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Tourist Tuesday: Lillie’s Victorian Bar and Restaurant

25 Mar
The back area

The back area

Just when I think I’ve found my favorite bar in New York, I find another gem. I just finished reading “The Poisoner’s Handbook” by Deborah Blum which is about Jazz Age New York. It focuses on Prohibition and how it affected the city. I have spent the last couple of days fantasizing about the old speakeasies, the mysterious drinks that were shipped by bootleggers, the secrecy and dangerous nature of drinking. I love living in a city soaked in so much history.

Back-lit wall decorations

Back-lit wall decorations

The theme of this bar predates the Jazz Age but still provoked in me a nostalgia for different times. Modern, trendy bars are a dime a dozen, and I prefer something spacious and cozy. The large, weathered glass behind the bar, the velvet lampshades, the crystal chandeliers.

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I was obsessed with these vintage mirrors that were everywhere.

A friend and I ended up hanging out here for a good 4-5 hours in the afternoon, sipping on beer, sharing a spinach and artichoke dip. In my late twenties, I’ve found that I appreciate a bar that isn’t too crowded, is well lit, and doesn’t have music pumping so loud it causes my earrings to vibrate against my earlobes. This was perfect. I do have to mention that we were there in the late afternoon, and it did seem to get a bit more crowded as the after-work set began to show up. But, nonetheless, it’s a charming bar at which to while away the hours.

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Taking a Moment

12 Aug

A couple of weeks ago, my friends and I pooled our money together to get our own suite at the Staten Island Yankees. We took the ferry from Manhattan and as we arrived on the island, we were greeted with a torrential downpour. We ran to our box and settled in to wait out the storm. The grounds crew pulled a tarp onto the field, and we set to eating the food provided in the suite (four hot dogs for yours truly) and drinking the beer that our suite attendant dutifully got for us.

About three hours later, the game was cancelled. As we finished up the beer and talked about rescheduling the game, my friend Quincey asked me to come out on the balcony with her, onto the seats that overlook the field. “Take a moment with me,” she said.

I stepped out into the cool, humid air of summer, a breeze coming in off the water just beyond the right field fence. I assumed she was going to tell me about a boy who had been texting her or maybe laugh about the bizarre conversation going on inside the suite about last will and testaments. Instead she just stood there sipping her beer.

“I just needed to take a moment with someone who’d appreciate this,” she paused. “We live here.” She gestured out across the water at the lit up skyline of lower Manhattan.

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That picture is a poor representation of what that view is actually like. I do forget sometimes that I live here, how lucky I am, how despite the hard times and the uncertainty, I ended up here, in one of the most amazing cities in the world, continuously finding new adventures, new people. I’m living a life that I only dreamed about as an awkward 13-year-old in Northern Nevada. Quincey’s story is different than mine, but same general idea, finding happiness despite struggle on the other side of the continent from her home.

It’s easy to forget how amazing this city is, and I’m glad that I was reminded to stop and take a moment, because those small moments of appreciation are such an important key to happiness. I enjoyed it so much that I took another moment that same night as we rode the ferry back to the city, and I saw this lady. (Also not a great representation)

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2013 All Star Game

23 Jul

2013-07-16 16.32.38On a breezy summer evening, we sat out on a terrace sipping beer.

“So what are you doing for the All Star Game?” he asked me.
“Actually nothing. I’m going over to my friend’s apartment to watch ‘Whose Line is it Anyways.’ What are you doing for the All Star Game?”
“Oh, we might go to McFadden’s to watch it. But I was thinking about getting tickets.”
“Wow, that’s awesome.”
“Sooooo, you’re pretty set in your plans, don’t think you could go with me?”
“Wait, what? No, I could totally go. You know me and baseball. I’d love to go.”
“But what about your friends?”
“They’ll get over it.”

So I got to go to the 2013 All Star Game! When I heard the game was going to be at CitiField in Queens, of course I wanted to go. Mathematically speaking, the odds of being in the same city of the 30 options when an All Star Game is happening just doesn’t seem like it would happen to me again. But I also didn’t think it was possible to get tickets. Then two days before the game, I get invited to go! Dream come true!

We got to the stadium around 4:30, before the gates opened. Once we were inside the gates, it was like a carnival. So many baseball players, so many stars. We went down to watch batting practice and ogle the stars. For two baseball fans, it was exciting to point out all the awesome players before us. Including the most awesome baseball player ever, my beloved Felix Hernandez…

The King himself.

