Craptacular writing day ... but you get a picture of an historic landmark

St. Patrick's Old Cathedral in the Lower East Side

The old church caught the dying light of day, but the ringing of its bells had caught Aedan’s attention. The cross was small, as if the building itself defined its purpose—this is a house of the Lord, you knew it and felt it without being told. The granite walls towered over the streets, but the tenements--rising with the stability and audacity of card houses--hemmed the cathedral in on all sides. The cleaner residents among them could be accepted as parishioners, but the majority could only accept the trickle of charity that leaked into the neighborhood. Aedan hadn’t entered the churchyard in years. When they moved downtown after Seamus returned from the War, his mother attempted to restructure their lives around the church. Aedan only remembered a few stories of the Bible ...

His father said she was buried there. Kyla believed this, and insisted on stopping outside the gates to greet their mother, ask her about heaven, cry a bit. But Aedan knew better. The man his father had paid to handle his mother’s body had no connection with St. Patrick’s, nor any parish. For all he knew, his mother had been dumped in the East River, and drifted out to sea just as easily as she’d come.

Where to (re)start? The Brooklyn Bridge novel redux

Charlotte lowered the revolver to her side. Aedan clutched at her hand and the gun slipped from it, clattering against the floor. The sound, more than his sudden movement, startled her; but Charlotte stood rooted the floorboards. She should have fled out of fear, but something held her there.
            Squeezing her hand tenderly, he pressed it against his chest—his heart—where a moment before she had aimed her weapon. She reached out her free hand and Aedan anticipated a slap across the side of his head. But rather, Charlotte caressed his ruddy cheek, the eyelets of her lace gloves catching on his stubble, producing a rasping sound heard only by him. But, when they passed just below his chin, her fingers curled into a small fist hidden from his sight.

The Brooklyn Bridge novel

In the winter of 2010, I first heard about Isambard Kingdom Brunel--a kick-ass Victorian civil engineer with an equally kick-ass name. In the 1830s, 40s and 50s he constructed bridges and railways across England, designed the largest ship in the world, and assisted his father with the first tunnel under the Thames (or any river, for that matter.) This rather expensive tunnel was initially for pedestrians and tourists, and, of course, soon became home to a Dickensian cast of peddlers, pickpockets, and prostitutes. I thought, "Hey, that seems like an interesting setting for a play." But my uncle, Tim, reminded me about another fascinating sub-fluvial environment: the caissons beneath the bed of the East River during the construction of Brooklyn Bridge. Ah, now this had real potential.

Upon seeing The Twenty-Seventh Man at The Public

“Hm, that sounds like my kind of play,” I thought* immediately after reading a flattering review of Nathan Englander’s The Twenty-Seventh Man at The Public Theater. I think I may have even said this out loud to my roommates … or, at least, to the room. And I knew then that I would go see it, considering that I’m in a show-seeing mode (and that I could possibly get a ticket for relatively cheap.)

A Two-hour Tour: the Steinway Factory

Ah, Queens ...

Coming across a blurb in magazine, I remembered that ever since I moved to the New York area I have wanted to visit the Steinway & Sons piano factory. An odd aspiration, I know, yet ever since seeing a television program on the inner-workings of the factory, I thought it would be a cool place to see in person. Actually, this interest in Steinway’s originates from the summer I worked the William Kappell International Piano Competition back in 2007 at the University of Maryland. For two-weeks, as a member of the student stage crew of the Clarice Smith Performing Arts Center, I worked rehearsals, recitals (by the likes of Philip Glass and Ahmad Jamal), and concerts--even the final night of completion. Throughout, we were immersed in piano music and inundated with pianos—including those from Kawai, Yamaha, and of course, Steinway. We weren’t piano-movers (c’mon those guys are huge) but on a daily basis we would run the pianos in and out of concert halls and recital spaces throughout the facility. And, since each participant selected a different piano to use for the competition, we would even do grand piano swaps in front of the audience—when smooth transitions are a must. So, while not being a musician I don’t look at a Steinway piano as a top-of-the-line instrument from which to produce remarkable sounds, I instead view it as an immense yet delicate machine—the production of which must be a great story.

