The start of our final week in NYC and indeed, the final week of our trip, saw Otto bedridden with some sort of pervasive death. Sequestered in his lazaret and feverishly sending us texts asking to bring home some water, “preferably Evian”, Kip and I proceeded to ignore him, opting instead to search for the best burger in NYC.
Located down a small dark corridor in the busy Le Parker Meridian in a self-consciously dive-styled tiny restaurant, we joined a vast throng of beef enthusiasts waiting for their chance to experience some more indifferent service in pursuit of flavour most vaunted. A delightful burger to be sure, and probably the third best of the trip. Sorry NYC, you can’t have it all.
On the topic of food, our last week in NYC saw us frequently providing custom at another of the Momofuku franchise, the milk bar, a destination which offers lusciously unhealthy sweet snackables. With the crack pie and compost cookie the items du jour, with great enthusiasm were we inundated with a suffusion of flavours all held together with dollops of butter, salt and sugar such that half a cookie was almost enough to ensure a complete arterial shut down. More potent was the crack pie, a tiny slice priced at close to $6. Little more does one need, however, when it is almost pure butter and sugar and one tiny nibble sends the body into fits of buzzing, crashing, and palpitations.
Exploring Columbia University with a freshly recovered Otto in later days, we wandered from this bastion of Ivy League moral fortitude and intellectual ivory battlements into the surrounding ‘hood of Harlem. Gentrified to a comforting extreme in the immediately local blocks, past 125th street, the somewhat ironically titled Martin Luther King Boulevard, Harlem immediately goes from middle class espressos to projects and a uniquely minority caste. Literally on the first block across the street there is a forest of projects and the only Caucasians to be found are those trundling around on tourist buses, pointing their cameras at the locals, eyes wide.
In the face of such a situation it really hammered home to someone from a relatively racial-strife free society the lingering tensions of racial polarization in a not entirely comfortable manner. Indeed, within the blocks north of 125th street there were discreet stickers on certain chain buildings depicting the red lion of Columbia University, claiming these to be safe havens for students.
In contrast to the discomforting divide offered in Harlem, Kip and my adventure into Queens was far less polarizing. Indeed, it seemed very much like any other charming neighbourhood of NYC, with the particular microcosms in the area we wandered being Polish then Egyptian. We also came across the first film we’d seen being made, the street moving at a snail’s pace and an angry local bemoaning semi-racially to me that it must’ve been made by the Jews who were all, no doubt, friends of the Mayor.
Back home in Brooklyn and in the next few days our apartment became home to all, revolving couch doors sleeping a different comer most nights as we met up with friends and strangers alike on various trips around the city. One prolonged evening in Brooklyn eventually found us on the roof of the apartment, defying death and lopsided roofing to gaze wistfully at the NYC skyline.
A trip to the Museum of Modern Art, hitherto avoided after previous trips, became an inevitability with the enthusiasm of new friends dragging us once again into its hallowed and touristy halls. As open minded as one can be, it was at times hard to reconcile my reluctantly jerry-rigged intellect with some fantastically pretentious and barely substantiated installations, including one memorable quote from a book yet unwritten and a bale of hay. The MoMA was, however, salvaged from the bitter annals of my mind by an impressive collection of impressionist and absurdist works that titillated far more than dehydrated plant matter.
With NYC throbbing with live music, one night Otto and I managed to catch a quiet gig in a rather pleasant underground venue to see A Storm of Light and Tombs, two thunderously heavy bands whose musical stylings deafened in the most rewarding way possible. Later in the week when we went up into Williamsburg to catch one of our favourite bands, Rosetta, we discovered a mere hour before the gig that they had had to cancel as their van broke down en route from Philadelphia. While Otto collapsed into the foetal position to weep, given that I was already at the venue I chose to soldier on, befriending local metal enthusiasts and cramming myself into the absolutely miniature subterranean venue where the band playing took up over half the space available.
Grungy local artists, most of whom I met at the bar unknowingly, provided an evening of close quarters thrashing enthusiasm before, still mildly dejected at not catching Rosetta, I wandered slowly home. Mere metres from our apartment, however, I saw an intriguing crowd spilling out of a local watering hole – one that was usually only memorable for playing spoken word poetry over the PA and selling $2 drafts. What lay within was a smoggy reggae gig, the likes of which was exactly what my hurting soul needed. Jamming well into the morn and with one band headed by the whitest kid this side of Otto who sang like a true Rasta, it was outside this gig that I had a most humbling experience.
