that it had grown to about fifteen feet long—and
had started to produce grapes. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;">Excited by the prospect of
re-creating family history, he decided to harvest the fruit. The first crew, in
1983, was just Latif and one of his daughters; no wine was made that year. Soon after,
he planted a sprig from the first vine to create a second. Together, the twin
vines, now more than one hundred feet long, have climbed the back wall of his
four-story home and sprawled across a rooftop arbor in an urban terroir of
bitumen roofing, AC compressors, and water tanks, and with a view of
skyscrapers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;">Chateau Latif produced its first
fifteen half bottles in the second harvest, in 1984. Though wine from the early years is drinkable, he didn’t know enough about proper corking those first years. He has
saved these bottles for posterity in his wine cellar, a hobbit hole in
the front of his basement. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;">A retired engineering professor,
Latif is always making improvements, but Chateau Latif’s operation is decidedly
homespun. His vines are watered by urban rainfall and city water, and he prunes them only once, in winter. In 2019, he harvested
four hundred pounds of grapes, which will make eighty bottles of white wine. On harvest day,
around Labor Day, about thirty friends and family members—including Latif’s
children and grandchildren, who all live in Manhattan—will gather and work from
morning till early evening. The process starts with a climb up Latif’s
defiantly steep staircase to the roof, where a hatch leads to the arbor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;">In most vineyards, the vines are
only five or six feet tall, so harvesters do not need to snip grapes upside
down, standing on benches and milk crates, as they do at Chateau Latif. But here the crew is rewarded by a panoramic view of the Manhattan
skyline.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;">The crew shuttles them down the
back wall of the brownstone in a plastic laundry basket, using a pulley system.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;">In the backyard, the harvesters
receive the grapes, weigh and wash them, and feed them into a manual crusher
and de-stemmer. Children love to turn the crank and watch the stems move to one side of the de-stemmer and fall into a bucket.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;">The grapes then go into a wine
press lined with netting to extract the grape juice. The first sweet squeezes
of Chateau Latif wine ooze out the sides.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZuRSwRJBIbaDuDkmf0BINVTEaGM8mz2AsTbXYFrIKjfGRgLRuS3M3qk38NBFV6FRgMi20LEyfByeWp1ER-d-6XTcPvrSIUQncXhNqHjnE6-c8fUFn3RUFj4X4XhBA8h7m0BX4YioI2Qo/s1600/barrel.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZuRSwRJBIbaDuDkmf0BINVTEaGM8mz2AsTbXYFrIKjfGRgLRuS3M3qk38NBFV6FRgMi20LEyfByeWp1ER-d-6XTcPvrSIUQncXhNqHjnE6-c8fUFn3RUFj4X4XhBA8h7m0BX4YioI2Qo/s400/barrel.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;">They pour the juice into
five-gallon glass jugs and add a precise amount of metabisulfite </span><span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;">to kill the natural yeast. A measured amount of yeast is then added and fermentation begins in a day or two. Fermentation ends after about a week, and the jars are topped off and sealed
with airlocks to let gases escape but no air can enter. The jugs are stored in Latif’s
ingenious wine cabinet, constructed of insulation boards and cooled by a mini-fridge with the door
removed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvnKzBVjL4HdlwDzlxJ2ie6WowU6PP_D0hfoLL6FXqmcdhncS07qC8hk9Ssh_9xk602oMCqYv03UIGo9FBpjAnrThpSdkcD1bPJW36ESgNhLrnghwE47YeJVPOmCoCXFCpblmNefhwDLk/s1600/refrigerator.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvnKzBVjL4HdlwDzlxJ2ie6WowU6PP_D0hfoLL6FXqmcdhncS07qC8hk9Ssh_9xk602oMCqYv03UIGo9FBpjAnrThpSdkcD1bPJW36ESgNhLrnghwE47YeJVPOmCoCXFCpblmNefhwDLk/s400/refrigerator.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large; text-align: left;">Using a back issue of the <i>New Yorker </i></span><span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large; text-align: left;">and school glue</span><span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large; text-align: left;">,
Latif attaches the signature labels. They are hand-watercolored by
family and friends and feature an image of his brownstone with the roof arbor atop
