A typical New York evening

Maybe it was the result of lunchtime’s disappointment, but we were really looking forward to dinner. We’d eaten at Wallsé before, and the prospect of hearty Austrian cuisine on a cold night was so tempting that we turned up at the restaurant ten minutes before they opened and had to dance around to keep warm until they noticed us and charitably let us in.

The restaurant feels like a cozy neighborhood joint, albeit one in which one wall is dominated by an enormous Julian Schnabel portrait of chef Kurt Gutenbrunner, arms folded, scowling at the room as if challenging diners to complain about his food.

(It’s also largely underlit, so my best attempts to record the meal were foiled. Gutenbrunner!)

We started with cocktails: a bright, tart rye sour with blood-orange marmalade for me, and a blackberry sidecar for The Boy, the glass frosted with a thick rim of sugar, fresh berries floating within.

His app was a dish of indulgent, creamy spätzle with rabbit; I went for duck consommé, the clear broth soothing and nutritious and generously loaded with cubes of duck meat and asparagus spears. It felt as though it were exorcising the ghost of my lunchtime lentil lapse.

For my main, I had cod strudel with Riesling sauerkraut (the cod in thick, buttery, generous pieces); The Boy ordered steamed pheasant, which I’d considered but (foolishly) though might be bland (ha!). The meat was fragrant, succulent and moist, wrapped in cabbage leaves and served with lentils and tiny, crunchy dices of carrot and celery, with a dish of puréed potato on the side.

We were going to pass on dessert, but our lovely South African waitress did such a good job of teasing the Salzburger Nockerl with huckleberries that we caved under the pressure (and the accent). In this version of meringue, soft pillows of egg white and vanilla-infused crème anglaise are piled in a dish and baked until brown. The layer of intense berry sauce beneath was still bubbling hot when it reached our table. We ate the whole thing.

And then off to the evening’s entertainment: a reading of Songs of Songs with power couple Lou Reed and Laurie Anderson. The music was composed by creative all-rounder John Zorn; the first half of the show involved Zorn conducting (that is, sitting to one side and occasionally nodding at) harp, vibes, double bass and electric guitar through a selection of what I (in my cultural and musical ignorance) can only describe as experimental klezmer jazz. It was actually pretty cool.

The theater was tiny—maybe 300 seats in all. We were in the third row. Every now and again my eyes would stray from the stage, because LOU REED WAS, LIKE, SITTING IN THE FRONT ROW. I think everyone else was sneaking glances as well, but trying to pretend they weren’t. He and Laurie watched the first act, and then got up in interval and slipped through a side door.

Five minutes later, they were on stage, along with five young women in evening gowns. (Laurie was in a slim-fitting black pantsuit; Lou, a white guayabera and black pants and reading glasses). The women—the “daughters of Jerusalem”—sang all the musical accompaniment: high jarring notes, soft crooning tones, staccato shrieks, long harmonious chords. Zorn stood at audience-level, leaning on the stage, his score in front of him, and cued Lou and Laurie on their lines; the ladies more or less conducted themselves.



It was … well, it was certainly unlike anything we’d seen before. Musically, it was incredible—one of those moments that made me realize that while I could probably be a proficient guitarist or keyboardist or drummer with about six months’ practice, I’d never be able to equal that level of ability.

There was also a pleasantly rough edge to it, as though (on Lou and Laurie’s part) there’d been only a couple of hours of rehearsal before they went on stage (Lou stumbled over a couple of lines, and added an unintentionally percussive element when he opened his sparkling water bottle too closely to the microphone, creating a sudden hiss and causing the audience to giggle).

We came out, a little dazed, and decided to call it a night. And then we got back to the hotel and decided to have a call-it-a-nightcap at the Algonquin across the street. Their martini with lime and thyme strengthened my resolve to experiment with herbs in beverages this summer. And on the way out, we stopped to say hi to Matilda, who consented to a brief chin rub.

Yeah, that was a good evening.

Membership has its privileges

We spent most of yesterday at MoMA, taking as much advantage of our membership as we could. We (along with the non-member proles) got to watch the installation of part of the Color Chart exhibit. It opens March 2, which means the museum staff still have time to finish gluing stripes to the floor:



It's gonna be pretty cool.