The King himself.

Some bullet points from my All-Star experience!

  • So many fans! As we wandered around the stadium, we made an attempt to find a fan from every team, which was a lot more entertaining than it sounds. We almost did it except for one stupid team that apparently doesn’t have any fans, anywhere. The San Diego Padres. I’m disappointed in you, San Diego. Very disappointed.
  • Neil Diamond came out of nowhere to sing “Sweet Caroline.” While this is a traditionally Red Sox experience, it was fun to sing along to it in a New York stadium.
  • Really hard to cheer for any one team playing. Most pitching/batting matchups were between players that I liked with near-equal enthusiasm. It was a constant win-win situation. Either a pitcher I like gets a strikeout, or a batter I like gets a hit!
  • Prince Fielder got a triple. Bahahahahaha! Prince Fielder got a triple! That chubby man can run!
  • A moving dedication to Mariano Rivera. Even though I’m a firm Yankee hater, Mariano Rivera is a great pitcher with an astounding career, and he deserved the honor or warming up on an empty field to thunderous applause.
  • They had a mascot race with different goofy mascots running around the warning track. It made me giggle.

An amazing night. A great experience for any baseball fan. I feel like such a lucky girl that I got to go.

Beautiful Citi Field

Beautiful Citi Field

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Slowing Down

6 Mar

 

It’s true when people say New York changes you. It’s not necessarily a bad thing either. I used to be a pushover, passive, shy. Those qualities don’t thrive in this city. I’ve learned to be more straightforward, to fight for what I need/want, and to be way more outgoing.

Some of the changes are not so good, though. It’s dog-eat-dog here in a lot of ways. I miss the laid-back, friendly attitude of the West coast where people tend to co-habitate as opposed to claw over one another. It’s a lot about survival, as Jay-Z put it, “City is a pity, half of ya’ll won’t make it.” It’s tough living here, but worth it if you can do it.

I spent this last year being fairly poor. I took a substantial pay cut to become a technician as I was in “training,” only recently has this been lifted to the point where I’m  making good money once again. But I had to survive one of the world’s most expensive cities on a low salary, somehow, someway. I took lots of little jobs, in-house nail trims, cat sitting, shave-downs. I went on lots of dates mostly for the free meal (I know I’m going to hell.) When I had to mail a letter, I stole postage from the clinic. I made food laaaast. If a client bought us sandwiches. I’d cut mine into thirds and eat it for lunch three days in a row. How do I stay so slender? The old-fashioned way, by being poor. I clock into work 15 minutes early, take only a 15 minute lunch break, which adds 1/2 an hour of pay to each day. All the little things accumulate.

Things are a lot better now, and during these times, I luckily only had to dip into my savings once or twice. And I still have a bunch of lucrative side jobs that give me extra cash. One thing I do is at-home nail trims for pets for $20. Easy money and clients are more than happy to pay it to avoid the stress of taking their animals to the vet.

Today I went to do a nail trim on a cat I had never met before. I ran into work 30 minutes early to grab the clippers and go to the apartment. It was a 5th floor walk-up, and a little old lady was all smiles at the door. She welcomed me in and kept calling me Cindy even though I tried to correct her. I met her adorable cat Freddy who seemed to like me. She held him while I did the nail trim. I checked the clock and saw that I could get back to work in time to clock in 15 minutes early.

Then the lady started talking to me, offering me something to drink or eat, wanting me to play with the cat. I started getting annoyed, looking at the time, thinking about how I was losing money the longer I stayed there.

Then I had to stop. I had to pause a moment and realize I was being a true New York asshole, selfish and greedy. What is 15 minutes out of my day? How much do I really need that money? So I accepted the red Solo cup filled to the brim with orange juice and watched “Live with Kelly and Michael” for a bit. The lady was so sweet, and she quietly started telling me how she is going through a divorce and feels alone and is having hip surgery. She wiped a tear from her eye as she told me, “I’m just so happy Freddy let you trim his nails. You’re an angel.”

I laughed and told her I didn’t mind, anytime. Of all the things I could have done with those 15 minutes of my day, nothing could have been more important than that. Of all the things I do with my time, drinking orange juice and watching a morning talk show is the simplest, laziest, but to her, it was important. To me, it was important.

