Last night, I got an email from the owner of one of my all time favorite New York City restaurants, Village, to announce that the establishment would be closing on Saturday. Yes, I like this place so much that two years after I moved to Texas, I continue to subscribe to the patron mailing list. The closing announcement lingers in my gut with a palatable sadness - the reason for closure felt like a calculated, personal injustice - "Our lease is up and, in a distinct irony given the times, the landlord was able to find a new tenant to pay double our rent."
Nothing makes me more nostalgic than talking about New York, especially the glimmering, golden, remembered and reconstructed New York of my youth, the evidence is all over my face. Village is a shining relic from my most recent time living in NYC in 2006. Unlike the cheap bars and restaurants I frequented as college kid on summer vacation, Village seemed to meet me where I was in my mid-twenties, refined, deco / European / Parisian flair, solid, delicious, and affordable. The service was always great and the dining room, well-appointed. Among the mainstays of the menu, one of the best roast chickens I've ever had - a steal for $30 prix fixe, a fabulous, bad-day-fixing, fluffy yellow omelet paired with simple salad and matchstick frites, and an ooey-gooey grilled cheese that was exactly what a wise, foodie friend called "the sleeper hit" of the menu.
I won't take any unearned credit for discovering the place, but once was I turned onto it, I claimed it, it became my go-to spot. Back in '06, I worked in Harlem and lived on Long Island. On a daily basis, I endured a one-way commute that routinely took between 60 and 90 minutes, depending on the mercy of the train deities. In that year, we did very little entertaining at "home," a crummy one-bedroom apartment with an even crappier kitchen that was 60-90 minutes away from the culinary capital of the world. Therefore, Village became a kind of surrogate dinner party space. It was a neighborhood kind of place, even though I lived nowhere near trendy 26th Street.
As I was reading the email about the restaurant's closing, in my mind, I saw a parade of cinematic flashes. I imagined myself seated at the various tables in the dining room - sharing a downtown dinner with my husband before rushing to hear Josh Ritter at the Beacon, a late dinner with a film professor friend on a rainy week night, reconnecting over wine with an old friend who deals coins. I remember meeting Yoshi for Belgian beers at dark bar downtown, and after several rounds of Chimay, stumbling out and finding Village - exactly what we needed at that moment - salty, yummy, bistro perfection. Village always fortified me with exactly what I needed.
What will now forever be my last trip to Village, was a wonderful, exuberant send-off. It was the Friday dinner of a long-weekend spent in New York City with friends last September. We were giggly and beside ourselves to spot one of the most famous contestants of Project Runway sitting a few tables away (in my reality tv-infused world, this constitutes a major, A-list celebrity). We tried to play it cool - when BAM - a piece of plaster fell from the ceiling and landed on Jack's shoulder, leaving a white trace behind on his black jacket. It took a minute for us to realize exactly what had happened, but once we determined that everyone was fine, we moved on to our appetizers, a free round of champagne cocktails helped.
I am usually prone to photographing my food, or the company around the table, at restaurants. For some reason, I never took a single photo at Village. There was probably part of me that wanted to take a picture during the most recent trip - especially one of those "you think I am taking a photo of my friend, but I am actually snapping something behind him - in this case, Austin Scarlett." I can't share it with anyone else, but I find great pleasure in replaying this jovial slide show of the stylish dining room in my memory, sipping it up in tiny portions. I am very sad thinking that I'll never be going back.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
Dignified and Adult
I ever do get around to writing a blog entry, here's another topic for my list!
Why on earth do people go to the trouble of "un-friending" you on facebook?
I just find that terribly childish. I mean really... is it worth the effort of un-friending (not that it takes a tremendous amount of labor) just to make a statement that you are clearly NOT friends with someone, lest anyone suspect otherwise?
Do you remember my friend (we'll call her) Sheila? I'm sure you've heard stories. If not, the long and the short of it is that she wasn't very good at being a friend. She said some crummy things after my miscarriage and then failed to show any excitement when I got pregnant again, to which I took offense. These being the latest acts in years of unsupportive behavior, I'd had enough. We haven't really talked since. No blow-out, no fight, we just kind of fell out of touch. That's the dignified and adult way to un-friend someone!
I saw her at a mutual friend's baby shower, no problems. We were very civil and very friendly to each other. I don't talk about her with our mutual friend. It was all very mature. However, I JUST noticed that she removed me as a friend on facebook. It must have been within the past couple of months because I didn't notice it until very recently.
That just seems silly to me. Why bother?
Saturday, June 27, 2009
A day late...