and legendary vine trailing down the side.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinp0N5Fx6AeXia2EOEEQMDqYCUEmdi6bkJPAwh2JKtqkiKw8GIHbxAtJ4V2hjJk1kZTNTZK6HLpn9uSvoQ5NoYRJj41iNKk-W756X7AxcvyAM7wV0ntmfdhuvzPaBl6aCuxEVHDbf1XH4/s1600/gluing.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinp0N5Fx6AeXia2EOEEQMDqYCUEmdi6bkJPAwh2JKtqkiKw8GIHbxAtJ4V2hjJk1kZTNTZK6HLpn9uSvoQ5NoYRJj41iNKk-W756X7AxcvyAM7wV0ntmfdhuvzPaBl6aCuxEVHDbf1XH4/s400/gluing.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;">He seals the bottle neck with a plastic heat-shrink capsule over his
kitchen stove burner.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9PGyc3hjByd2hFZiBbeeMLNVEKEZTsbO8NgSwfb4OMra-zOlmmDD6YJsL9BBQfVKjuPW4txRhLCl9w2ia5bRjkaFIN6uRQR6cOHB8YC-tzWSdh3oUtL8g20JyaNEg4-LR7GZ0ENOeTlg/s1600/melting+wax.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9PGyc3hjByd2hFZiBbeeMLNVEKEZTsbO8NgSwfb4OMra-zOlmmDD6YJsL9BBQfVKjuPW4txRhLCl9w2ia5bRjkaFIN6uRQR6cOHB8YC-tzWSdh3oUtL8g20JyaNEg4-LR7GZ0ENOeTlg/s400/melting+wax.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;">“My goal is not to make the best wine but to have a
story,” Latif says. Is it a stretch to say the 2018 vintage tastes of the
Second Avenue subway, the pleats of private-school uniforms, glazed Dunkin
Donuts, the metal chains of a playground swing set, dry cleaning, and the
wax-and-wood of Brick Presbyterian Church—all in the vicinity of Chateau Latif’s
vines? Perhaps, but that it tastes most of is family and history.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-85532837411227187492019-08-07T10:22:00.002-07:002019-08-07T10:22:42.106-07:00SIGHT: The weed-eating goats of Riverside Park<style type="text/css">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">One recent weekday morning, a group of goat enthusiasts gathered at the intersection of Riverside Drive and 120th Street to see five of their favorite ungulates compete for the title of “Greatest Of All Time” (G.O.A.T.). A balloon-bedecked fence separated the crowd from the goats, who were up on their hind hooves trying to reach the shrubbery of Riverside Park, which was, for now, tantalizingly out of reach.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">After the awards ceremony, the top four goats would be led from the podium, through a gate, and into a two-acre enclosure, where they would spend the next month munching 25 percent of their body weight in weeds each day and revitalizing the soil with their droppings. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">The fifth-place contestant would be returned to its home pasture in Rhinebeck, New York. As the park has learned, there is not enough Japanese knotweed, poison ivy, or porcelain berry to sustain more than four goats at a time. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: small;">Massey, Bella, Skittles, Chalupa, and Buckles were selected through a public “Vote the Goat” election (there’s also a “Goat Fund Me” site) from an original group of twenty-four; three thousand online ballots were cast. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: small;">The goats debuted in Riverside Park in May 2019 as an experiment in natural, sustainable invasive-weed management called “<a href="https://riversideparknyc.org/goatham/" target="_blank">Goatham City.</a>“ They quickly became a local sensation.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Goat puns abounded </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">in the opening remarks</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: small;">—with a little soapboxing about paid family leave and marijuana legalization. Dan Garodnick, president and CEO of the Riverside Park Conservancy, presided. George Shea, the emcee of Nathan’s Famous International Hot Dog Eating Contest, certified each goat’s consumption performance. “We hired</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> some of the most active, ambitious, and hungry summer interns and a full-time professional weeding staff,” Garodnick announced, gesturing to the goats. One of the conservancy’s human interns, Nina, in a tiara and gown, beamed from the sidelines. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The goats were now trying to hurl themselves out of their pen. “You have </span><i>goat</i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> to come down here,” joked councilmember Mark Levine, indicating the goats’ future home. “The weed situation was </span><i>baaad</i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">.” In fact, the twenty-four original goats had been so effective—each goat ate about one thousand pounds of weeds over the spring and early summer—that they had to be sent home to give the weeds time to redevelop. