By Layla
As Roz always takes control of our getting-together anniversaries, with surprise trips and little notebooks to tell me what we’re doing each step of the way, I foolishly agreed to take responsibility for our first wedding anniversary. By the time of our departure, I had already accidentally revealed to Roz that we were going to Copenhagen, got into an indecisive tizz, and ended up with her booking the hotel. I had already failed on the surprise front. I had to make things special – but how?
The trip started salubriously after work on Friday, when we headed to Stansted Airport to get an Easyjet flight to Copehnhagen. As we soared Denmark-wards, we tucked into Pret a Manger vegetarian bento boxes and by the time we landed, already felt rather festive. An eye wateringly expensive taxi conveyed us to our hotel, with the taxi driver sweetly giving us a guided tour of Copenhagen (and warning us how expensive it was compared to London).
We arrived at the Admiral Hotel, on the waterfront in a cool old wharf building, and with much relief I found that the hotel had followed my instructions to have champagne cooling in our bedroom. The first time I’ve ever ordered this before – and I was most pleased to see that it came complete with some very delicious chocolate on a stylish slate. Curious that it was pink and tasted a bit like juice... We drank and munched with glee, before deciding we still felt rather perky, so we headed out into the chilly Copenhagen night.
It had been my vague plan to find a nice bar in the stretch of restaurants lining Nyhavn, the old harbour. This was very picturesque, with colourful buildings and water lapping, but the bars were not very tempting. Not even the Scottish gastropub.. I resolved to take Roz to one of the world’s best bars, Ruby, that had been recommended to me. Alas I couldn’t remember exactly where it was, but after a 15 minute walk through the Friday night streets of central Copenhagen, including along a street full of wedding dresses, we found it. Mainly alerted by the long queue outside, seemingly to the Georgian Embassy, that made us rather sad at 11:30pm but we decided to persist, and by midnight we were mounting the steps to the bar (intriguingly in the building’s hallway, Ruby on the right, Georgian Embassy straight ahead). The top floor was unpleasantly mobbed, but we fought our way to the bar and ordered a couple of superlative cocktails (Roz had French 75, I had Halo) and retired to a more sedate lower floor to bag a couple of seats and sip appreciatively. My seat was next to a man who started to chat me up, much to my smugness and Roz’s indignation! After we polished off these cocktails, we retrieved the menu, to find it was a different one – we were now in the room of ‘forgotten cocktails’. We embarked on a cocktail exploration of Colonial days, and had a very pleasant evening, til the tiredness overtook us and we walked home to our hotel, through pretty Copenhagen streets.
On Saturday we exhaustedly slept very late, and by the time we eventually woke up, it was almost lunchtime. Which I didn’t really notice or think about, and when Roz announced a desire for breakfast, all I could think of was how to find some for her, rather than the far more appropriate thought that she should save her appetite. I hadn’t managed much in the way of surprises, but I had a really good one up my sleeve... The best restaurant in the world, Noma, is located in Copenhagen. In fact this was the inspiration for me booking the tickets. Alas when I’d tried to book I’d found out how silly I was to imagine that was all it took – it was almost impossible to get a table at Noma! There were absolutely no tables for months into the future. The reservations person pretty much laughed out loud at my request. Frustratedly, I had put my name on a waiting list and contacted them obsessively, in the unlikely hope of a mad person cancelling. After all, who would cancel lunch at Noma?
I’d given up all hope by Friday afternoon when I got the phone call. ‘Would you still be interested in a table at Noma for lunch?’ I practically did a jig in the street. And had somehow managed to conceal the excitement from Roz. So much so that we were halfway through ordering a large breakfast when with horror I realised my error. The eggs we’d ordered came with non-vegetarian accompaniment and I sent it back, refusing a new plate. Roz was somewhat bemused until I produced my version of her cool surprise notebook and bade her turn the page. When she read that we were going to Noma, she practically exploded with excitement. And I felt very smug indeed.
Noma is located at the deserted end of an island in Christianhavn, in an old wharf building. We walked there from Nyhavn, along the water, and then – embarrassingly early – we practically pressed our noses up against the windows until the hour approached, and we stepped over the threshold of the best restaurant in the world.
There is always the fear, when going somewhere with such a reputation, that disappointment is nigh. I am delighted to report that Noma fulfilled all our foodie dreams. We were shown to our table, overlooking the harbour and brightly coloured buildings of Nyhavn across the water, in a very cool, contemporary, fancy, warehousey building with exposed wood and brick, a contemporary vibe, and a full room of very happy-looking diners. We accepted the suggestion of champagne, and then a waiter marched up to us to confirm our food requirements Yes, we were vegetarians. No, we had no other allergies. He then marched off without any suggestion of a menu, and we realised: at Noma you don’t choose what sounds good. The chef knowa what you want to eat!
And so began a series of seven ‘snacks’, each one more beautiful, quirky, elaborate and intriguingly delicious than the last. Deep fried lichen on a bed of moss. Some bright red seaweed with pickled rose petals that tasted of penny sweets. Some creamed broadbeans on impossibly thin rye toast. Two tiny marinated quail eggs with liquid yolk, served on a bed of straw inside a large ceramic egg, from which inexplicable steam billowed. Deep fried leek bulbs. Wafer-thin ciabatta with nine herb topping. And most impressively, a plantpot with plants growing from it – you pulled the plants out to find they were beautifully prepared vegetables buried in edible soil (smoked hazelnut and beer). With each course came a waiter who described it in depth.