A lot of mornings I watch my fellow commuters shove onto the subways, elbowing each other, knocking one another over. If the train is like that, I always just stand back and wait for the next one. They come practically every 2 minutes, and the next train is always less crowded.  I think to myself, “Is that extra 2 minutes truly important to these people?” Well, call me hypocrite, because that 15 minutes this morning where I could have clocked in early was likewise inferior to becoming one little old lady’s nail-trimming angel.

Plus she slipped me an extra 5 saying, “Because Freddy thinks you’re pretty.”

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Tourist Tuesday: Bronx Zoo

26 Feb

2013-02-26 11.49.27 I’ve become close friends with one of my co-workers, Adriana. We both have Tuesdays off, and since it is rare to have other friends who likewise have that weekday off, we often spend it together.

Tragically, there is a Tuesday shift that needs to be covered until June. Adriana and I have decided to take turns covering the shifts so that neither of us get overwhelmed with overtime. So this Tuesday was to be our last Tuesday together for a while. So we felt it was only fitting to spend it together at the Bronx zoo.

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I got so close to this little guy! Arm’s length away. Then I was frozen with fear, because birds are tiny dinosaurs.

The Bronx zoo is the largest metropolitan zoo in the world! Also, compared to other zoos I have visited, they are active in conservation education. A little bit too active some might say. There were some signs that were a bit harsh for a kid friendly place. Like the photo of a gorilla’s head bloodily on a plate. Whoa! Or the Vietnam War Memorial-esque tribute to extinct species. A little depressing, but the argument can be made that the ecological state of our world is likewise depressing, and perhaps children should be made aware of that as soon as possible. A good dose of reality never hurt anyone. Except when you tell a young child that Santa isn’t real. That’s just not nice. Isn’t it similarly cruel to show them gorilla decapitation?

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But the zoo is so beautiful. The exhibits are spacious, and the animals seem genuinely happy. I’ve never had a zoo experience where so many animals come close to the glass to say hello. Maybe it was because it was a quiet Tuesday, but I’d like to think that they somewhat enjoy their life in captivity. I mean plenty of their favorite foods available, no worries about predators, free healthcare, adoring crowds that squeal with delight whenever they move. Can I live in captivity?

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There was so much to see. I could have spent hours watching the gorillas. I wish I could have attended each and every sea lion feeding. So. Many. BIRDS! We walked into a beautiful building in the center of the zoo. As we entered, the smell of manure quickly hit us in the face. As we looked to our right, a rhino! Man, oh man, zoos are fun.

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But my favorites will always be the primates. They’re so human-like, so entertaining. By watching primates, there’s some sort of knowledge to be gathered about our own nature, our own instincts. At the exhibit with the above monkeys, we saw one of them start nodding her head up and down and run to a window at the side of the exhibit. When we went to the window, there was a man standing there, a zoo employee from Admissions. The monkey was gazing up at him.

“She seems to like you,” I said.
“I come here every day on my lunchbreak, and she always comes up to me…and does that.” The monkey turns around with her butt in the air, waving it back and forth.
“Aw,” Adriana says. “She’s presenting to you. She wants to mate with you!”
The monkey turns back around and gazes up to him, lifting her little monkey hand to the glass, black glassy eyes staring up at the mysterious man who visits her everyday. She turns back around, once again showing him her butt. I felt for her. I mean haven’t we all stuck our metaphorical butts in the air for someone who is simply, biologically not interested?

“Well, we’ll let you two have some privacy,” I said as we walked away. The man blushed, laughed, and returned his attention to his monkey friend.

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Tiggy goes Tee Tee

19 Feb
Fancy Shmancy

Fancy Shmancy

My job is bizarre. I say this not because of what I do all day, but because of the people I deal with. Upper East Side pet owners are a brand of crazy entirely unto themselves. For instance, I was recently cat-sitting for a woman who has a nanny cam. Not to spy on me. It’s so she can watch the cats eat while she’s away.

But that’s nothing. Dogs that only drink Evian. Gucci leashes. Par for the course. This past weekend, I dealt with one of our most extreme clients.

