NYC, blintzes, and me

It’s been years since I’ve had a good blintz. My mother made the best ones on earth, but she left this earth in ’97 and I’ve been stuck down here since, without. I tried making them a couple of times using the ingredients I remember her telling me, but they never come out like hers. She was one of those cooks who never measured anything. “A little pinch of this, a dash of that. You’ll know when it’s right. Just taste it.” That’s how I learned to cook. But some things simply cannot be duplicated. Especially mom’s blintzes.

In my zeal to find the perfect blintz I went to New York City. It had been almost 40 years since I’d been to New York, or The Big Mac, as I like to call it. I missed it. I will always look at it as the world’s greatest city. It is truly a microcosm of the world with all the energy, the people, the sights and unmistakable sounds, and the food.

I tried to get the wife to come with me. I guess the New York Attitude is a little too aggressive for my little Southern Belle. She says “They’re rude there.” Well, that’s not how I see it, but I do understand why she thinks that.

New Yorkers have their own tempo and mannerisms, just like folks from the South do. They’re really not rude. They’re just too busy to kiss your ass while you’re being waited on, or “helped.” They’re matter-of-fact and to the point. In New York you just do your business and move on. Here in Nashville we’re all one big happy family and you can just take your time figuring out what it is you want to buy/eat/do. Mm hmm.

I took off from Nashville on a leisurely 10:30AM flight and arrived 2 1/2 hours later at LaGuardia. The cab ride to The Gershwin Hotel on E. 27th and Fifth was a great beginning to satisfying my longing for the bustle of traffic, and the rainy weather helped steep the whole experience in a sort of gloomy joy.

The Gershwin Hotel is about as funky as I want to get in New York. It cost about half what many hotels in Manhatten charge per night. But I didn’t need fancy schmancy. I needed a bed, a working toilet, and a shower. Period. Why pay for anything more?

Many artists stay at The Gershwin. It has that reputation. When I got into my room a giant picture of Pablo Picasso hung over the bed. The room was barely large enough to walk three steps in any direction. The bathroom, with stall shower, was barely big enough to enter. The noise coming from the street eight floors below was considerable, but I figured I’d get used to it. The TV was the latest in 15″ CRT models, circa 1978. Yes, it was color, if you think Hawkeye Pierce has green hair.

It was about 4:00PM when I set out of the hotel in the rain. I walked across the street to the coffee shop on the corner to get a bite. I was famished. After a few cups of coffee and a baked potato w/ broccoli and cheddar I trudged off down 5th to become part of the wonder of this vibrant place.

The Flatiron district was right there, a few blocks from the coffee shop. And there was the district’s namesake, the Flatiron Building. Just about as famous as the Empire State Building, it’s an architectural oddity in that it’s shaped like a huge slim wedge stuck into the corner of where Broadway and 5th merge. The cornices and carved eaves spoke of a time when flappers were dancing the Charleston and cars were designed like rocket ships. I took some pix and stood there in the rain just staring at this beautiful and graceful structure.

Then I had a brilliant idea. Even though it was supposed to clear up the next day I decided that the time to hit the 86th floor of the Empire State Building (ESB) was now. There was this misty steady drizzle and I thought that pix from the observation platform in this weather would be especially interesting. I turned away from the Flatiron and headed up towards 33rd and 5th.

The weather was so lousy lots of folks begged off the ESB. Twenty dollars got me a ride up the elevator to the deck, and it was easy to wend through the halls and ropes they had set up to control the usual maddening crowd, of which there was none today.

By the time our group got up to the deck there was maybe an hour of daylight left. The wind was blowing the rain around pretty good, and when I stepped through the door onto the observation platform I almost got blown back inside. I thought that this frisky weather would be a true test for my Nikon to see if it could stand up to this kind of environment. It passed with flying colors.

I did go inside whenever I had to change lenses. I never could have done that outside without drowning my camera’s sensor and mirror. But I was grateful for the weather system moving through. It cast beautiful clouds over the city and around key buildings I was shooting. The mist encased the East River in vibrant gray hues. The wind would pick up in gushes and blow the rain into the lens and even up my sleeves. But did I care? Hell, no. I was in NYC, and on top of the world.

