vip in the city

Super Taste and birthday cake

After work, I met S & HYB at the Starbucks (they’re inescapable!) in Chinatown before AH’s birthday party. On the way over, we stopped off for a quick dinner at Super Taste on Eldridge, introducing HYB to the joys of hand-pulled noodles.

As I explained to him, according to New York Magazine’s profile, this noodle shop at the Fujian ghetto edge of Chinatown “makes what is indisputably a five-star bowl of beef noodles for a paltry $4… Alas, the mood, as set by the glum slurpers who patronize the establishment, is as cheerful as a July 4 picnic at Guantánamo Bay and weighs in at zero stars, giving Super Taste an average of two stars.”

Haha. But yeah, that’s about right.

A funny thing: since the last time (or since the above profile prominently appeared in New York Magazine’s Cheap Eats issue), the establishment removed all English language menus from the walls, making the place even less friendly for non-Chinese speakers/readers. All references to “Hand-Pull Noodle w. Beef In Hot & Spicy Soup” were absent, and I was forced to rely on my rudimentary Chinese reading skills to order. Luckily for all of us, “beef” and “noodles” are in my limited repertoire; I owe it all to Wah Kue on Mott Street. And pointing is universal.

Mmm, mmm good.

After another stop for what may have been the most expensive ice in Manhattan – $6 for two bags?! Grrr… – we arrived at AH’s top-floor apartment where the party was in full swing. I spent most of the night out on the balcony, admiring her views over lower Manhattan. AH had baked another one of her wonderful cakes for the occasion: this one a carrot and walnut layer cake with cream cheese frosting, that HYB lit afire with birthday candles.

On the way home, the warm smells from Doughnut Plant carried us along Grand Avenue.

Random celebrity sighting: Dennis Quaid on the 7 train, holding hands with a younger Asian woman. She asked me for directions, and I realized then that she wasn’t quite fluent in English. I thought Quaid was (re)married, and living in California? Or maybe it wasn’t him I saw after all?

Regardless, I’m sure it wasn’t Randy.

Broadway on Broadway

We arrived at 43rd and Broadway just as the Broadway on Broadway concert was getting underway. No dice: nobody — except for the pair of uniformed Navy sailors — were getting through. We were sent over to Eighth Avenue, and began the slow march uptown: West 43rd, 44th, 45th, 46th.. at every intersection, we met with police officers redirecting people farther and farther away from the crowds that were rapidly filling Broadway. Finally at 47th, we were able to make our way over.

From our spots behind the wooden police barricades, we could hear the concert sounds being piped out through the massive speakers, but could not see the stage, or determine where it was, really. We heard a song each from The Producers and from Les Miz, (which apparently is being revived for a limited six-month engagement at the Broadhurst Theatre. Already?) and “Seasons of Love” from Rent, featuring infamous American Idol contestant Frenchie Davis (who got lots of love from the crowd.) Also, “It Sucks to Be Me,” from the incomparable Avenue Q, which SYB and I attended together back in 2004.

KATE MONSTER
… I’m kinda pretty
And pretty damn smart.

BRIAN
You are.

KATE MONSTER
Thanks!
I like romantic things
Like music and art.
And as you know
I have a gigantic heart
So why don’t I have…
A boyfriend?
F@&%!
It sucks to be me!

Naturally, that last interjection was edited out for the Times Square audience.

It seemed a bit pointless to stay for the entire concert — though I would have liked to hear Martin Short do his bit — so we left just as the selection from upcoming Grey Gardens was starting. Now where brunch?

The Ninth Avenue restaurant scene has exploded these past few years, and brunch is generally far less of an ordeal than farther uptown in my neighborhood. After dismissing some other options (Pam Real Thai, Island Burgers & Shakes) as not “brunchy” enough, we eventually found our way to Eatery. Unfortunately, it also happened to be the one place on that stretch of Avenue with a line out the door. Uh, no thanks.

We did the next best thing by heading over to Eatery’s lesser known sibling (and fellow WC-designed space) Whym. Good solid brunch of corned beef and sweet-potato hash with eggs – and I think we were the youngest people in the restaurant, excepting the bartender, which I find rarely happens in the city these days… outside the Philharmonic, that is.

Errands at Whole Foods (ulitmately deciding against loitering among the prepared foods), and then we stumbled upon a fair in progress at Lincoln Center. When I asked SYB what was being sold at the stands there, I thought he replied “Crap” when he’d actually said: “Crafts.”

Don’t be sad if you missed it: they’ll be around next weekend, too. (And it’s not all crap.)

Seventh Avenue Street Fair

On the way into the office to learn of my fate, I passed the Seventh Avenue Street Fair in progress. Ah, the telltale wafts of smoke and all-too-familiar smells…

Last month, I came upon a news story that New York City street fairs all seem similar because they are similar, based on a report (.pdf) by the Center for an Urban Future. Their study found that complex politics result in the same vendors appearing at most of the fairs. Just three companies organize over two-thirds of the fairs, and 46 percent of all the food permits are distributed among the 20 largest vendors. Based on personal observation, I wonder: 20 — that many, really?  Sausage and peppers, gyros, funnel cakes, $1 Thai, corndogs, chicken pita, turkey legs, crepes, roasted corn on the cob, Mozzarepas  (those cornmeal-pancake/mozzerella sandwiches I’ve never seen outside  a street fair), fresh cut fruit/smoothies, kettle corn and fresh squeezed lemonade – what else is there?  Though truth be told, I do find it difficult to pass up those last two sometimes.

On rare occasions – usually only when the fair is linked to some specific theme – you may get offerings like eclairs and vichyssoise.

Though I am entranced by the idea that you can pick up a viking-sized drumstick (along with your overstock brassieres, silver jewelry and tube socks), just minutes before catching a show at adjacent Carnegie Hall.