by Layla
I awoke with delight after my 10 course meal and a long sleep to find myself not ill any more. I leapt from bed and found that we had returned to business as usual - I was sent to the corner shop for the last time to buy Roz a morning coffee. The usual woman, who always remembered my order and said a cheery, local hello, was off, and I knew it was a sign: time to go home.
We packed up, and went down to the gay men's flat below to print out our boarding passes. Going home preparation activities complete, we proceeded out into the sunny Saturday morning to pretend going home was not on the horizon. First stop: the Rockefeller Center. It is always my dream to go ice skating (and since last year I'd been taking lessons). I'd had to accept that we had come too early: the rinks weren't open. But then, like a miracle, a tiny notice: the Rockefeller Center ice rink was opening that very day! I was joyous. We arrived at an ice-cleaning time (yes, I'd misread the schedule) so wandered around Saks Fifth Avenue and suchlike fancy places where Roz wanted to buy a wallet but I had to throw myself in her path due to the terrifying price tags. And then it was time. Delightfully, news that the rink was open had clearly not spread. There were only about 20 people on the ice. Surrounded of course by about 1000 spectating tourists who had been passing. I was bitter to find that a few months without lessons had left me almost as rubbish as previously, but I gained confidence and even managed a very little spin. Hooray.
After ice skating we tried to get the metro, it was closed, and ended up getting a cab through Times Square to our lovely little brunch establishment, East of Eighth. We were bitter to find the sunny day had prompted them to close the usual pretty restaurant and decamp to a little patio, but a couple of mimosas and some delicious Eggs Benedict (with guacamole) later, we were quite happy.
After lunch, we wandered down the street feeling aimless and sad about the impending flight. And then we walked past a beautician type establishment where a line of ladies sat in special chairs having pedicures. We had never partaken in such things before, but suddenly, randomly dashed inside on a whim. Great idea - before long we were seated in side-by-side pedicure chairs, our feet in baths of bubbly milk and lavender. After the pedicure, we moved, with shiny toenails, to massage chairs and had shoulder massages. Ah, life's not so bad...
Two beauty treatments later and we walked down towards Greenwich Village towards our dinner - very early due to the flight time. We'd walked all the way to the restaurant before deciding we didn't fancy it, wandered back, established ourselves in Cornelia St Cafe, didn't really fancy the food, and felt sad and irritable and not-wanting-to-go-home-ish. And then I popped next door to a glamorous yet friendly feeling little restaurant called Po. They were fully booked but squeezed us into the bar area, where a great gay boy waiter tended to our every need and we started to feel very cheery indeed as we tucked into delicious food and wine (well,Roz had wine. I was still nervous about my stomach...). The pumpkin ravioli was a delight that I will dream about for years to come.
Bad moods banished, it was disappointing to realise we had to leave (though a relief to the waiter, I'm sure, as the place was packed). We walked back to the flat, grabbed our cases, and with great reluctance headed to JFK, lamenting the stupid idea of getting a night flight. Sure enough we did not sleep a single wink. Which allowed us to appreciate the hysterical screaming child. But luckily the horrors did not cancel out the loveliness of a fantastic New York holiday. More next year, please!
Wednesday 27 October 2010
In which Layla is sick, Roz listens to clever podcasts, and they both eat a very large meal
by Roz
I woke up to the sound of Layla being rather ill, vigorously and loudly and realised with sorrow that we would probably have to abandon our plan to go to the Queens Hall of Science and adjacent minature golf course in favour of a day of vomiting. A fine plan for Layla, but I had to wonder what I should do. Stay at home and look sympathetic or go and do something fun by myself? But first, a task that normally falls to Layla to do for me: the quest for medication. I trawled a variety of Greenwich Village pharmacies in search of anti-vomiting and anti-stomach pain medication to no avail. After quite a large number of shops (and a disappointing cup of tea from Le Pain Quotidien), I was obliged to return home with a very large bottle of what was essentially sugar syrup. The pharmacist assured me it would work. A couple of gulps of the syrup and Layla demonstrated that Scottish illness is made of stronger stuff than the American variety. It was not chased away by sugar and she returned speedily to her place by the toilet bowl. I decided that this was the moment for me to make a speedy exit.
After attempting coffee followed by food at Tea and Sympathy, and being told I had to commit to eating a certain amount or I wasn't welcome, I retired to the more friendly S'Nice for a leisurely brunch. I then wandered to the Highline Park and built upon my fantastic experience at the Natural History Museum by sitting in beautiful sunshine, listening to some podcasts of previous events. I listened to a lecture about electronics but it was too hard, so instead I listened to one about genetic engineering which I understood, mainly as it had a large number of film references. I may not know much about science but I do know my films. It made me all the more bitter that such a great event doesn't happen in London. As I was listening to it, Layla texted to report that she was definitely well enough to come and meet me. Twenty minutes later an ashen Layla limped towards me, a vision of invalid. In fact she was so weak she couldn't even make it to my bench without a rest. She assured me she felt great. And collapsed across my lap. I couldn't decide whether it was rude to continue with my podcast. She soon proved to be poor company, so I tuned back in...
When my educational hour was over, Layla looked no better and even she had to admit she may not be able to participate in any afternoon fun. So I escorted her home to bed and tried to download City Island for her on the laptop. I failed, but she was happy to sit huddled under a blanket in a darkened room while I fled to the sunny joys of Central Park with my book, City Boy by Edmund Whyte. I first went to the Boathouse and had a cocktail and a decadent plate of cheese so large that I desperately tried to look as though I was not alone, while listening to podcasts and gazing at the water sparkling in the sun. I then went and sat on a nearby bit of grass overlooking a lake and read my book, which I had bought only the day before, in Barnes and Noble. I particularly enjoyed that he had lived in Horatio Street, the NYC street in which we were currently living. I got myself a suntan and started messaging Layla to assess whether she might be able to do anything that evening. She was adamant that we kept our reservation at the Gramercy Tavern, a very fancy restaurant where a vegetarian tasting menu awaited us. Having been unable to keep down a sip of water all day, this seemed foolhardy, but she was insistent, so I came home to change. She still looked green. She insisted she was fine. Further probing revealed she couldn't think of anything else to do that evening, and felt guilt-ridden about this. This did not seem the best reason to go to one of NYC's most expensive restaurants, but I did see the logic. And so we took a cab to the Gramercy. Outside I asked Layla one final time whether it was a good idea.
And so, with an affirmative answer, we embarked on a 10 course extravaganza (mine accompanied by matching wine flights in generous glasses) and a complimentary glass of champagne to celebrate our first anniversary. Delicious. All sorts of tasty courses. Corn soup. Watermelon salad. Lentils. Spaghetti. Glorious cheese. And more. Layla did look a bit green, and I spotted her casting her eyes in the direction of the 'restrooms' more than once... but she struggled manfully on and, having hoovered up her dessert, which was decorated by a 'happy anniversary' message in chocolate, smiled proudly and assured me she had enjoyed herself. There were no adverse repercussions. I have a new respect for her gluttony.
And after a long and delightful meal, it was home to bed.
I woke up to the sound of Layla being rather ill, vigorously and loudly and realised with sorrow that we would probably have to abandon our plan to go to the Queens Hall of Science and adjacent minature golf course in favour of a day of vomiting. A fine plan for Layla, but I had to wonder what I should do. Stay at home and look sympathetic or go and do something fun by myself? But first, a task that normally falls to Layla to do for me: the quest for medication. I trawled a variety of Greenwich Village pharmacies in search of anti-vomiting and anti-stomach pain medication to no avail. After quite a large number of shops (and a disappointing cup of tea from Le Pain Quotidien), I was obliged to return home with a very large bottle of what was essentially sugar syrup. The pharmacist assured me it would work. A couple of gulps of the syrup and Layla demonstrated that Scottish illness is made of stronger stuff than the American variety. It was not chased away by sugar and she returned speedily to her place by the toilet bowl. I decided that this was the moment for me to make a speedy exit.
After attempting coffee followed by food at Tea and Sympathy, and being told I had to commit to eating a certain amount or I wasn't welcome, I retired to the more friendly S'Nice for a leisurely brunch. I then wandered to the Highline Park and built upon my fantastic experience at the Natural History Museum by sitting in beautiful sunshine, listening to some podcasts of previous events. I listened to a lecture about electronics but it was too hard, so instead I listened to one about genetic engineering which I understood, mainly as it had a large number of film references. I may not know much about science but I do know my films. It made me all the more bitter that such a great event doesn't happen in London. As I was listening to it, Layla texted to report that she was definitely well enough to come and meet me. Twenty minutes later an ashen Layla limped towards me, a vision of invalid. In fact she was so weak she couldn't even make it to my bench without a rest. She assured me she felt great. And collapsed across my lap. I couldn't decide whether it was rude to continue with my podcast. She soon proved to be poor company, so I tuned back in...