Seen and Heard in New York: a Weekly Round-Up

While I may not be terribly productive outside my working hours, I do frequently use this time to enjoy the greatest hub of art, culture, and entertainment (and cuisine, finance, innovation, design, etc.) that is New York. (However, you will rarely see a silent movie with organ accompaniment there—Jersey City has dibs on that.) In the past week or so, I have been incredibly lucky to have watched a college basketball game, listened to a concert, and see two (or four, rather) plays. Frankly, I’m as astonished as you, dear reader, that I could fit this all within my week (and budget). But the cost of living here includes access to such opportunities. And if you don’t take advantage of this proximity, then you might as well live somewhere else--you know, somewhere cheaper and less exciting, like Philly.

Getting back to it ...

In the year 2012, I have been to Iceland just as many times as I have posted here. Forgive me for the humblebrag, but I really don’t know how else to begin my return to this blog … you know, the one supposedly dedicated to getting me to write more about anything and everything.

The hiatus is partially due to my lack of progress with my Rite of Spring project. For whatever reason, I didn’t want to post again about my story (see below) until I had a complete rough draft to share. And despite my research and writing in January, February, and March … I haven’t finished that—hence the lack of posts. (However, I should have posted about seeing maestro Alan Gilbert leading the Julliard Orchestra in a kick-ass version of the Rite. Hm … maybe I’ll get around to doing that after all.)

In the meantime, however, I have done a variety of things that a less-discriminating person would call “bloggable.” And seeing as I seldom write creatively, or have any wry observations or impassioned views to express in essay form, I must again deign to recounting and reflecting on the life I am extraordinarily lucky to have here in the greatest city in the country world. (And by that I, of course, mean Jersey City.)

Jingling All the Way

For her fourth 5K race, Mandy chose to support a good cause, celebrate the Christmas holiday, and stay close(ish) to home. So this morning we took a brief PATH ride to Manhattan and a little stroll down to Battery Park (at the southern tip of the island) for the umpteenth-annual Jingle Bell Run/Walk for Arthritis. 

Just to clear the air: yes, we wore jingle-bells; no, I didn’t win; and yes, Santa was there—and, as Mandy will tell you, he was a very good one. 

At this point, I would normally let the pictures tell the story, but since I forgot to charge the batteries for my camera and only have a few snapshots from Tim’s phone, the burden of this post will fall on … the writing.

Dance and Life Lessons in a Night at BAM

Inspiration … why, and from where, does it come? Although I do like to think it can be found in encounters with the arts—whether visual, literary, or in performance—I feel that often it can come from contact with certain people—either from their advice, or demonstrative example. And when I experience both such opportunities in a single night, I feel that could be blog-worthy.

A New Season of New Possibilities (and Pies)

It's been a long time since I posted here. What have I missed?

Visiting friends ...
A great concert ...
Good meals on rooftops and elsewhere ...

Regardless, summer is behind us and autumn has finally arrived in earnest. Although I would say summer is my favorite, I welcomed the new season by participating in a celebration of its bountiful harvest.



Mine = lower right; Mandy's = upper right

 Mandy and I sprinted to Brooklyn Sunday afternoon carrying two apple pies fresh from the oven. Our destination: Enid's 9th Annual Apple Pie Contest. The only rules: they must have crust, and must have apples. Though we followed those rules to the letter (and just barely got our pies on the table before the entry deadline), we did not come home winners. Not that our pies were bad, but out of the 25+ entries, ours fell short of the lard (just one of them many "useful prizes" awarded.)

Mandy baked a pie with a complex filling--Bourbon-soaked raisins accompanying a sugary/spicy medley of skin-on apples chunks--wrapped in a gorgeous crust decorated with star cutouts and handmade apple-shaped center piece. For my filling, I peeled Rhode Island Greening apples, mixed them with brown sugar, cinnamon, and cloves (and a little lemon juice), and baked them in a thick, buttery crust adorned with an array of cutout NJ shapes. Whether they tasted any good, we weren't even sure. But they certainly looked damn good, though perhaps they could have been cooked a little longer to produce blue-ribbon golden crusts and softer fillings.



pickled egg on a stick? of course!

