Those who read these pages regularly know that I have just about given up on diners. Regardless of how little I want, what I want, or how much I am willing to settle, they always seem to be a disappointment. One would think that choosing the very simple, such as eggs, would be safe. But, alas, I have learned that even in New York City, whether diner, cafe, or restaurant, there is often no comfort in comfort food, and there is no safety in eggs or toast.
In one story, Greasy Spoon, I tell of my inability to even finish the toast – that meal was in the old Waverly Diner (before its recent renovation). I love the Waverly for what it represents historically in the Village. I just wish the food would match up. The cafe typically offers better food, and that is where I had most recent experience with eggs.
Recently, at Salerno Service Station in East Williamsburg, Brooklyn, it was suggested by the manager that I might want to relax and catch breakfast nearby at the Willburg Cafe while waiting for my car to be serviced. I arrived at the Cafe at 7:50AM on a Saturday, and it appeared that it might not even be open. It was, however – just empty. The place was quiet and comfy, and I settled in near a window. A customer here and there began to filter in.
The menu looked good, however, I decided to go with the least risky – an omelet with an English muffin and potatoes. I was quite pleased – they were some of the best presented and best prepared eggs I have ever had. Online reviews of the Willburg Cafe run the gamut. Some claim it was better when, while others say they had poor service. I cannot speak to that. It was my first visit, and I was the first customer. My waitress was prompt and attentive. How this place would be when crowded, I have no idea. But I will visit the Willburg Cafe again. Because here, at 623 Grand Street, there is a place that is winning the war in a world where there is No Safety in Eggs or Toast 🙂
In the 20th and particularly the 21st century, one would expect concern over proper operation of heating systems to be a thing of the past. But, as I wrote in The Dark Ages, most steam heat systems work abominably in New York City, running too hot or too cold without indoor thermostats.
The spring and fall are particularly tricky times in or out of the heating season (October 1 through May 31). Even within the heating season, when outdoor temperatures rise, tenants find themselves in the situation where the outdoor temperature is not really warm enough to warrant no heat at all, yet none is provided and it is too cool indoors. For private homeowners outside the city, a little blast of heat in the morning is just what is needed to take the chill out. Here, however, in these transitional periods of late spring and late fall, whether one gets that welcome little bit of heat is subject to the discretion of the landlord and/or building staff. Often a complaint or two from those who are most intolerant will spur a supertendant to turn on the heat for a time.
Often, I have resorted to a small electric heater for early chilly mornings, but at best, these will only provide a very small area of comfort – nothing competes with a building’s steam system for getting the job done right.
So my nose and ears are typically piqued in hopes that I discern those unmistakable telltale sounds and smell of heat coming up. The characteristic squeals, hisses, spits, and clanking are all harbingers of good things to come. Perhaps perplexing to the urbanite how heating issues could be of such importance, the thing to understand is the tenant’s lack of control, regardless that someone maybe paying thousands of dollars per month.
Admittedly, city residents are typically spoiled by heat rising to the 80s indoors during prime heating season, so these cooler temperatures during late spring and fall may often be in the low 70s, certainly not “cold” by suburban or rural standards, where homeowners must pay for fuel themselves and are not spoiled by excessive heat.
But here, after a week of nippy mornings in mid-May, electric heaters, and heavy robes, I had all but given up hope for any steam heat this season. But then, at 6:24 AM, that familiar family of sounds began, at first nearly inaudible, teasing my senses whether it was my imagination, or was, as I had hoped, heat coming up. Soon, it was clear that someone in the building staff had made the decision to bless us with a much-needed shot of warmth. A quick check confirmed that, in fact, heat was coming up and that it was real, not imagined. The familiar orchestra of hisses and squeals became louder and to my ears was nothing less than The Sounds of Music 🙂
The outlaw spirit is alive and well in New York City. On my visit to Salerno Service Station on Saturday, April 28, 2012, a small group of bikers convened at the station. I brought it to Mario’s attention, and he informed me that there was a club house for the East Williamsburg chapter of the Unknown Bikers around the corner at 41 Maujer Street. I found them somewhat intimidating, but Mario assured me that the bikers had posed no problem to them at all over the years.
As I sauntered over to Maujer Street, I noticed that the street had been closed off with traffic cones to all but the motorcyclists. My timing was perfect – within seconds of my arrival, the street was filled with bikes and bikers.
Others were taking photos and filming, and I followed suit. I am always careful around bikers, not knowing what type of reaction I might get taking photos. I was scrutinized by numerous members, but it appeared that I had some type of tacit approval.