When my educational hour was over, Layla looked no better and even she had to admit she may not be able to participate in any afternoon fun. So I escorted her home to bed and tried to download City Island for her on the laptop. I failed, but she was happy to sit huddled under a blanket in a darkened room while I fled to the sunny joys of Central Park with my book, City Boy by Edmund Whyte. I first went to the Boathouse and had a cocktail and a decadent plate of cheese so large that I desperately tried to look as though I was not alone, while listening to podcasts and gazing at the water sparkling in the sun. I then went and sat on a nearby bit of grass overlooking a lake and read my book, which I had bought only the day before, in Barnes and Noble. I particularly enjoyed that he had lived in Horatio Street, the NYC street in which we were currently living. I got myself a suntan and started messaging Layla to assess whether she might be able to do anything that evening. She was adamant that we kept our reservation at the Gramercy Tavern, a very fancy restaurant where a vegetarian tasting menu awaited us. Having been unable to keep down a sip of water all day, this seemed foolhardy, but she was insistent, so I came home to change. She still looked green. She insisted she was fine. Further probing revealed she couldn't think of anything else to do that evening, and felt guilt-ridden about this. This did not seem the best reason to go to one of NYC's most expensive restaurants, but I did see the logic. And so we took a cab to the Gramercy. Outside I asked Layla one final time whether it was a good idea.
And so, with an affirmative answer, we embarked on a 10 course extravaganza (mine accompanied by matching wine flights in generous glasses) and a complimentary glass of champagne to celebrate our first anniversary. Delicious. All sorts of tasty courses. Corn soup. Watermelon salad. Lentils. Spaghetti. Glorious cheese. And more. Layla did look a bit green, and I spotted her casting her eyes in the direction of the 'restrooms' more than once... but she struggled manfully on and, having hoovered up her dessert, which was decorated by a 'happy anniversary' message in chocolate, smiled proudly and assured me she had enjoyed herself. There were no adverse repercussions. I have a new respect for her gluttony.
And after a long and delightful meal, it was home to bed.
Friday 8 October 2010
In which Layla and Roz visit City Island, drink cocktails, go rowing and attend a book event.
by Layla
Yesterday started off as usual with my regular trip to the corner shop. I was greeted with "Good morning. A large coffee with milk, and a bagel with cream cheese?" which was either pleasing or embarrassing. We skipped the bagel as we wanted to get up and out. After a tasty bowl of granola in lovely Jane Street coffeeshop Grounded, we walked to Union Square to catch the number 6 subway to its very end. I have a particular penchant for doing this anyway, but yesterday we had a specific purpose: a journey to City Island. Said island is at the furthest reaches of the Bronx and resembles a New England fishing village, and Roz has had a random dream to visit since she saw the film by the same name, depicting a very sweet little sleepy fishing community that contrasted massively with nearby Manhattan. So, at the end of the line (Pelham Parkway), we hopped on an X29 bus and found ourselves sitting with a very different type of New Yorker. There were no high heels or designer outfits in sight. Somewhat akin to our bus companions in Staten Island last year, but a tad more blustery. And everyone seemed to know everyone else.
Soon we zipped over the bridge and the sign stood out: Welcome to City Island. Hooray! The island consists of one main street that runs the length of the island (1.5miles), with little residential streets branching off (the island is half a mile wide). We settled down in the City Island Diner, bustling and apparently right out of a 1950s film. I had a strawberry milkshake and a veggieburger and chips; Roz had a more abstemious Greek salad wrap. Sated, we proceeded to wander around the island, going down sleepy residential streets that all led to the sea, sparkling in the sun, and with the New York skyline visible far away through mist. We loved looking at the film-perfect houses with white picket fences and verandas and massive American flags hanging from each door (try that in Britain and people would assume you belonged to the BNP). We also came across a special bin painted with American symbols for the specific purpose of 'retiring old flags - giving them a dignified disposal'. Onwards we walked, appreciating a house with a massive Halloween display in the form of an inflatable lifesized carriage driven by a headless horseman and carrying a Dracula who bobbed up and down. It was quite a sight!
We walked back to the bridge to the island and sat by the water, awaiting our bus back to the subway and back to Manhattan. We decided to stop off at the Central Park boathouse for cocktails by the water. It was much more serene than the weekend chaos. We sipped Boathouse Pink Lemonade cocktails, munched a giant cookie, and then took to the water, rowing around the picture-perfect lake in the sun for an hour. Beautiful.
When we had finished we took the subway to Soho, and to the Pegu Club, a cool, casual and attractive cocktail bar on West Houston Street. It takes its inspiration the Colonial era (the original Pegu Club having been in Burma). I had a strawberry daiquiri, Roz had the Pegu Club house cocktail (already a classic in 1930), and we people-watched with much enjoyment until it was time to move on, to the McNally Jackson bookstore, where there was to be a reading by Joseph O'Neill, author of Netherland which we loved, promoting his book Blood Dark Track. Fantastic venue and interesting guy. He spoke for an hour, and afterwards we walked around the corner to our restaurant for the night, me discussing how unpleasant I had found his very posh, clipped English accent, and Roz pointing out with some bitterness that she had the same accent as him! Oops.
We were slightly too early for our restaurant reservation so tried to go to a bar called Latina Oficina, only to be told it was not open (though had people in it!) and settled down with a glass of Sancerre next door til 9pm came and we returned to the restaurant. Peasant is possibly one of the coolest restaurants I know. All high ceilings, exposed brick, open kitchen, very chic, and packed with fashionable people. Which is unusual - usually in NYC we find ourselves in comparatively fancy venues with people wearing jeans and jumpers. We feared we were underdressed... Roz had told them when booking that this was our anniversary trip so they gave us a free glass of pink sparkle on arrival, which was a lovely touch. The service remained impeccable, the food was amazing and the prosecco delightful. A superb meal.
Yesterday started off as usual with my regular trip to the corner shop. I was greeted with "Good morning. A large coffee with milk, and a bagel with cream cheese?" which was either pleasing or embarrassing. We skipped the bagel as we wanted to get up and out. After a tasty bowl of granola in lovely Jane Street coffeeshop Grounded, we walked to Union Square to catch the number 6 subway to its very end. I have a particular penchant for doing this anyway, but yesterday we had a specific purpose: a journey to City Island. Said island is at the furthest reaches of the Bronx and resembles a New England fishing village, and Roz has had a random dream to visit since she saw the film by the same name, depicting a very sweet little sleepy fishing community that contrasted massively with nearby Manhattan. So, at the end of the line (Pelham Parkway), we hopped on an X29 bus and found ourselves sitting with a very different type of New Yorker. There were no high heels or designer outfits in sight. Somewhat akin to our bus companions in Staten Island last year, but a tad more blustery. And everyone seemed to know everyone else.
Soon we zipped over the bridge and the sign stood out: Welcome to City Island. Hooray! The island consists of one main street that runs the length of the island (1.5miles), with little residential streets branching off (the island is half a mile wide). We settled down in the City Island Diner, bustling and apparently right out of a 1950s film. I had a strawberry milkshake and a veggieburger and chips; Roz had a more abstemious Greek salad wrap. Sated, we proceeded to wander around the island, going down sleepy residential streets that all led to the sea, sparkling in the sun, and with the New York skyline visible far away through mist. We loved looking at the film-perfect houses with white picket fences and verandas and massive American flags hanging from each door (try that in Britain and people would assume you belonged to the BNP). We also came across a special bin painted with American symbols for the specific purpose of 'retiring old flags - giving them a dignified disposal'. Onwards we walked, appreciating a house with a massive Halloween display in the form of an inflatable lifesized carriage driven by a headless horseman and carrying a Dracula who bobbed up and down. It was quite a sight!
We walked back to the bridge to the island and sat by the water, awaiting our bus back to the subway and back to Manhattan. We decided to stop off at the Central Park boathouse for cocktails by the water. It was much more serene than the weekend chaos. We sipped Boathouse Pink Lemonade cocktails, munched a giant cookie, and then took to the water, rowing around the picture-perfect lake in the sun for an hour. Beautiful.
