Episode 4: Way, Way Over The Hill

February 4, 2005

"To be seventy years young is sometimes far more cheerful and hopeful than to be forty years old."
-Oliver Wendell Holmes

"Being seventy is not a sin."
- Golda Meir

"Most people my age are dead."
- Casey Stengel


I entered the digits "7" and "0" under "Age" on my lifecycle at the health club on February 1st. That sent little crawly caterpillars up my spine. But then I was able to shift to relishing the glorious three-day weekend Jo and I had just enjoyed in downtown Manhattan. It was planned in advance, not so much as celebration as distraction from dwelling upon the march of time.
I wanted to check out the gallery scene in Chelsea and wander through Chinatown, the Lower East Side, and NoLiTa (North of Little Italy). We booked a room at the Maritime Hotel, about as hip a place as exists down there next to the Meatpacking District. It used to be headquarters of a Maritime Labor Union, then declined into a homeless shelter. Now, everything old is new again. They've kept the nautical theme of the architecture, as with the six-foot diameter portholes that are the sole windows in the compact but attractive rooms. The management thoughtfully offers a portable rubber seal that fits in the window to keep out street noises. I imagine a sort of giant diaphragm.
Shortly after we move in, the phone rings. It's my son, the computer genius. He works about 25 blocks north and I assume he's calling with birthday wishes. As it happens, he's in the lobby. We join him for drinks. He has a new job at a much higher salary. He says his wife met the news with, "I'm going to the mall." I continue amazed at the man he has become - strong, smart, caring, handsome, and by available evidence, a better father and husband than I ever was.
Jo and I dined that night at Amuse in Chelsea, an accomplished restaurant of the elevated New American Bistro school. The minimalist room has a lively bar, cordial hosts and staff, and a young clientele - dressed in black, natch. A basket of wedges of warm salty foccacia arrived with drinks. Jo started with a salad of yellow and red beets on greens with a walnut-gorgonzola dressing; I had four scallop-sized breaded and fried cakes of cod and polenta with a light tartar sauce. Next was duck in pomegranate sauce and...But you get the idea - nothing startling, but all very well executed.
Saturday, we walked. A lot. Grimy frozen piles of week-old snow narrowed the sidewalks, and garbage pickups were delayed, but temps were in the tolerable 30s. Across the street from the hotel was something called Chelsea Market. It looked like an ancient brick foundry, with huge tangles of plumbing and machinery of uncertain utility.
There is a crooked corridor with an uneven cement floor running from the 9th Avenue entrance to 10th. A decidedly urban version of retail ghetto, it is lined unpromisingly at first with small, tattered shops selling newspapers, sandwiches, and Lotto tickets. Things soon pick up with cafes, a Euro-coffee counter, a wine bar, a butcher, crafts and kitchenware shops, and a busy little dream market. In there are stacks of restaurant-sized containers of spices and nuts, cases full of ruddy meats and glistening fish, baskets of exotic mushrooms like chanterelles and what the Spanish call trumpetas del morte, and a produce section that offers, among many items, nine distinct kinds of radishes. We immediately made plans to drive down one Saturday and fill the trunk with fungi.
Exiting on 10th, we turned north. From 18th Street to 25th, west to the Hudson, there are over 200 art galleries. The Times listings give only a hint of this breadth. We were embarking on a traditional Saturday gallery tramp. Back when I had my one and only one-man sculpture show in midtown - in (cringe) 1965 - that was a common form of cultural outing. The scene soon moved to SoHo, and now that that once appealing neighborhood has been transformed into a grotesquely over-priced fashion mall, the art has transferred here, to west Chelsea. It looks very much as SoHo did in the early 1970s. We picked our way along cracked sidewalks past loading docks and garages, stepping gingerly by people huddled under blankets and newspapers. Rehabed warehouses and lofts showing interiors of blinding white marked the galleries, some standing alone, others stacked in five- or six-story buildings, as many as two or three to a floor.
These are private galleries, but no admission fees are charged. The dealers expect browsers, so they don't bother you, but most are happy to answer questions. As always, most of the work on view was puzzling or simply foolish, but there was enough that was fresh and provocative to get my creative juices flowing.
Then it was time for lunch. I like the contrast of high-brow and low, so we got ourselves to Havana Chelsea on 8th Avenue. They make the best Cubano north of Calle Ocho in Miami. That's a fat loaf of bread sliced open horizontally and filled with roast pork, swiss cheese, dill pickles, mustard, and mayo and smashed together in a flat press until toasted and a little charred around the edges. If you order the black bean soup, and you should, order the small bowl. Listen up! Small! The large one could feed a family of four.