By the time I got back down to street level I was pretty wet, and very alive. I began to walk up Fifth toward the hotel, gawking like a tourist at everything and everybody, trying to take in as much of the street’s dynamics as I could.

One of my favorite things to do in New York is to people-watch. There’s no connection with anyone other than just experiencing our shared humanity if but for a brief moment. So I found a perch—a small deli with large windows and a Guinness sign. ‘Nuff said. I was seated at a window high-top and sipping in a matter of minutes, enjoying the sights of scurrying people and yellow cabs while I relaxed.

It was starting to get dark. After my second round I bought a quart to go and headed back to the hotel. I had lots of photo editing to do, and I was getting tired. Thank goodness I never got cold, even though it was a bit chilly by then. I hate getting cold, and when I do it seems to take me forever to get warm.

I turned on the crappy little TV, uncapped my beer, and went to work on the approximately 100 pix I had taken. It was a little tedious, but I loved every second of it as each shot came into its own, one after the other. It was 1:00AM by time I hit the sheets. It was probably 2AM by the time I actually fell asleep. The traffic noise was harder to get used to than I thought.

My wake-up call came promptly at 7:00AM. I rolled out of bed and almost fell down. My legs were sore and stiff from all the walking the day before. A little stretching and into the shower got me going. I had a long walk-filled day ahead of me. I felt a little stiff, and I hoped I would loosen up as the day went on.

The coffee shop on the corner would have been a convenient place to have breakfast but I opted to walk to Greenwich Village instead. It was Sunday morning, bright, and warming fast. I figured there would be something open in the village that would be a lot more interesting than that eggs and bacon joint.

It took me about 45 minutes to walk down to the Village and into the neighborhoods. I found a place on 10th Street, Au Bon Pain. They had good strong French Roast coffee, any kind of bagel you could think of, and oatmeal. I just loves me some oatmeal, with all the fixins, like brown sugar, nuts, and milk.

I’m sitting in the window of Au Bon Pain, eating my bagel and oatmeal, watching the Sunday morning villagers stroll lazily in the quiet sun, when I spy Richard Gere and his wife walking toward the restaurant. I almost choked on my coffee. I wiped off my hands and mouth and reached for the Nikon as quickly as I could, but it was too late. By the time I got it out of the bag they were past me. I didn’t want to run after them. I could just see/hear me now. “Mr. Gere. Mr. Gere. Hold up a minute, will ya? Lemme get a picture of you and your wife, will ya? Hey, Mr. Gere!” I’m no paparazzi. I don’t even like those guys. I’m sure Mr. Gere has to put up with his share of idiots trying to get his picture. Not me. I sat there, satisfied that I had seen a star in his natural habitat, and I was big enough to fight the urge to disturb him. (now I wish I had tackled him, got the pic, and ran like hell.)

After my morning repast I walked all over the village, up McDougal and down Bleeker Street, to the Cafe Wha, The Village Gate where I had played early in my career, and to Washington Square Park. The day was the absolute opposite of the rainy chilly day before, and I never stopped walking, looking, and taking pix at whatever I saw that interested me.

I’m not sure how many miles I walked Sunday but I’m willing to guess it would be in the neighborhood of maybe twenty. What wore me out by the end of the day was my camera bag. It weighs maybe 15 lbs. No big deal unless you’re hauling it around all day. After a while it felt like 50 lbs. By the time I walked back uptown to the Carnegie Deli and the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA) my left foot was signaling that it had grown a small blister, just for my walking and/or dancing enjoyment. Then I started to favor the leg, and pretty soon the old knee chimed in with its own rendition of “The Old Rugged Cross.”

