Star gazing turned to sleepwalking on the High Line this week when clouds ruled out the first activity and a new sculpture by Tony Matelli made me rethink the second. Being confronted by a near naked sleep walker does raise questions about nocturnal knickers. The sculpture is so lifelike that many visitors to the HighLine thought it was, asking the sleeper questions and poking him for a response. But if he had been real, he would surely have been downstairs choosing which oysters to order rather than just dreaming about it. Chelsea Markets has changed. And it keeps getting better. The original biscuit factory was transformed into a gallery style collection of bakeries-at-work and now it has become even more visual. Seafood, pasta, or pork is displayed for your choosing and then whipped up in front of you. The choices are endless, and for the hungry walker who has been in a trance for the 20 block length of the High Line, it’s a delicious way to wake up…
Sleepwalking with the stars
PsychoBarn
Hitchcock would think it a scream. On top of the MET this summer, artist Cornelia Parker has recreated the Bates Motel out of a hundred year old barn from Connecticut. On a stormy morning the vision of the familiar horror house, juxtaposed against the New York skyline, needed only the creak of a rocking chair to remember ‘mother’. Fortunately there was no chair, and the house was as much a movie set as the original. But as Parker is known more for blowing things up and exhibiting the remaining fragments, we were lucky to get half a house in one piece.
In the chain of artistic inspiration, Parker’s previous exhibition of the exploded garden shed inspired an orchestral composition by a South Korean violinist. For this commission, PsychoBarn, she was inspired by Hitchcock, and he was inspired by the Edward Hopper painting ‘House by the Railroad’. Hopper’s painting coincidentally resides at the MET, and while I didn’t see it this visit, a stunning collection of antiquities from the Hellenistic Kingdoms did raise other questions. In the second century BC, who was their inspiration…?!
Swarms of blossom
The transformation of NYC from the back and white of winter to the glorious colours of Spring is a magical process. And this year more than ever. The tulips on Park Avenue are so iridescent you can hardly believe they are real, and the cherry blossom lining the Avenues and filling Central Park make breathing a scented pleasure. Some blossom can’t even wait for the branches to grow. These few precious weeks make you forget winter and forgive the intense humidity that is to come. It’s all worth it just for the spectacle.
The Bern
In Union Square last week you could feel the Bernie love. It was like a party for someone’s dad that all the kids in town wanted to be part of. Feel the Bern, a twitter hashtag that became a central part of Bernie’s official campaign was everywhere – on badges, bags, stickers and even tattoos. And on Primary day there was so much excitement and energy on the street it seemed possible that Mr Sanders just might take New York. This wasn’t to be, but the party isn’t over yet.
The Primary is idiosyncratic in that ‘the people’ decide who is going to be the party’s nomination for President. Well, some of the people anyway. Apparently you have to be registered as a Democrat or a Republican at least 6 months before the Primary to be able to vote. If you are registered as an Independent then you can’t vote. And even if you are registered for the two party system, you can still be struck off the register at the last minute, as some 125,000 voters were in Brooklyn. The NYC Board of Elections is run by commissioners nominated by the two parties, it is not directly answerable to the city. So weird things happen. Regularly. If I had a few spare years I might try and understand how the whole system works, but for now my thoughts turn to the Australian election and the comparatively brief window before July 2nd in which the players have to create slogans, print badges and crank up the tattoo parlors. If time runs out, maybe some of the badges here could be recycled…
Bunnies and babka
A rabbit proof fence would not stand a chance against the art – or the Australian artists, that are bringing new perspectives to Manhattan. At Brookfield Place on the lower West Side, Amanda Parer’s installation of giant bunnies presents the contradiction of fairy tail and feral in an exhibition appropriately called Intrude. Not that the rabbits appear anything except completely comfortable in their grand Gotham surroundings. Standing 7 meters tall, they are luminous in the midday sun, and at night from over the river on the Jersey Shore, they would glow in the spot lights. Having hopped from London to Canada to the USA, these pests have a full passport before they even leave for Portugal. But until then, they will flag the entrance to the biggest French eatery in the city.
When Le District opened about a year ago the salad bar that transformed into a mousse bar in the late afternoon was the main attraction. But now the competition is tougher. Like Eatily there is the freshest seafood, an aromatic rotisserie, and steak grilled a la minute as you sit barside with a smooth sauvignon. The cheese plates look life-giving, and the prosciutto would have been worth ordering just for the performance of the carving. But the promise of a new bakery hidden in the entrance of an old building down the street lured us on…
The Arcade Bakery is not immediately obvious when you swing through the revolving doors at the Church Street entrance. Tables fold out from the walls and sit flush with the line of the foyer, as does the bakery, which is more art than artisanal. Only one sweet is showcased at a time, so that arriving late in the day (the bakery is open from 8 – 4 Monday to Friday) you could be forgiven for thinking there was almost nothing left. But as we ordered the lemon brioche another one magically appeared, and the generous slice of chocolate walnut babka seemed not to diminish the loaf. The sparsity of the location is completely contrary to the lushness of the product. The brioche was an unchartered flavour, outstanding, and the babka now holds the crown. Breads Bakery is in trouble. It was light, flavoursome and delicious. Crispy on the outside and stretchy in the middle. Just like the bagette, made with croissant dough on the outside to give crunchy flakiness, and bread dough inside. Whoa. The coffee is American drip, but on a hot afternoon, ginger beer was the trick. And it seemed refreshing to find new and have different. So if you find yourself in need of refreshment after visiting Ground Zero, just turn right at the rabbits….