That called for a nap. On the way back to the hotel, we noticed a store that was a graphic illustration that there are more things than location location location to incorporate into a business plan. The store was permanently closed. The fading sign over the door read, "Punjab Deli & Electronics".
In late afternoon, we checked out kitchen designers and restaurant supply stores. Jo wants to re-do our kitchen, an odd desire given our (or at least my) limited remaining time for cooking. Then we took a cab to the Lower East Side for dinner.
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Traveler's Tip: There's a good reason to take the taxi fare receipt, even if you're not on expense account. It contains the taxi ID code and a telephone number, so if you leave something behind, you can contact them right away and arrange a return of your property.
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The Lower East Side is one of the hottest dining destinations in town, especially along Clinton Street, where WD-50 is located. The venue reeks of chic, and the chef , Wylie Dufresne has a glowing star rep. He has spent time in Spain at El Bulli and Arzak. Spanish fusion is the cuisine of the moment, and its influence is on display here. Experience it in such concoctions as (1) sweet shrimp with beet yogurt, flakes of morcilla (blood sausage), and parsley juice; (2) octopus with celery pesto, pineapple, mojama, and marcona almonds; and (3) cockles with sake noodles, and kimchee chips. And those are just the appetizers. Everything comes in big white plates and bowls in immaculate and inventive presentations. No doubt some find it all precious or over-the-top, but they are wrong. It's pricey, yes, but you won't eat better anywhere in town.
Back to the Maritime, sated and drowsy.
We settle for bowls of cafe au lait the next morning and set out for Chinatown. The Golden Unicorn is one of the dim sum emporia most popular with Chinese families getting together for Sunday brunch. Once seated, with tea and chopsticks at hand, patrons are alert to the food carts trundled between the tables. Each cart is loaded with bamboo baskets containing different treats - coconut shrimp, pork and chicken dumplings, steamed clams. Point at what looks good (most of the waitresses don't speak English) and notations are made on the running tab. Eat until full. We had chicken feet, among other things. They were tasty, and we never have to eat them again.
We drew the line at duck webbing.
Afterwards, we walked around Chinatown a while. Everyone was gearing up for February 4th New Year, store windows full of costumes, scarfs, dolls, greeting cards, and utterly illegal firecrackers, all in crimson and gold. Eventually, we continued north into what's left of Little Italy. Cappucino and cannoli were imperative. Apparently the Italian-American Anti-defamation League isn't getting its message across to its most likely constitutents, for every other shop and cafe proudly displayed a Sopranos poster.
We continued through NoLiTa to our next stop, the Outsider Art Fair in the Tuck Building. My buddy Mike's daughter was married here. That was a very different experience. No clear definition of what constitutes Outsider Art exists. One criterion is that the artist is unschooled, but many of these works were quite sophisticated. Another calls for aesthetic naivete, but that can fall to really base levels -a lot of this stuff really could be done by your six-year-old. Still, it was a bracing exhibition.
Back to the hotel to savor and rest. After all that stimulation, a soothing balm of the familiar seemed in order. We picked an unadventureous French bistro on 14th Street for dinner. Roast duck and braised lamb shank were comforting. Jo went to work on Monday, I returned home.
On Tuesday, my actual birthday, I received calls from my sister, brother, son, daughter, son-in-law, stepdaughter, and one of the California nieces. A box of artisanal cheeses arrived from my kids, a handmade card from a granddaughter, and the next morning, there were two bottles of Tokay on the porch, a gift of the Hungarian who owns our car service. I guess they won't be able to hold my eventual memorial service in a phone booth, after all.
My 70th birthday was so much fun I plan to have another one next year.
Geezer
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WD-50
50 Clinton St. (Bet. Rivington & Stanton Sts.)
212-477-2900
$190
Amuse
108 W. 18th St. (bet. 6th & 7th Sts.)
212-929-9755
$185

Golden Unicorn
18 E. Broadway (bet. Catherine & Market Sts.)
212-941-0911
$28

Havana Chelsea
188 8th Ave. (bet. 19th & 20th)
212-243-9421
$26

The Maritime Hotel
363 W. 16th St. (9th Ave,)
212-242-4300
Double $235-$350

*Dinner prices are for two include cocktails, a bottle of wine, taxes, and tip. Lunch prices include beverage, taxes, and tip.