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Finally, the goats were led to the podium by handlers wearing flower crowns. Nina the intern draped medals around their necks, Shea certified each animal as a champion eater, and they were presented with golden goat trophies and bouquets of weeds. Ten-year-old, 166-pound Massey from Massachusetts was pronounced the “G.O.A.T.” and, after making short work of her bouquet, dragged her handler to a table decorated with hay bales.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">At last, the goats were released to the hillside. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A guy in an I LOVE GOAT YOGA tank top snapped photos. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">A little boy holding a stuffed goat watched the animals tackling the weeds. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJt1DsuLkvNRM6Mx4mme5vav8KOmJZ5bXu8_jScvdcQE7aBeLPn-9ERg3H2GAboqv9nEQGxXVEqjY907MoKBsTojCiHOmjGw18ntMeu58nHHwo4gZ-I4DmKYhWwJkYew1-_oLVxe7pLdo/s1600/053517FA-A4A9-4E9B-8FC6-DE75F21F0AFD.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1597" data-original-width="1600" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJt1DsuLkvNRM6Mx4mme5vav8KOmJZ5bXu8_jScvdcQE7aBeLPn-9ERg3H2GAboqv9nEQGxXVEqjY907MoKBsTojCiHOmjGw18ntMeu58nHHwo4gZ-I4DmKYhWwJkYew1-_oLVxe7pLdo/s400/053517FA-A4A9-4E9B-8FC6-DE75F21F0AFD.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“One day I want to do a human-versus-goat eating contest,” Shea told a member of the press. He didn’t clarify if the food of choice would be hot dogs or poison ivy.</span></div>
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</style>City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-66885022364476496872019-07-08T16:45:00.001-07:002019-07-08T16:45:06.881-07:00SIGHT: Seven sights for the seventh monthIn Sense & the City tradition, I present seven of my favorite sights from the past year in honor of the seventh month.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhikFn1GTy8ujTfDh5gR5d7jXo8aCNMqDPExCElEE143vukKDH5BSNa7iCPS84dPa4AUujFkEAf_oejag5QcHCbGLqNtw8JAyjaEtm74IZo9EWCz293T8xg20f0SSMLO7xEFvXasp8iAfw/s1600/FB7B43CB-9E14-4381-BBE1-F19B9DD18799.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhikFn1GTy8ujTfDh5gR5d7jXo8aCNMqDPExCElEE143vukKDH5BSNa7iCPS84dPa4AUujFkEAf_oejag5QcHCbGLqNtw8JAyjaEtm74IZo9EWCz293T8xg20f0SSMLO7xEFvXasp8iAfw/s400/FB7B43CB-9E14-4381-BBE1-F19B9DD18799.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Only in New York would there be a line to get into a laundromat. The Cornelia Street Laundromat must be a pretty special place to wash clothes.<br />
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A visit with ninety-five-year-old grocer John Cortese at his Golden Gate Fancy Fruits and Vegetables is always worth the trip to Flatlands, Brooklyn.</div>
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Barkaloo Cemetery, the smallest graveyard in Brooklyn, features only two graves (the others are monuments), and is wedged between a shady side street and a school bus depot.</div>
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Perhaps the fanciest basketball court in the city was carved out of Brooklyn's Paramount Theatre in Fort Greene in the 1960s and is now home to the LIU Brooklyn Blackbirds, </div>
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Kingsland Wildflowers, in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, converted an industrial rooftop into a field of wildflowers native to New York City to attract pollinators. Cast against the silver digester eggs of the Newtown Creek Wastewater Treatment Plant, the scene presents an eerie hybrid of wild and industrial rarely found in the city.</div>
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CW Pencil Enterprise on the Lower East Side proffers iconic New York City colors in pencil form: SoHo Scaffolding, City Bike Lane, Taxi Cab, F Train Seat, Street Pretzel, Bodega Mums, Harlem Brownstone, Manhattan Bridge, Asphalt, and Subway Station Tile.</div>
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I stumbled upon this mysterious find on the uptown 4/5 platform at Lexington and 59th Street: a vintage subway record book chronicling escalator repairs and a tiny green lock.</div>