  Unveiled at Enid's, our pies received a few compliments from on-lookers, but we had to wait for the judges' assessment. In the meantime, we sampled treats from the bar (spike apple cider!) and the kitchen, including corn dogs, sloppy joes, apple fritters, and even pickled eggs on a stick.  Since the barroom was crowded with pies and hungry patrons eyeing them longingly, we took seats outside. The evening was appropriately chilly; a breeze rustled the leaves in McCarren Park, while strollers and cycling hipsters rolled by. After visual inspections and sample tasting, the judges reached a decision: they're were no perfect pies, but they had definite winners for each category. Mandy and I anticipated hearing our number called out. I can only assume she would have bounced with joy if #34 had won, while I would have proudly held my #29 aloft for all to see and behold. Though indeed beautiful, Mandy's did not win "Prettiest Pie." And although unique, mine did not win "visually creative." Feeling snubbed (though still proud of our baking prowess), we retreated to the bar with our umpteenth mug of cider and two hearty helpings of assorted pies. Crust and fillings mashed together, and no one could tell what pie was what, whose was whose--winner or loser.  Drunk and full of pie, we collected our pans (with their delicious dregs), our critiques, and even a corn dog for Tim before heading back to New Jersey.

The air is crisp, the apples ripe, and a new season's potential is palpable and welcome. Our pies can be better, and so can we: so long as we try, fail, learn, and fail better the next time.

Free Concerts Galore!

Summer in New York, for me at least, is synonymous with eating delicious meals outside (sometimes in a park, sometimes on a sidewalk, but often on a rooftop), going to outdoor concerts, and (when possible) doing both. Usually, the city as a whole can achieve this ultimate aim by attending the New York Philharmonic’s “Concerts in the Parks” series, which brings this illustrious orchestra to each borough (even Staten Island) for a night of classical music—and sometimes fireworks! But this year, due to reasons unexplained (even to me—and I work for it!), the Philharmonic did not conduct this city-wide tour. However, an annual tradition on hiatus (just this one time, we promise), allows us the opportunity to discover other sources of entertainment. Festivals and arts series abound in this city, wherever there is space enough and an organization willing to present the artists. Already I’ve traveled to Red Hook Park for a concert—just one in the massive Summer Stage series put on by the City Parks Foundation, which embraces the entire city by staging concerts of various genres in nearly every sizable park. If you can’t find something to fill your Phil-hole, then you’re not even trying. Theater in the park, migrating street fests, food festivals, beer gardens, outdoor swing dancing, roof-top films … it’s a hectic three months trying to keep up, really.  I, for one, try to go to as many free, outdoor concerts as I can. And thus far, without buying a single ticket, I have enjoyed three summer nights of live music from some of my favorite artists: Andrew Bird, The Decemberists, and Animal Collective.

Catching Up on My June Adventures, Part 2: an Evening in Red Hook

late 19th Century Red Hook

 On a hazy night threatening rain, I trekked to the Red Hook neighborhood of Brooklyn for the first time. With its proximity to the New York harbor, Red Hook is (was?) perhaps best-known as a hub of shipping for the city. Though its recently become home to an Ikea store (accessible by ferry), the Sixpoint Brewery, and numerous boutiques and gourmet shops, this corner of Brooklyn is still solidly middle-class and ethnically diverse. The gentrification creeping toward it from the north has been held at bay so far (although Ikea’s amphibious landing was an audacious flanking maneuver, if I do say so myself. But let’s hope it’s more of an Anzio, and less of an Inchon.) However, hipsters do infiltrate and exploit the neighborhood’s secret treasure: a flotilla of food trucks that serve impeccable Latin food at the neighborhood ball fields. On weekends, apparently. Partly, I took this trip to see the band We Are Scientists (the source of the pin on my messenger bag that mysteriously reads “W. A. S.”) play an outdoor concert; but the majority of my motivation came from seeking out and eating the best papusa (or three) in the city. I’ve seen WAS twice before, but I’ve never had a papusa. So you can understand my priorities in this matter, and my disappointment upon discovering that the field adjacent to the stage—where I expected the circle of food trucks—was empty. 

 I found a sign advertising the return of the vendors for the summer, but no sign of the trucks themselves.

