Since the last time I updated, probably the most exciting days have been my two days off, yesterday and today. Lately I've been feeling like I've been wasting time here. After I get off of work, I'm pretty worn out and just want to go home, get some food and relax. It's nice to relax at the end of the day, so I try to make up for those days on my "weekend".
Yesterday was my first trip out to Brooklyn. I took the train to Williamsburg, the hipster mecca of New York (so I've been told), and walked around for a while. It was one of those times where I really wished that I had a smartphone for navigation purposes. I walked around, hoping to find something interesting, a restaurant, a shop, a park. Something. The part I was in at least reminded me, most comparably, to a rough part of Barberton or Cleveland and at one point I thought that I'd found the area I was looking for. The name sounded familiar. Was this the area I'd heard about for some good restaurants? Looking around, I noticed the boarded up windows, New York City Housing Authority signs on buildings and found that I'd wandered into the projects of Bushwick. I stuck out like, well, a kid from the Midwest in Bushwick. It wasn't so good. What was good was the interesting people I saw and the culture. What I can only assume to be Orthodox Jewish men and women were all over, the men in long, black coats and the women in clothing that you could only describe as old world. At times, I had to make sure I hadn't wandered back into the 1930s. There was even an all Jewish volunteer fire department, school buses with Hebrew down the side and a plethora of strange and exotic things one just doesn't see in rural/suburban Ohio.
I walked back to the train tracks and headed back up town. I knew that my time in Brooklyn couldn't be over so soon. I'd taken the train all the way downtown, why turn back now? I took a connecting train to a place I've wanted to go since I saw it featured on Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations: Brighton Beach in Brooklyn.
The hour long train ride took me out to the area more notably known for Coney Island. The first Nathan's hot dogs stand is there along with a rather impressive, but quaint collection of ferris wheels, roller coasters and side shows. Old porcelain and metal signs are fading now after decades in the sun, many of them appearing to be pre-1950. It was like stepping back in time for the second time of the day, though to this amusement park-spoiled Ohioan it was fairly unimpressive. Still, somewhere I'm glad to say I've been to.
I walked down the boardwalk. I started to notice a change. Newspapers were in Russian, here and there. Men and women spoke to each other in Russian, increasingly as I neared Brighton Beach. I knew I was in the right place.
I began to look for a restaurant to sit down at for lunch. One caught my eye: Beer Strasse Winter Garden, a uniquely confusing blend of German and Russian cultures. The identity-crisis ran deep here: German beer advertisements, German name (Strasse) and yet a decidedly Russian menu and staff. The music was a mix of Top 40 and popular American music, but translated into Russian.
I walked in, asked for a menu. I spotted something on the menu that I'd considered traveling up to the Upper East Side to try at a German restaurant: pork knuckle. Immediately, I knew what I wanted and, through a combination of pointing, motioning and nodding ordered.
Let me say first the idea of eating pig's feet isn't appetizing. The idea of crispy pork skin, rich fat and meat and a pint of German beer? Oh yeah, that's appetizing! The plate came and a few Russians at the table next to me noticed the unexpected order, nodding in approval at the choice.
So was it good? Have you ever had a meal where you consciously looked around to see if anyone noticed the goofy, satisfied smile on your face? If not, then you've never had anything this good. The sauerkraut was fresh, sweet and complimented the richness of the pork. The thin sliced fries were a must. It was one of the few meals where one paces themselves, looking around at the beach, taking a sip and then resuming the feast before them. It was absolutely perfect.
Incredibly full and satisfied, I walked out onto the beach and, to further the theme of gluttony, stretched out and laid in the sun for an hour.
I headed back uptown, a relaxed, near comatose-state of a human being, fully satisfied.
Today was supposed to encompass a trip out to Queens or another trip to Brooklyn, but some days a day of relaxation sounds good. Following another tip from Mr. Bourdain, I hunted down a Manhattan legend: Manganaro's on 9th, just a few blocks away from where I'm living. I knew going in that it wasn't authentic Italian, but authentic turn-of-the-century Italian American, using the same or similar recipes as when the place opened in 1893.
I walked in. Meat hooks lined the ceiling, scarred and beaten wooden floors gave a creak with each step. I walked up and stared at the menu. I knew going in that I'd likely encounter some authentic New York Italian attitude based on the reviews (mostly negative due to customer treatment) from Yelp and Google. My encounter went something like this:
"You gonna eat somethin'?" I heard a short woman call out from behind the counter.
"Yeah, just browsing, thanks! Quick question: I can't have any dairy. What am I safe with ordering?"
"Can't have dairy? Well, you know the tomato sauce is tomato sauce. You should know that by now! What am I going to put into it? Tomato sauce is tomatoes. Oil and garlic is, well, you get it."
"All right then. So, just to make sure, if I get the gnocchi and meat sauce, I'll be okay right? No dairy?"
"Whaddya think people are gonna put stuff in your food? Don't you trust nobody? No, you'll be fine."
"Okay, sounds great. Thank you!"
A short time later, my gnocchi and meat sauce appeared on the counter, served with plastic utensils, styrofoam plate and a basket of bread. But don't let the presentation (or lack of) fool you.
I sat down at my table and took a bite, getting a big forkful of gnocchi and sauce. You know what? The woman could have yelled at me and smacked me with a spoon when I walked in and it would have been worth it still. Customer service? It's New York. It's very, very New York and in some way, it gives the place an ambiance. A slightly hostile ambiance, but one that I've not seen before and one that makes Manganaro's unique. The gnocchi was fantastic, the meat sauce full of pepperoni and sausage, onions, olive oil and tomatoes. Much like yesterday, I savored every bite.
I thanked the woman working the counter, admitted that it was one of the best things I'd had since I've been in New York and that, since I had company coming into town over the next few weeks, I'd be back. The impatient, frustrated woman I'd seen before seemed to disappear. "Thank you, sweetheart. You have a wonderful day," she said as I left. She was exactly at that point as what I knew she was: a passionate, food-crazy Italian woman who wanted people to love her food.
I let my food settle, headed up to Times Square to try to find some affordable theater tickets but was unsuccessful. Not ready to be relegated to my room just yet, I got directions to Lula's Sweet Apothecary in Alphabet City.
I'd discovered this place in a food allergies magazine a few months ago: an all vegan, food-allergy conscious bakery and ice cream shop. You can scarcely imagine the happiness of being able to go somewhere and eat anything and everything in the whole place when normally mealtime is a ritual of checking labels and asking questions to frustrated servers and cashiers.
Passing Katz's Delicatessen of When Harry Met Sally fame and continuing on to 6th street, Lula's sits on a quiet street, surrounded by hipsters and Bohemian types. I walked in, glanced around and tried to take it all in.
Behind the counter, a man with a curly-tipped mustache and rather impressively authentic 1930s (maybe earlier?) outfit assured me: it's all dairy free. All of it. Rarely can I enjoy ice cream on a nice day, but today? Today I chose the peanut butter and chocolate chip ice cream (made with a cashew base) and sat outside to enjoy it. Lula's even goes as far as to play 1920s-30s music to fulfill the ambiance.
So how was it? Incredible to the point I considered going inside to buy a second cone. If you'd compared it to "real" ice cream, you wouldn't know the difference. I'll be going back, again and again.
New York, you're starting to show why people put up with outrageous rent, bizarre people, congestion, noise and a never-ending hustle.
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