Certainly bikers come from all walks of life and, to some extent, are like the rest of us. But there has to be an element of iconoclasm for someone to ride a Harley, join a motorcycle club, and wear a jacket proclaiming membership. There is a defiance, a renegade outlaw free spirit that has surrounded motorcycles since their origins, and belonging to a motorcycle club and wearing a jacket certainly makes that statement.
It was clear that some type of event was underway. I asked the nature of the gathering, and I was introduced to the organizer who informed me that this was a charity effort, the 4th Annual Alie Run of Bikers Against Childhood Cancer Foundation. The final destination of the bikers would be the Brooklyn Hospital. Salerno Service Station is one of the sponsors of the event.
The organizer assured me that the members were regular people just like everyone else. Admittedly, I was surprised that the nature of the meeting was a children’s charity event. Actually, motorcycle charity rides are common throughout the United States. I imagine some cynics may feel that these efforts are only bad boys trying to ingratiate themselves with the public. I will give them the benefit of the doubt. Here, in East Williamsburg, Brooklyn, it looks to me like goodwill, courtesy of the Unknown Bikers 🙂
Shortly after running Part 1, I received the following email:
Love jacked part 1 lol , I’m honored for you to put us on your site . I’m happy your happy with the work on your car. Whenever you need to come in for Anything e mail me here first and I’ll Be happy to help you . Enjoy your weekend . Thank you . – Sal A.
Later, his mother wrote to me. She included the photo*, seen above. Here a few of her comments regarding my story and the business:
Hi Brian, My name is Margaret Avallone, my son Sal of Salerno Service Station, gave me your email address-
The article on your website “Jacked, part 1” is beautifully written and we truly appreciate your kind words. All of your articles on your web site are extremely well written and very entertaining and I look forward to reading your future articles.
Believe it or not, that was probably a “quiet” day at the station, as there are many other characters who frequent the station on a daily basis just to socialize. We enjoyed your view of our business and welcome you back anytime.
I inquired about the name Salerno. Margaret responded:
Salerno is the town in Italy where my father in law came from. He would have told you many more stories himself, but unfortunately, suffered a stroke in October and is just not the same.
Yes, they have great work ethics and they have a passion for cars as well as a passion for the community. Many people seem to find the business and family quite entertaining. We were approached several times with the idea of a reality show and someone did actually do a demo tape- but we refused to go any further. We weren’t looking to gain fame and all the problems that comes along with that.
We own real estate in the neighborhood that my husband built from empty rodent infested lots. When that section of Williamsburg wasn’t considered the trendy neighborhood it is now, it was quite broken down. My husband always loved the neighborhood and bought empty lots where buildings used to be at city auctions with hopes of restoring the area close to the gas station. His father actually thought he was wasting his money, but the neighborhood real estate values jumped tremendously and his investments proved to be quite fruitful.
My husband truly has a passion for the neighborhood and helps out as much as possible, from our huge Christmas display we do every year, to donating toys at local schools & hospitals and sponsoring just about every local youth sports team.
There is a lot more to Salerno then meets the eye.
It was a great pleasure to meet the Avallone family, and I intend to go back soon. I suggest you do too, for any auto repair or maybe just feeling that you need to be Jacked 🙂
*The photo is from the local feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, which does a procession through the neighborhood each year. They sell holy bread and make it a point to visit the gas station each year. Mario Avallone is in the center, and his two sons, Mario and Salvatore, are next to him.
“Me and Mario are jacked out of our minds. We’re pumped up, high energy…” This is how Tommy Santino describes himself and Mario Avallone. It’s an understatement.
Jacked, pumped, stoked – in 42 years living in New York City, I have never seen a business that operates like this. It’s a social club on steroids or, as Salvatore Jr. described it, a circus. Three generations, all present every day. Salvatore Avallone, who founded the business in 1959, sits reading at his desk while his son, Mario, and his grandson, Salvatore, scurry about running the business. Interloper and friend, Tom Santino, comes in daily and makes lunch with Salvatore Sr.
What do you get when you combine honesty, competence, a sense of urgency, customer service par excellence, and fair pricing? A place where people will beat a path to your door. And here at Salerno Service Station at 451 Lorimer Street in Brooklyn, they do. This is a business that elevates customer service above all else. It is unique – after only a few minutes, I knew everything everyone had said about this place was true and that I, too, would become a Salerno devotee.
I needed a muffler repaired, and here in New York City, as elsewhere, auto repair is riddled with charlatans, liars, cheaters, and crooks. The Internet has helped immeasurably to sort businesses out. I began some online searching and became intrigued with Salerno Service Station in East Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Of over 80 reviews, all but two were 5 stars – remarkable and unfathomable really. The reviews themselves were saturated with superlatives. A visit was in order.
