Pleasent Diversion

Last night I ventured forth to the borough of Queens, setting foot on Terra Reginae for the first time. The purpose of my call was my need to satisfy a cultural itch; I needed to see a baseball game in New York. And because I've yet to receive my share of the TARP bailouts, I cannot afford Yankee Stadium, which left me at Citi Field watching the Mets, a team whose season has gone from bad to worse and who is all but mathematically eliminated from the post season. Which is why my visit wasn't so focused on the quality of the game, but more so on the stadium, the experience and the feel. All in all, it was a pleasant diversion.

Replacing old Shea Stadium, which was built in the 60's, was generically round, and was by most accounts charmless, the new Citi Field cost a whopping $750 million to build. Yet, like the team that plays there, the stadium can't seem to outshine the Yankees $1.5 billion dollar cathedral which opened the same year. Seeking to be the voice of all non-Yankee New Yorkers, the Mets have embraced fan bases whose teams have been exiled to the west: The Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Giants. To that end, the stadium's exterior is a nod to the Dodger's old Ebbit's Field, and its grand foyer (yes, the stadium has a foyer) is an extensive tribute to Jackie Robinson, the color-barrier breaking Dodger. It was a bit strange to see so much tribute paid to another teams heroes, but then again the last time the Mets won the World Series I was 2, and half that team's stars went on to get busted for drugs. Maybe it is best they use other teams heroes.

The stadium itself is quite pleasant. Broad concourses wrap around the field, allowing an easy pregame stroll to take in the field from all angles. In right field there is a mini replica Queensborough Bridge crossing over the bullpens, and every seat seems to have a good view. And a hungry man wont be begging for options – Hot Dogs, Italian Sandwiches, BBQ, with specialties like fried dough and kettle cooked popcorn. There is even a killer smelling Mexican taqureia and a 'world market' which serves Japanese sushi, Chinese and Korean dishes and even fresh fruit! And what is a ballgame without beer? Well, I've never seen a selection of beer at a stadium like this before. There is a myriad of imported brews, smaller domestic breweries, local favorites and of course your major American players, so if you can't find a beer you like there, you must not like beer!

As I settled into my seat $25 upper deck seat behind home plate I'd walked up an purchased at the stadium that evening, with my Hoegarden and Italian Sausage, I looked out over a green field basking in the warm light of a late summer evening. Behind the massive video board I could see traffic shuffling across the George Washington Bridge. Throughout the game airplanes veered off course, swerving around the stadium beyond the right field wall as they approached the landing runway at Laguardia. Baseball game or not, the view was peaceful and relaxing.

Easing our way through the game, there was action and excitement, but not a forced freneticism like some stadiums try to produce. The fans at the game were easy going as the evening slipped into night, where the sky's stars failed to appear, a subtle reminder that even at it's parks and fields, New York is as urban as it gets. I got personal satisfaction from the stars on the field, when each team's biggest star hit a home run. The Mets lost, the crowed groaned knowingly as their early lead slipped away, as if they half expected it. After the game, everyone got up and went home, smiles abounded and I don't think it was just the beer. People seemed to have had a good time. It had been a pleasant diversions.

Beneath a Statue

Street performing has taken a dive in recent years, what with cities recent crackdowns on buskers, clowns and stunt men. Nowadays stumbling upon a great street performer is harder and harder. Sure, Boston's Harvard Sq. and Fanuel Hall have a few good acts, and you never know what you'll find in New York's Union Square, but gone are the fledgling musicians and more diminutive showmen. Instead we're forced to deal with “a serious blight on society”, as the movie Hot Fuzz calls them: moving statues. I wish I could say they're the lowest man on the street performer totem-pole, but they're not. Not by a long shot.

In my youth, street performing was a wondrous art. Tightrope walkers, jugglers and break dancers wowed me, while I turned up my nose at street musicians for reasons I don't fully understand. I'd hate to think my nose-thumbing has caused the disappearance of most of the street musicians. More likely the police crackdowns on busking, the limiting of permits and such has led to the silent street corners and subway tunnels. You'd think during a recession there would be more out of work musicians turning to the streets, but nearest I can see that hasn't happened.