MOMA was somewhat of a disappointment to me. I say “somewhat” because there were exhibits that satisfied my lust for the kind of art that turns my crank. There were some Picasso’s, some Klee renderings, a few Dali’s, and a great historical photo display in the Stieglitz Gallery. But many of the exhibits on the first couple of floors were of Modern Art forms, of which I am not a huge fan. I’m sorry, but a shoe with a kleenex sticking out of it is not art, to me. Bad photos in interesting frames in a display case do not make me sing. Sculptures of interwoven body parts does little for my artistic sensibilities. I began to think of our overflowing basement at home, storing my past in the dark and dust, and thinking that I probably have some broken objects down there that are worthy of display at the MOMA. I’ll check it out this week, and call the curator when I’m ready. He’ll think he hit the motherload. I’ll be famous. You’ll read about me later, I’m sure.

I had already contacted my old college friend, Aaron Barr, a New York artist and art promoter/consultant. He was taking his son to the MOMA that day and I was going to try to meet him there. But before I did that I had a date with a blintz.

The Carnegie Deli may be the most famous deli in the world. I ate there with my dad many years ago, and here I was, outside standing in line, a party of one, waiting for a spot to open up. The lady with the menus finally came around to address the line: “Parties of 4. Parties of 4?” Some people raised their hands and they were allowed into the inner sanctum. As she walked by I raised my hand and weakly exclaimed, “Party of 1?” She stopped. My heart stopped. She turned and gestured for me to go ahead in. I wanted to dance.

It was a short wait standing inside waiting for my place to be cleaned off. I watched the deli-masters put up sandwiches the size of footballs to be carried to the dining room. Who could eat anything that big, I wondered? Seriously, you could easily feed a family of four with just one sandwich and a side of slaw.

You don’t necessarily get your own table at the Carnegie Deli. You sit where and with whom they tell you. They motioned for me to follow the maitre de. I was seated between three women from Seattle and some folks from Maryland. I couldn’t care less. I could have been seated next to Godzilla and I would have fought him for my blintzes.

Turns out that everyone got along swimmingly and we joked about everything from the serving sizes to our inability to eat it all. I must note now, and in all fairness, the waiters and all employees of the Carnegie Deli were very warm and friendly. Are you listening, wife? They were even patient as one of our table-mates couldn’t seem to make up her mind when ordering. It was I who finally convinced her—gawd, I’m so impatient—to get the pastrami on rye.

The food arrived in almost no time, hot and huge. I had to have cold borscht with sour cream before the blintzes. Man, delicious. They also put a bowl of sour and sweet kosher dills on the table. The BEST IN THE WORLD. There are just none other. Accept no substitutes. And then, THE BLINTZES. Three huge rectangular cheesy fried lumps with sour cream and apple sauce on the side. I said a prayer thanking my parents for having me, and for being Jewish.

A few of the folks at the table had no idea what a blintz was. I tried give them a taste. I held out my plate. “Go ahead, take a bite.” No takers. What’s the matter with these people? Don’t they know a golden opportunity when they see one? They may never again in their miserable small lives have a chance to taste a blintz from Carnegie Deli. Fools. Idiots. But hey, more for me. Yeah, like I needed more. I couldn’t finish the third one. Believe me, I wanted to but my stomach said, “if you eat the rest of that last blintz I’m sending it back for a second opinion.” If my sister ever reads this she’ll order an ambulance to my house. “Artie couldn’t finish his blintzes. There’s something very wrong with Artie.”

So off to the MOMA I went. Thankfully it was just a few blocks away. I could hardly walk. Between my knee, the blister, and 3lbs. of blintzes in my gut I was more waddling than walking. My stomach started feeling “funny” because of the sour cream. I began to wonder if I’d make it to the museum before that “second opinion.” I was very grateful that it stayed put.

I never did meet Aaron and Taylor there. It’s a big place and they were gone before I even arrived. After the MOMA I was ready for a nap. I walked back to the hotel to lay down for a few minutes. I thought I’d go out later and hear some music. I never got that far. I opted to get a large salad from the 28th Street Deli, a quart of Guinness, and back to The Gershwin to eat and put the MacBook to work on the new crop of pix. By the time I was finished editing it was 1:00AM again. Where does all the time go? I had to get to bed. I had an early morning wake-up call so I could get some food in me before my 10:30AM boat ride from the Battery out to the Statue of Liberty.