The station is open 24 hours and the auto service department from 8AM to 2PM on Saturday. I wanted to insure that my repair was done Saturday, so, given this place’s popularity, I arrived at 7:30AM. Mechanics were already on the scene in preparation for start of their workday. Ryan approached me immediately and pulled my car into the garage and onto a lift. He confirmed that I needed a muffler and that they could do the job easily. However, parts suppliers did not open until 8:15AM, so he suggested I relax at the Willburg Cafe around the corner. I took his recommendation and had a leisurely breakfast while waiting.
At 8:10, my cellphone rang. A muffler for my 20-year old car had already been located. I was given pricing and was told that I also needed an air filter, but it would be done at no charge. I needed an oil change. No charge. And I had the most annoying rattle that no one could isolate for years. They would investigate. (They found it and repaired it at no charge.) I gave the go-ahead for the muffler replacement.
A fellow diner overheard my conversation, asking if I had a vehicle at Salerno Service. I told him I did. He extolled their virtues, adding that he was their medical doctor, Dr. Zane, a podiatrist. A small and interconnected world indeed, here in East Williamsburg. I was also told that Mario was quite affluent, owning a lavish home in Long Island as well as many buildings in Brooklyn. He ran the business for the love of it. Workaholics. Nothing drives a business like passion and the love of work and people.
My car was completely finished ahead of schedule. I left the diner to pick it up. The place was now brimming with activity, and the family had arrived. I did not want to leave. I was escorted around the garage, given several complementary T-shirts (Mario keeps cases on hand). The original tow truck from 1959, perfectly restored, sits nearby. A sign below Lorimer Street proclaims “Via Salerno” – I was told this was given courtesy of the Guiliani administration. Salerno Service is a power station and has assisted the city in many crises.
I was being educated and entertained by Tommy Santino, who elaborated on business and life. I was to learn that the Avallone family and Tommy were pumped in more ways than one. All have the physiques of body builders – photos and trophies in the back office are testament that they had more than a passing interest. Two decades ago, they installed a gym in a back room. Here, I was escorted for a tour and learned that Tommy had been a professional boxer and headed the New York State boxing commission. His wife, Mary Murphy, is an award-winning reporter and anchorwoman for a local New York City television network. I watched Salvatore Jr. demonstrate his conditioning on the pullup bar. Mario, I learned, has appeared in films, including those of director Spike Lee.
The stories were endless, the achievements amazing, and the energy was infectious. I recorded my visit, and on my next installment of this story, you can see the movie and how everyone in this place, along with me, is truly jacked…
I do believe that one of the reasons that civic improvements are not made in a timely manner is that legislators do not suffer the slings and arrows on a daily basis. The comfort of insulation will do a lot for apathy, and mornings outside in January without a coat will do a lot to propel someone to light a fire.
Even for those who grew up poor or working class, once removed, the frustrations become distant memories for those in office. But if they, like their constituency, had to rely on mass transit for their daily commute and experienced delays, rerouting, and other abuses, they would likely be first at bat for change. To depend 100% on public transportation and suffer the anxiety, stresses, and horrors of the system on a long term basis will grind many down, even the seasoned, tolerant New Yorker with a cast-iron stomach. I have known many residents who have been driven to near wit’s end over a life time of transit travel. Some, as several of my employees, have sworn off subways entirely, opting for bicycle travel, even in winter.
Saturday, April 21, was a beautiful sunny day, and I was to visit a friend in Staten Island. My car was in disrepair, so this would be the first time in my life where I would travel to a destination within Staten Island using public transportation. The X1 express bus was the logical choice, providing nearly door-to-door service for $5.50 one way. My friend warned me that this was the only sensible option.
However, I decided that given the weather, I would take the ferry and the SI Railway. I had never taken the SIR, and I was particularly excited to do so and document the trip. This means a three-legged trip: a subway to South Ferry, the ferry itself, and the Staten Island Rail to my final destination.
Descent to Hell
It started out innocently enough, with plenty of good cheer. It was, however, to become the ride from hell. Distracted with my cameras, iPad, and trip planning, my first mistake was getting on the subway on the uptown rather than downtown side. This was infuriating because at the Sheridan Square station, there is no underpass, so anyone making this mistake must leave the station, exit to the street, and reenter the other side, paying another fare – there is no provision for a free transfer under these circumstances. I was pissed as hell at my stupidity and even more so to give the NYC Transit Authority another $2.50 for no good reason.