It seems the only proliferating strata of performer is the moving statue. Once a novelty, and occasionally skilled beyond belief with tremendous body control, all too often these 'artists' act less and less like statues and more and more like outrageously dressed mutes. More constant motion machine than statue or robot, the performers wheeze, whistle and beckon, drawing attention to themselves in any way possible. Too many hacks have hijacked what I once considered a noble art, moving their kind to near the bottom of the list.

Near the bottom is not the bottom. I'd never though there could be anyone exhibiting less skill than the guy in silver paint who blows on a whistle to passerbys. At least, I never though there could be before now.

There are 'street performers', if you can stomach calling them that, who's gimmick is that they're dressed up as either Elmo or Sponge Bob Square Pants. That's it. No tricks, no songs, no jokes. They bought a lifesize Muppet costume and wear it on the street corner, waiting for people to take a picture with them and put money in their stocking – yes, like the one you'd hang on the chimney with care for St. Nick. I mean, what says the Big Apple more than Sponge Bob Square Pants? If I gave them any credit it's this: those costumes must have been mighty hot this past summer. But still, these guys make the moving statues look like genius Kubricks of the street art world.

As the mastery of street performances slowly erodes, perhaps we have no one but ourselves to blame. In a world too often ruled by the lowest common denominator, it's little wonder our lack of support for busking has given way to men in Elmo costumes. I'm pleased to have a job in this economy, lease of all because I fear I'll soon need to begin paying for entertainment. The horror.

Eating Crow

Just over a week ago I lambasted the Fashion District for being shockingly unfashionable. I am sorry and would like to repent, and offer this as an apology to the Fashionista Mafia. I could delete the post, but I think it still has some valid points. Plus I'm lazy. What I've learned, however, changes my opinion of the districts credibility as a fashion hot-spot, which I now realize I was overly smug about. It's there, just hidden under the mindless New York grime.
The day after I published my post, I saw a fashion shoot on my way to work. The next day I saw another. Then I stumbled upon, not one, but three schools of design or fashion. Then the myriad of fabric shops, tucked away on second stories, began to appear once I looked hard. All the necessary tools that would seem to support an industry of textile based creation.

Then I started walking the other direction. I walked away from Times Square, away from the ritzy glitter and Whopper Bar (where you can soon grab a Budweiser with your Whopper). Down the side streets I trod, discovering all I had neglected in my previous post. Suddenly, block after block produced stores and haunts that could only exist in the fashion district.

Yet the most curious thing about it was that each block specialized in one area. I walked down wholesale Handbag Street, which likely explains where all the handbag carts around Times Square get supplied. I saw Sportswear Street, with nameless, logo-less jerseys hinted at your ol' hometown team. Fabric Street I mentioned before near the Port Authority Terminal. All similar in concentration to Diamond Street near Rockefeller Center. How strange it is to find streets where every vendor specializes in the same goods.

Stranger still to think that this developed naturally in our free-market Capitalist economy, while the only other place I've seen with such a curious concentration of similar shops is the Socialistic economy of Shanghai, China. To think that both systems, seemingly as diverse as could be, arrive at the same conclusion is remarkable, if indeed I've interpreted correctly.

Capitalist or not (but it most certainly is), the fashion district deserves more credit than I've given it. I walk its 10 dreariest, over commercialized block everyday, which has no doubt soured and blinded me to it's merits. Its still grimy, and unless you're curious to see Handbag Street, and I can name more than a few who would be, I wouldn't recommend it. But at least now I don't need to look over my shoulder for the Fashionista Mafia.

Food of the People

As a lover of food, and a lover of travel, I am of the opinion that generally the best food is 'the food of the people'. And by that, I mean the food that is ubiquitous, fresh, and inexpensive. This ideal has rarely failed me in my quest for international gastronomic sustenance (with Vietnamese Pho being the most glaring exception - don't get it on the street). We all know 'wanna be like the local' creed: Find the Italian's pizza joint in Rome, the Nepalese streetcart samosa, the Chinese restaurant with all the smiling Chinese inside. And usually that place isn't inside hotels or swank restaurants; its the street side stalls, the no frills restaurants, the 'dives' that you always see, smell and, depending on who you are, think either "gosh that smells great" or "everyone who eats there gets sick, its a fact". You can bet I'm in the former category - I love the food of the people.