When we had finished we took the subway to Soho, and to the Pegu Club, a cool, casual and attractive cocktail bar on West Houston Street. It takes its inspiration the Colonial era (the original Pegu Club having been in Burma). I had a strawberry daiquiri, Roz had the Pegu Club house cocktail (already a classic in 1930), and we people-watched with much enjoyment until it was time to move on, to the McNally Jackson bookstore, where there was to be a reading by Joseph O'Neill, author of Netherland which we loved, promoting his book Blood Dark Track. Fantastic venue and interesting guy. He spoke for an hour, and afterwards we walked around the corner to our restaurant for the night, me discussing how unpleasant I had found his very posh, clipped English accent, and Roz pointing out with some bitterness that she had the same accent as him! Oops.
We were slightly too early for our restaurant reservation so tried to go to a bar called Latina Oficina, only to be told it was not open (though had people in it!) and settled down with a glass of Sancerre next door til 9pm came and we returned to the restaurant. Peasant is possibly one of the coolest restaurants I know. All high ceilings, exposed brick, open kitchen, very chic, and packed with fashionable people. Which is unusual - usually in NYC we find ourselves in comparatively fancy venues with people wearing jeans and jumpers. We feared we were underdressed... Roz had told them when booking that this was our anniversary trip so they gave us a free glass of pink sparkle on arrival, which was a lovely touch. The service remained impeccable, the food was amazing and the prosecco delightful. A superb meal.
Thursday 7 October 2010
In which Roz and Layla go to two lectures, have a Brooklyn almost-shopping-spree, Roz contemplates a change of career and both are ID'd at a bar
by Roz.
It was deeply pleasing to have a yoga studio so close to the flat, and even more so to find that yogic virtue meant that Layla blogged in my stead (she's a quicker writer than I am). On the way back to the flat, I picked up a coffee and an orange juice, only to overhear one of the customers complimenting the waitress for getting into shape. Oddly, instead of boxing him round the ears, she smiled sweetly and said that she'd got a show coming up soon, and had been doing a lot of dancing. Strange that such a comment is permissible - even welcome - here.
Back at the flat, I looked stern until Layla got out of bed and showered, and we were then up and ready for the day. Or at least for breakfast. We went back to S'Nice for some granola (for me) and a bagel (for Layla - she's a creature of habit) and had a quick look at the NY Times and planned our day. We then wandered down to Barnes and Noble in the Village where I looked hopefully for a copy of Amistead Maupin's new book - alas it turns out that it comes out in the US simultaneously with its publication in the UK. I did, however, pick up a copy of Edmund White's City Boy - not only has it been longlisted for the Green Carnation Prize but I keep seeing it listed as a classic NY book (which is not bad going, given its recent publication). Layla bought American Pastoral by Philip Roth, and I promised to carry the bag with them in for the rest of the day (a promise which, I'm not that ashamed to admit, I didn't keep).
From there we wandered through Washington Square, which was looking very pretty in the sunshine, and over to NYU, for Layla had a great enthusiasm to go to a lecture on the Theory of Mind, which we'd seen mentioned in a blog about free events. We entered the building and saw signs everywhere saying that we needed to show our student ID. We briefly conferred and then decided that probably nobody would ask for it (on this we were proved right). Then up to the 8th floor, with faltering resolution. We then gazed at the room. It was small. It has an oblong table in it. It had biscuits. It did not look like the venue for a public lecture. We ran away (briefly) and found someone vaguely official looking to enquire whether it was a public event. This was confirmed with much vigour. We returned to the room to find that the 2 seats nearest the door (which I'd hoped to occupy for a quick escape) had already been colonised. We therefore installed ourselves in the next closest seats. Sadly these were at one of the ends of the oblong table, which rather implied we were about to chair the discussion. But they were close to the biscuits (and, later, crisps) which I found a consolation throughout the next hour and a half. In fact, it turned out not too badly. No-one asked who we were or sought our views. It was a seminar by an associate professor, on sabbatical at NYU - Dr. William Fabricius. Since there was a great focus in the seminar on smarties, I managed to keep up ok. I did think that the subject matter under discussion was really a matter of semantics rather than something to devote 15 years of one's life to (as the speaker had). But I put this down to my ignorance. Particularly as around me others were gently nodding and muttering "cool, very cool" - kind of background noise - throughout. More surprising was that Layla was amongst the head nodders - though, being Scottish and decisive, her head nodding was vigorous and authoritative. After an hour or so, the seminar was going strong, but I'd eaten the majority of the crisps and it was definitely lunchtime, so Layla and I unsubtly left. On our exit, Layla then proceeded to explain with vigour why she had been unimpressed by the speaker - I never did manage to get to the bottom of the head nodding though - apparently this is what she always does at lectures...
From there we hopped on the subway and went to Park Slope - returning to Al Di La. We'd been last year and it had been one of our best meals and we just couldn't fit in a dinner there this time. We both had a delightful Farro Salad, with grains, and winter vegetables, and goat's cheese and walnuts and sherry. Layla then had a mushroom polenta (hoping to relive our wedding meal) and I had ricotta and lemon ravioli - both of which turned out to be a bit ambitious for a lunchtime. Feeling full, we rolled down Park Slope, looking in all the shops and contemplating pretty things. I was in two minds about whether to buy some shoes; made by Fly London it seemed ridiculous to buy them here. However a subsequently online search reveals that they are only available in the UK in bright patent red (the ones in Brooklyn were a sober unshiney blue). The jury is still out about whether I will return for them.
After we'd had our Brooklyn fill, we headed back to the flat for a rest prior to the evening's excitements. In fact, it was one of the things I was most looking forward to - SciCafe at the American Museum of Natural History, where the future of space travel was to be discussed. We got the subway uptown (in fact we went too far, which led to Layla periodically berating herself for the rest of the evening, even though I told her this was unnecessary). The museum was pretty deserted when we got there, and I started to wonder whether the event really was going to be as fab as I'd hoped. Having finally found an entrance to the museum, we walked through deserted corridors and then suddenly turned a corner to find ourselves in a huge room, with rocks and pretty pictures, and a glamorous collection of people all sipping drinks and looking excited. And rightly so: the speaker Mike Shara, was amazing. He talked - without notes - enthusiastically and imaginatively. And within five minutes, had made me want to be an astronomer with all my heart. Such interesting ideas and all explained so clearly and well. He predicted the Chinese would be the next on the moon, that our energy problems would be solved by mining H3 on the moon and returning it to Earth on an elevator, that they would build a giant telescope on the moon, there would be a permanent colony on the moon in 25 years, and in a couple of centuries we'd be colonising the whole solar system.
After this glorious event (which also had free hummous for grazing on), we for once didn't feel in need of dinner. Instead, we headed down to the Village, in the hopes of going to a cool sounding cocktail bar. Alas we were foiled from executing that plan for an unexpected reason: neither of us had any ID on us. It's been years since I've even contemplated such a thing being needed. I'd like to hope that it was because Layla and I look so youthful, but I can't really believe that can be true in my heart of hearts... So instead, we went to the lovely Cornelia Street Cafe, where we managed to find room for a couple of snacks and drank sparkling wine flights, and discussed the future of space travel. And the theory of mind. A very good day indeed.
It was deeply pleasing to have a yoga studio so close to the flat, and even more so to find that yogic virtue meant that Layla blogged in my stead (she's a quicker writer than I am). On the way back to the flat, I picked up a coffee and an orange juice, only to overhear one of the customers complimenting the waitress for getting into shape. Oddly, instead of boxing him round the ears, she smiled sweetly and said that she'd got a show coming up soon, and had been doing a lot of dancing. Strange that such a comment is permissible - even welcome - here.
Back at the flat, I looked stern until Layla got out of bed and showered, and we were then up and ready for the day. Or at least for breakfast. We went back to S'Nice for some granola (for me) and a bagel (for Layla - she's a creature of habit) and had a quick look at the NY Times and planned our day. We then wandered down to Barnes and Noble in the Village where I looked hopefully for a copy of Amistead Maupin's new book - alas it turns out that it comes out in the US simultaneously with its publication in the UK. I did, however, pick up a copy of Edmund White's City Boy - not only has it been longlisted for the Green Carnation Prize but I keep seeing it listed as a classic NY book (which is not bad going, given its recent publication). Layla bought American Pastoral by Philip Roth, and I promised to carry the bag with them in for the rest of the day (a promise which, I'm not that ashamed to admit, I didn't keep).