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We stopped for lunch (10% off for members!) at the café on the second floor. The Boy had a fantastic duck prosciutto salad with Humboldt Fog cheese, pears and spiced walnuts:



and I had a Gorgonzola, bacon and pear panini, which was great (though not as pretty).

I'd been looking forward to seeing the new exhibit Design and the Elastic Mind, but it turned out not to be opening until Sunday. Boo! But then we discovered that members got a sneak preview. Huzzah!

It's a fabulous selection of fantastical ideas, futuristic inventions and stuff that's happening right now involving nanotechnology and engineering and design, as well as graphical representations of things like real-time global Internet use and continental air traffic. I have video of the latter that I'll post soon.

Among the other cool ideas: a doggy-tail-wagging translator (you need to see it as a larger image) and this example of how today's scientists are spending their time: stapling DNA to make smiley faces:



Futuristically freaked out yet?

Why it's called the Great White Way

We're in New York and it's snowing. It's not quite as bad as snow in Texas, but an inch or so on the sidewalk (apparently removable by broom) has people gently freaking out.

As it's not a day for long walks, we'll be heading to MoMA this morning, probably to spend most of the day there. Dinner is sorted, of course, and I just got a call from a friend who's coming in from Boston to play a show in Soho tonight, so if the timing works out we might check that out.

And tomorrow night we're going to see John Zorn's version of the book Song of Songs from the Bible, narrated by Lou Reed and Laurie Anderson. I never thought I'd write that sentence.

Speaking of dinner, last night I dreamed we overslept and woke up at 7:30 pm, thus missing our dinner reservation; when we got to Adour, we discovered the whole thing was their fault, somehow, but all they could do was apologetically offer us a cheese sandwich, at which point I burst into tears. And then I woke up.

I'll be checking my watch all day.

Is there anywhere to eat in New York?

Oh, the problems we have.

In two weeks, we celebrate our tenth (!) wedding anniversary, which seems like a perfectly acceptable excuse to go to New York and spend a couple of days on our favorite activities: running around MoMA, shopping, eating. Especially eating. We do a lot of that.

But here's the dilemma: where do we go for our celebratory dinner? I mean, this is a milestone, right? What restaurant would be the Only Possible Choice to mark the occasion?

I already checked Per Se and Nobu. With two weeks' notice? Yeah, right. But otherwise, the city is our oyster, fresh and glistening, served with a champagne mignonette.

Thoughts?

Update: Friday is sorted. We still have to figure out Saturday ...

A few more NYC highlights

Yeah, I know, I'm being lame. But between starting my new job and watching the entire second series of Doctor Who on DVD (geekout!!), my days have been busier recently than they have for the past couple of months.

I intend to pick up the pace a little, but meanwhile, here are some of the highlights of our NYC trip (apart from those involving fantastically hirsute Mexicans, obviously).

The Richard Serra exhibit at MOMA
Twelve-foot-high metal walls; not what one would consider emotionally compelling. But these long ribbons of steel, curved into corridors and rooms, the walls tilting inward and outward, are so unexpected and, well, just frickin' ridiculous in scale that they made me almost giddy. And I'm sure Serra was thinking, "Let's make the walls go this way! Wooo! That'll mess with their heads!"

The surfaces of the indoor sculptures were striated with subtle shifts in color--rusts and reds and browns and golds, smooth to the touch (though the security guards discourage tactile interaction. And indoor photography. Ha).



The sculptures in the garden were fabulously scarred and full of character.



Check out MOMA's site about the exhibit (cleverly designed so it's not immediately clear how you access the content--it's called usability, people!), especially the videos. Serra is cool.

Central Park Zoo
Despite numerous strolls through the park and my zoo fixation, somehow we'd never amalgamated the two until this trip. It being a gorgeous Sunday morning, the place was a sea of ankle-biters demanding forbidden treats ("but I want to play with the monkeys!") and, perched on parental shoulders, shrieking at unearthly levels into the ears of unwitting bystanders.