And my guess is that this post will come up more than a dollar short. After a quiet month, some sort of chatter is needed to revive the conversation.
I feel like transition is all around me these days, yet, it's my path that seems to most certain.
It's strange, for years, I was the one moving every summer, looking for and then starting a new job, and exploring a new town. Every year, it was revival - everything new. Yet, this year, I am the one in stasis. One friend is launching a new business, another has just given official notice and plans to start law school in the fall, while another has an eye-turned to the market and considering making a move. In another city on the East coast, two of my friends are simultaneously awaiting their own big changes - one is sitting for her nursing exams on the brink of launching a new career while another awaits the birth of her first child (a son, due anytime now). P and I just learned that two of our friends are ending their relationship. My sister is looking for a condo and my parents are planning to sell their house, downsize their monthly bills, and take up residence in my grandmother's home (she moved to a nursing home over two years ago). I don't have plans to visit the East Coast until next December, but it's odd to think how different it all could be.
At work, my building is over pretty intense construction - walls are coming down, sprinklers are going in the ceiling, doors are barricaded by rubble, and you have to watch your step with all the nails and wires all about. It's noisy and dusty and it's given the summer a distinctly chaotic and distracted feel. After eight hours of drilling the other day, I insisted on a junk food dinner and several hours of lounging on the couch before bed - I was wiped out. The great irony is that the construction should wrap up in August, the completion date coinciding with my vacation.
Friday, May 22, 2009
A Week's Worth
What is a week worth? What is a week's worth?
About a week ago, I scrambled to cancel a trip to Tokyo after the conference we planned to attend was canceled due to Swine Flu. More accurately, the trip was canceled because of surging paranoia around the virus -- as the ailment has had a very minor presence in Japan and Asia as a whole. We officially canceled our plans on Thursday night, just about three days before we were scheduled to leave. Needless to say, the headaches of undoing the trip nearly matched our combined disappointment. It's hard not to feel sick over it considering the wasted months of reading, research, planning, and imagining things that would never be.
For me, travel and vacations are special, sacred times. Maybe it's because there's always a lot of hype leading up to a trip or maybe because you inevitably take more photos than you would in everyday life, but travel memories are always more potent, visceral, lasting. Had we taken this trip (our first trip to Asia), it would have become a mental touchstone, conjured up forever after at the sight, smell, or look of something familiar. Even though we'd only physically be there a short time, the impact would have been powerfully expansive. The reason we travel is not just to see different parts of the world, it's to look at our home, even ourselves, with new eyes.
Pace is a curious thing. In the days that followed the cancellation announcement, my regular life continued. If anything, the pace felt quick as the days passed rapidly by. Already it's Friday. I can't remember what I had for lunch yesterday. Had we taken the trip, the days would have stretched out to make room for these impressions and new memories - of street scenes, of weird culinary delicacies, of faces in the subway, of the look of the sky at night. Instead, I stayed home and continued with business as usual. Another week blurred together that I navigated it on autopilot with little to show for it.
So in a sense, I feel sort of flat and disconnected thinking about an adventure didn't happen. It would be inaccurate to say that I am sad about it, it's more like I watched a movie that ended unexpectedly and it's sort of a let down. Truthfully, I am no worse off (and even a little richer) because of the cancellation. It's one of those forking paths in life, a what could have been moment.
About a week ago, I scrambled to cancel a trip to Tokyo after the conference we planned to attend was canceled due to Swine Flu. More accurately, the trip was canceled because of surging paranoia around the virus -- as the ailment has had a very minor presence in Japan and Asia as a whole. We officially canceled our plans on Thursday night, just about three days before we were scheduled to leave. Needless to say, the headaches of undoing the trip nearly matched our combined disappointment. It's hard not to feel sick over it considering the wasted months of reading, research, planning, and imagining things that would never be.
For me, travel and vacations are special, sacred times. Maybe it's because there's always a lot of hype leading up to a trip or maybe because you inevitably take more photos than you would in everyday life, but travel memories are always more potent, visceral, lasting. Had we taken this trip (our first trip to Asia), it would have become a mental touchstone, conjured up forever after at the sight, smell, or look of something familiar. Even though we'd only physically be there a short time, the impact would have been powerfully expansive. The reason we travel is not just to see different parts of the world, it's to look at our home, even ourselves, with new eyes.