From there we wandered through Washington Square, which was looking very pretty in the sunshine, and over to NYU, for Layla had a great enthusiasm to go to a lecture on the Theory of Mind, which we'd seen mentioned in a blog about free events. We entered the building and saw signs everywhere saying that we needed to show our student ID. We briefly conferred and then decided that probably nobody would ask for it (on this we were proved right). Then up to the 8th floor, with faltering resolution. We then gazed at the room. It was small. It has an oblong table in it. It had biscuits. It did not look like the venue for a public lecture. We ran away (briefly) and found someone vaguely official looking to enquire whether it was a public event. This was confirmed with much vigour. We returned to the room to find that the 2 seats nearest the door (which I'd hoped to occupy for a quick escape) had already been colonised. We therefore installed ourselves in the next closest seats. Sadly these were at one of the ends of the oblong table, which rather implied we were about to chair the discussion. But they were close to the biscuits (and, later, crisps) which I found a consolation throughout the next hour and a half. In fact, it turned out not too badly. No-one asked who we were or sought our views. It was a seminar by an associate professor, on sabbatical at NYU - Dr. William Fabricius. Since there was a great focus in the seminar on smarties, I managed to keep up ok. I did think that the subject matter under discussion was really a matter of semantics rather than something to devote 15 years of one's life to (as the speaker had). But I put this down to my ignorance. Particularly as around me others were gently nodding and muttering "cool, very cool" - kind of background noise - throughout. More surprising was that Layla was amongst the head nodders - though, being Scottish and decisive, her head nodding was vigorous and authoritative. After an hour or so, the seminar was going strong, but I'd eaten the majority of the crisps and it was definitely lunchtime, so Layla and I unsubtly left. On our exit, Layla then proceeded to explain with vigour why she had been unimpressed by the speaker - I never did manage to get to the bottom of the head nodding though - apparently this is what she always does at lectures...
From there we hopped on the subway and went to Park Slope - returning to Al Di La. We'd been last year and it had been one of our best meals and we just couldn't fit in a dinner there this time. We both had a delightful Farro Salad, with grains, and winter vegetables, and goat's cheese and walnuts and sherry. Layla then had a mushroom polenta (hoping to relive our wedding meal) and I had ricotta and lemon ravioli - both of which turned out to be a bit ambitious for a lunchtime. Feeling full, we rolled down Park Slope, looking in all the shops and contemplating pretty things. I was in two minds about whether to buy some shoes; made by Fly London it seemed ridiculous to buy them here. However a subsequently online search reveals that they are only available in the UK in bright patent red (the ones in Brooklyn were a sober unshiney blue). The jury is still out about whether I will return for them.
After we'd had our Brooklyn fill, we headed back to the flat for a rest prior to the evening's excitements. In fact, it was one of the things I was most looking forward to - SciCafe at the American Museum of Natural History, where the future of space travel was to be discussed. We got the subway uptown (in fact we went too far, which led to Layla periodically berating herself for the rest of the evening, even though I told her this was unnecessary). The museum was pretty deserted when we got there, and I started to wonder whether the event really was going to be as fab as I'd hoped. Having finally found an entrance to the museum, we walked through deserted corridors and then suddenly turned a corner to find ourselves in a huge room, with rocks and pretty pictures, and a glamorous collection of people all sipping drinks and looking excited. And rightly so: the speaker Mike Shara, was amazing. He talked - without notes - enthusiastically and imaginatively. And within five minutes, had made me want to be an astronomer with all my heart. Such interesting ideas and all explained so clearly and well. He predicted the Chinese would be the next on the moon, that our energy problems would be solved by mining H3 on the moon and returning it to Earth on an elevator, that they would build a giant telescope on the moon, there would be a permanent colony on the moon in 25 years, and in a couple of centuries we'd be colonising the whole solar system.
After this glorious event (which also had free hummous for grazing on), we for once didn't feel in need of dinner. Instead, we headed down to the Village, in the hopes of going to a cool sounding cocktail bar. Alas we were foiled from executing that plan for an unexpected reason: neither of us had any ID on us. It's been years since I've even contemplated such a thing being needed. I'd like to hope that it was because Layla and I look so youthful, but I can't really believe that can be true in my heart of hearts... So instead, we went to the lovely Cornelia Street Cafe, where we managed to find room for a couple of snacks and drank sparkling wine flights, and discussed the future of space travel. And the theory of mind. A very good day indeed.
Wednesday 6 October 2010
In which Layla and Roz play Scrabble, enjoy fashion, attend another restaurant preview and become the unfortunate focus of comedy
by Layla
I shall take the opportunity of Roz having leapt out of bed at 7am to go to a local yoga class to write another update. Yesterday we woke up late and were then flummoxed and indecisive about what to do. Eventually we went out to a local vegetarian cafe called 'Snice, which was indeed rather nice. A bit like a vegetarian Grey Dog, again with people sprawled out with papers on tables amidst an exposed-brick room, drinking coffee and socialising. I spotted a Scrabble board and soon we were deep in a game. It would be wrong to flaunt my second games-based victory in two days... After Scrabble it was pretty much lunchtime so we had sandwiches and more drinks (I had food envy of Roz's smoked mozzarella and wished I hadn't ordered tofu, which the US seems to like to flavour like meat). Then we hopped on a train north to the lovely Museum of the City of New York.
We were there to see their new exhibition, Notorious and Notable, 20th Century Women of Style. This was a great exhibition of clothes that belonged to New York's most stylish ladies in the last century. I began to feel rather ashamed of my own skirt and top combo and lamented that nobody is very likely to ask me to donate it to a museum exhibition in years to come... We had a fun time considering which outfits we would personally like to wear and popping up to see the dolls' houses, before hopping on the subway again, this time to Murray Hill, to see the new film The Social Network. Disappointingly, the film wasn't as good as the hype. Fortunately the popcorn was, so we watched it quite cheerfully. An interesting story of the birth of Facebook.
After the film we couldn't quite decide what to do - we had three plans, and only time for two. After much deliberation, we decided to ditch the Michael Cunningham book reading at Barnes and Noble bookshop in favour of food and comedy. The food was at another of New York's just-opened restaurants, this time to Osteria Morini in Soho, one of NYC's most awaited openings. In fact it had opened only the night before (friends and family) and last night marked the start of 'preview week'. There was quite a buzz as the restaurant filled up. Rustic Italian style food. We sat at the bar which gave us a good view of our fellow diners. We started with some delicious crisp bread and slightly soggy tomato focaccia, accompanied by a sparkling beverage akin to Prosecco, which they did not yet have in stock. We had a delicious cheeseboard to start with, with excellent cheeses to be eaten with flatbread. And then I almost fainted with food envy at Roz's squash pasta parcels - luckily she gave me half in exchange for my also tasty tomato gnocci. We polished off a bottle of wine and finished off with dessert - mine was a satisfyingly large chocolate, custard and meringue concoction, flame burnt before our eyes, while Roz had an espresso-ice-cream combo.
After an excellent dinner we pottered round the corner to Housing Works, the lovely bookshop whose profits go to helping homeless people with HIV/AIDS. They had a comedy show on, so we settled down with wine. Unfortunately the hosts were both puerile and dull, which I'm afraid led to a still-jetlagged Roz falling asleep. I didn't notice, but alas the comedians did. She awoke to their comments. This did not improve the night! We stayed for a couple of funnier acts, and then caught a cab home to give in to sleepiness.
I shall take the opportunity of Roz having leapt out of bed at 7am to go to a local yoga class to write another update. Yesterday we woke up late and were then flummoxed and indecisive about what to do. Eventually we went out to a local vegetarian cafe called 'Snice, which was indeed rather nice. A bit like a vegetarian Grey Dog, again with people sprawled out with papers on tables amidst an exposed-brick room, drinking coffee and socialising. I spotted a Scrabble board and soon we were deep in a game. It would be wrong to flaunt my second games-based victory in two days... After Scrabble it was pretty much lunchtime so we had sandwiches and more drinks (I had food envy of Roz's smoked mozzarella and wished I hadn't ordered tofu, which the US seems to like to flavour like meat). Then we hopped on a train north to the lovely Museum of the City of New York.
We were there to see their new exhibition, Notorious and Notable, 20th Century Women of Style. This was a great exhibition of clothes that belonged to New York's most stylish ladies in the last century. I began to feel rather ashamed of my own skirt and top combo and lamented that nobody is very likely to ask me to donate it to a museum exhibition in years to come... We had a fun time considering which outfits we would personally like to wear and popping up to see the dolls' houses, before hopping on the subway again, this time to Murray Hill, to see the new film The Social Network. Disappointingly, the film wasn't as good as the hype. Fortunately the popcorn was, so we watched it quite cheerfully. An interesting story of the birth of Facebook.