Let’s call her Celia. I cannot use her real name, because a quick google search will turn up one of the most well-known socialites in New York City. Even google images of her with her dog! She has her own tag on Gawker.com where I found out she owns her own line of travel gear for “rich ladies and their pets.” Celia is a Southern belle divorcee, who now runs with the lady who lunches crowd. These ladies are Chanel-suit wearing frenemies who try to out-do one another with which charity luncheons they attend. These lunches are hosted at the most expensive restaurants in the city, which in my opinion is a complete waste, since you know these ladies only eat arugula salads with a slice of lemon on the side.

Her pet is a toy Yorkie named Tigerlily. 16-years-old, blind, deaf, collapsed trachea, unable to walk, dementia. In summation, a shell of a dog. This dog has been in renal failure for about two years now, but somehow clinging to life. She brought the dog in on Friday for a recheck, and it is clear that this is the end. The bloodwork looks horrible, and the dog is barely alive. Amid tears and hysterics, Dr. S explained that the dog had to be hospitalized. She told the doctor she hasn’t been apart from the dog for more than half an hour in 15 years. She doesn’t know how she’ll go on.

My first encounter with her was during a visit. It was after hours, so I greeted her at the door to the clinic and led her to an exam room.
“I’m going to go get Tigerlily now and bring her to you.”
“Chrissy!” she put her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. “I just have one question for you. Just one!” Tears streaming down her cheeks. “Can she survive off the fluids for the visit. I don’t want my angel to be harmed by my visit.” Heaving sobs. The friend she brought with her rushes to her side.
“Oh, Celia, pull yourself together! Tigerlily is going to be alright. You need to be strong for her. Let this young lady do her job.” They clung to one another in desperation. It was a scene straight out of a day time soap opera.
“Chrissy!” Celia looks at me. “Just (sniffle, sniffle) answer my question for me!”
“Yeah, the dog’ll be fine off fluids for the visit.”
“Oh God! My baby in the hospital. I just can’t take it!”

I brought her the dog and remained calm in the face of such hysterics. Now she has latched on to me. Asking for me, wanting to talk about the dog. She talked the doctors into letting her stay with the dog ALL DAY. She sits with the dog in a far off exam room, talking baby talk to the dog and crying. I stay as far away as possible. But somehow I get sucked in. She hears me walk by.
“Look, Tiggy! It’s your good friend, Chrissy!” she’ll turn to me. “Did you see her tongue, Chrissy? I’m so worried (gasp, sniffle) about my angel. Look! Look!”
“I think that’s just a spit bubble.”
“Would you tell the doctor? I’m just so worried. Look at the way she’s holding her head?!”
“Yeah, I’ll go tell the doctor. Right now. I’ll go right now.” I inch out the door, trying to shut it behind me, pretending to not hear her calling my name.

Back in treatment, Dr. G is once again the voice of reason.
“Can someone please have a real conversation with this woman?” he asks the other doctors.
“Please don’t go in there,” Dr. Z begs. “You don’t understand this lady.”
“Just let me do it! This is a quality of life issue. She needs to snap out of it.”
“What would you tell her?” I ask him.
“Even a train comes to a stop.”

Yesterday, at the end of the day, her friends (you know, the heiresses of New York) convince her that she should go home and shower, try to sleep a little. She places the dog in my arms and follows me back to the treatment area.
“Don’t worry, Tiggy. Your good friend Chrissy is going to stay here with you!” I don’t have the heart to tell her that my shift is over, and as soon as she leaves, I’m out the door as well.
“Oh, Chrissy! I have such good news. Tiggy went Tee Tee!”
“Huh?”
“She did a nice Tee Tee!”
“Come again?”
“A Tee Tee! On the paper y’all gave her.”
“Oh, she peed?” Her face scrunched up as if I called her dog a motherfucker.
“Well, she tee teed.”

From what I gather this stands for tinkle tinkle?

The thing is, she’s a very nice woman. She bought us all Magnolia cupcakes on Saturday and last night she gave me a bag of Potpourri. Not just any potpourri, Officina Profumo Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella potpourri. Imported from Italy. She told me to place it in a bowl as soon as I get home.
“It smells like heaven! I’ll bring you a different fragrance for tomorrow.”

I said my thank-yous and wished her a good night. I changed into my street clothes and headed home. On the smelly subway, I kept getting a whiff of the potpourri in my bag, the flower petals gathered on a Tuscan hill. I couldn’t stop thinking, “God, my job is strange.”