As I descended the downtown stairway, I had just missed a train. Adding insult to injury, I was angrier yet, and my first leg to South Ferry was already delayed waiting for the next train. The change to the ferry at South Ferry went smoothly, and the ride at sea afforded ample opportunity for scenic photos and video. The Staten Island Ferry comes highly recommended – it is FREE and affords vistas of the East River bridges, the Manhattan skyline, Ellis Island, Brooklyn, New Jersey, the Verrazano Bridge, and the Statue of Liberty.
I had been warned by my friend that the travel option of choice was the X1 bus, not a three-legged workaround. I had told her that in this instance, I preferred the scenic route and, apart from my mishap taking the wrong train, it was looking like I would be heir to bragging rights for my decision to take the ferry. I was armed with photos and video to show her, which would just be further evidence that in NYC, there are different strokes for different folks. I had calmed down appreciably and was ready for my rail trip.
Hell Hath No Trains
When I arrived in Staten Island at the St. George terminal, I learned that due to construction, the SI Railway was not running from the ferry station. BIG disappointment. I was informed that there was a free shuttle bus to the first station on the line. This would make it a 4-legged trip. Additionally, no one could tell me where the shuttle bus was, including every driver of the local buses I could find. My patience had worn thin, and I decided to forgo the railway and take the local bus, the S79. Another big disappointment, and I was fed up.
Hell Hath No Buses
I was alone at the bus stop with one other passenger. It was desolate, and as I waited, time crawled by. I tried to ameliorate my anger, looking to my friend waiting at home for sympathy by making more and more frequent cellphone calls to her to complain. She was the perfect and willing shoulder to cry on, a classic New York cynic who hates all things New York City and has nothing good to say about public transportation. Of course, I got the obligatory “I told you sos,” but even she became incensed as the delay became nearly inexplicable. Over an hour had passed, and there was no S79 bus to be seen. The crowd of passengers had become large, but virtually no one appeared agitated at all.
All’s Hell That Starts and Ends Hell
The delay became extreme, and I paced like a wild animal. It was nearly ONE HOUR AND 30 MINUTES to wait for a local bus on a Saturday night! As I was to return that night and it was now after 9PM, I even considered getting back on the ferry and returning to Manhattan. My friend was not pleased with the prospect of an aborted visit, and neither was I. I continued to wait, and at last an S79 pulled up.
There was still little show of anger even amongst those who had waited for nearly as long as I had. There was neither an apology nor an explanation from the driver nor confrontations from the passengers as they silently boarded the bus. On board, I tried to recruit a sympathizer or two for what seemed to be an unconscionable act. In my conversation with one resident, I learned that delays like this are not uncommon, and he seemed resigned to his plight. He, as well as his fellow passengers, looked calm and collected. For them, it was business as usual for the ride home. For me, and I wish for a public servant, it was truly The Ride From Hell 🙁
I am somewhat cautious while eating, but no one expects a metal bottle cap in their entree. I bit down reasonably hard on that San Pellegrino cap. After extracting the culprit, cursory examination of my teeth with my tongue appeared to indicate that all was well. I discussed with my dining companion what we thought the staff’s reaction might be. Our waitress had known me over 15 years – I assumed that, at the least, I would not be charged for my meal.
I called her over, showed her exhibit A, and she was mortified. She immediately swept the dish away and said that of course, the entree was coming off the check. As I left, more apologies followed me out the door. It was a good story and laughable incident really. Or so I thought.
However, soon after, while eating at home, I felt a small hard object in my mouth. My heart sank as it appeared to be a piece of tooth. A quick run of my tongue along the area where I had bit into the bottle cap quickly confirmed my worst fear: a piece of a tooth, which must have cracked against the metal cap, had now broken off. Unfortunately, I have enough experience to know that this will likely mean a crown (cap) and possibly more. I used to have anxiety over dental procedures – particularly doing crowns, root canals, etc. However, my only anxiety now, apart from losing natural teeth, is the time and cost of doing such things. Modern dentistry should be relatively painless, except for the impact on your pocketbook.
I visited the restaurant the next day, telling the waitress of my misfortune and that, unfortunately, it looked like we were talking MONEY. I asked if she thought the owner had insurance to cover such a thing. We exchanged numbers, she said she would contact the owner, and a few days later, the owner called. We discussed the incident. He contacted his insurance broker, who also called to arrange a meeting. I told him I had a dental appointment scheduled and suggested that we touch base after that. He agreed.