After the film we couldn't quite decide what to do - we had three plans, and only time for two. After much deliberation, we decided to ditch the Michael Cunningham book reading at Barnes and Noble bookshop in favour of food and comedy. The food was at another of New York's just-opened restaurants, this time to Osteria Morini in Soho, one of NYC's most awaited openings. In fact it had opened only the night before (friends and family) and last night marked the start of 'preview week'. There was quite a buzz as the restaurant filled up. Rustic Italian style food. We sat at the bar which gave us a good view of our fellow diners. We started with some delicious crisp bread and slightly soggy tomato focaccia, accompanied by a sparkling beverage akin to Prosecco, which they did not yet have in stock. We had a delicious cheeseboard to start with, with excellent cheeses to be eaten with flatbread. And then I almost fainted with food envy at Roz's squash pasta parcels - luckily she gave me half in exchange for my also tasty tomato gnocci. We polished off a bottle of wine and finished off with dessert - mine was a satisfyingly large chocolate, custard and meringue concoction, flame burnt before our eyes, while Roz had an espresso-ice-cream combo.
After an excellent dinner we pottered round the corner to Housing Works, the lovely bookshop whose profits go to helping homeless people with HIV/AIDS. They had a comedy show on, so we settled down with wine. Unfortunately the hosts were both puerile and dull, which I'm afraid led to a still-jetlagged Roz falling asleep. I didn't notice, but alas the comedians did. She awoke to their comments. This did not improve the night! We stayed for a couple of funnier acts, and then caught a cab home to give in to sleepiness.
Tuesday 5 October 2010
In which Layla and Roz go to the movies, shop for handbags, play ping pong and almost participate in The Moth
by Layla
I am peeved that the role of getting out of bed, getting dressed, walking to the corner shop and returning with coffee and bagels has definitely officially been designated a Layla role, but when yesterday started with the same routine, I knew it must be so. Just half a bagel though, because it only had to power us a few blocks down the road to the Grey Dog, our favourite breakfast joint last year. It was still as good. Cool, exposed brick surroundings. Huge coffees. Freshly squeezed orange juice. And amazing banana pancakes (me) and granola bowls (Roz). We read the New York Times over breakfast before venturing out in the drizzle.
Our next destination was the Sunshine cinema, a famous old art deco cinema on the Lower East Side which was screening Never Let Me Go, a film that is due to premiere in London next week. I'd been bitter we'd lost out in the ballot for the London opening night, and so was smug to settle down with a bag of popcorn in NYC to see the same film a week early. It was very good, though frankly rather depressing. After it finished we wandered around, trying to hunt down lunch, before settling on Jane, a brunch venue we enjoyed last year. We had a late lunch - a goat's cheese flatbread with caramelised onion for me, and a roast vegetable sandwich for Roz. Very pleasant.
Afterwards Roz reminded me of my outstanding chore: buying a new handbag. So we went to Bloomingdales round the corner where I almost had a heart attack over the prices attached to my potential future bags. Fortunately Roz noted my hysteria and steered me out of Bloomingdales and into a rather less glamorous shop nearby where I managed to invest in a new bag and no longer need to look as though I procured my handbag from a dustbin. Pleasing. Even more pleasing was the red velvet cupcake that Roz produced for me as a reward for binning my old handbag.
We hopped on the subway and sped slightly north to Fat Cat, a great bar/games venue, to play ping pong. Since I introduced Roz to the game in Borneo, she has been obsessed. We grabbed our bats and balls and took our place at our own ping pong court, with others playing/chatting/kissing in adjacent courts. No such distractions for us. I served, and we were off. I won't boast by saying I won, but...
After an hour of ping pong, we took another subway, this time to Park Slope in Brooklyn. Last year New York had introduced us to the glory of The Moth, a storytelling performance night, that led us to The Spark, London's equivalent, where I have since started telling stories myself. When we turned up last year at a Moth Story Slam night, we had been very surprised to find a queue stretching all the way around the block; we very nearly didn't get in. This time we were more canny. We turned up over an hour before the doors opened and joined an already growing line by the door of Southpaw, fortunately sheltered by a canopy from the ongoing drizzle. I settled down to wait while Roz, like a hero, walked down to the glorious Chocolate Room and brought me back a large and superlative hot chocolate with cream, ice cream and marshmallows. As I sipped this in silent joy, she headed off again, this time to obtain falafel. We'd hoped to pop into delicious nearby restaurant Al Di La but this clearly wasn't going to be possible. So Roz returned with freshly made falafel and hummous sandwiches and we stood in line, munching falafel pitta with delight and chatting to a nearby storyteller while waiting for the doors to open.
Eventually they did open and we were smug to get good seats, giving us a vantage point to watch the latecomers having to sit on the floor. Now being a London storytelling veteran (well, almost), I really wanted to tell my story at The Moth, so put my name into the hat. Unfortunately so did another 27 people, and as there were only 10 slots, I knew I would probably be doomed. That meant that Roz and I listened to each of the ten stories in a state of high agitation, wondering if I was going to be called next. I wasn't. We drank beer, ate chocolate-covered Graham Crackers from the Chocolate Room, enjoyed the stories, and sniggered at the bizarre American positivity which led the organiser to tell the three sets of judges 'You can rate the stories on a scale of 1-10, but don't rate anyone lower than seven!' He went on to clarify 'Is there something so wrong with your own life that you have to shit on someone else's?' Er, why have a scale when you can only use the top end of it?! We settled down to an evening of 7.4s and 8.1s... and muttered bitterly that I'd have been a 9.9 (well maybe...). At the end of the night, the remaining 18 people who didn't get to tell their stories were invited onstage to say the first line of their story. I launched into mine, and my one line was a hit. Frustrating that I didn't get to tell the rest. Even for that one minute, with the huge crowd of highly enthusiastic people, I felt a little like a rock star (or perhaps I poorly estimate the feeling of a rockstar, but at any rate, I felt cool).
The stories over, we walked back to the subway and ambled slowly home on a local train.
I am peeved that the role of getting out of bed, getting dressed, walking to the corner shop and returning with coffee and bagels has definitely officially been designated a Layla role, but when yesterday started with the same routine, I knew it must be so. Just half a bagel though, because it only had to power us a few blocks down the road to the Grey Dog, our favourite breakfast joint last year. It was still as good. Cool, exposed brick surroundings. Huge coffees. Freshly squeezed orange juice. And amazing banana pancakes (me) and granola bowls (Roz). We read the New York Times over breakfast before venturing out in the drizzle.
Our next destination was the Sunshine cinema, a famous old art deco cinema on the Lower East Side which was screening Never Let Me Go, a film that is due to premiere in London next week. I'd been bitter we'd lost out in the ballot for the London opening night, and so was smug to settle down with a bag of popcorn in NYC to see the same film a week early. It was very good, though frankly rather depressing. After it finished we wandered around, trying to hunt down lunch, before settling on Jane, a brunch venue we enjoyed last year. We had a late lunch - a goat's cheese flatbread with caramelised onion for me, and a roast vegetable sandwich for Roz. Very pleasant.
Afterwards Roz reminded me of my outstanding chore: buying a new handbag. So we went to Bloomingdales round the corner where I almost had a heart attack over the prices attached to my potential future bags. Fortunately Roz noted my hysteria and steered me out of Bloomingdales and into a rather less glamorous shop nearby where I managed to invest in a new bag and no longer need to look as though I procured my handbag from a dustbin. Pleasing. Even more pleasing was the red velvet cupcake that Roz produced for me as a reward for binning my old handbag.
We hopped on the subway and sped slightly north to Fat Cat, a great bar/games venue, to play ping pong. Since I introduced Roz to the game in Borneo, she has been obsessed. We grabbed our bats and balls and took our place at our own ping pong court, with others playing/chatting/kissing in adjacent courts. No such distractions for us. I served, and we were off. I won't boast by saying I won, but...