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Storm Nemo

14 Feb

For all the media hype and fuss about how this was going to be the blizzard of the century, it was just a blizzard. I was a little nervous, because I had been rather nonchalant about Hurricane Sandy and that did kind of turn out to be a big deal. But I think the city was just better prepared for a snow storm. We’d never had a hurricane before. There have been plenty of white winters in the city. The trains ran a little bit slower, but that’s really the only think I noticed.

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This is what I saw when I left my apartment the next morning to go to work. I’ve come to like working on Saturdays. It keeps me relatively sober on a Friday night, and I get a couple of weekdays off. But sometimes, like this day, I wish I could have been frolicking in the snow with my friends.

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Oh, Upper East Side. You can be pretty sometimes.

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One of my co-workers on Saturday is kind of a con-man, always trying to get out of doing work, trying to make an extra buck. He always leaves early on both our Friday and Saturday shift, even though him and I are supposed to take turns. But I need the extra hours, so I let it happen. On this day, he once again asked me if he could leave early.
“Yeah, but I’m taking a long, fucking lunch break,” I responded. My co-workers laughed around me while he looked at me bemused. “And she’s coming with me!” I pointed at one of the other technicians who always wants me to stand up to the con-man. So we ate our lunches and headed to Central Park.

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It was perfect. We flopped in the snow, attempted to throw snowballs, admired the winter wonderland, watched kids sled down the hills.

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This is my favorite one. A beautiful park with New York City in the background. Oh, and a dude drinking a beer in the foreground. I do wish I could have joined him.

 

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Mango Chutney

30 Dec

imageWelcome to a lazy Sunday in Queens. I have been a complete recluse of late, and as I’m typing this, I’m realizing by “of late” I mean one week. I haven’t gone out in one week. I’m used to going out a lot, and the last week, my bed and a pile of books is just much more appealing to me.

Today I decided to break the spell of constantly ordering in by cooking something in my crock pot. It’s a crock pot kind of day. Throw something in there, get a bunch of stuff done around the apartment, then have a beautiful home-cooked meal. I decided upon a “Sweet Chicken Curry.” I put on my winter coat and began the 10 minute walk to the nearest grocery store.

A word about my neighborhood. I live in a little-known area of Queens that is the intersection of Asian, Indian, and Latino communities. Everyone in my building is Chinese, and most everything around me is Chinese in one way or another. The markets are small and niche, they have plenty of rice noodles, but no cheese. I need cheese in my life, so I typically walk the 10 minutes to the Latino neighborhood that has a somewhat larger grocery store. It usually has what I need, but it is also niche and doesn’t have major things like fish.

So I arrive at the grocery store and find everything on my list, except mango chutney. I needed half a cup of mango chutney. I started beating myself up. How could I be so stupid as to pick a recipe with an ingredient so classicly Indian. Of course my Latino grocery store wouldn’t have it. They have bags of rice labeled “Arroz” not “Basmati.” I had left my cell phone at home (because I sometimes need to prove to myself that I’m not a slave to it) and was trying to rack my brain for what I could use to replace it. It’s just a jelly-like thing, right? Could I use jam? Could I use fresh mango and extra curry powder or something?

Then I realized how silly I was being. It’s a 15-minute walk from that grocery store to an Indian neighborhood. I can tough it out. So I put some “Exile on Main Street” on my ipod and began the journey. I stopped in every grocery store along the way, just to check and was amazed at what I found. There’s this gigantic Asian supermarket close to me with an amazing fish and meat market, free samples of dumplings, every sauce imaginable. It made me realize how foolish I am to spend so much time on American foods and not taking advantage of what is around the corner from me. I make it to the Indian markets and wander in and out, finding mint chutney, mango puree, pickled mangoes, and even more specialty markets I wish I’d taken advantage of sooner.

So I stop into my seventh market of the day, scour the aisles, until I found a promising section with glass jars. There it was, the above jar. I thrust a mittened fist in the air in victory. I was the idiot white girl in line at the all Indian-store and absolutely all smiles.

My spicy chicken curry is slowly warming in my crock pot, and I feel so accomplished today. I’ve been reading a lot of books about redemption lately, about people going to far away places or doing crazy things to save themselves. But sometimes even the smallest adventures are equally redemptive.