So, tomorrow morning I am off to the dentist to learn what the fate of my tooth will be. Beware the frequent restaurant goer in New York City – the more often you eat out, the more likely it is that you may find undesirable items in your food or drinks. I hope after these tales that you continue to see your meals as treasure hunts, not minefields, and that you find more pleasant ingredients than Caps and Floss 🙂
Anyone living in New York City for over 40 years, as I have, will have experienced many slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. And here, in these pages, I endeavor to bring you not only the slings and arrows, but those which are truly outrageous.
For many New Yorkers, as well as visitors, one of the greatest things about the city are its restaurants. I have met many who eat all of our meals out. This would seem to be a tremendous luxury, but it need not be. The range of prices in the thousands of eating establishments here provides ample opportunity to find meals at virtually any price imaginable.
Over the thousands of times I have eaten in NYC restaurants, it would be expected to have had unpleasant experiences, but nothing tops a story told to me by a close friend, Leslie, and her visit to a popular restaurant with her husband, Michael. In her tale, not only was the initial offense outrageous, but the response of the management was as well.
Finding things in one’s food, such as hair, is never pleasant, and in a restaurant, there is the added element that it is someone ELSE’S stuff in your food, only made worse if one’s imagination runs wild as to its source. So how would you like to find DENTAL FLOSS in a glass of drinking water? I will let Leslie tell the story in her own words:
When we asked to see the manager, he came over and sat down quite casually at our table like we were friends (had never met him before), leaning back in the chair like he owned the place, and asked what was the problem. Michael asked him to look at the glass of water he had received from the busboy. The manager looked at it, saw the dental floss, stuck his hand in the water, pulled out the floss and threw it on the floor…lightly saying, “Well, we don’t have to look at that anymore.” If I remember correctly, he did not remove the glass. I suppose he apologized, and then left without offering anything. He seemed quite unconcerned about the seriousness of the entire situation. Between that and another time a few months later, I believe, when Michael’s knee stuck to the wall because of someone’s left over blob of jam, he refused to ever go back!
For years, I have relished the opportunity to use Leslie’s story to amplify my own, if and when something like this might happen to me. I did not exactly wish such an occurrence, however, I now see misfortune as an opportunity to tell a story and make lemonade from a sour experience. And fate befell me on Friday, April 20th.
I was eating in a local haunt that I have frequented for decades. I have wearied of much of the food there and, like many places, I have narrowed my choices to just a few items. There, I typically order their Mexican entrees, specifically the enchiladas. However, I was to learn that an enchilada is the perfect vehicle for delivering an unwanted gift – what better food item then a corn tortilla rolled around a filling to entomb a surprise? And surprise it was when I bit into something large and hard. As I spit it out, nothing prepared me for the sight of a METAL BOTTLE CAP. It was no comfort that someone had selected a finer bottle of water, San Pellegrino.
But what I have recounted so far is the Good News. I was soon to learn that this would not be my last unpleasant encounter with Caps and Floss…
My daily trip from my home to work takes me through SoHo, where my business is located. The morning is generally a relatively quiet time in this upscale neighborhood, so I was caught by surprise on Thursday, April 19, as I approached the corner of Wooster and Prince and witnessed the largest media presence I have ever seen in the area. Every local and national network was settled in with antenna-equipped vans. In addition to police, there were numerous FBI agents brandishing jackets, making the gravity of the situation abundantly clear.
Asking a photographer on the scene what this hubbub was all about, I was informed that the search for Etan Patz had been renewed in the basement of 127B Prince Street in SoHo, a short distance from the apartment where the Patz family lived and still lives today.
The case of Etan Patz is not only heart wrenching for the family but also has been a huge story both locally and nationally, the most well-known case of a missing child in the history of New York City, perhaps the entire country. The case gained additional notoriety as the first time a missing child’s photo was printed on a milk carton. The day of Etan’s disappearance, May 25, was designated National Missing Children’s Day by President Ronald Reagan in 1983.
On May 25, 1979, Etan Patz, who was 6 years old at the time, left his home on Prince Street in SoHo to catch a school bus two blocks away. His parents, Stan and Julie Patz, had given him permission to make the walk alone for the first time. Unfortunately, they never saw him again. The basement area being searched at 127B Prince Street had been used as a workshop by a carpenter, Othniel Miller. Etan and other boys had frequented the shop at the time of Etan’s disappearance. Etan was declared legally dead in 2001. The case was reopened in 2010 by the New York District Attorney’s office.
Jose Ramos was the prime suspect in Etan’s disappearance. A convicted child molester, Ramos is still serving time in prison (scheduled release date November 2012). A friend of Etan’s babysitter, Ramos admitted to being with Patz the day of the disappearance but denied abducting or killing him. However, in 2004, the family won a civil suit against Ramos, yet he still remains unprosecuted for the crime.