            With time and hunger to kill, I moved on to my back-up plan. Yes, I was sure of my destination, but not so sure how to get there. However, I possess a certain knack for finding places in this city when I only have a vague idea of their location. So after walking away from the park, I came upon Van Brunt Street and found on its corner the cafe/bar Fort Defiance. Named after a fortress built during the Continental Army’s ill-fated defense of New York City in 1776, Fort Defiance has a reputation as purveyor of unique cocktails, good beer (like Sixpoint from down the street—talk about local!), and noticeably above-average pub grub. I had expected to just pick up a delicious muffuletta (a sandwich just about as native to New York as a papusa), down a pint, and be on my way. However, the dinner menu had only, well … dinner options. I reluctantly turned down the heavy lamb dish and beer, and instead selected something more of the season: grilled mackerel, with a cocktail of Darjeeling-infused honey vodka, lemon, and prosecco. The mackerel, onions, and grainy mustard were very good (the accompanying freekah and fava beans, not so much), while the cocktail was light and refreshing. Hard to believe I had that kind of a meal while sitting at a dark wooden bar that wouldn’t seem out of place in an English pub, or in a neighborhood that twenty years ago was one of the country’s most crime- and drug-ridden. But rather than linger with another drink and a good book, I was out the door and on my way back to the park (a trip that was considerably easier than before—funny how that works.)
            The opening band was in mid-set when I returned to the stage, so I took the opportunity to check out the nearby waterway. And this is what I found: 

Desolate yet alluring, right? Or maybe not. But soon enough the guys from Brooklyn making noise on stage departed, making way for an altogether better “Brooklyn band.”
            We Are Scientists provided what I’d expected: rockin’ dance-punk, with the tight play and wit of a seasoned band. (Their longevity, showmanship, and instrumental skills were frequent sources of comic relief.) But unexpectedly, I soon felt myself drift back to my first concert in New York, on a cold late November night. Before moving to the area, I had only been collection of music I do now; actually, I even have difficulty just fathoming the vast difference between the role of music in my life then and now. In high school and college, I never considered myself enough of a fan of any band to be willing to buy a ticket to see them in person. I just didn’t get it, and I didn’t care. But oh, how I would come to appreciate the experience of live music. And because of that WAS concert at Irving Place mere months after I’d started life in the a new city (as well as a Josh Ritter concert I saw that previous winter at DC’s famed 9:30 Club—a concert I still listen to via NPR!), I haven’t gone a month without going to at least one concert. I still recall how, on that frosty night, I just sat in my empty bedroom and listened to their albums on repeat while slurping Cup o’ Noodles.

But in the open air of Red Hook Park, I just nodded along to the familiar riffs. And though nostalgic for that previous concert, I held no fondness for the crowd surfers landing on my head or the stoned soccer moms standing behind me. No, this concert was just fun, plain and simple. Although this was the third time I’d seen them, only now did I appreciate their talented ability to reproduce live renderings of studio effects. But I’d always enjoyed their witty between-song banter—which I assumed, ever since that first concert, every band possessed; this presumption has not held true, much to my dismay. Rare is the good band that can take their music seriously after all these years, and themselves not so much. Though the neighborhood* was new, the music on this night was refreshingly familiar.  

                

*I still need to go back to Red Hook for papusas, a visit to the Sixpoint brewery, and a refreshing drink from Sunny’s bar. Any takers?

Return of the Food Market!

Welcome back, Madison Square Food Market—the bane of my budget and waistline (just kidding: I really don’t expect my budget to shrink or my waistline to widen, since both are perpetually small and fluctuate rarely.) It’s been such a long winter in the Flatiron district without. Was it really back in October when I first wrote about your many culinary delights? My, how the time does fly … and this blog sucks just as much as it did then. Oh well … Evidently, the month-long fest was so popular last fall that the organizers brought it back for the spring, with the addition of a few stalls of indie handicraft manufacturers. And along with the surprise of discovering the market’s return a couple weeks ago came the inevitable dread of having to decide what to select from the many options available—and how not to eat everything at once. (Oh, how lucky am I to have an expendable income, general lack of responsibility, and absence of dire life issues. That is why I write this blog after all—so I can gloat over any readers in the Third World who may stumble upon this.)
           
