Scream for ice cream

The latest hotspot for ice cream in NYC was a melting pot of impatience this week, when temperatures went up, lines went down the block and supplies ran out. At 9.30 on Monday night a taste of ‘black ass licorice’ from Morgenstern’s seemed like the perfect end to a long summer day, but with a 45 minute wait – minimum – the only pleasure was in exchanging flavor favorites with other line dwellers and bets on which would still be available before the doors closed. Van Leeuwin’s, in close proximity and with tried and tested options, seemed like the next best thing. The crowds were gone, but so were the frozen favorites, and no amount of spinning vinyl would soothe the lack of feast. But help was at hand thanks to the Australian invasion at the local Flinders Lane. There was no line, although there should be, and there was plenty to share. The desert of the day was chocolate bread pudding with plum sauce and milo ice cream. Delicious! And best of all, it’s good for you…!

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Today’s soup is beer

The closest a melting Australian can get to Coogee Beach in the middle of a New York heat wave is to score a table at Ruby’s. This beach-like cafe in the heart of Nolita offers a menu that reads like the NSW coastline from Blueys to Bronte, and makes it seem strangely possible that the Pacific could be lapping through the al fresco doors onto Mulberry Street.

Established by two Australian guys with an ambition to take beach culture to the world, the cafe has a reputation for burgers that challenges the best of the local variety – and with no bun. The squashed artisanal style bread makes ‘the Bronte’ – Ruby’s signature burger – seem even bigger. But it is the Whaley – the burger with the lot, that challenges the status quo. Pineapple was unfortunately missing when Sean’s order arrived – perhaps the South American kitchen crew thought it was a culinary contradiction. But the full house showed that Australians, with their sense of humour and way of life, are embraced by NYC. Maybe New Yorkers want to feel that sea breeze, or maybe they are lining up for the soup of the day…

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French Toast….bagels!

The big bagels stacked by Swedish artist Hanna Liden in Greenwich Village this week may not have the enormous real estate of the big banana or the big pineapple, but they do promote the big apple’s much contested local specialty with similar humour. Like any tourist icon, the boiled and baked New Yorker can be a delight or a disaster, and with plenty of competition in the field, I have usually chosen treats with better odds. However the Swede sent out subliminal suggestions with her sculpture, and just the idea that I could be missing out on something special prompted an immediate investigation.

Located on Avenue A in the East Village, Tompkins Square Bagels brings a youthful inventiveness to a market dominated by the traditional Russ and Daughters down the road from Katz Deli, and Absolute Bagels on the Upper West Side. From 7 in the morning the place is buzzing – which seems a contradiction for Alphabet City’s sleepy starters, but there is good reason. Their bagels are outstanding, crispy on the outside and soft and chewy in the middle, and they are made with such generosity the hole in the middle almost disappears. Then there are the flavours – blueberry, chocolate chip, oat, sesame, everything, and the piece de resistance – French Toast!

Bagels are back on the menu. But that’s not all. Their accoutrements are more colourful and creative than ever. Cream cheese is no longer just cream cheese. It seems that the new wave of bagels has inspired a kaleidoscope of flavours that rival an icecreamery. Walnut and raisin, pumpkin, cookie dough and wasabi. There is birthday cake, also know as funfetti or hundreds and thousands, and there is tofu for those who want cream cheese that isn’t cream cheese. Plain is still an option and goes with everything this summer, where thanks to Hanna, bagels are the toast of the town…

 

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A wild night on the West side

The American Museum of Natural History may not be listed with Airbnb, but they do have tempting alternative accommodation for a one night stand in NYC. Availability is extremely limited, and in fact only three dates are open for the rest of 2015 – August 1st, October 2nd and December 19th. If you are interested and are willing to take the risk that ancient Egyptian curses will not be in play, then you can book the overnight adults-only adventure for $350. A champagne dinner is included, but there are no guarantees that Ben Stiller will be working that night….

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Hot in the city

Pink beer would hardly have been the drink of choice of the thirsty fishmongers that worked the docks south of the Brooklyn Bridge for 193 years. But sweltering heat and cold imports can be persuasive and if the fish markets were still there, the lines at the flash new eateries at the South Street Seaport might be even longer.