At precisely 7:00AM the phone woke me up. The blister on my left foot had developed into a pillow of fluid, and my left knee felt like I’d been kicked by a mule. When I tried to stand up it took me a minute to straighten my back. Oh, great! I’ll be the bent old guy everybody helps on to the boat. As luck would have it I was finally able to stand upright. I stretched out for a few minutes to get myself limbered up, creaked over to the shower, and eventually got ready for the day.

In the past I had been to NYC maybe 20 or so times. I had never been to the Statue of Liberty, thinking it was a tourist attraction that no right-minded cool person would consider as a destination. Well, I’m not the same cool (I thought) guy I was 40 years ago. My excitement to see this icon was matched only by my hunger. I’m a big fan of breakfast, obviously, and this morning I was going to that corner coffee shop for a real New York eggs and bacon grease-a-thon.

The coffee was strong and the waitress was a dead ringer for the New York version of Flo, the famous TV waitress. As she spoke to me her teeth were showing, but it wasn’t a smile. It was more a combination of pain and disgust, it seemed. I ordered the mushroom and cheddar omelet, opted for the sausage after I saw someone else’s bacon (yuk), and the home fries, which, by the way, were by far the best thing on the menu. She guessed that I’d want whole wheat toast. Nothing like 25 or so years in a diner to get to know your clientele.

As I waited for my food I watched people walking by to wherever their day needed them to be. The minutes went by, then more minutes, then a half hour—where the hell was my food? Then I hear “Flo” yelling through the cook’s pick-up bar window, “mushroom and CHEDDAH, CHEDDAH, not ham.” She came back to the table to apologize that they had made the wrong omelet and that mine would be up in a minute. Several minutes later the food arrived. The omelet looked like it was made by the dishwasher. The machine, not the person. The mushrooms were raw, the cheese barely melted, and whoever made this thing had the grill on “stun” because the outside was cooked to death and the inside was that watery grey liquid that causes children to never touch another egg. The toast had been done long ago, so it was aged to perfection. It had a crunch to it that a matzo would have envied. The sausage was actually good. What a pleasant surprise, and the potatoes saved the day. Well, I’ve had worse, believe it or not, so I ate, guzzled down a glass of water in hopes of it all dissolving quickly, payed and left.

Had this been my first day in Manhattan I might have tried walking down to the Battery. But my foot and knee begged me to get a cab. I’m glad I did. It was a lot further than I thought. It cost me, with tip, about $20, and it was worth every penny.

I made my reservation to the statue while I was still at home. They sent me the instructions and ticket via email so I was set, I thought. I walked past all those fools standing in the ticket line, and down toward the people lined up to get on the boat. When I got to the ticket-taker he informed me that my internet ticket copy was too small and that I had to go back up to “the brown building” to get a real ticket. Sheesh!!! Argh! Aaaaa!

I walked real fast, got in the ticket line, now one of the fools. It took maybe 10 minutes, and back down to the docks I went. I missed the boat I would have been on had my original ticket been good, so I had to wait for the next boat to unload before we could board. As we were waiting to go through security, which is fairly extensive there, a park ranger came up to tell us all to get ready by taking off our belts, taking out our wallets, change, cameras, etc. and put it all in a tray much like the airport trays. Then he asked if anyone spoke another language and didn’t understand him. Turns out he spoke Spanish, German, and French, too. I was impressed.

The day was absolutely stunning. It was a warm 68°, sunny, and the air somehow smelled fresh. The boat was full of gawkers from all over the world by the time we left the dock. If you ever do reserve a space to see the statue, and you’d like to visit the crown, you’d better reserve it about a year in advance. I would have liked to go up there, but I couldn’t get the reservation.

You can see the statue from the Battery dock. As the boat drew nearer it becomes more obvious how large this thing is. The French did the most wonderful job in designing and building her. She is, in a word, beautiful.