At lunch on the opening day, rather than be experimental with my selection, I decided to go with a sure thing and bee-lined to the Calexico grill cart on the south side of the market. 

Calexico began a few years ago in the early days of the gourmet food-vendor scene by dishing out Cal-Mex on lunch breaks downtown. I’d read that they were turning out some of the best burritos in the city, but never could make it to their cart for lunch. But once, on a trip to Brooklyn, I managed to stop by their recently-built storefront. I had a good pair of tacos, before I became aware of the breadth and diversity of NYC taco scene. This time, however, I chose a carne asada burrito to fill me up for the day—with a dose of their trademark chipotle “crack sauce.” Now, as much as I like Americanized Mexican food and the traditional stuff, I dare not claim to be a connoisseur. I cannot even compare this burrito to one from Chipotle, or that of Dos Toros (an NYC purveyor of Mission-style burritos). But let’s stick to what I do know. Would I have liked more gauc on the burrito? Sure. But, the pressing urgency of the cart’s line did allow for me to go back and request an extra "fwop". But—was the meat both well-seasoned and well-grilled? Yes, and that counts for a lot in my book. And, the crack sauce was definitely worth the extra cost. This would be the point where I include a photograph of a burrito, but I am: a) trending away from being a food pornographer, and b) sorry to report that the awesome delicousness of said burrito did not allow me time for a photo or a spare with which to take it. Moving on …

Last Wednesday, since I had an extended lunch break, I invited my aunt to the market. Last fall, the long lines at Roberta’s had prevented me from getting personal pizza from their wood-fired oven, but now that I had someone to share with, it made sense to order a pair: the SpeckenWolf, and a Bee Sting.  We grabbed them, as well as some sodas concocted from home-made syrups, and found a seat on the lawn in Madison Square Park. A pizza fresh from the oven is something to relish, but we were both too damn hungry—so no pictures! Besides sating me, these pies also inspired me get back to my own pizza-making hobby. (Among my favorites from last summer: a “smoke & fire” pizza featuring soppressata, roasted red peppers, and a touch of liquid smoke; and a dessert-like pizza of arugula and figs with a touch of honey and balsamic vinegar.) For me, the Speckenwolf did not feature enough speck—but it did hit home on the onions and mushrooms. The spicy/sweet flavors of the Bee Sting was more to my liking, and leads me to believe that a combination of my “smoke & fire” pizza with the fig one might just work … Although I’ll probably need a damn thick crust to support all that.

Speaking of fascinating flavor combinations, I discovered more at the goat’s milk ice cream stand. After the pizza, I got a scoop of their salted caramel, which suited me perfectly since my palate enjoys salty/sweet more than spicy/sweet or even sweet/sweet. A couple days later I stopped by for a cone of the flavor my aunt had gotten: bitter chocolate mint. Where my caramel had been a punch of saltiness finished off with a potent sweetness, this ice cream possessed depth and a subtle complexity I did not think possible. Rather than tasting like traditional mint chocolate chip or Thin Mint cookies, I tasted fresh mint—not overpowering, but reminiscent of mint tea, or chewing on mint leaves while playing left field during my family’s annual wiffleball game. And the chocolate had an intricate flavor profile akin to that of a good coffee, good beer, or good wine.

And finally, I treated myself to a pair of hot dogs from Asia Dog—a restaurant that combines two NYC trends: putting Asian condiments on non-Asian food (i.e., Korean tacos), and adorning hot dogs—a sacred New York culinary icon—with a plethora of toppings that make them resemble the dogs served in that “second city,” you know, that one in the Midwest or somewhere. Anyway, I ordered a Thai-style and one with kimchi and nori (seaweed) flakes. The Thai dog (of chicken meat), came with a mango, cukes, onions, cilantro, and, of course, crush peanuts. This was the kind of heft and variety of textures that should appear in a good sandwich, or hot dog for that matter. The kimchi—fermented spicy cabbage—on my beef hot dog wasn’t as tongue-burning as I’d assumed it would be (which is both good and bad), and the nori were too few (granted, this critique comes from someone who has been known to snack on seaweed flakes.) However, I did realize two things: first, kimchi, combining a cool relish with a spicy sauce, is my ideal hot dog topping (sorry, sauerkraut and spicy mustard—we’ll always have the ball park), and second, I could probably make my own kimchi easily, and enjoy it on my hot dogs all summer long. So, the next time I blog on food, it will likely feature my experimentation with jars of fermenting cabbage and a journey in search of Korean chili powder. Bring on summer, and keep the good food coming.