After an hour of ping pong, we took another subway, this time to Park Slope in Brooklyn. Last year New York had introduced us to the glory of The Moth, a storytelling performance night, that led us to The Spark, London's equivalent, where I have since started telling stories myself. When we turned up last year at a Moth Story Slam night, we had been very surprised to find a queue stretching all the way around the block; we very nearly didn't get in. This time we were more canny. We turned up over an hour before the doors opened and joined an already growing line by the door of Southpaw, fortunately sheltered by a canopy from the ongoing drizzle. I settled down to wait while Roz, like a hero, walked down to the glorious Chocolate Room and brought me back a large and superlative hot chocolate with cream, ice cream and marshmallows. As I sipped this in silent joy, she headed off again, this time to obtain falafel. We'd hoped to pop into delicious nearby restaurant Al Di La but this clearly wasn't going to be possible. So Roz returned with freshly made falafel and hummous sandwiches and we stood in line, munching falafel pitta with delight and chatting to a nearby storyteller while waiting for the doors to open.
Eventually they did open and we were smug to get good seats, giving us a vantage point to watch the latecomers having to sit on the floor. Now being a London storytelling veteran (well, almost), I really wanted to tell my story at The Moth, so put my name into the hat. Unfortunately so did another 27 people, and as there were only 10 slots, I knew I would probably be doomed. That meant that Roz and I listened to each of the ten stories in a state of high agitation, wondering if I was going to be called next. I wasn't. We drank beer, ate chocolate-covered Graham Crackers from the Chocolate Room, enjoyed the stories, and sniggered at the bizarre American positivity which led the organiser to tell the three sets of judges 'You can rate the stories on a scale of 1-10, but don't rate anyone lower than seven!' He went on to clarify 'Is there something so wrong with your own life that you have to shit on someone else's?' Er, why have a scale when you can only use the top end of it?! We settled down to an evening of 7.4s and 8.1s... and muttered bitterly that I'd have been a 9.9 (well maybe...). At the end of the night, the remaining 18 people who didn't get to tell their stories were invited onstage to say the first line of their story. I launched into mine, and my one line was a hit. Frustrating that I didn't get to tell the rest. Even for that one minute, with the huge crowd of highly enthusiastic people, I felt a little like a rock star (or perhaps I poorly estimate the feeling of a rockstar, but at any rate, I felt cool).
The stories over, we walked back to the subway and ambled slowly home on a local train.
Monday 4 October 2010
In which Roz and Layla cycled clockwise round Manhattan, had an untimely brunch, attended a clever event and dined in a brand new restaurant
by Roz
We awoke very early, after our beetroot extravaganza the night before. I made a quick decision to make Layla's key chore for the holiday getting up to go and get me coffee in bed. Having informed Layla of this, I remained cosily in bed whilst she nipped to the corner deli. That she returned with coffee and bagels obviously didn't cause me any sorrow (and is the reason why she is currently out performing this chore again, as I type) and we planned our only Sunday in NY.
We began the very sunny day by wandering down along the Hudson river to the bike shop where we'd hired bikes last year (which fortunately opens early, even on a Sunday). We rejected all suggestions that we should go for cruiser bikes for women and butchly opted for men's bikes (because of their familiar handlebars). We then cycled off clockwise round Manhattan - the opposite way to last year (which we had convinced ourselves would mean it would be a very different experience). And indeed, it did turn out to be so. Partly, I suspect, because towards the end of the cycle last time we were so tired that we didn't notice anything - but also because Manhattan is infinitely varied, as are its people. Pleasingly there was some kind of organised cycle ride going on which we got caught up on the edges of - roads were closed (not that this affected us, since we were cycling along the riverside) and there was generally much excitement and we continued to pass riders all the way up the West Side. (A quick google search has revealed that this was in fact the Bike MS NYC ride, which is the largest organised cycling event in the US - which seems most strange, given that one of the nicest things about seeing it was that it seemed comparatively small and given the thin trickle of riders we were surprised that roads were closed - in the UK they'd have had to put put up with a narrow corridor on the edge of the road.)
We'd decided to go less far than last time - the top of Manhattan doesn't have the same pleasant bike route and we didn't feel the need to see Harlem again. Which made it all the more odd that we ended up stopping off for water in the same dodgy looking corner store as last year. Either there aren't many stores up there, or we have a peculiar homing device... Going down the East Side, we went through quiet parks and felt very jolly in the sunshine. But hunger always starts to get the better of me (after all did you notice we'd only had one breakfast?!) and so we slowed as we passed the only stall we'd seen on the route. Delightfully, as we did so, the music which we'd not noticed before suddenly changed, and was a very slow version of "Too Marvellous" - our wedding dance song. We didn't quite manage to Charleston to it but we did do a jig of joy at being in NYC, city of romance.
Still, romance doesn't mean you can't be hungry - and since the music-playing stall turned out to have a combination of fruit and CDs (a curious business model) - we pressed on. Skirting the UN, I wondered why the civil servants housed there weren't more interested in having delightful lunch options (since I could only see dodgy looking cafes): presumably there's a wonderful cafe or two inside. Back by the river, just before South Street Seaport, we came across a lovely farmers' market. We abandoned our bikes with glee, and sampled pretty much everything that was going, from pesto goat's cheese to NY wine, before opting for a bowl or two of a really delicious butternut squash soup and some tomato focaccia, which we ate on a bench overlooking the river. We then pressed on towards Battery Park, feeling smug at our progress and lack of tiredness. Until we realised that we'd actually been going at a snail's pace and our 4 hours of bike hire were nearly up (either that, or we spent a reeeeally long time eating food at the farmers' market!). But I'm afraid we nevertheless did dally to wave at the Statue of Liberty and grin at the sunshine and the jollyness of the day.
We got back to the bike hire shop with 10 minutes to spare and half an hour to kill before we were due at the SVT Theatre, in hopes of getting tickets for another talk at the New Yorker Festival (a few additional tickets go on sale an hour before an event). We wandered towards Greenwich Village to go a shop that I'd seen on our first night in NY which had a pretty bag in it. Alas the pretty bag turned out to be not so good in daylight but Layla decided to invest in a cute black hat - obviously an essential component in anyone's wardrobe. Having tarried there longer than we intended, we then jumped into the nearest metro station - only to find some drama with the metro. We hopped out again, far from the theatre, and I made Layla walk at such a pace that her face turned bright red. In retrospect, I was cruel. We joined the queue for tickets and crossed our fingers tightly that there would be tickets still left for the panel discussion we wanted to go to: Your Brain on the Internet". Delightfully there were. Having secured the tickets, I expressed an enthusiasm for a drink. In fact, I meant (true English girl that I am) a cup of tea. However, Layla suggested we head to East of Eighth, a gay restaurant which we'd been to last year and which was very close indeed. We headed over there, and asked for mimosas. The nice waiter brought mimosas and the brunch menu "just in case". I'm afraid to say that we decided our enjoyment of the New Yorker Festival would be much enhanced by a hasty pancake and so we indulged. Brunch at 3.30: it seemed wrong, but it tasted very good! Back at the theatre, the discussion was interesting (though not as good as the first discussion we'd been to). It nevertheless sparked discussion, on and off, for much of the rest of the day. And a large number of tweets from Layla.
We walked back to our flat and had a rest (having failed to make the TV work due to our incompetence and non-familiarity with such devices) and got ready for our night out. We were both immensely excited about our evening plans: dinner at a newly opened and very fancy restaurant over on the Lower East Side. (In fact, it turned out to be so newly opened that at the end of the evening we got 20% off our bill, for being in preview week: pleasing.) We got a cab over (my heels were too high to walk for 40 mins!) and found ourselves deposited in a deserted road by the river. We looked at each other uncertainly: could this really be where one of NY hottest tables of the moment was to be found?! We decided to press on, and headed towards a very corporate looking building - oddly walking past tons of signs congratulating those who had made to contributions to science. Inside the corporate building, there was a reception desk (none of the staff looked interested in us). We walked with some trepidation round the corner - only to find a beautiful dimly-lit restaurant. We began by a glass of prosecco (for Layla) and a prosecco based pink cocktail for me. We then inspected the other diners. They turned out to be a curious bunch: not quite as glamorous as we would have expected. We asked the waitress to "talk us through our vegetarian options". She looked slightly appalled. Having rejected the chef's offer to make us a "veggie plate" (which another diner had had, and which would have been "special" and a "surprise" but which seemed to simply consist of a vast number of vegetables, including brussel sprouts), Layla opted for a slightly spicy cheese option to start with, whilst I had an artichoke salad. We then both went for pumpkin seed tortellini in a roasted squash soup. All were delicious (though we both thought the butternut squash soup we'd had earlier in the day had, in fact, had the edge), as was the Sancerre we had. For dessert, Layla went for the slimming option of chocolate tart and chocolate sorbet, whilst I had vanilla ice cream. Only after the desserts had been brought, did the waitress tell us that the desserts had been bought for us by the manager, to make up for the lack of vegetarian options - if I'd known that I'd have upgraded my dessert options! Or indeed gone for the option taken by a table of fellow diners - to have one of each of the desserts (we decided that they were probably restaurant critics- albeit distinctly unglamorous-looking ones- which would also explain the amount of attention they received)! After that very lovely meal, we were both yawning with a touch of jet lag and the soporific effect of the dim lighting, and so we got a cab home.