<br />City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-5675800970347332422019-06-06T09:59:00.003-07:002021-01-07T10:54:41.833-08:00TASTE: Chive momos at a secret Tibetan food counterMuch as snippets of chive are hidden within the folds of a <i>momo</i>, a dense Tibetan dumpling, the restaurant Lhasa Fast Food is hidden within a labyrinthine minimall in Jackson Heights. Though unmarked restaurants have become almost a cliché in 2019 New York City, in this case the restaurant’s reclusiveness does not seem intentional or subversive. There’s no dim lighting or velvet banquette to reward your sleuthing. In fact, Lhasa Fast Food’s ambience is as unassuming as its signature snack.<br />
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My first attempt to find the food stall led me into the mall and directly down a flight of stairs, where I was met with a store stripped of its contents but for some half-deflated party balloons and a sign for “New Jackson Tailors” and a striking couple in traditional Indian clothing. A mirror propped on a taped-together bureau revealed a reflection of several tailors sewing in a distant corner.</div>
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Heading back up the stairs and veering to the right, I stumbled upon a money transfer shop, a spice merchant, and a shoebox salon specializing in keratin treatments and eyebrow threading—two neighborhood specialties.</div>
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Turning around again and catching my reflection in the narrow glass-walled corridors, I passed You and Me Wireless, packed with customers brandishing their mobile devices, and Yamuna Jewelry (“Share Moments, Share Jewels”). At the end of a long, dim corridor was my first glimpse of Lhasa Fast Food:</div>
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The restaurant is all peeling tangerine paint and sky-blue ceiling, a shawl-draped portrait of the Dalai Lama, an American flag tucked into a plumbing pipe, a file cabinet holding utensils and a thermos of butter tea labeled with masking tape, and a security camera impaled through a banner of a Himalayan mountainscape. A flat-screen TV plays the YouTube music channel Tibetan HeartBeat. </div>
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Finally, the chive momos arrive, six to a bamboo basket.</div>
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Each momo is crimped at the top and waves an infinitesimal flag of chive. When burst with the prong of a chopstick, they release a puff of steam and reveal a slick pile of chives. The only other ingredients, according to the menu, are oil and salt, but the flavor explodes on the tongue. The dough's pleats are thick and chewy, while the rest of the skin is nearly translucent and falls from the chopsticks. A squirt of fiery hot sauce provides the final touch. </div>
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Paired with a bowl of salty, creamy, tangy butter tea from atop the file cabinet, the snack disappears.</div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">Now it’s time to find your way home.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTUbGboDWQDbVxwZSGEJV3rNGBmglGRpLhY1xNet46fmEJsQDXwrDW6xEYVYswitv-CLQk6La62SGgtlKdJbyqlARcLOiDaTW50zd-ANHlV8buFtKnj7vVPsxc74sVliRj2m4wUpRuSmM/s1600/AEBA6F58-24B3-46CE-91BA-9E25E08748C0.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTUbGboDWQDbVxwZSGEJV3rNGBmglGRpLhY1xNet46fmEJsQDXwrDW6xEYVYswitv-CLQk6La62SGgtlKdJbyqlARcLOiDaTW50zd-ANHlV8buFtKnj7vVPsxc74sVliRj2m4wUpRuSmM/s400/AEBA6F58-24B3-46CE-91BA-9E25E08748C0.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>Lhasa Fast Food is located at 37-50 74th Street, in Queens.</i></div>
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City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333966257665657680.post-84471899784866892902019-05-08T06:00:00.000-07:002019-05-08T06:14:28.554-07:00TOUCH: International PleatingOnce you start looking, you’ll start seeing pleats everywhere in the city. In the plastic awnings on Queens rowhouses. In the air filters stacked at a Brooklyn auto-repair shop. In the curtains at the Metropolitan Opera. In the folds of a bulldog’s nose, and in the metal wall at Erie Basin Park in Red Hook (below).<br />
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But on the fourth floor of a building in the West Thirties, above a garage for hot dog carts, you'll find International Pleating, the last remaining pleating factory in the Garment District. You’ll also get to shake the deft hands of Leon and George Kalajian, its father-and-son owners, who are carrying on their family’s 150-year tradition of textile manufacture and manipulation.<br />