Seeking respite from the heady interior of the bar and the impassioned gyrations of reggae enthusiasts, I met Alisha, a local of the Bushwick area – the ‘hood in which we had assumed residence. She informed me that she would never wander around here after dark by herself, let alone use her phone or headphones as she was on or getting off the train for fear of people grabbing them off her. Suffice to say, we had not been sticking to the strictures. Moreover, she told me of brutal murders that had taken place on the roof of her apartment and the way in which police and fire department impersonators frequently were let into people’s houses whereupon they would mug and violate them. To avoid this she insisted that you must always check for a police car before you let someone dressed as an officer in, then call the station and cross reference the badge number with that of the people at your door.
What was most concerning was that she said this all happened in North Bushwick, the good part of Bushwick. We were in the south.
Late night meet ups in Times Square after days of lame touristy activity gave way to retreats to the lower East side in pursuit of more grungy fun, stacked towers of PBR testament to the grungy aesthetic we so lovingly embraced and fortified with designer sorbet from a truly magnificent icecreamery nearby our favourite digs, one replete with flavours including cheddar cheese, basil, and Guinness.
Finally, with the last day of our trip looming most terrifyingly, Kip and I emptied our coin purses, counted our pennies, and headed off to Per Se for one last absurdly expensive meal. Clad in our must rumpled finery – suits being compulsory for entry, but not exactly easy to carry in a backpack for 2 months – we entered with the requisite lack of shame for two student travellers about to steadfastly refuse any bells and whistles to avoid further cranking up the price tag on a degustation meal. Things, however, began to get out of hand as the butter poached goodness of just about every item on the classically French inspired menu shifted the ratio of human to beurre about five courses in. Foie gras, caviar, six different types of salt, butter churned from eight magic cows and eight alone, chocolate as dense as prehistoric goo, and deserts as fancy as I was rumpled and unshaven left us bloated but smiling like children after too much red cordial. While the bill eventually turned out to be $110 more than anticipated due to the addition of Russian Tsar caviar and a giant wedge of fatty goose liver, there was no time or need for regrets as we cast our final dollars at the Maître d’ and sauntered off downtown once again.
Just in time to meet up with an old friend of journeys past and one last 5am visit to the ghetto gym we’d come to call intimidating, a last minute frenzied clean of the apartment and we were off, our trip a triumphant delight, but at an end.
Some interesting numbers,
~105000km driven, or 6530mi
19 states visited
46 days on the road
66 days away
$902 and change spent on two meals at two of the world’s best restaurants
Until next time.
Located down a small dark corridor in the busy Le Parker Meridian in a self-consciously dive-styled tiny restaurant, we joined a vast throng of beef enthusiasts waiting for their chance to experience some more indifferent service in pursuit of flavour most vaunted. A delightful burger to be sure, and probably the third best of the trip. Sorry NYC, you can’t have it all.
On the topic of food, our last week in NYC saw us frequently providing custom at another of the Momofuku franchise, the milk bar, a destination which offers lusciously unhealthy sweet snackables. With the crack pie and compost cookie the items du jour, with great enthusiasm were we inundated with a suffusion of flavours all held together with dollops of butter, salt and sugar such that half a cookie was almost enough to ensure a complete arterial shut down. More potent was the crack pie, a tiny slice priced at close to $6. Little more does one need, however, when it is almost pure butter and sugar and one tiny nibble sends the body into fits of buzzing, crashing, and palpitations.
Exploring Columbia University with a freshly recovered Otto in later days, we wandered from this bastion of Ivy League moral fortitude and intellectual ivory battlements into the surrounding ‘hood of Harlem. Gentrified to a comforting extreme in the immediately local blocks, past 125th street, the somewhat ironically titled Martin Luther King Boulevard, Harlem immediately goes from middle class espressos to projects and a uniquely minority caste. Literally on the first block across the street there is a forest of projects and the only Caucasians to be found are those trundling around on tourist buses, pointing their cameras at the locals, eyes wide.
In the face of such a situation it really hammered home to someone from a relatively racial-strife free society the lingering tensions of racial polarization in a not entirely comfortable manner. Indeed, within the blocks north of 125th street there were discreet stickers on certain chain buildings depicting the red lion of Columbia University, claiming these to be safe havens for students.
In contrast to the discomforting divide offered in Harlem, Kip and my adventure into Queens was far less polarizing. Indeed, it seemed very much like any other charming neighbourhood of NYC, with the particular microcosms in the area we wandered being Polish then Egyptian. We also came across the first film we’d seen being made, the street moving at a snail’s pace and an angry local bemoaning semi-racially to me that it must’ve been made by the Jews who were all, no doubt, friends of the Mayor.