Also way too many frazzled moms trying to navigate SUV-sized strollers up and down the zoo's narrow staircases, which leads one to wonder whether the place wasn't intended for children who could ambulate independently. And also hold conversations and maybe fix drinks. Just simple ones, mind you; highballs, screwdrivers, that sort of thing. We're not talking Ramos Gin Fizzes here. A couple of ingredients and some ice, is all.

Wait. Where was I? Oh yeah. Ice. Polar bears.

I have trouble watching shows about global warming because they invariably include a shot of a lone polar bear adrift on a dwindling chunk of ice, along with mournful music and the narrator explaining sadly how they're kinda screwed. So getting to see one up close--swimming around his deep pool, powerful and graceful--was quite moving.



Oh, also: best paws ever. (For scale, note the kid's hand bottom left.)



We also saw bats, sea lions, boas, colobus monkeys, penguins and red pandas.

And then, because it was lunchtime, we went to see a French bistro that served a lovely salade niçoise.



Though inauthentic, the chunks of French bread slathered in olive tapenade were a genius touch.

Our friend Amy had offered us the use of her membership to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which was another place I'd never been. "And," she'd said, "you have to go check out the rooftop garden. It's one of my favorite views of the city."

It started out pleasantly enough: a stroll past the Temple of Dendur, a wander through the American Decorative Arts, a quick gape at the 165-foot-long painting of the garden at Versailles. And then, after consulting the map, we thought we'd cross to the other side of the building to check out the Modern Art collection (because we hadn't had our fill at MOMA).

This would have been relatively simple, were it not for the fact that half the rooms in the middle of the building were apparently closed for construction/refurbishment/hygrometer resynchronization, so every route we chose ended with a locked door and a surly guard.

Eventually we decided to go directly to roof, where we found Frank Stella sculptures, champagne and--as Amy had promised--a fabulous vista. I especially like the way the hedging around the roof seems to blend seamlessly with the trees of the park below.



A pleasant end to a fun trip. If you want to see more, check out photos from this trip on Flickr.

NYC: Cats, fish, wolfmen

What better way to follow up a week of pastoral relaxtion in England--and, for that matter, a summer of gentle laziness--than a full-on three-day yomp around New York City?

That was our weekend, thanks largely to my friend Amy, who generously offered us the use of her lovely home on Roosevelt Island. The welcome committee comprised of her three cats.

Poptart is the sweetly affectionate one--the kind that catfood marketers suggest your feline will become if only you open the correct can:



Oreo is the extremely friendly one: "Hey, what're you doing? You're in the shower? Cool! I'll come in too! No? Okay, I'll just sit on the sink and watch. Hey, now you're eating! Can I thrust my head into your cereal?"



And then there's Ruby, who kept out of the way for most of our visit, so appears in no photos.

Highlights of the trip:

Esca (aka The Place that Does All the Fish)
We'd wanted to try this place since we read a 2005 profile of owner Dave Pasternack in the New Yorker. Finally, this time, the stars lined up and we got a table.

The food? Oh, my.

Largely southern Italian, almost completely fish-based (not seafood, but actual swimmy-finny things), and fresh, fresh, fresh. The house specialty is the crudo, a selection of raw appetizers. We went for the king salmon, which was lovely, and the heretofore unheard-of opah.

Which. Was. Mindblowing.

Imagine a white dinner plate, the slightly indented center of which is covered with a layer of fish the color of pink grapefruit, sliced thinly enough to be almost transparent, flecked with black pepper and finely chopped chives. Imagine being able to cut a piece of this raw fish with a gentle pressure of the side of your fork. Imagine it in your mouth: rich, creamy, a texture of avocado. Yes, avocado. One of the most incredible things I've ever eaten.

All the dishes were fresh, simple, carefully constructed--especially the grilled sardines with pine nuts and sultanas, and the Amalfi-style fish soup (a rich tomato base with big chunks of monkfish and sea bass)--and the service was attentive but low-key.

The only strange thing was the music which, instead of the expected compilation of opera standards or classical faves, was a mix of everything from Michael Jackson's "Thriller" to Guns & Roses' "Sweet Child" to Dire Straits' "Sultans of Swing." It was as though somone had forgotten to turn off the '80s station at the end of the cleaning shift ...

Coney Island!
It's been a lifelong dream of mine to visit Coney. So we did. A good 90-minute subway ride out on the F train, but the rewards are great if you're into fried food and freaks.

