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?

Catching Up on My June Adventures ...

When I traveled home last month for my sister’s annual dance recital, I did not expect to experience a gastronomic tour of culinary curiosities in the area of the Delaware/Maryland border. All I had anticipated from this relaxing weekend away from the city was visiting my family, catching up on sleep, watching crappy TV, eating my grandfather's food, and taking in a little ballet. But when my mother declared while driving on I-95 (after picking me up from the Fung-Wah bus drop-off in Wilmington) that she didn’t really know where she was driving, I should have expected we’d end up somewhere wholly unexpected.

Jersey City on Two Wheels: A Three-park Tour

This weekend I decided to string together three small parks into one bike ride/blog post. These parks are all within easy running distance, and I frequently visit them. Nearby and smaller than the previous parks, I overlooked writing a post on them. But I realized that including all three would give both my ride and the post enough distance and material. So, here are three parks tied closely to their respective Jersey City neighborhoods.

Jersey City on Two Wheels: Lincoln Park

Another (rain-free) Saturday morning to cycle about my fair city equals another installment of my series on the best places in Jersey City beyond walking distance of my apartment. (The only truly great, blog-worthy places within walking distance include the Landmark Jersey Loews Theater, and our local churrasquiera.) This time I bring you photographs from Lincoln Park, a valued patch of greenery on the West Side of Jersey City. I first stumbled upon this park on an exploratory walk one evening during my first summer here. Enamored with my discovery, I have returned frequently since then, whether on foot, on a bike, or behind the wheel of a car. And finally, now I can show someone other than Walter what a great park this really is: where joggers and cyclists circle cricket and softball players sharing the inner fields, where tennis and basketball players hit the courts early, where families stroll through the passing seasons, where birds and other wildlife find safe haven, where monuments commemorate chapters of the city's history, and where a solemn statue of a clean-shaven Abraham Lincoln presides.

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.

     

Spending time with family in the present ... and of the past

Whenever I manage to escape the city (Jersey City, that is; I escape New York City daily, and yawp triumphantly in the PATH station every time I do.) and visit my family (besides the benevolent and bedeviling aunt and uncle I reside with), I try to split my time evenly between three simple activities: sleeping, eating, and hanging out with my sisters. Often, I manage to do all these quite well, ie. with little time for doing anything else. This was almost the case over the Easter weekend.

First, my grandfather’s insistence on serving meals both larger and more frequently than I am used to deliciously achieved my “eating” goal—and may have actually added a pound or two to my stickly frame. And second, my littlest sister’s endless enthusiasm and glee to have me home ensured hours of playing games and eating Easter candy, studying U.S. geography and checking out her award-winning project on Arizona, or just loafing around watching River Monsters—and even a Lindsey Lohan movie (one I’d never seen before—can you believe that?!). However, the first pillar of my long-weekend plan—sleep—suffered doubly from my proclivity to stay up late and my grandparents’ proclivity to rise with the sun. And amid all this, I cavorted with several young girl cousins, took a nature walk with my lone male cousin on this side of the family (whereupon he told me about all the dangerous creatures that inhabit the southwest United States—including the dreaded chupacabra, so this six-year-old definitely knows his stuff), and participated in an embarrassing Easter egg hunt for the older children (me, my eldest younger sister, and her boyfriend)—embarrassing not only in principle, but in the fact that I couldn’t manage to find a single egg on my own. All in all, pretty much what I expected and desired from such a weekend. But the most profound and enlightening experience was an enjoyable surprise.

 
After lunch one day, my grandmother and her sister sat at the dining room table, leafing through one of their mother’s decaying photo albums. Attracted by the seventy-something-year-old snapshots and an opportunity to learn my family’s history, I joined them for a lesson. The photographic collection from my mother’s mother’s family is surprisingly large, though it has not been kept in the best condition or state or organization, ie. dates and identifying captions. But, between my grandmother’s and great aunt’s recollections and the dozens of black-and-white images, I could grasp a better sense of one quarter of my family tree: a Slovak-Hungarian tribe from in and around Youngstown, Ohio. But let me share some particularly endearing and curious anecdotes from my forbears.
                                            
From one series of photographs, I discovered that my grandmother was as fond of dancing as many of her young granddaughters—and that, as a four-year-old, she eerily resembled one of those cousins. On another page, I learned that there was a penchant for nicknames back in the Thirties and Forties, including one of my grandmother’s great aunts, who went only by “Nanya”—her proper name forgotten and replaced by the word for aunt in Hungarian.

Also in this vein, I learned that the man appearing throughout in the Army uniform was called “Uncle Russian,” despite that fact that he was of Hungarian extraction. And, according to both my family’s account and a newspaper clipping, this man (who was really my grandmother's uncle, named John) became such an avid golfer after the war that he hardly ever took a break from the game for winter—and actually grew a thick beard to both protect his face on the course and to hold his tees.

 I just love these kind of stories and eccentricities, just as much as looking at the photographs themselves—viewing lives so distantly past, yet captured on paper and in memories; lives connected to my own, in ways I’m only just beginning to understand. Like that of my great-grandmother Helen, whom did I know when she was living, but who I now saw as a beaming nineteen-year-old posing with brothers and parents, with no hint of a thought in her head of the two women sitting next to me. And fortunately, those two are not satisfied with the incomplete knowledge of their family they have carried with them from childhood. Speaking about this just last night with my grandmother, she mentioned that she would be contacting some cousins of hers next time she found herself in western Pennsylvania, and might be able to elicit from them the forgotten name of her great aunt. And some of her preliminary research has proven that her father’s father (my great-great-grandfather) had already arrived in this country from Slovakia by 1910. And after she completes the genealogy of her side of the family, then it’s on to my grandfather and his Polish forbears. Oh boy, now there’s a project …