We went to look at colleges in New York recently, and I took in a lot of information, really I did, about dorm life and creating your own major and faculty qualifications and financial aid. But some of the most memorable moments from our visit were, as usual, about food.
This is my touchstone.
The first day was an impromptu picnic in Union Square. The weather was unseasonably warm, and a pair of skinny, bearded buys were hollering out some fine bluegrass, playing banjo and guitar. It was a foot-stomping, gotta-move sort of rejoicing right there along 14th Street, and a crowd gathered round and filled their guitar case with coins and dollar bills. I could have been in Floyd, Virginia, except we were surrounded by urban canyons instead of Blue Ridge mountains.
Major points to Eugene Lang the New School for being located near this classically New York experience.
Like a really good college book that’s already been read and marked up by someone else, our trip to New York was substantively about serious subject matter—college choice—but it had margins packed with bonus moments like this. “Pay attention to this part!” the notes said. “You’ll love the bit on bluegrass!”
There was more foot-stomping in the subway station, a solo fiddler whose tunes got my feet moving in the approximation of clogging I picked up in the mountains North Carolina. A bit of Appalachia, in the depths of New York’s subway system. At another subway station, there was a woman with a beatific expression on her face, as if she were impersonating an angel, and she was playing a saw. The kind that cuts wood. She had a violin bow that produced an eerie, harp-like accompaniment while she sang Greensleeves.
Then there was a young man sitting on a bucket in the middle of another subway platform, finger-picking a curvy, spare-looking electric guitar that had only a perimeter of wood– through the center of the instrument, you could see the player’s shirt. His music reminded me of Pierre Bensusan, a mix of classical and traditional picking that showcases technical prowess as well as emotional depth.
Food for our ears.
For our bellies, there was our picnic, taken from a market that had delicious things waiting in every narrow aisle. There were dozens of cheeses, all neatly labeled in the case, and baguettes bouqueted in baskets; taste stations with humus and caponata for the semolina bread you could dip in; there were the best sort of chocolate cookies, set out in pieces for sampling, and in the produce section all manner of brightly colored vegetables and fruit, including “sugar plums” which we never did try. I believe the best places are the ones that leave you wanting to return, and I am sure I will come back to try these little gems.
We chose the easiest way to lunch: sandwiches from the deli counter where two guys moved with the quick efficiency and grace characteristic of so many New York delis. Clara got classic roast beef with horseradish -- and watercress. I ordered roasted vegetables with pesto and goat cheese on a heavily seeded bun, we added a bunch of green grapes and went off to sit in the sun at Union Square, between the playground and the dog park. Between bites, we matched people with their dogs, wondering whether the prim and mincing ladies with toy Chihuahuas and such were any more attentive to their canine companions than the dread-locked dudes with mutts. We noted the neon pink shoes and ripped tights on one girl, then traded tastes of our sandwiches, and pointed out the striped socks and rolled up trousers of someone else.
Our dinner that night was French. After surfing the internet we found Jacques, a cozy spot in Soho that was unpretentious and marginally less pricey than most. Our French waiter, who wore an unwieldy winter hat over what must have been a tangle of curls or dreadlocks, brought my wine in a miniature carafe, then poured it the glass, leaving some for later; this small gesture makes me feel coddled and makes the wine stretch. We ordered moules—mussels—which came in a ceramic bucket with a fine and buttery mariniere sauce, really more like broth, pooled in the bottom; the frites were stacked on end in a paper-lined cup. They could have been thinner but they were still good and I ate every last one and a couple of Clara’s as well. Then we chose profiterole for dessert, except they were cream-filled instead of ice cream-filled, and we dipped them in chocolate fondue. The dinner must have been especially good, as the conversation was one of those magical intimacies mothers and daughters share only when all elements come together at once.
Today, we had a lovely brunch with our friend, Lauren, in a find of a place, Ceci Cela (the food was so good it was gone by the time I took the photo, above). Up front this tiny spot looks like a take-out bakery with scrumptiously beautiful tarts and croissants, éclairs and other French treats. Through a narrow corridor, though, is a five-table café with French poster prints on the walls and miniature chalkboards at each table, announcing the quiche of the day. The menu is limited to all those sweets we saw when we came in, plus croque monsieur (basically a fried ham and cheese sandwich), quiche and a few sandwiches. Clara got smoked trout with orange butter and radicchio on thick, soft bread; Lauren went for the turkey on a baguette and I had the leek and onion quiche, with its thick, buttery crust and small salad accompaniment. Oh, and langue de chat, literally ”tongue of the cat,” cute little slivers of cookies that are rough with sugar, like a cat tongue. The servers were French, the language at the next table, Spanish. One of the things I love about this place is the efficient use of space: there is a stairway that goes to a storage loft, and once I saw what looked like a futon mattress there. Does the pastry chef sleep there while his bread rises before breakfast?
Three very different but equally enjoyable meals; four musicians, each exceptional in different ways, and two colleges. One good weekend.
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