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George, who recently released the only extant <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Pleating-Fundamentals-Fashion-Leon-Kalajian/dp/0764352962" target="_blank">textbook</a> on pleating, is gradually taking over the business from his father. Leon is officially retired, but “you can’t stop him,” say George. Leon declares that no one knows anything about pleating anymore except the Kalajian family. At one point there were almost forty pleating factories in the Garment District; since then, most of the work has moved to China.<br />
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In the house in Lebanon where Leon was born, his mother kept a secret room for her couture sewing work. Leon was in charge of placing hot irons outside her closed door. “Then one day, she let me in,” he says. From that moment, there was no going back. As his mother taught Leon the basics of hand-ironing, he began to come up with new ways of doing it “my own way.”</div>
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He started to experiment with fabrics, and began selling garments on consignment at a local shop. By the time he was fifteen, his business was going strong. His goal was—and remains—to create something new with each project. He claims he’s made twelve thousand different patterns since then.</div>
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The factory’s single room, with large windows framed by pleated curtains, is a clutter of machinery and paper. There’s not as much fabric as you’d expect. Most of it is sealed away in molds—tubes, cones, or flat stacks—being pressed into its final pleated form.<br />
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Pleats are a symphony for the senses. Running one’s fingers over the springy crenellations, the heights and shadows, creates a satisfying tactile rhythm. Pleats are precision, edge, and depth.<br />
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Perhaps equally satisyfing is the sound of a paper pattern unfurling from its mold—<i>bump-a-bump-a-bump</i>—revealing a tricky pleated shoulder cap for a sleeve.</div>
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As I tour the factory, fingering silks and cottons and synthetics, I learn that there are only four types of pleats—accordion, box, sunburst, and side—and also that the world’s oldest woven garment is pleated, dating back five thousand years to ancient Egypt.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFmxRf6SmLcfjOCckcmmZqGvfN9y5vvOTy08E-o6QUUrBiEAftEUae3FRnkXDewm-JlQ-EA-7ZM30vrotFEf_RnlTwk8yvzOW045G-ZWmE4AxoIk4xA5fUcwUdgTELL9TbTnak_reUosQ/s1600/Screen+Shot+2019-03-29+at+3.56.51+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="641" data-original-width="1405" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFmxRf6SmLcfjOCckcmmZqGvfN9y5vvOTy08E-o6QUUrBiEAftEUae3FRnkXDewm-JlQ-EA-7ZM30vrotFEf_RnlTwk8yvzOW045G-ZWmE4AxoIk4xA5fUcwUdgTELL9TbTnak_reUosQ/s400/Screen+Shot+2019-03-29+at+3.56.51+PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from https://www.nationalgeographic.co.uk/history-and-civilisation/2017/11/worlds-oldest-dress.</td></tr>
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How do you pleat fabric? For straight pleats, you use a machine: International Pleating's green behemoth is a German model so old that one one except the Kalajians knows how to repair it anymore.<br />
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Other types of pleats require a mold. You spread the fabric over stiff cardboard, which is shaped into the pleating pattern, place the mold in a rack, and place the rack in an industrial oven, which effectively irons the pleats into the fabric with heat, pressure, and steam, then let the fabric dry on racks. George has developed a code for each form. There are many things to consider before pleating: the direction of the fabric grain, the fabric weight, whether a pattern is preprinted or will be printed after pleating, the direction of the pleats.<br />
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“Even today I always say to George, ‘We are not working for money; we are working for quality,’” Leon tells me. Passing on their family’s knowledge of pleating is the Kalajians’ contribution not only to the fashion world but also to their adopted city. “I want to do something to save the city,” Leon says. “Not the world—the city.”<br />
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<br />City Lorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02024743461318358427noreply@blogger.com1