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27 Before 27: Eat Chicken and Waffles

12 Dec
The Reverend Al Sharpton

The Reverend Al Sharpton

In my 27th year of life, I’m attempting to do 27 new things. Full list here.

The food to-do’s on my list always give me warm fuzzies. Because, delicious food is the best, and I love trying anything new.

I’ve had fried chicken (albeit not in years), and lord knows I’ve had waffles. But this combo? It seems so odd, but it’s so right.

Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day. I think this has to do with the fact that I almost never eat it. I am absolutely not a morning person. Getting up to go to work in the morning is usually a struggle. Most mornings I just have cereal and milk, almost always Special K. But when I have a day-off, boy oh boy do I love to get pancakes or omelets or breakfast burritos or big puffy blueberry muffins. I should stop. I’m drooling.

So for my first Chicken and Waffles experience, I enlisted my friend Gian who is the one who introduced me to the concept. We found a place in Harlem called Amy Ruth’s. The place was charming, and when you are seated, you are greeted with a basket of corn bread. Corn bread, ain’t nothin’ wrong with that. Does anyone get that Chris Rock reference? Are you amazed that I have the ability to reference Chris Rock? I’m kind of amazed with myself.

So back to the chicken and waffles. The waffles part is misleading, because really it’s only one. But it’s massive, and it was fluffy, so no complaints. The chicken part lived up to its half by being about as large as a small chicken. I didn’t even really know how to hack into it, but I figured it out.

Delicious! The salty crunch of juicy fried chicken, combined with the fluffy savory of a waffle, and drizzle some maple syrup on that while you’re at it. I was a happy lady. I’m embarrassed to report I couldn’t finish it. And I was only about a fifth of the way through it while Gian was all but licking his plate. But it was a satisfying day-off breakfast meal. So satisfying that I didn’t even really feel the need to eat the rest of the day. That’s an amazing breakfast.

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The Ultimate New York Stigma

5 Dec

i_bed_bug_new_york_tshirt-p235998426265153020qnxd_400

When I tell non-New Yorkers that I live here, they almost always say something like, “Oh man, I’m so jealous. It must be the best!” While I do feel fortunate to live here, and my life tends to exist on the edge of awesome and amazing. There are drawbacks. Getting elbowed in the gut on your morning commute. Paying $3 for a shitty cup of coffee. Waving goodbye to about 25% of your paycheck. But today tops it.

I have motherfucking bed bugs. Pardon my language, but this has been one of the worst New York days I’ve ever had. All because of motherfucking bed bugs.

Last Saturday, I was getting ready to go to Brooklyn to meet up with friends for indoor bocce ball, as I grabbed my phone off my nightstand, I saw something on my bed. I grabbed it and sprinted into my living room to confirm my fears with my roommate. A bedbug. I panicked for a moment, before killing it and flushing it down the toilet. Maybe it was a stray?

This morning I woke up and quickly noticed blood smears on my pillow (a sign that they’ve fed and drooled as they walked away. I looked in the mirror to see to my horror, that I had two bites on my neck and one on my forehead, which means that a bed bug was ON. MY. FACE. I ripped apart my bedding and mattress, searching for any signs of where they were. Nothing. I freaked out and demanded my landlord send an exterminator to take care of the issue ASAP.

“Well, they’re really expensive,” she told me.
“Yeah, but it’s kind of the law that you need to take care of this.”
“I’ll check the lease and the law.”
“Housing and Maintenance Code Subchapter 2, Article 4. You have 30 days to take care of this.”
“It’s just really expensive, and I’d really appreciate it if you chipped in.”
“No way, you are legally obligated to take care of this.”
“Well, you are morally obligated to chip in.”
“You just raised my rent. I always pay it on time. This isn’t my fault! I’m not morally obligated to do shit.”

So my apartment is getting bombed tomorrow. I just spent the last 7 hours bagging everything in my room. cleaning every inch, boxing everything I own, moving all furniture to the center of the room. I’m exhausted, and when I get home tomorrow after working, I won’t have access to any of my things, or bedding, or pillows. I have to wash ALL of it. The good news is that in my extensive cleaning, I didn’t find any signs of infestation, so it really must not be that bad, and we’re nipping it in the bud early. Bad news? A tiny blood-sucking insect kicked my ass today.

 

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