We awoke very early, after our beetroot extravaganza the night before. I made a quick decision to make Layla's key chore for the holiday getting up to go and get me coffee in bed. Having informed Layla of this, I remained cosily in bed whilst she nipped to the corner deli. That she returned with coffee and bagels obviously didn't cause me any sorrow (and is the reason why she is currently out performing this chore again, as I type) and we planned our only Sunday in NY.
We began the very sunny day by wandering down along the Hudson river to the bike shop where we'd hired bikes last year (which fortunately opens early, even on a Sunday). We rejected all suggestions that we should go for cruiser bikes for women and butchly opted for men's bikes (because of their familiar handlebars). We then cycled off clockwise round Manhattan - the opposite way to last year (which we had convinced ourselves would mean it would be a very different experience). And indeed, it did turn out to be so. Partly, I suspect, because towards the end of the cycle last time we were so tired that we didn't notice anything - but also because Manhattan is infinitely varied, as are its people. Pleasingly there was some kind of organised cycle ride going on which we got caught up on the edges of - roads were closed (not that this affected us, since we were cycling along the riverside) and there was generally much excitement and we continued to pass riders all the way up the West Side. (A quick google search has revealed that this was in fact the Bike MS NYC ride, which is the largest organised cycling event in the US - which seems most strange, given that one of the nicest things about seeing it was that it seemed comparatively small and given the thin trickle of riders we were surprised that roads were closed - in the UK they'd have had to put put up with a narrow corridor on the edge of the road.)
We'd decided to go less far than last time - the top of Manhattan doesn't have the same pleasant bike route and we didn't feel the need to see Harlem again. Which made it all the more odd that we ended up stopping off for water in the same dodgy looking corner store as last year. Either there aren't many stores up there, or we have a peculiar homing device... Going down the East Side, we went through quiet parks and felt very jolly in the sunshine. But hunger always starts to get the better of me (after all did you notice we'd only had one breakfast?!) and so we slowed as we passed the only stall we'd seen on the route. Delightfully, as we did so, the music which we'd not noticed before suddenly changed, and was a very slow version of "Too Marvellous" - our wedding dance song. We didn't quite manage to Charleston to it but we did do a jig of joy at being in NYC, city of romance.
Still, romance doesn't mean you can't be hungry - and since the music-playing stall turned out to have a combination of fruit and CDs (a curious business model) - we pressed on. Skirting the UN, I wondered why the civil servants housed there weren't more interested in having delightful lunch options (since I could only see dodgy looking cafes): presumably there's a wonderful cafe or two inside. Back by the river, just before South Street Seaport, we came across a lovely farmers' market. We abandoned our bikes with glee, and sampled pretty much everything that was going, from pesto goat's cheese to NY wine, before opting for a bowl or two of a really delicious butternut squash soup and some tomato focaccia, which we ate on a bench overlooking the river. We then pressed on towards Battery Park, feeling smug at our progress and lack of tiredness. Until we realised that we'd actually been going at a snail's pace and our 4 hours of bike hire were nearly up (either that, or we spent a reeeeally long time eating food at the farmers' market!). But I'm afraid we nevertheless did dally to wave at the Statue of Liberty and grin at the sunshine and the jollyness of the day.
We got back to the bike hire shop with 10 minutes to spare and half an hour to kill before we were due at the SVT Theatre, in hopes of getting tickets for another talk at the New Yorker Festival (a few additional tickets go on sale an hour before an event). We wandered towards Greenwich Village to go a shop that I'd seen on our first night in NY which had a pretty bag in it. Alas the pretty bag turned out to be not so good in daylight but Layla decided to invest in a cute black hat - obviously an essential component in anyone's wardrobe. Having tarried there longer than we intended, we then jumped into the nearest metro station - only to find some drama with the metro. We hopped out again, far from the theatre, and I made Layla walk at such a pace that her face turned bright red. In retrospect, I was cruel. We joined the queue for tickets and crossed our fingers tightly that there would be tickets still left for the panel discussion we wanted to go to: Your Brain on the Internet". Delightfully there were. Having secured the tickets, I expressed an enthusiasm for a drink. In fact, I meant (true English girl that I am) a cup of tea. However, Layla suggested we head to East of Eighth, a gay restaurant which we'd been to last year and which was very close indeed. We headed over there, and asked for mimosas. The nice waiter brought mimosas and the brunch menu "just in case". I'm afraid to say that we decided our enjoyment of the New Yorker Festival would be much enhanced by a hasty pancake and so we indulged. Brunch at 3.30: it seemed wrong, but it tasted very good! Back at the theatre, the discussion was interesting (though not as good as the first discussion we'd been to). It nevertheless sparked discussion, on and off, for much of the rest of the day. And a large number of tweets from Layla.
We walked back to our flat and had a rest (having failed to make the TV work due to our incompetence and non-familiarity with such devices) and got ready for our night out. We were both immensely excited about our evening plans: dinner at a newly opened and very fancy restaurant over on the Lower East Side. (In fact, it turned out to be so newly opened that at the end of the evening we got 20% off our bill, for being in preview week: pleasing.) We got a cab over (my heels were too high to walk for 40 mins!) and found ourselves deposited in a deserted road by the river. We looked at each other uncertainly: could this really be where one of NY hottest tables of the moment was to be found?! We decided to press on, and headed towards a very corporate looking building - oddly walking past tons of signs congratulating those who had made to contributions to science. Inside the corporate building, there was a reception desk (none of the staff looked interested in us). We walked with some trepidation round the corner - only to find a beautiful dimly-lit restaurant. We began by a glass of prosecco (for Layla) and a prosecco based pink cocktail for me. We then inspected the other diners. They turned out to be a curious bunch: not quite as glamorous as we would have expected. We asked the waitress to "talk us through our vegetarian options". She looked slightly appalled. Having rejected the chef's offer to make us a "veggie plate" (which another diner had had, and which would have been "special" and a "surprise" but which seemed to simply consist of a vast number of vegetables, including brussel sprouts), Layla opted for a slightly spicy cheese option to start with, whilst I had an artichoke salad. We then both went for pumpkin seed tortellini in a roasted squash soup. All were delicious (though we both thought the butternut squash soup we'd had earlier in the day had, in fact, had the edge), as was the Sancerre we had. For dessert, Layla went for the slimming option of chocolate tart and chocolate sorbet, whilst I had vanilla ice cream. Only after the desserts had been brought, did the waitress tell us that the desserts had been bought for us by the manager, to make up for the lack of vegetarian options - if I'd known that I'd have upgraded my dessert options! Or indeed gone for the option taken by a table of fellow diners - to have one of each of the desserts (we decided that they were probably restaurant critics- albeit distinctly unglamorous-looking ones- which would also explain the amount of attention they received)! After that very lovely meal, we were both yawning with a touch of jet lag and the soporific effect of the dim lighting, and so we got a cab home.
Saturday 2 October 2010
In which Layla and Roz return to New York, eat a large number of breakfasts, and attend the New Yorker Festival
by Layla
Almost a year since our wonderful New York honeymoon, Roz and I decided to return to the scene of romance and have another week-long holiday in NYC. Sadly this one hasn't involved lots of friends giving us money to do wonderful things and eat fabulous food, as they did for our wedding presents last year, but nevertheless, we are very excited.
We set off from London at 4:30pm which we hoped would be the best way to combat jetlag. A slight delay to the flight meant we arrived in NYC just in time for a late dinner. First we dumped our bags and unpacked with great speed at our new Horatio Street apartment, just on the border of Greenwich Village and the Meatpacking District. It's owned by a gay boy couple and the one who showed us round was very welcoming. Having unpacked at triple speed, we ventured out into the Friday evening buzz. For some reason we had identified a restaurant to visit that was quite a walk away and did not take reservations; predictably when we eventually arrived, it was packed with a huge queue outside, so we thought better of it and retreated to a place called Cowgirl. We had some tasty nachos and guacamole and enjoyed some people watching before we were surrounded on either side by people eating the most meat in the world and Roz started to feel a tad ill. We finished off our drinks outside, then stumbled home sleepily to bed.