Grand Central Appetite
Grand Central is fast becoming a delicious destination. Apart from the grandeur of the building, the terminal has generally been about transiting to and from other places. But now there are a lot more reasons to linger. Vanderbilt Hall on the 42nd street side will soon be transformed into a Nordic Food Court, magically installed so as not to touch the heritage protected walls or penetrate the floors. The court’s more formal connection to the gastronomic mecca that is NOMA in Denmark will open next door in the old smoking room, and chip in for the $1.8M yearly rent bill. But at the other end of the Terminal on the corner of Vanderbilt and 45th Street, another new foodery is already buzzing with pizza and pretzels and New York familiarity.
Urbanspace is more like a market than a food hall, with that raw appeal of goodies about to be discovered. Dough donuts were a welcome sight, and there seems to be no stopping Toby’s Coffee from Australia. Many of the stalls were retro inspired, serving lobster rolls from Maine, fried chicken or pulled pork with bacon and honey. But the best of the show by far was Sigmunds. Just over four years ago I discovered their small bakery in the East Village making pretzels with interesting combinations like feta and olive, and cinnamon and raisin. A lot has happened since then, and those innovative German bakers have been busy. I feel some pride in seeing their success, now with a bar downtown and outlets all over the city. But at this particular spot, with friendly and impeccable service, the thing to have is the Reuben, made with corn beef, cheese, sauerkraut, thousand island dressing and a pretzel bun. And a German wheat beer – of course!
Norsky Nosh
The Norwegian Church in NYC was created over 150 years ago especially for sailors and travelers who may be in need of comforts from home. Pickled herring, religion or Dumle chocolate – not necessarily in that order – could have been the very thing to restore mind and body. Food and faith still can in 2016, only more-so, because these days the smorgasbord on the first Wednesday of the month, with good company, is generous enough to sustain visitors and vikings alike.
Last week I joined a group of seasoned movie buffs for a lively conversation about film while we feasted on freshly prepared Nordic nosh. Between Orson Welles, modern German cinema ( Downfall is on my new to-see list ) and The People V’s OJ Simpson, we indulged in smoked salmon, vodka dill cured gravlax, prosciutto, shaved rare beef and horseradish sauce, leverpostei and pickle, cashew nut salad, prawn mayonaise eggs, a vast variety of cheeses – including the uniquely coloured brunost, and homemade bread rolls. Then there was carrot cake, fresh fruit and heart shaped waffles. Where else but the Norwegian Church – in this case King Olav the Fifth’s – would you find heart shaped waffles?!
Norwegians are dreamers, not just because they have a church that is also a restaurant, an art gallery, a language center, and a candy store, but because they even find soul in a televised wood burning. ‘National Firewood Night’ was a huge success a couple of years ago, when 20% of the population tuned in to watch eight hours of an unscripted continuous log fire. It seems that the creation of warmth and the sharing of conversation, or food, or silence, is part of the national identity. Silence wasn’t part of our spirited soiree last Wednesday, but sharing a taste of Norway certainly was.
A perfect marriage
Tomatoes and parents have a heartwarming connection. And not just for me. Last November my trip to Port Lincoln would not have been complete without rousing at 4.30am with Mum and Dad to fire up the gas in the garage & get the relish on the go. The early hour was carefully chosen for summer stillness, and while we stirred the industrial sized pot between toast and tea, rich aromas of tomato wafted down the street alerting the town of the impending vintage. Meanwhile the Spanakis’s on the East Coast were busy planting their own prize tomatoes, Mrs preferring the city climate of Randwick and Mr opting for salty sea breezes at their bungalow down the coast. Cheerfully competitive, the parents both produced outstanding heirloom fruit, and in posing with their trophy tomatoes who would ( dare ) suggest either was better? If pride was the judge, then clearly everyone was a winner.
Emi, daughter of the amiable agronomists, and I get together regularly to talk about the important things – like life in NYC and our parents. The venue needs to be conducive to conversation, with an uncomplicated menu and cheerful service. If the food is good that is a bonus, and last week the Brindle Room in the East Village scored on all counts. We arrived during happy hour and departed a couple of hours later still smiling. This was in no small way due to the waiter who commandeered our order. Fortunately we were allowed to share the mussels, complimented with wine by the mason jar, but the grilled fish was totally order non grata. The trendy ‘poutine’ – cheese curds with fries and duck gravy – would have been a curious calorific option, but no, our instruction was to have either the chicken or the burger. With the emphatic assurance that the burger was the best on the east coast, we complied. It was delicious, really good, the best I have tasted. A burger with cheese and caramelized onions. The chef was happy, we were happy – all that was needed to make it really perfect was the addition of some precious home grown tomato….
It Can’t Happen Here
If only Trump knew. Sinclair Lewis, the first American writer to receive a Nobel prize for literature, wrote a play in 1935 that could have been written now. So much so, that an impromptu performance at the National Arts Club last week by the Peccadillo Theatre Company saw a packed house and a gleeful reception. Penned during the rise of fascism, the themes and language of the play were particularly poignant, and the mere mention of building a wall ( around Europe ) bought howls of grimaced laughter. My favorite line was you can only negotiate with a shotgun from one end. If only the Theatre Company would go national…
The mission of The National Arts Club is ‘to stimulate, foster, and promote public interest in the arts’. As a private club, only members can access most of the scheduled events, but the galleries and some performances are open to the public. Fortunately ‘It Can’t Happen here’ was one of them. It was worth going just to see the Club elders with their professorial velvet hats and theatrical garb. There could be no photos of course, but clearly they have been entrusted with the culture of the club, founded by the New York Times literary and art critic in 1898. And the bar is another story. A red chaise chair would be the perfect pouffe in which to relax with a martini before dinner. Members only. But the fact that the club welcomed women from the outset shows they have style. I just have to wrangle an invitation from a member, or find two in good standing to nominate me for membership. At least this should preclude running into certain politicians…
TheFitzyreport 