As I mentioned, the food of the people is cheap and no frills, which is why I'm so fascinated by New York's culinary scene. If 'the food of the people' is usually served from streetcarts, then New York, as you may know, is one amazingly diverse place. Having gradually evolved culinarily from the dirty hot dog and salty pretzel capital of the world (not to be confused with Bavaria, the sausage and awesome capital of the world), New York now finds itself blessed with streetcarts as diverse as the summer is hot. Next to my office is a Jamaican cart, selling jerk, stewed, and curried chicken with beans, rice and fried plantains. Not your style? What about southern BBQ at a cart 2 blocks over? Or Mexican? Not feeling well, try some spicy chicken ramen, from one of 3 ramen carts nearby. Or go to the organic fresh cart for a vegetable and mozzarella crepe. I could go on endlessly, Indian curry, Korean bbq, Chinese dumplings, German schnitzel and don't even try to count the number of gyro carts there are. And the selections aren't just limited to entrees - there is even a Belgian waffle cart. Of course this is in addition to the myriad of sushi and pizza places the city already boasts of.

All the carts have their own personality. Some return to the same place every day, staking a claim to their turf. Others rotate, in a different location around the city each day, requiring you to cross reference the day of the week, the time and a tidal chart for the Mediterranean, just to be sure your food will be there when you are. There is even a yearly event, The Vendies, where the top street carts come together to be judged, with a champion being crowned "best in the city".

With all this diversity in street food, I can't help but marvel at what it means for the diversity of the city. The immigrant story rings true, "with the people come their food". And most of their food has been embedded and put on the street, making it "our food". What luck to live in a city with a diversity of people and culinary traditions to service whatever craving I could have. It's a far cry from the old hot dog and pretzel days for this city. Well, unless you go to the Bavarian cart because there, yup, you can get an awesome sausage.

The Steakhouse

So far I haven't written much about food in New York. Well, really, I haven't written much about anything in New York, but it's time to start. It there is one thing I love, its food. Now, working in New York allows me to eat plenty of food every day for lunch, but if I'm going to start with New York Food, I feel I should start at the top. This past week I went out with my work group to Peter Luger's Steak House - one of the finest steak houses in the city.

Located in Brooklyn under the shadow of the Willamsburgh, Peter Luger is a New York institution. Famous for great steak and bad service, they've been rated Zagat's best steakhouse in New York for who knows how many years. This place is a notorious haunt for the Wall St. types, in part because it isn't easy to get to. The interior has that startlingly plane decor you find in places not trying to obscure its food - white walls, wood floors, plain white linen and dozens of plane, yet beautiful, chandeliers. This place is all about the food.

And the food is terrific. Going out with my high-earning co-workers, or at least co-workers who earn more than I, afforded us the opportunity to order practically half the menu. Admittedly, steak is the word, the star, the alpha and omega, but Luger's other offerings aren't slouches either. The shrimp in the shrimp cocktail are massive, the cream spinach is... well it was the only vegetable on the table and was probably 50% butter, so needless to say it was delicious. And I can see some people shaking their heads thinking that's disgraceful, one measly pseudo-vegetable in a rich red-meat meal, but I didn't go to New York's premiere steakhouse to eat salad, so hesh-up.

I could tell you the steak was sublime -a massive plate of meat cooked perfectly medium rare and served family style with its own juices drizzled over the top - but I'd rather mention the shockingly good bacon. Thickly cut and bursting with flavor, it was so good I forgot it cost $3 a strip while I ate it.

Make no mistake, this meal wasn't cheap. In fact, it was the most expensive meal I've ever eaten, tipping the scales at just under $100. Yet, when I compare the taste of the food, the quality of the wine and the experience of it all, I can't help but feel it was worth it. Another tick mark in the great restaurant list.

Would I go again? Maybe - but probably just as an excuse to cross over the Williamsburgh bridge again. Man, what a view!

Theater in the Park

“When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” - Ancient Visgoth Proverb

Finer advice may have never been given, even if it isn't Visgoth. Any seasoned traveler knows local food, customs and experiences will enliven any trip. The same is true with anyone moving to a new place; by integrating into the local scene, a new community converts from a foreign land to home. So where do a young couple go in Edison, NJ to see and be seen? Overwhelming responses pointed to the summer 'theater in the park' series. Overwhelming, I no longer trust my sources. Have you ever watched one of Wes Anderson movies in a room full of stiffs? The Royal Tennemabaums? The Darjeeling Limited? No? Well, the movies are full of gut-wrenching ironic humor, which is only funnier when nobody around you gets it. That was theater in the park.

