Today, I made my first trip back to The Big Apple since I was 13 years old — and even though it was sorta relaxed and chill, it was definately fun. I could easily see myself living there one day.
We left the house at about 9:15 am, and were in the Upper West Side before 11 am. We parked near Columbia and hopped on the subway — believe it or not, my first time on the subway! I’ve been on BART, Paris Metro, DC Metro, and the T — but I don’t think anything quite compares to the New York subway. The history (100 years old!), the flavor, the grime, the late night rides, the express trains and the local trains from the Bronx to Coney Island. My first picture that I took was of the subway stop sign from Columbia University — they’re these great old signs made in mosaic style out of small bits of tile.
Walking around New York, I hear at least five distinct people speak French, a few people speaking Spanish, some Russian, and even chatted up some Senegalese guys in Wolof that I met. New York is truly an amazing place.
Heading south, we got off at Columbus Circle and strolled alongside Central Park and then over to Fifth Avenue. It was full of life, people enjoying the 40 degree mild weather, the beginning of spring, and the protests (we didn’t actually make it to the protests, but the NYPD was out in full force, a small squad on nearly every block). On the corner of nearly every block on Fifth Avenue, there would be this pair of laid-back, but somewhat leery Senegalese guys who held onto what looked like an airport luggage cart type thing, with an overflowing box that I supposed was stuffed with bootleg purses and things. I overheard one of them speaking Wolof, and by the next one, I gathered the courage to ask him where he was from.
“Africa.”
“Where?”
“Senegal.”
“Fan ci Senegaal? (Where in Senegal?)
His eyes widened and smiled.
“Dakaar. (Dakar.)
“Fan ci Dakaar? (Where in Dakar?)
“Médina.”
and we just had a quick chat about who I was, how it was that I speak some Wolof and that kind of thing. I asked about getting Senegalese food, and he recommended some place in Harlem (which is where Little Senegal is) that I can’t remember the name of — but it was good to connect with my Wolof peeps.
We swung over to Rockefeller Center, and watched people ice skate, and then strolled along past Times Square. By then it was nearly lunchtime. We popped into this smallish Greek-American place that didn’t look that good, and after having sat there for two minutes, we got up and left. What Heidi really wanted was a deli.
I knew just the man to call: the illustrious Mr. Boyk
“Yo Boyk. We’re in midtown Manhattan, near Times Square — we want to go a deli. Where do we go?”
“Oh, that’s easy. 2nd Ave Deli — 2nd Ave at 10th St. in the Village.”
It’s great having a chowhound as a roommate and friend.
After some grimaces from Heidi that this was a little far for us and some pragmatic convincing beyond the standard chowish logic that if it comes recommened, chances are that it’s good, (“We have to get our money’s worth on the subway day passes, right?”) we swung over to the connector train to Grand Central, switched subways, and after passing some gorgeous NY brownstone apartments. Greenwich Village reminds me somewhat of the Marais in Paris — it’s old, quiet, and kinda funky, but still with a fair amount of character.
There it stood, proudly facing us, as we approached. There was a crowd gathered outside — another good sign. I told Martin that if we had to wait too long, we could pull a Fats Goldberg (I had read them the relevant section of The Tummy Trilogy en route this morning) and hit up a pizza joint just up the road. They took our name, and in 10 minutes we were on a street-side booth, with a plate brimming with an assortment of pickles and another dish of straight cabbage cole slaw.
I bit into the first pickle — sweet brine ran through my mouth, and the crunch rattled my teeth. A real New York pickle in a real New York deli in New York. Sweet.
I glanced over the menu, but had already decided. Hot Pastrami.
Meanwhile, I took on the pickles, they varied in bitterness and sweetness, but were all good in their own right. The cole slaw was light, fresh, crunchy and lacked mayo — which vastly improved it.
I had meant also to order a Cel-Rey as well, but I honestly couldn’t think of the name at the time and settled for water.
The sandwich was stacked with probably 12 slices of juicy, savory pastrami. It had a light peppery crust, which made a nice touch. Some small dabs of their slightly seeded mustard did improve it, though. When I bit into it, bits of pastrami flew out — I lost about a quarter of my sandwich. All the better — in between bites, I’d nosh on those!
Martin went for a burger (although sacreligious, he did enjoy it), and Heidi a large turkey, which she found was improved with copious amounts of salt and lettuce and tomato.
After lunch we walked around the Village and I noticed the abundance of what seemed to be great food places. Exploring all the food here would take years. We headed over in the direction of NYU, and came upon Washington Square, where there were these two kids who were doing a street performance — it was supposed to be physical feats (one was going to jump over five people he’d picked from the audience), but it turned into a comic routine about them collecting money for 10 minutes before they actually got to the stunt, but it was fun, somewhat reminiscent of the guys on Venice Beach.
Heading further west, we found another small street market, selling everything from Thai handcrafts, to Indian scarves, to Southern sweet potato pie, to roasted corn — I got a very fresh and sweet lemonade.
By then, we found ourselves back on the subway. We poked our head above ground around Sixth Avenue, and with the protestors dispersed, we went back to our car — had a spin through Little Senegal, and headed back to Hartford.
I slept the whole way home.