Schofferhofer almost isn’t a beer at all, being only 2.5% alcohol and mainly grapefruit juice, but it blended rather well with a margherita pizza in the cool atmosphere of Industry Kitchen. Positioned to catch the flow of tourists, Wall Street punters and bikers in transit, this bar / restaurant / pizzeria is part of the transformed boardwalk that is making everything old new again. You pay for the view, and the pizza is not exactly Joe’s, but the combination makes for a fun spontaneous date on a scorching midsummer Monday. Fortunately Sean & I were sufficiently dry after riding through all the water features along the East River bike path to be reasonably presentable, but this situation soon reversed when we retraced our tread. The seals may still have been sleeping, but the kids were waiting for a victim, and we were only too happy to oblige…

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Vive Brittany!

My grandmother was not the kind of woman to drink in the pantry. If she fancied a gin and tonic, I know she would have enjoyed it in full view of the neighbours, regardless of any male or moral intimidation. But for those who hid from Hoover or tippled in the company of gangsters, the William Barnacle Tavern in the East Village would have been the speakeasy to find refuge during the Prohibition era.

Bullet holes in the basement and the artful consumption of absinthe in the bar would normally be atmosphere enough, but an outspoken Bretan and his gossamer thin crepes have stolen the show. Operating out of a miniature kitchen next to the bar and with a letter-box opening to the street by which you can crouch to place your order, Jean produces delicacies which defy the chaos of the space. Actually he doesn’t produce, he performs. With the antics and speed of a circus performer he proclaims the superiority of all things Breton ( including himself ) while  whipping up crepes nonstop. Strawberry with salted caramel sauce, crepe suzette ( it is not from Brittany but it is nevertheless quite good ) and the popular egg, ham and cheese combo are all made with his secret family recipe. Apparently Dominic Ansel, the creator of the cronut was from Brittany – how else could he have created such a masterpiece? And those crepes in Paris – poo poo! – they are nothing like the buckwheat beauties from Brittany!

Celtic connections make the crepe a cousin of the Cornish pastie rather than a child of Marie Antoinette. Served with apple cider from Brittany the relationship becomes even tighter. A bit like my clothes after all that whipped cream. But if you are going to indulge in something prohibited, or even in the case of absinthe, illegal, then follow Grandma’s lead and do it with style…

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The best and the wurst

The fourth of July is absolutely the best time of the year for guilt free consumption of hot dogs. I am not talking the Nathans variety, the chew-free golden-red wiener, marinated for hours in hot water and served on a soft bun with onions and tomato sauce. I am talking the kind of hot dog that you can really only eat one of in a sitting, where avocado and sour cream team with a bacon wrapped sausage, or imported sauerkraut compliments a German bratwurst with such mustardy morishness that tomato sauce would be the last thing you would want to add.

Crif’s in the East Village is one of the most popular dog houses downtown. It isn’t much bigger than one either. Not that it needs to be, as the young crowd flows in and out of the funky space without pause. A beer and a bite. My avocado chihuahua combo was good and Sean threw caution to the wind by ordering a tsunami, a bacon wrapped sausage with teriyaki, pineapple and green onions. Fortunately we made it to the fireworks without incident, although the tide of people on the FDR was unprecedented. The entire highway on the east side was packed and policed with patience and anticipation. Our view of the
fireworks was spectacular, more-so by blurry moments of wonderment, like the policeman on the edge of the safety zone silhouetted by flashes of light.