Pace is a curious thing. In the days that followed the cancellation announcement, my regular life continued. If anything, the pace felt quick as the days passed rapidly by. Already it's Friday. I can't remember what I had for lunch yesterday. Had we taken the trip, the days would have stretched out to make room for these impressions and new memories - of street scenes, of weird culinary delicacies, of faces in the subway, of the look of the sky at night. Instead, I stayed home and continued with business as usual. Another week blurred together that I navigated it on autopilot with little to show for it.
So in a sense, I feel sort of flat and disconnected thinking about an adventure didn't happen. It would be inaccurate to say that I am sad about it, it's more like I watched a movie that ended unexpectedly and it's sort of a let down. Truthfully, I am no worse off (and even a little richer) because of the cancellation. It's one of those forking paths in life, a what could have been moment.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
There are no words
This one-day-early version of CM Blog is brought to you courtesy of my local CBS affiliate. In all of their infinite stupidity, the station opted to preempt this week's episode of Survivor with a shoddily made (locally produced) pre-game special and tonight's San Antonio Spurs basketball game.
Fine. It's the first game of the first play-off series, but we're talking about Survivor, people. This show consistently remains one of CBS' most highly rated shows in the past decade. It's an outrage. OUTRAGE.
Can you tell that I am upset about this? I am not even a sponsor!
My local, terrible CBS station is planning to broadcast Survivor later at 12:30 am. Even confirmed owls such as myself won't be up to watch it live. Here's the thing about the delay, it messes up my favorite part of watching tv - dishing crassly with friends during the commercial break or via instant messenger. As soon as the camera cuts away from the action, cue the mobile. I could probably make the argument that this part of the viewing experience is more pleasurable than watching the show itself. Fandom is powerful and addictive.
I've tried, but with American Idol and Survivor, it's just not as fun to watch it alone. The social dimension makes it, especially when the shows take surprising / creative / strategic turns. At their best, it's pure exhilaration. Every now and again, I watch a show after its initial airing on DVR. This happens when I have evening plans or my usual viewing companions are similarly disposed. The only way to describe the experience is flat, even dull.
With tonight's Survivor, my curiosity got the best of me and I had my loyal phone friend give me the updates of the action and challenges during each break. Even though I already know the outcome of the vote (and it was definitely a doosy), I'll still watch it myself. I'll have my cake and eat it too.
Yes, prime time television is that important to my little life.
Fine. It's the first game of the first play-off series, but we're talking about Survivor, people. This show consistently remains one of CBS' most highly rated shows in the past decade. It's an outrage. OUTRAGE.
Can you tell that I am upset about this? I am not even a sponsor!
My local, terrible CBS station is planning to broadcast Survivor later at 12:30 am. Even confirmed owls such as myself won't be up to watch it live. Here's the thing about the delay, it messes up my favorite part of watching tv - dishing crassly with friends during the commercial break or via instant messenger. As soon as the camera cuts away from the action, cue the mobile. I could probably make the argument that this part of the viewing experience is more pleasurable than watching the show itself. Fandom is powerful and addictive.
I've tried, but with American Idol and Survivor, it's just not as fun to watch it alone. The social dimension makes it, especially when the shows take surprising / creative / strategic turns. At their best, it's pure exhilaration. Every now and again, I watch a show after its initial airing on DVR. This happens when I have evening plans or my usual viewing companions are similarly disposed. The only way to describe the experience is flat, even dull.
With tonight's Survivor, my curiosity got the best of me and I had my loyal phone friend give me the updates of the action and challenges during each break. Even though I already know the outcome of the vote (and it was definitely a doosy), I'll still watch it myself. I'll have my cake and eat it too.
Yes, prime time television is that important to my little life.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Ladies Night
In English, there really isn't a gendered equivalent to the term Ladies Man. And no, I don't mean the sleazy Tim Meadows' SNL character of the same name and of reputed courvoisier-sipping fame. Taken literally, ladies man could be a male who is most comfortable in the company of females.
Were the situation reversed, you would never call such a gal a Gentleman's Lady. Not only does the phrase sound clunky off the tongue, it doesn't feel like the right descriptor. Call me what you will, but I am woman who feels most herself in the company of men.
In high school, I was thick as thieves with many great girlfriends, spending a particularly high amount of time with my field hockey and lacrosse teammates. But in the decade since, I've amassed a much higher number of male friends, probably at a three-to-one ratio. Case and point, at my wedding, I was supported by a Maid of Honor (my sister and only sibling) and a self-proclaimed Man of Dishonor (also known as my gay best friend, a frequent contributor to this blog).