     

Housing Works Bookstore Cafe: my new favorite place in the city

Much like discovering a new band, I am amazed when I happen upon a new locale in the city that fits me so well, and wonder how I had gone so long in ignorance of it. In a place like this, and with my penchant for exploring it so readily and often, this of course happens all the time. Still, it is no less surprising to enter a place like Housing Works and wonder how I'd managed never to go there before.

For those of you who don’t know, Housing Works is a national organization dedicated to improving the lives of individuals stricken with HIV/AIDS and homelessness—and too often both. It serves this community through advocacy, services, and entrepreneurial business. This third pillar—which in New York City you’ll encounter as the Housing Works Thrift Shops and the Housing Works Bookstore Café—brings in 25% of the organization’s operating budget. At the Bookstore, every used book or café snack purchased is a donation, and all the employees are volunteers. And not only is the Bookstore a hip space that supports a great cause with a well-organized selection of donated books and music, but they are also a hub for artistic and cultural events.

And that, after all, is why I finally dropped by. With a Tuesday evening free, I opted for a poetry reading celebrating National Poetry Month. The National Book Foundation had hosted a discussion on contemporary poetry’s (and poets’) enduring place in American culture, and on following evening they actually presented three poets to share their work and thoughts: Mark Doty, Kathleen Graber, and Patricia Smith.

As I sat with a coffee and cookie, I considered how often I had gone to these type of events in college, and how I hadn’t attended a literary event in some time. Then I realized that I had gone to a book talk just the week before. I’d met Tim at the Union Square Barnes & Noble to hear one of our modern heroes speak about his latest book: Jeremy Wade, the English journalist/biologist/angler who hosts the television show “River Monsters,” and recently released a book of fish tales under the same title. If you haven’t seen a second of “River Monsters” then you are either watching the crap some consider “television,” or actually living a productive, fruitful life. Either way, you’re wasting your time and missing out on one of the greatest programs ever recorded. In each episode, Mr. Wade investigates the story of an especially dangerous or large freshwater fish. He then travels to exotic locations, interrogates local fisherman, and doggedly attempts to catch the suspected fish. Apparently, my ten-year-old cousin is hooked on the show as much as us, so Tim picked up copy of the book and got it signed for the boy. Of course, we’ll first read the book before he receives it as a gift.    

And on a sad note, it pains me to say that my own river monster, my beta fish G.O.B. has passed on. For two years, the feisty fish was my erstwhile roommate, enduring all my moods and proclivities through thick and thin, i.e. his water and my room’s available light. However, beginning tomorrow, I will take on a new companion with a temperament to match his name, George Michael (the “Arrested Development” character, not the singer-songwriter.)

But, back to the poetry. Kathleen Graber read lyrical poems concerning writing itself and other literary allusions, while Mark Doty read poetry with a more quotidian and modern bent. And, ailing from Bell’s palsy, Patricia Smith—a champion slam poet—stridently read poems steeped in the history of Chicago and her family’s origins. Mr. Doty had an interesting reading style, but it was unfortunate that Ms. Smith could not read as well as she normally could, for although her poems had a energy and potency in their words alone, I really would have liked to have heard her perform to her fullest extent (as I’m sure she would have, too.)

In the question-and-answer session after the reading, the poets discussed what writers and critics had the evening before: the place of poetry in modern culture and vis-à-vis the public at large. Political intentions and accessibility were mentioned, and the poets defended their art as confronting issues that required thought, that could not be reduced to a sound bite. Essentially, if you want someone to think about the complexities of an issue that is not as simple as it seems, then you should explore and present it in a manner that requires the active exertion of thought to unpack and digest it. The poet should not make their art too difficult or inaccessible to most readers (just because they can) lest the poem fail to be effective.