Up far too bright and early the next day, we were bitter that our anti-jetlag plan had not worked as perfectly as we had hoped. I popped out to a cornershop, walking joyfully down the redbrick-lined New York street in the sunshine, and returned with coffee, juice, and a bagel and cream cheese which we munched with relish in bed.
Eventually it was an acceptable time to get up properly. Our flat is just a block from the start of the Highline Park, that elevated, narrow park made from old railway lines. We pottered along its length, with the river sparkling in the sun in the distance, and felt very, very happy to be back in New York. Our early morning bagel being merely a snack, our sights were set on a delicious brunch in Cookshop at the other end of the park. Sadly it was still closed, so we spent the next hour walking through the streets of Chelsea, popping into cool boutiquey shops, and eating a pre-prandial banana/caramel crepe at a lovely little boutique mini-mall. Roz asks me to stress that I had the lion's share of said crepe. I personally think that's a lie...
After our crepe we decided it really must be time for breakfast and retraced our steps to Cookshop, which was absolutely packed. In a New York mood we ordered Mimosas to our fancy scrambled eggs, carmelised onion and chicory combo and spent a delightful brunch eating and again people watching. New York is such a brilliant place for people watching. It's intriguing how such an apparently comparatively higher proportion of the population seems to be gay.
Brunch over, we walked past a pretty gated playpark where we played giant noughts-and-crosses until Roz was eventually victorious, before noting adults without children were not allowed in the park and retreating to the site of our next event, the SVA Theater. We had been delighted to discover our trip coincided with the famous New Yorker festival. Roz had identified that tickets sell out within 15 minutes of going on sale, so a few weeks ago I sat at my computer, fingers poised over the mouse, and successfully obtained tickets to two events (which pleasingly were both sold out within 5 minutes). Our first was at 1pm yesterday: James Surowiecki was speaking on 'Lucky, Good or Both? Talent and Context in a Random World'. Surowiecki is the person who wrote 'The Wisdom of Crowds' and he was even more fascinating than I had expected. After an accidental tiny jet-lagged snooze in the first 10 minutes, I was glued to his talk and tweeted vigorously. Afterwards, we bought 7 day metro passes and zipped north to Central Park, via the Columbus City shopping mall in a doomed attempt to purchase a handbag to replace my falling-apart-and-full-of-holes-and-doesn't-close monstrosity. Clutching my open, holey bag, we proceeded into the park, which was very busy and full of New Yorkers enjoying the sunny Saturday. We found the boating pond but the queues were disgusting, so we ended up sitting on a quiet bench looking out on the model boat pond which was far more serene. I proved once again that my soppiness levels are ridiculous (particularly when on holiday) by shedding a tear at the dedications on the bench...
After the park we took the subway down to Greenwich Village, our old subway stop of last year's trip, and went to the Cornelia Street Cafe for some old time's sake Sancerre. Tasty. Then we walked down Bleeker Street to our other New Yorker event, in association with our much-beloved Moth Storytelling event, at Le Poisson Rouge. Free wine and chocolate made me happy before the stories even began at this rather cool venue, and then the stories by New Yorker staff about their time at the magazine were really interesting.
Alas the event went on for so long that we missed our dinner reservation at the Fig and Olive. When we turned up, they said they'd find us a table, then abandoned us in a mobbed, loud music, trendy place where we stood jet-laggedly before fleeing in favour of a random Italian restaurant on the corner of our street. We couldn't seem to understand the menu, which may be how we ended up with a massive plate of beetroot. (Also a little risotto and a salad, but mainly it was beetroot.) We were much revived by the beetroot, but still sleepy, so after a rather pleasant meal, eaten at a little Hudson Street sidewalk table, we sloped off home to bed.
Almost a year since our wonderful New York honeymoon, Roz and I decided to return to the scene of romance and have another week-long holiday in NYC. Sadly this one hasn't involved lots of friends giving us money to do wonderful things and eat fabulous food, as they did for our wedding presents last year, but nevertheless, we are very excited.
We set off from London at 4:30pm which we hoped would be the best way to combat jetlag. A slight delay to the flight meant we arrived in NYC just in time for a late dinner. First we dumped our bags and unpacked with great speed at our new Horatio Street apartment, just on the border of Greenwich Village and the Meatpacking District. It's owned by a gay boy couple and the one who showed us round was very welcoming. Having unpacked at triple speed, we ventured out into the Friday evening buzz. For some reason we had identified a restaurant to visit that was quite a walk away and did not take reservations; predictably when we eventually arrived, it was packed with a huge queue outside, so we thought better of it and retreated to a place called Cowgirl. We had some tasty nachos and guacamole and enjoyed some people watching before we were surrounded on either side by people eating the most meat in the world and Roz started to feel a tad ill. We finished off our drinks outside, then stumbled home sleepily to bed.
Up far too bright and early the next day, we were bitter that our anti-jetlag plan had not worked as perfectly as we had hoped. I popped out to a cornershop, walking joyfully down the redbrick-lined New York street in the sunshine, and returned with coffee, juice, and a bagel and cream cheese which we munched with relish in bed.
Eventually it was an acceptable time to get up properly. Our flat is just a block from the start of the Highline Park, that elevated, narrow park made from old railway lines. We pottered along its length, with the river sparkling in the sun in the distance, and felt very, very happy to be back in New York. Our early morning bagel being merely a snack, our sights were set on a delicious brunch in Cookshop at the other end of the park. Sadly it was still closed, so we spent the next hour walking through the streets of Chelsea, popping into cool boutiquey shops, and eating a pre-prandial banana/caramel crepe at a lovely little boutique mini-mall. Roz asks me to stress that I had the lion's share of said crepe. I personally think that's a lie...
After our crepe we decided it really must be time for breakfast and retraced our steps to Cookshop, which was absolutely packed. In a New York mood we ordered Mimosas to our fancy scrambled eggs, carmelised onion and chicory combo and spent a delightful brunch eating and again people watching. New York is such a brilliant place for people watching. It's intriguing how such an apparently comparatively higher proportion of the population seems to be gay.
Brunch over, we walked past a pretty gated playpark where we played giant noughts-and-crosses until Roz was eventually victorious, before noting adults without children were not allowed in the park and retreating to the site of our next event, the SVA Theater. We had been delighted to discover our trip coincided with the famous New Yorker festival. Roz had identified that tickets sell out within 15 minutes of going on sale, so a few weeks ago I sat at my computer, fingers poised over the mouse, and successfully obtained tickets to two events (which pleasingly were both sold out within 5 minutes). Our first was at 1pm yesterday: James Surowiecki was speaking on 'Lucky, Good or Both? Talent and Context in a Random World'. Surowiecki is the person who wrote 'The Wisdom of Crowds' and he was even more fascinating than I had expected. After an accidental tiny jet-lagged snooze in the first 10 minutes, I was glued to his talk and tweeted vigorously. Afterwards, we bought 7 day metro passes and zipped north to Central Park, via the Columbus City shopping mall in a doomed attempt to purchase a handbag to replace my falling-apart-and-full-of-holes-and-doesn't-close monstrosity. Clutching my open, holey bag, we proceeded into the park, which was very busy and full of New Yorkers enjoying the sunny Saturday. We found the boating pond but the queues were disgusting, so we ended up sitting on a quiet bench looking out on the model boat pond which was far more serene. I proved once again that my soppiness levels are ridiculous (particularly when on holiday) by shedding a tear at the dedications on the bench...
After the park we took the subway down to Greenwich Village, our old subway stop of last year's trip, and went to the Cornelia Street Cafe for some old time's sake Sancerre. Tasty. Then we walked down Bleeker Street to our other New Yorker event, in association with our much-beloved Moth Storytelling event, at Le Poisson Rouge. Free wine and chocolate made me happy before the stories even began at this rather cool venue, and then the stories by New Yorker staff about their time at the magazine were really interesting.
Alas the event went on for so long that we missed our dinner reservation at the Fig and Olive. When we turned up, they said they'd find us a table, then abandoned us in a mobbed, loud music, trendy place where we stood jet-laggedly before fleeing in favour of a random Italian restaurant on the corner of our street. We couldn't seem to understand the menu, which may be how we ended up with a massive plate of beetroot. (Also a little risotto and a salad, but mainly it was beetroot.) We were much revived by the beetroot, but still sleepy, so after a rather pleasant meal, eaten at a little Hudson Street sidewalk table, we sloped off home to bed.
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