We got both.

First, a stop at Nathan's, the redoubtable hotdog place. I'm no dog conoisseur, but these were markedly better than I'm used to: a slightly tighter skin, smoky meat and a bright tang of sauerkraut in relief. They should be good--they certainly cook up enough of 'em.



Then a wander along the boardwalk, a peek inside the Brooklyn Cyclones ballpark and a stroll out onto the pier, where Asian and Hispanic families held elaborate picnics and occasionally checked on the fishing lines bobbing in the ocean below.

And then into Astroland Park, the latest in a series of amusement parks on the boardwalk, and home to the 80-year-old Cyclone roller coaster. And the Wonder Wheel.



(Just so you get the whole picture: only the white cars at the top of the wheel are stationary. The others--some shown here toward the center of the wheel, some on the outside, some halfway between--are sliding. Depending on where the wheel is in its rotation, they'll roll along the iron rails at perilous speeds.)

The Boy's, um, disdain for unsafe heights being legendary, I did not expect him to agree to a couple of rotations. But, much to his dismay, he did. He was a brave soldier, and afterward decided he did not need to experience anything taller than a Pimm's Cup for a while.

But even this worrisome experience was quckly forgotten when we found the freaks. Carnival shows have long been a part of Coney Island history, and the Coney Island Circus Sideshow keeps the dream alive. For six bucks (transacted by a cute, marginally tattooed girl), and with beer in hand (served by a cuter, more tattooed girl) you get a show that's not quite a ten-in-one, but close enough.

Show rules prevented photography, so you'll have to believe me when I say we saw:

A man drive a nail into his skull, followed up with a Black & Decker drill chaser
A woman whose body was filled with electricity
A woman (actually the same as the above) perform a slow dance with a 15-foot albino boa
A woman with a tattooed face eat fire

And ... and ... Chuy the Wolfman!



(After the show, I was waiting for The Boy to come out of the bathroom and Chuy was striking the set. He smiled at me. My life is complete.)

A day in the museum

I totally packed wrong for this New York trip. Somehow I thought it was going to be a) still winter and b) a sedentary experience—as was my visit to NYC two weeks previously. So duh, did I ever feel like an idiot in my high-heeled knee-length boots and long-sleeved shirt, yomping along Eighth Avenue in the Sunday-morning 80-degree heat. And as much as I would have loved to soak up some sun, I wanted to be somewhere cooler. So we grabbed a cab and headed for the Museum of Natural History.

Of course, the first thing we did when we arrived was check out the tropical butterfly exhibit, a walk-through experience that mimics the insects’ natural habitat—80 degrees and humid.

It was easy to forget about the climate, though, because we were surrounded by lepidoptera—gorgeous sapphire morphas and green-winged somethings and little orange wossnames and big furry golden moths.



There was no place where butterflies were not; resting in the orchids and ferns, fluttering against the heat lamps, feeding from fruit slices.



Being in there felt like having ADD—start watching one brightly colored bug floating just above your head, and then another, even more dazzling, dances by and grabs your attention, and then another flutters past flirtatiously and distracts you again. It was hard to know where to look.



Outside the butterfly enclosure, the museum’s marble walls cooled us down and we wandered the halls, finding tyrannosaurs and brontosaurs and various flavors of stuffed African deer that were now just as likely to be extinct.

The wild-animal dioramas were beautifully rendered, with the taxidermied specimens posed as if in mid-action against backdrops of distant mountains with an incredible sense of longview perspective; it was hard to tell, without looking closely, where the three-dimensional fake grassland ended and the painted mural began.

After much wandering, we stopped for a snackie of tea and pecan tart (a little dry, but a good jolt of sugar and carbs), and then watched a half-hour of Japanese Taiko (two guys pounding on either side of a double-headed drum, one keeping time while the other did improvised fills, followed by a much more delicate and refined female version) and then finally took the subway back to the hotel.

Oh, and I lost count of the number of parents exasperatedly explaining to kids that yes, this was like the museum in the Ben Stiller movie, but no, it wasn’t exactly the same, and no, the exhibits probably don’t come to life at night ...

... or do they??