We had rather assumed that these dishes were the meal, so when the last one came, and the waiter explained that this was the end of the snacks, and thus of the service of his part of the kitchen, we were intrigued. Soon a new waiter appeared and advised us of our one choice: we could choose seven courses or twelve. He warned us that twelve courses would have to be eaten rather speedily as they closed at 4. Roz and I looked at each other. Twelve courses sounded mighty decadent… on the other hand, how could we live with missing out on five glorious courses at the best restaurant in the world? We took a deep breath and asked for twelve. Which Roz accompanied with matching wine flights.
And so the dishes commenced. I can’t remember them all. There was a glorious mushroom dish. A bizarre and delicious cucumber dish with frozen cucumber balls wrapped in burnt cucumber skin. One of onion and tapioca. A special egg dish that one fried oneself at the table (alone of all the diners, I failed to break the egg properly, then burned myself with the oil, much to the distress/disgust of the waiter who clearly thought my priorities were deeply wrong when I chose running my hand under cold water over eating the glorious food at the moment it tasted best), a cabbage plate… hazelnuts… oh goodness, I couldn’t possibly do the dishes justice with my descriptions. Each was intriguing, innovative, amazing… and mostly delicious. There were three desserts. The poached pear with raw pear sliced on top was delicious, but its accompanying freeze-dried pear soufflé was absolutely astounding. The artichoke icecream was fascinating. Malt and compressed apple discs. Freezedried beetroot crumbs surrounding caramelised brown cheese. As we retired to the coffee table to eat our chocolate treats at the end, we realised I had eaten 21 courses (Roz had eaten 19 – I had pilfered some of hers!) When the bill came I had to clutch the table to keep from fainting, but my goodness – if a meal was ever priceless, it was Noma. What an amazing, intriguing, innovative, and altogether spectacular experience. We staggered out of the restaurant and literally rolled back to the hotel. And had a nap.
We woke up to the alarming realisation that I had booked a fancy dinner at a very cool, brand new, up-and-coming restaurant tipped to be in the Top 50 next year, Relae. We couldn’t possibly eat another morsel… could we? On the other hand, it sounded intriguing. It would be such a shame to miss it… before we knew what had happened, we were in a taxi. When we asked the driver to take us to Relae, he was hesitant: ‘Are you sure? That’s the most dangerous street in Denmark! Drug dealers, shootings…’ Luckily I’d already read that this was indeed the case, so told him to go right ahead. Of course the street didn’t seem a patch on Camberwell, and the restaurant looked very cool. Not as glamorous as Relae, but a sophisticated crowd and clearly a cool place to be. We had the four course vegetarian menu. We particularly enjoyed the course which was clearly a reinterpretation of Noma’s onion and tapioca. I was convinced Noma’s was better; Roz favoured Relae’s… we had baby broccoli. We had spirals of squashed strips of beetroot. And a frozen apple crumb dessert with fennel. Intriguing. As I gasped down my 25th course of the day, I wondered whether I might have been a trifle greedy… All in all, Relae wasn’t amazing. We doubted it would indeed get into the top 50. But it was pretty good!
We got a taxi and zoomed on to the Danish Film Institute, home to the Copenhagen 25th Lesbian and Gay Film Festival. Which didn’t seem very popular, but the venue was cool, and we settled down, along with a small crowd of gays, to watch Spork, a brilliant, quirky American movie about a hermaphrodite teenager and her struggle to fit in. Sweet, funny, touching, fantastic. We left the cinema with tears and grins, and walked through the Saturday night streets to bed.
We had set our alarm clock to wake up early on Sunday morning, so that we could march 30 minutes through the streets to Mike’s Bikes, for a 3 hour bike tour round Copenhagen. We ended up running late and dashing along til we got there in the nick of time to be told by Mike – rather smugly – that he had decided to cancel the cycle that day. We were furious: we’d really been looking forward to it, and his attitude was infuriating. We marched out with wrath and couldn’t quite decide what to do next… We wandered back to Kongens Have park where we wandered amongst the pretty autumn trees to check out my proposed lunch venue, Orangeriet. Alas we soon realised (a) they had no vegetarian options, and (b) we were still a bit full from yesterday. So we returned to MJ Coffee to have some overpriced coffee/smoothie and mull over our options…
I was supposed to be the girl with the plans, but Roz soon took control of a deteriorating suggestion and suggested following the Time Out guidebook guided walk around the city. Genius! We set off, through pretty squares and shopping streets, to the museum of post and telecommunications. Which was hi-tech and brilliant, albeit a tad niche… After playing with the various communication devices and admiring postal uniforms of old, we had a nice lunch of goat cheese sandwiches in their rooftop café.
Onwards, through the centre of town, and we came to Tivoli, Copenhagen’s famed amusement park. I’d read everywhere it was closed, and it looked closed, so we didn’t go (I was rather bitter when a taxi driver later that day told me it was open – I’m still doubtful). We stopped off at the Danish Design Center for a quick design browse and a very large pot of tea, before continuing over the bridge to the island where the parliament sits, and then over another bridge to Christianshavn, and on to Christiania, a strange little hippy enclave which for various historical reasons is not subject to the laws of Copenhagen and sits as a its own little tie-dyed, cannabis-smoking republic. Odd but interesting.
We walked back to Nyhavn and settled in McJoy’s gastropub, in fact a nice little pub on the port, and sipped drinks and watched the boats over beer til it was time to reluctantly return to the hotel, pick up our bags, jump in a taxi and… yes, have more food! The destination was Famo, a lovely little Italian restaurant where we gorged on delicious food. Again, there were multiple courses. This is an excellent feature of Copenhagen. We washed it down with prosecco, toasted our anniversary, and grabbed a taxi to the airport. Just in time to find out our plane was delayed. We finally staggered into our own flat just after 1am, cursing Easyjet, but having had a very nice anniversary trip indeed.
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
In which Layla and Roz ice skate, eat, and get pedicures
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!
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!
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.
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