I lived in New York City at the time of Etan’s disappearance and recall the flyers posted everywhere, asking for his whereabouts. The family as well as the public was hoping for closure in this case. The original search was extensive, employing nearly 100 police officers. Nothing was found then. There was hope that new technologies in forensics would perhaps find traces that would be identifiable. However, the recent search has found nothing as well. A mystery unsolved, and for those of us who remember that time in 1979, Etan Patz will forever be the Milk Carton Child…
People have different styles – I have always been a fan of openness and transparency. Privacy is not something which I embrace. In my writings, I have laid bare many stories involving my family members, my upbringing, my place of birth, my occupation, contact information, etc. So, it should come as no surprise that I am not a big fan of people who deliberately shroud themselves in mystery or speak of their work in concepts, vagaries, and generalities. The less specific, the more one can make assertions and personal claims which are difficult to challenge. This is the world of the self-proclaimed Creative Expert, of which I have previously written.
On Saturday, I met a couple promoting their wedding. When I asked their names, they identified themselves as Social Acceptance and Self Love. They heartily encouraged photos as they distributed postcard-sized invitations which said:
A New Era Has Begun…The Project J.U. Founder and Director cordially invite you to a wedding celebration for Social Acceptance and Self Love.
The location was listed as Bamboo 52 at 344 West 52nd Street, a sushi bar and lounge. I have no idea how many people this will accommodate or why our bride and groom would aggressively promote their wedding celebration to everyone on the streets of New York City.
I have no idea if Project J.U. exists in mind, cyberspace only, or whether there are real people and initiatives involved. According to the website:
Project J.U. is a nonprofit organization whose mission is to help individuals recognize the great potential they possess because of their uniqueness and personal values. Project J.U. is dedicated to all people with no regards to gender, weight, physical attributes, sexual orientation, ethnicity, etc. Project J.U. has a goal of providing empowerment, education and life skills to the community with a special dedication to at-risk students and adults. Project J.U. host an array of activities including workshops, forums, and special events. These events will utilize social networks and print media while advocating the organizational motif, “Just Unique.”
With a little digging, I learned that the groom is Julius Jones and that he has a BA in English and Mass Communications from North Carolina Central University and is currently working on an MBA at the Keller Graduate School of Business. He lists his skill sets as: motivational speaking, public speaking, product advocacy and branding, customer service, and corporate communication.
If you are going to market, brand, spin, or promote, there’s no better place to sell yourself and/or your ideas than New York City, particularly when Speaking in Tongues 🙂
She had always tried to convince me that, owing to her ethnicity, her fate was to become a middle-aged cat lady. Absurd, I had always told her. This was not the suburbs, where she had grown up. It was New York City, where certainly someone, if not many, would succumb to her charms and be attracted to, not repelled by, her Indian ancestry. She doubted me. But Monday, April 16, would be the night that, much to her delight, she would be proven wrong. Twice.
Chapter 1. Three of us sat in Washington Square Park, enjoying the warm weather, as we are often inclined to do. A black man with dreadlocks nearby began leering at my Indian friend. In spite of the large and obvious age gap between my friend and myself, he began to ask questions that implied that we were an item. Clever guy, attempting to ingratiate himself and look respectable with a thinly veiled line of questions directed mostly to me, the “boyfriend.” As I assured him that we were not an item, he spoke to her directly with a comment about how she had really nice skin tone. She was shocked and awed. I still had to convince her that in spite of his obvious come-on, it did not seem to be strictly sexual but appeared to be a genuine compliment to her skin color.
Chapter 2. Three of us agreed to go to the Olive Tree Cafe for dinner. My Indian friend and I needed no menu – we knew exactly what we would be getting, and it included their Passion Punch. As we neared the end of our meals, a waiter arrived with a free punch. It sounded like he said it was from the bartender, but his exact words were unclear. We shared and enjoyed the free drink, all the while speculating as to who the buyer of the drink actually was. We noticed a lone man at the bar, constantly staring in my friend’s direction. Could this person have spotted my Indian friend sitting alone on one side of our table and bought her a drink? This was the stuff of movies and romantic fantasy to me – I had never actually done such a thing or been with someone who received a drink from a secret admirer.
Finally, to end the mystery and achieve closure, I called the waiter over and asked him to repeat what he had told us regarding the complementary drink. It was in fact the customer at the bar who had gifted my friend. She was stunned and intrigued, trying to assess if this man was attractive enough to be a candidate. I encouraged her to go over to the bar and at least thank him. Under the circumstances, it was not forward at all, just a polite gesture as well as an opportunity to meet him.