Back home in Brooklyn and in the next few days our apartment became home to all, revolving couch doors sleeping a different comer most nights as we met up with friends and strangers alike on various trips around the city. One prolonged evening in Brooklyn eventually found us on the roof of the apartment, defying death and lopsided roofing to gaze wistfully at the NYC skyline.
A trip to the Museum of Modern Art, hitherto avoided after previous trips, became an inevitability with the enthusiasm of new friends dragging us once again into its hallowed and touristy halls. As open minded as one can be, it was at times hard to reconcile my reluctantly jerry-rigged intellect with some fantastically pretentious and barely substantiated installations, including one memorable quote from a book yet unwritten and a bale of hay. The MoMA was, however, salvaged from the bitter annals of my mind by an impressive collection of impressionist and absurdist works that titillated far more than dehydrated plant matter.
With NYC throbbing with live music, one night Otto and I managed to catch a quiet gig in a rather pleasant underground venue to see A Storm of Light and Tombs, two thunderously heavy bands whose musical stylings deafened in the most rewarding way possible. Later in the week when we went up into Williamsburg to catch one of our favourite bands, Rosetta, we discovered a mere hour before the gig that they had had to cancel as their van broke down en route from Philadelphia. While Otto collapsed into the foetal position to weep, given that I was already at the venue I chose to soldier on, befriending local metal enthusiasts and cramming myself into the absolutely miniature subterranean venue where the band playing took up over half the space available.
Grungy local artists, most of whom I met at the bar unknowingly, provided an evening of close quarters thrashing enthusiasm before, still mildly dejected at not catching Rosetta, I wandered slowly home. Mere metres from our apartment, however, I saw an intriguing crowd spilling out of a local watering hole – one that was usually only memorable for playing spoken word poetry over the PA and selling $2 drafts. What lay within was a smoggy reggae gig, the likes of which was exactly what my hurting soul needed. Jamming well into the morn and with one band headed by the whitest kid this side of Otto who sang like a true Rasta, it was outside this gig that I had a most humbling experience.
Seeking respite from the heady interior of the bar and the impassioned gyrations of reggae enthusiasts, I met Alisha, a local of the Bushwick area – the ‘hood in which we had assumed residence. She informed me that she would never wander around here after dark by herself, let alone use her phone or headphones as she was on or getting off the train for fear of people grabbing them off her. Suffice to say, we had not been sticking to the strictures. Moreover, she told me of brutal murders that had taken place on the roof of her apartment and the way in which police and fire department impersonators frequently were let into people’s houses whereupon they would mug and violate them. To avoid this she insisted that you must always check for a police car before you let someone dressed as an officer in, then call the station and cross reference the badge number with that of the people at your door.
What was most concerning was that she said this all happened in North Bushwick, the good part of Bushwick. We were in the south.
Late night meet ups in Times Square after days of lame touristy activity gave way to retreats to the lower East side in pursuit of more grungy fun, stacked towers of PBR testament to the grungy aesthetic we so lovingly embraced and fortified with designer sorbet from a truly magnificent icecreamery nearby our favourite digs, one replete with flavours including cheddar cheese, basil, and Guinness.
Finally, with the last day of our trip looming most terrifyingly, Kip and I emptied our coin purses, counted our pennies, and headed off to Per Se for one last absurdly expensive meal. Clad in our must rumpled finery – suits being compulsory for entry, but not exactly easy to carry in a backpack for 2 months – we entered with the requisite lack of shame for two student travellers about to steadfastly refuse any bells and whistles to avoid further cranking up the price tag on a degustation meal. Things, however, began to get out of hand as the butter poached goodness of just about every item on the classically French inspired menu shifted the ratio of human to beurre about five courses in. Foie gras, caviar, six different types of salt, butter churned from eight magic cows and eight alone, chocolate as dense as prehistoric goo, and deserts as fancy as I was rumpled and unshaven left us bloated but smiling like children after too much red cordial. While the bill eventually turned out to be $110 more than anticipated due to the addition of Russian Tsar caviar and a giant wedge of fatty goose liver, there was no time or need for regrets as we cast our final dollars at the Maître d’ and sauntered off downtown once again.
Just in time to meet up with an old friend of journeys past and one last 5am visit to the ghetto gym we’d come to call intimidating, a last minute frenzied clean of the apartment and we were off, our trip a triumphant delight, but at an end.
Some interesting numbers,
~105000km driven, or 6530mi
19 states visited
46 days on the road
66 days away
$902 and change spent on two meals at two of the world’s best restaurants
Until next time.