The recommendations I gathered for hot dogs replaced the need to shop for the rest of the weekend. The Shakeshack, which began as a stand, and under the entrepreneurial owner of the Gramercy Tavern expanded to outlets all over the city, has gourmet dogs for people and Poochini for dogs, as well as Shake cago dogs, a connection to the super famous Hot Dougs who closed his doors last October, exhausted from years of success. Doug had such a cult following, with his duck sausage & foie gras dogs, that he spawned a tattoo trade in the windy city. Anyone engraved with a Hot Doug tattoo would get free hot dogs for life. Unfortunately now they are stuck with an unusable culinary coupon. But my absolute favorite discovery in the hot dog genre turned out to be the wurst. On the corner of 54th and 5th avenue is the Hallo Berlin cart which has been feeding the city for 30 years. Not only do they have a sense of humour, but with sour dough rolls & real German sausages made with the perfection of a Mercedes (my choice over a VW) their wurst is by far the best in the city…

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Over the Rainbow

The streets of NYC were glittering with gold on the weekend. Not to mention red, blue, green and purple. With the Grateful Dead showering thousands of followers with multi-coloured tie died roses on the west side of the country, NYC went all out to put the East side over the rainbow.

The Gay Parade is a feast of photography at any time, but with the timing of the marriage laws it was more flamboyant than ever. Standing on a street corner for just a few minutes was like being in a Dali dream sequence. Urban Aztecs in full feathered headdress, dogs wearing rose coloured glasses, women in tutus, others who couldn’t even think straight, and men in sissy girl ensembles. Everyone wanted to pose, especially the old boys in pink. Having just come from the Alice in Wonderland Exhibition at The Morgan, I felt curiouser and curiouser. It turns out the boys were retired and, being happily beyond the reach of employers expectations or any particular dress code, they created their own. Miss Kitty meets Miss Piggy. Not only was it stand-out-in-a-crowd-worthy, winning upgrades on the flight to NYC, but it made a latent claim to the forbidden fancies of their childhood. For me ‘I can’t go back to yesterday because I was a different person then’, but I do wonder about those impossibly perfect roses…that’s the great puzzle…!

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Alice in Wonderland

Alice must have been quite a girl. 150 years after that glorious boating trip up the Thames, people all over the world are celebrating the wonderland that was created for her by Lewis Carroll. There are theatrical adaptions in Oxford, operas in London, marionette performances in Salzburg and art installations in Moscow. In California, balls and picnic dances are on the cards, costumed with inspired Victorian dress ( or pre-Raphaelite, Aesthetic of Romantic ), the Grolier Club in NYC is having conferences to discuss alternate translations, the National Museum of Mathematics is doing the sums on Carroll, and the Greenwood Cemetery in Brooklyn is hosting a ( sold out ) night-time festival of Dark Wonderland. But of all the exhibitions and events, the best salute to this iconic story is at the Morgan Library on Madison Avenue, where the original hand-drawn and hand-illustrated manuscript is on display.

Breathtakingly under glass in the middle of the room is the artwork, three years in the making and one of the great fictional works of the world. Not to mention the source of much nonfictional speculation, as the gap widens between modern and Victorian mores. But Alice is full of unsolved puzzles, and the joy of the exhibition is the presentation of so many original pieces. Carroll’s journals and the wood blocks of the printing style of the era line up with Alice’s engraved purse, her ring and bibles. There are photographic plates and original drawings, and the progression of title as Alice’s Adventures Underground became Alice’s Hour in Elfinland before choosing to be in Wonderland.

Lewis Carroll, having made his money in photography was actually a self publisher, and this empowered him to order a complete reprint of the first publication when Terriel, his genius illustrator and coincidentally the political Punch cartoonist ( and creator of the Mad hatter ), complained it was inferior. Only a handful of this first pressing survive – the Morgan has one – as most of the 2,000 issues were sent off the the ‘secondary’ literary market that was America.  But since that remake, and Carroll’s doubt about the 40,000 sales he would need to break even, the story has never been out of print.

The commercial success of Alice is so phenomenal that to see the original elements of the work is to see a holy grail of the imagination. For whatever else happened, the story is a treasure. When Alice herself had to part with the original manuscript to pay for the death duties of her husband, it was bought to the United States and stayed on this side of the pond for 20 years. But a further auction saw a group of local benefactors purchase and gift the book back to the British people in gratitude for their gallantry in the second world war. Some people have long necks and others have long memories. Alice lovers come in all shapes and sizes, and they are not afraid to show it…

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Trading places

We have said goodbye to Madam Chrysler, hello to the Empire State, and taken only the essentials!

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