But she was shy, and my suggestion was meeting resistance. No matter, however, as said man began to approach our table, a decidedly oh-my-god event for my friend, who began to panic. He appeared to be of Indian descent, as I had suspected, which was likely why my friend caught his eye and fancy so quickly. He introduced himself as Sam and directed much of his initial conversation towards me – we discerned a cultural etiquette that perhaps saw me as chaperone or gate keeper. I learned that Sam was Punjabi and from Long Island. Now, with formalities out of the way, offers for free drinks and food were made and escalated. He insisted on buying us more drinks and even taking us to another restaurant for dinner. He appeared somewhat inebriated and, as often the case, where there is alcohol, obstinacy is company. His efforts turned from flattery to a mild annoyance. It took a very strong hand on my part to persuade him that we were indeed FULL and were leaving. I left first while they wrapped things up and exchanged email addresses.
Many lessons had been learned. She would in fact not become a cat lady. And being Indian was no hindrance at all in New York City. In fact, brown was apparently the Couleur du Jour, a blessing, not a curse, even for Skin Tone 🙂
Life is brutal for women – nature, nurture, and advertising have conspired to make competition fierce, a never ending battle to measure, compare, and compete and a constant challenge to self-image. And any woman who succumbs to such pressures will find New York City one of the most difficult places to live.
Men, of course, benefit from what essentially is a constant parade of women, many of whom are tricked out for the mating dance. Women who feel good about themselves and/or are blessed with nature’s bounty will find an endless supply of admirers, gawkers, or lechers to feed their need for attention. Those without such assets or self-confidence will need to armor themselves or live in a constant state of self deprecation.
I once knew a Chinese woman obsessed with her unhappiness in being Asian and wanted nothing other than to be a white supermodel. She articulated this frustration often. She was loved by all who met her, well-educated, and not unattractive, yet no matter how much positive feedback I gave her, it fell on deaf ears. Growing up outside the city, she had suffered racist derision as a child, surprising to me for someone growing up in the 1980s. Unfortunately, racism of this type is not uncommon.
Recently, I met a young woman of Indian ancestry who also suffered being berated growing up in the suburbs owing to her ethnicity. This was even more surprising to me since she grew up more recently in the suburbs of New York City. She has been saddled with a very negative self-image about everything – her features, body, ethnicity, and skin color.
However, one of the great things about New York City is the salad bowl environment. Broadly different ethnic groups and individuals translate to different tastes, so, no matter how outside the norm someone is, given a reasonable degree of attractiveness, a woman (or man) will certainly find admirers and potential suitors. Here, even those sporting the most extreme looks and style can find a mate. The city is not only a mecca for the ethnically diverse, eccentrics, or misfits, but also a place where such persons can find love, appreciation, and respect.
I recently spent the evening with a friend and this Indian woman. It was a fortuitous night for cupid’s arrow, and she was to learn that, in spite of her hostile upbringing, she had not one, but two admirers, that, much to her surprise, brown is not a bad color at all, and that, for some, as we will learn in Part 2, it’s All About Skin Tone 🙂
One of the peculiar dilemmas of living in New York City is the compelling feeling that there is a world outside the city and simultaneously no desire to leave it. Often, particularly on a beautiful day, I have a strong desire to take a day trip and explore some rural hinterland to enjoy nature. Then, stepping out my door with a sincere intent to only briefly sample the city, I found myself shipwrecked again on the shores of Manhattan, having been lured by the Sirens of Culture. Often, I make it no further than steps from my home in Washington Square Park, a brewery of local and international talent.
I sit in cognitive dissonance, torn by the desire to broaden my horizons yet trapped by a menagerie of entertainers, the like of which is to be found nowhere else. Part of me feels that there must be more to life than this plot of 10 acres that landscape architect George Vellonakis referred to as America’s Piazza. Not an exaggeration at all, the park is a meeting place for every imaginable type of individual from sociopaths, lunatics, misfits, geniuses, budding and established artists, painters, chess players, writers, photographers, intellects, local residents, and visitors. It is a place where the conversationalist can meet and engage in conversations on any subject imaginable, both privately or in forums.
However, the biggest draw here is the music, and with some luck, on a good day, one can find a virtual festival of professional talent. So it was that on Saturday and Sunday, I was lured in by the music of Jessy Carolina and the Hot Mess. I found myself listening for hours along with a large steady crowd who found themselves so engaged that many resorted to Dancing in the Streets. From their website:
Jessy Carolina & The Hot Mess is a New York City-based ensemble specializing in early American roots and jazz music from the late 1800’s to the 1930’s. The group features Jessy Carolina on vocals and washboard, Jerron “Blind Boy” Paxton on piano, banjo, and vocals, Jordan Hyde on guitar, Jay Sanford on bass, Mario J. Maggio on clarinet and saxophone, and Satoru Ohashi on trumpet and trombone.