Before the evening concluded, Mr. Doty suggested (partly in jest, but with a good dose of earnestness) that modern health care should include a literary therapist—and not just to provide an occupation to unemployed English majors. It could greatly benefit individuals if there was some guidance in what they read, if only there was a source that could suggest to them works and authors that could relate to their personal issues and experiences. As I finish this post, I realize I might just have a few more things to say about poetry—especially considering that I’ll being going back to the Housing Works Bookstore for another poetry reading tomorrow, er, tonight. See? A cool place that’s worth returning to weekly, and patronizing just as often.

And speaking of which, what did I pull from the stacks of used books to add to my personal collection? Vinyl records, of course. I know, I know, but c’mon … George Gershwin playing "Rhapsody in Blue," a recording of Mussorgsky’s “Night on Bald Mountain,” and a song called “Danse Macabre” recorded fifty years ago by none other than the New York Philharmonic—how could I pass this stuff up?

Yeah, I know ... a photo of an album is like writing about jazz--it just doesn't convey the listening experience.

Breakfast: bloggable minutiae reaches a new low (or high?)

Yes, it's come to this. Me, telling you, what I had for breakfast. (Truly, the nadir of blogging knows no limit.) Usually, it's just oatmeal and tea. But on the weekends that changes. 

When I have time, I will make brunch for my roommates.  Last weekend I made a pretty good applesauce cake, and attempted a Spanish-style tortilla (as you may have seen better executed on my friend Alex's blog.) And though she may have the recipes, photos, and humorous testimonials that make a good food blog, she does not have the regular access to New York and its eats you will find on this one.

And speaking of such things, on some weekends I work. And since I must go into the city early, I usually pick up breakfast and coffee somewhere to make the morning bearable.  Sometimes, I'm looking for good coffee, with the meal being secondary. And other times the treat is more of a pastry. My standard is the pain au trois chocolat from Bouchon Bakery. Yes, I know--very bourgeoisie. But it's awesome: a chocolate-dough croissant, with creamy chocolate filling, and little drizzled on top ... decadent, and it keeps me buzzing all morning. I should post a picture here, but you'll pick up one the next time you're near Columbus Circle. 

And although I had to be at the Lincoln Center again yesterday morning, I just had the chocolate croissant the last time I worked a Saturday. And besides, I was a looking for something to hold over my doughnut craving, as I eagerly anticipate the opening of the Doughnut Plant branch at the Chelsea Hotel--very near to where I also work.  (And by "eager", I mean that I mention it to my roommate nearly every week, check the website often, and even monitor the situation in person whenever I visit the public library across the street from the future storefront.)  So, I sought out a list of the best doughnuts around not made at the Doughnut Plant (or in my kitchen).  And as it turns out, Bombolini is very highly regarded and very near the LC.

I'd read that the Nutella-filled bombolini was very good, so I of course selected the one indicated by a chocolate-covered hazelnut balanced on top. But for my other doughnut, I was at a loss.  I didn't want to seem too ignorant of Italian, (genuinely wanted something not in the realm of chocolate), so I avoided the labels I could not translate and simply asked for a fruit-filled one.  I got an apricot, which turned out to be a good choice.

The dough itself was chewy, with a nice fried crunch on the outside.  The ratio of dough to filling was balanced, leaning slightly towards the filling, which is what I want if it's especially good. The apricot was sweeter and thicker than I'd expected. Granted, my only real reference for apricot pastries would be my grandfather's apricot kalac (although not as good as the nut version--which he will tell you is "so freakin' easy" to make.) 'Twas a good doughnut, with even a powdered sugar garnish.

Fortunately, I had to handle several phone calls and could digest a little before the Nutella one.  Again, the dough was good, with the filling being definitely lighter than Nutella.  Though delicious, it did not have the intense chocolate and hazelnut of the pure spread. But, considering most eater's palates, a more custard-like filling was probably a good decision.

Yes, the bombolini were rather good (though perhaps not the healthiest way to start the morning), but ... the craving for the Doughnut Plant's seasonal specialties and solid standards (and amazing chai!) was not abated.