I spent about ninety minutes on the island, taking pix, relaxing in the sun, and checking out the museum and the store. I was amazed at how artistic the statue is from any angle. Looking across the water at the city in the distance reminded me of what my grand parents probably saw when they emigrated from Russia and Hungary. The stories about these intrepid pioneers are many, but a common thread runs through no matter what their source. When the statue would come into view all hands were on deck, praying and thanking God that they had safely reached the land of promise and a new beginning. Even as I write this I can feel the glory of what it must have meant to these people. They took nothing for granted, left behind most of their possessions and family, and forged ahead.

When my friend, Aaron, asked my why I came to New York I half-jokingly said that it was to see him, and see the Statue of Liberty. After I saw her I knew the real reason: to reconnect with my country, with the disparate people who make it their country, and to give thanks for the place I grew up and have come to know as home. I will always have her image burned into my memory forever reminding me of how fortune has smiled on me for the rest of my days.

Battery Park, where we disembarked after the tour, is full of street vendors and performers. I didn’t take a lot of time checking them out because I had to get to Aaron’s gallery. I walked for a few blocks before I gave up and got a cab. 3 E. 19th please. I wanted to say “and step on it” but I just couldn’t bring myself to say it. I rode in silence thinking about what I had just seen.

Aaron was sitting at his desk, talking with an IT guy about his computer when I walked into the gallery. He saw me, told the guy he’d talk to him later, hung up, and we hugged hello. It had been about 45 years. He said I looked the same. Liar. I told him he looked old. We laughed.

The rest of the afternoon was dedicated to catching up on two lives that had gone their separate ways and are now back in touch as if no time at all had elapsed. Strange. The small talk was good for about half an hour. Then we got into the important stuff. Wives, kids, families, jobs, religion, politics (which lasted about a minute), and all the minutiae that makes us who we are.

Aaron suggested we get some coffee. I trumped that with a beer. So off to Pete’s went. Pete’s tavern is the oldest in New York City, and the famous home of O Henry. It still looks much the same as it did back in the late 1800’s, with the exception of the juke box, which played Sinatra, Bennett, Sammy Davis, and all the big band singers and players. I could have stayed there the whole night. They had Guinness on tap. Gawd, I love this place.

We talked until it was time to eat some dinner. Pete’s has some great food, but I had to have some New York pizza before leaving the next day. So we went to a little place, Posto, that is supposed to be the best pizza in town, a few blocks from where Aaron lives. The pizza was great, and we talked through the whole meal.

Aaron, wife Wendy, and son Taylor live on the 11th floor of a high rise in Soho, a ten minute walk from Posto. It’s not a big place, but it’s modern and furnished very tastefully. I was telling them about my adventure in the rain on top of the Empire State Building, and how I couldn’t get a real clear shot of the Chrysler Building. Aaron told me to follow him into Taylor’s room. And there it was, right out the window, lit up like Foster Brooks. The Chrysler Building. or at least the top 3rd of it. I got out the Nikon and began shooting. I did not have my tripod, which would have helped, but I steadied myself on the window sash and before I knew it I had the shots I wanted. Thanks Aaron, and Taylor.

That night, when I got back to the hotel, I lay down for a while and just thought about how lucky I am to be alive, to make my living doing something I love doing, and lucky that I’ve got a wife who loves me, kids who at least like me, friends who care, and this great camera. All was right with the world at that brief moment.

This time it was about 2:00AM when I hit the sheets, but all the editing of 360+ pix was done and I could rest easy. I was leaving the next day, but not until 3:30PM. I had time to have breakfast, meet Aaron for the last time for some coffee, and take a leisurely cab ride to LaGuardia. it was raining again.

I know this is quite a long article. If you’ve hung in there all the way, thanks, I hope you enjoyed it. If you couldn’t make it, no problem. The one thing I would like to impress upon anyone reading this is: if you haven’t visited the Statue of Liberty yet, make plans now and do it. I promise you that you will never be sorry, and I further promise you a renewed feeling of pride about our country, for what it has meant to all those who came to live here, for all those who would like to but can’t, and for all who will come in the future. I personally welcome anyone and everyone who would come in peace.