Ever since arriving in San Antonio, I've greatly expanded my set of female friends - warm, funny, smart, awesome women. Last night I went out for "girls night," a casual dinner and wine tasting at a local haunt. It's been forever since I did something like this. While we talked about lots of things, at one point, the conversation turned to bras and turned sharply to boobs. Ladies night out, indeed.
Between the 10 of us, we have well over 150 years of brassiere wearing experience. Yet, despite our assumed expertise on the topic, no one had a solid recommendation about the best bra on the market. We might as well have been rating jock straps or garden hoses, no one felt strongly enough about the matter to be able to tell a friend. There we were, ambivalent and to a degree, dissatisfied about nearly all bras for some reason or another.
In the past, I was tempted to try out the Spanx bra, a kind of revolutionary undergarment that seems to me, very 21st Century. Despite the fact that I've spent more money on clothing items I've barely worn, I just can never justify the $62 price tag. For you toothpicks and string beans out there, Spanx is a line of slimming undergarments designed for those of us who want to tighten up various body parts without actually exercising or dieting. They are, coincidentally, a life saver (and much sleeker and more comfortable than a rubber girdle).
Many women, myself included, also expressed an unwelcome anxiety associated with bra shopping, citing (oddly) two uncomfortable customer service experiences with meddling Russian salesladies. Given how self-conscious the shopping experience is, I know that I have just picked the best of the worst to escape the store and be done with the confounded chore.
Even though I didn't leave the evening with any special tips or insight into the issue, sometimes it's nice to be in a like-minded company of sisters.
Were the situation reversed, you would never call such a gal a Gentleman's Lady. Not only does the phrase sound clunky off the tongue, it doesn't feel like the right descriptor. Call me what you will, but I am woman who feels most herself in the company of men.
In high school, I was thick as thieves with many great girlfriends, spending a particularly high amount of time with my field hockey and lacrosse teammates. But in the decade since, I've amassed a much higher number of male friends, probably at a three-to-one ratio. Case and point, at my wedding, I was supported by a Maid of Honor (my sister and only sibling) and a self-proclaimed Man of Dishonor (also known as my gay best friend, a frequent contributor to this blog).
Ever since arriving in San Antonio, I've greatly expanded my set of female friends - warm, funny, smart, awesome women. Last night I went out for "girls night," a casual dinner and wine tasting at a local haunt. It's been forever since I did something like this. While we talked about lots of things, at one point, the conversation turned to bras and turned sharply to boobs. Ladies night out, indeed.
Between the 10 of us, we have well over 150 years of brassiere wearing experience. Yet, despite our assumed expertise on the topic, no one had a solid recommendation about the best bra on the market. We might as well have been rating jock straps or garden hoses, no one felt strongly enough about the matter to be able to tell a friend. There we were, ambivalent and to a degree, dissatisfied about nearly all bras for some reason or another.
In the past, I was tempted to try out the Spanx bra, a kind of revolutionary undergarment that seems to me, very 21st Century. Despite the fact that I've spent more money on clothing items I've barely worn, I just can never justify the $62 price tag. For you toothpicks and string beans out there, Spanx is a line of slimming undergarments designed for those of us who want to tighten up various body parts without actually exercising or dieting. They are, coincidentally, a life saver (and much sleeker and more comfortable than a rubber girdle).
Many women, myself included, also expressed an unwelcome anxiety associated with bra shopping, citing (oddly) two uncomfortable customer service experiences with meddling Russian salesladies. Given how self-conscious the shopping experience is, I know that I have just picked the best of the worst to escape the store and be done with the confounded chore.
Even though I didn't leave the evening with any special tips or insight into the issue, sometimes it's nice to be in a like-minded company of sisters.
Friday, April 3, 2009
What's in a Name?
johnnycake: noun - a baked cornmeal flatbread.
Johnny Cupcakes: proper noun - a store that once broke my heart.
About a month ago, my good friend Lisa and I were shopping on Newbury Street in Boston. We were fat and happy following a delicious lunch, but I was, as always, looking to become even fatter and happier with a little help from some baked goods.
We had just finished looking at handbags when we were drawn to an off-street-level shop by a force stronger than any martian tractor beam. There, in the window of a handsome brick building, was a giantline drawing of a cupcake with the word "fresh" dancing above it. Saliva moistened my mouth and my heart pumped faster than the beat of a Lady GaGa song at the thought of the sugar and sweet, spongy cakethat would be mine in just a few moments.
I had been to other upscale bakeries specializing in cupcakes, Sprinkles in Beverly Hills and Magnolia in New York City, and was over the moon that we stumbled on their Boston cousin. What would I choose? Red velvet? Chocolate coconut? Good old vanilla with chocolate frosting?