Jessy, who hails from Venezuela, grew up in North Dakota, and later moved to New York City, has a voice and singing style that ropes in passersby who find themselves entranced and engaged. The talent of all the members of the group is exceptional, and it comes as a huge treat to find such talent on the street – Jessy Carolina and the Hot Mess has performed in a variety of venues, both in and out of the city. Catch ’em when you can. I’ll see you in the parks and streets of New York City, lured by the Sirens of Culture 🙂
There are many things to love about the color WHITE. For some, use of the color in their homes and wardrobe borders obsession, like that of the good friend of mine whom I wrote about in White By Design. That story has raised my antenna, ever on the lookout for extreme displays of white. It has inspired a series of White By Design stories, this being the 4th.
In New York City, choosing white takes on a spirit of defiance. Analogous to She’s Too Tough To Care, wearing white is like saying I don’t care that white makes no sense in New York City. We have rats, graffiti, pollution, dirt, and grime, but I will wear white anyway.
I have a pair of white bucks, which I wrote about in One Size Too Small. I have always gotten a very strong reaction when wearing them in the city. Apart from being a style whose time is long gone and unfamiliar to many, white suede is perhaps the ultimate act of defiance in the selection of shoe color and material to be worn in New York. Wearing white also sends a message that a person is willing and able to go the extra mile in maintaining such a color choice in the city. In White By Design, I said:
Used badly, white can be a horrific choice – everything is mercilessly revealed with white. It is also deliberately and conspicuously impractical, making a statement about luxury and the ability and willingness for maintenance. The decision to use white in an unforgiving city like New York makes a particularly strong statement.
Black has been fashionable for eons, particularly in New York, where it is the color of choice for the downtown hipster. It is not uncommon to see individuals who dress entirely in black, head to toe. Black is cool, and when in doubt, black is safe. Given that thinking, what is safer than to dress entirely in black?
However, I do not recall seeing the polar opposite until yesterday. While waiting to cross the intersection at Spring Street and Broadway, a woman’s wardrobe screamed out at me, so much so that reaching for my camera was not even a conscious decision but rather a reflex action. She was dressed (perhaps overdressed with a down jacket) in white from head to toe, topped with gray/white hair.
It was reminiscent of an LP I have kept for its startling cover image – Edgar Winter (an Albino) with white hair and beard, wearing a white suit and fur on a beach with white clouds in the background, akin to the polar bear in his natural snowy environment. Edgar, my friend, and the woman on Spring Street all share that passion for a color that nature often gives us. Or, when in New York City, and man-made elements conspire against nature to offer such pristine beauty, then it must and will be White By Design…
I did use a jackhammer once for a few days while working a summer job. It was one of the most unpleasant work experiences I have ever had, and I have done a number of unpleasant tasks. I am always so disturbed to see workers using this tool – I cannot fathom how anyone could use such a thing for hours at a time on a daily basis. Even with safety equipment, face masks, and hearing protectors, the impact and damage to the body must be tremendous.
New York City is an exciting and dynamic place. But dynamism means change, and that means construction. Sometimes it feels like construction at every turn.
Exacerbating the entire mess is that the city is so densely populated that construction must be done at inauspicious times and places while the city goes about its business. Subways are 24 hours, so service must often be rerouted and disrupted, much to the chagrin of daily commuters.
This is the city that never sleeps. And why would you try with a jackhammer outside your window? A train or subway is about 100 decibels. A jackhammer is 120 – 130 decibels. At least it is no louder than a jet plane at takeoff, which measures 130 decibels or greater.
Efforts have been made to develop a quieter jackhammer. In 2000, Brookhaven National Laboratory worked on a helium gas gun device called the Raptor, which was to be much quieter than any conventional diesel-powered compressor-styled device. The noise levels on the newer gun were claimed to be substantially less. However, the device was not as promised, the project appears to be stalled, and so for now, it’s carpal tunnel syndrome, white finger, and bruises for the workers. For the rest of us, it’s deafening noise, As Usual…
Those who read these pages regularly know that I have just about given up on diners. Regardless of how little I want, what I want, or how much I am willing to settle, they always seem to be a disappointment. One would think that choosing the very simple, such as eggs, would be safe. But, alas, I have learned that even in New York City, whether diner, cafe, or restaurant, there is often no comfort in comfort food, and there is no safety in eggs or toast.