When my sister, girlfriend and I showed up at the park, nobody expected Shakespeare, least of all because the scheduled play was “The Wedding Singer.” Let New York and Boston perform Shakespeare under the cool evening air – Edison has a musical based on an Adam Sandler movie! Yet we arrived hopeful, after all the movie had been funny and the music classic. What we discovered is that for copyright reasons, all those popular 80's songs had been stripped for newly written show tunes, which most certainly lacked the same omph as their original counterparts. However, the play had been on Broadway (not with this cast, I'm guessing), so I'll cut short any further rebuke on music.

The production itself tried mightily, and even had some sleek choreography at times, but couldn't overcome it's one fatal flaw – neither the actors nor director was very good. The male lead, saddled with the unenviable task of being Adam Sandler, fell below our diminutive expectations, and most of the rest of the cast simply delivered line after line, rarely putting much feeling behind them but you don't need a critics review. The run is over and you've been mercifully spared.

What you likely can't understand, was how surreal the audience was. They didn't laugh, they didn't clap, but would erupt into wild applause at the end of each act. It was as if nobody told them it was a comedy. The actors would deliver a funny line, and you would hear crickets. The actors would unintentionally deliver a funny line, and again, crickets. Well, crickets and the hyena-like laughs of my party. The only other sound the audience made was the woman behind me who would affirm our laughter at the comic bits (intentional only) by muttering to her friend, “oh, that's funny”, which I thought was a pretty funny way to enjoy comedy. Aside from funny lady, the audience sat in their butterfly chairs, munching on popcorn, riveted by the tragedy on stage. Did I say tragedy? I meant comedy. They sat silently enjoying the comedy on stage.

All of this leads me back to our Visgoth quote. Perhaps there are certain local customs best left alone, like French nude beaches and Chinese stinky tofu. Or maybe we've extrapolated out too far. Do as the Romans do, not the Edisonians.

When Fashion Ruled the World

You may have heard the old musing, “I don't get French Fashion.” Well, I'd like to report that I don't get the New York Fashion District. Snuggled between Port Authority, Penn Station and Times Square, the district is a shell of an attraction, growing seedier and seedier the further you get from Times Square. Despite it's attempts to lure tourists, the district remains cold, impersonal and out of touch. I fear it's heyday has passed, gone with the 80's and the days we saw catwalks on the evening news. Now the district is left with an antiquated idea of itself and it's decaying monuments, like the statue of Ozymindias.

The buildings look like many buildings in New York, built during the early 20th century with the sense of architectural beauty that accompanied the era, but no long with the financial means to maintain the luxurious ideals they were constructed with. It hardly gives off a trendy air, what with multitudes of chain eateries lining the street levels. Nor does the general grubbiness of the streets add to any feeling of haute couture. Nowhere aside from Macy's could you buy anything 'fashionable' in the district, except for 40th street near Port Authority, where the last holdout of tailors shops clings to the threads of the districts past. And the fashion houses, by not advertising, only seem to promote the feeling that this gritty stretch of blocks is a has-been.

Down 7th avenue, stretching away from the seemingly always vacant Fashion District Information Kiosk, is the Fashion Walk of Fame, which may be the saddest monument of all. Seals embedded in the pavement with designers names and a short biography were designed to serve as an honor to the fashion industry and those in it, but instead of honoring something special, it feels like honoring ubiquity and mass production. The seals honor Calvin Kline, Ralph Lauren and Willi Smith, major brands, consumed by the masses and available in any mall in America. There is even a seal for Perry Ellis, a label I could have sworn is the 'house brand' at Macy's. Over marketed and over exposed these brands seem hardly worthy of the narcissistic honors heaped upon them. It's like honoring food giants Emeril Lagasse or Wolfgang Puck, who in my opinion unquestionably great chefs, but have left a bad taste in many people's mouths with commercialized items for mass consumption. The walk of fame represents an era where the fashion house was special, now it's just another global brand, like Apple, McDonald's or Nestle.

Yet the fashion industry, like the city of New York, is about constant renewal, so maybe there is hope for the district. It could revive, recapture the excitement of a bygone era. Maybe it has and I just don't see it, as my fashion knowledge begins and ends with The Devil Wears Prada. Or maybe it's time for the Fashion District to choose a new name, and stop clinging a bygone time when America cared to see super models in the flashiest new designs.