As Lisa and I climbed the steps towards our indulgence, we asked eachother, "How could these be calorie-free?" as another sign advertised. We found our answer when we entered Johnny Cupcakes.
It's not a bakery at all, but rather, a t-shirt store, with a signature logo replacing the skull in the familiar skull and crossbones design with the silhouette of a cupcake. Shirts are displayed in ovens, with their colorful fronts stylizing Pez dispensers, or bearing the slogan "always fresh-baked." That mayappeal to those who enjoy marijuana recreationally, but I don't, so wouldn't want a shirt that could be interpreted as such.
More garments show panda bears eating cupcakes. Now, I like pandas,and I like cupcakes, but I wanted to wrap my mouth around a glob of frosting, not a limited-edition shirt.
We sweet-tooth shoppers were terribly disappointed when we figured out the meaning of the calorie-free signs. Everyone else in the store seemed to know what was up, snatching Boston Red Sox-inspired cupcake shirts and holding them to their thin, never-eaten-a-cupcake bodies to check for size. I later learned Johnny Cupcakes is equally popular in other big cities, too, using fun events like grilled cheese parties to drive youthful consumers to the boutique shops.
The company website does indicate that if I were in the store on a weekend, and had bought a high-quality, made in the USA shirt, I would have gotten a real home-baked cupcake. The founder (whose name, I presume, is Johnny) also writes on his site that several colleges have invited him to lecture on effective branding and marketing. Still stung by not being able to satiate my craving for cream cheese frosting that day, I am quite sure I would skip that lecture.
I'm glad this company seems to be thriving. Too many stores along Newbury Street have closed. But I'm stubborn. I wouldn't buy a cupcake from a store called "World's Best T-Shirts," so I don't expect to buy a t-shirt from Johnny Cupcakes.
- Jacktastic
Johnny Cupcakes: proper noun - a store that once broke my heart.
About a month ago, my good friend Lisa and I were shopping on Newbury Street in Boston. We were fat and happy following a delicious lunch, but I was, as always, looking to become even fatter and happier with a little help from some baked goods.
We had just finished looking at handbags when we were drawn to an off-street-level shop by a force stronger than any martian tractor beam. There, in the window of a handsome brick building, was a giantline drawing of a cupcake with the word "fresh" dancing above it. Saliva moistened my mouth and my heart pumped faster than the beat of a Lady GaGa song at the thought of the sugar and sweet, spongy cakethat would be mine in just a few moments.
I had been to other upscale bakeries specializing in cupcakes, Sprinkles in Beverly Hills and Magnolia in New York City, and was over the moon that we stumbled on their Boston cousin. What would I choose? Red velvet? Chocolate coconut? Good old vanilla with chocolate frosting?
As Lisa and I climbed the steps towards our indulgence, we asked eachother, "How could these be calorie-free?" as another sign advertised. We found our answer when we entered Johnny Cupcakes.
It's not a bakery at all, but rather, a t-shirt store, with a signature logo replacing the skull in the familiar skull and crossbones design with the silhouette of a cupcake. Shirts are displayed in ovens, with their colorful fronts stylizing Pez dispensers, or bearing the slogan "always fresh-baked." That mayappeal to those who enjoy marijuana recreationally, but I don't, so wouldn't want a shirt that could be interpreted as such.
More garments show panda bears eating cupcakes. Now, I like pandas,and I like cupcakes, but I wanted to wrap my mouth around a glob of frosting, not a limited-edition shirt.
We sweet-tooth shoppers were terribly disappointed when we figured out the meaning of the calorie-free signs. Everyone else in the store seemed to know what was up, snatching Boston Red Sox-inspired cupcake shirts and holding them to their thin, never-eaten-a-cupcake bodies to check for size. I later learned Johnny Cupcakes is equally popular in other big cities, too, using fun events like grilled cheese parties to drive youthful consumers to the boutique shops.
The company website does indicate that if I were in the store on a weekend, and had bought a high-quality, made in the USA shirt, I would have gotten a real home-baked cupcake. The founder (whose name, I presume, is Johnny) also writes on his site that several colleges have invited him to lecture on effective branding and marketing. Still stung by not being able to satiate my craving for cream cheese frosting that day, I am quite sure I would skip that lecture.
I'm glad this company seems to be thriving. Too many stores along Newbury Street have closed. But I'm stubborn. I wouldn't buy a cupcake from a store called "World's Best T-Shirts," so I don't expect to buy a t-shirt from Johnny Cupcakes.
- Jacktastic
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