vip in the city, page 39

A recent New York magazine feature examined the industrial pollution problem lurking beneath Greenpoint, and floating along the surface of Newtown Creek, the murky waterway that stretches some three and a half industrialized miles between Brooklyn and Queens that was once a site of mansions and flourishing shipyards.

Toxic waste continues to seep into the creek from a ten million gallon underground reservoir, which houses the spills, leaks, and waste left in the wake of over a century of heavy industry.

The creek has evaded cleanup due largely to its remote, secluded nature. The Pulaski Bridge, from which this photo of the estuary was taken, is probably better known as the halfway point of the New York City marathon.

We rounded out our day with some museum-sponsored art at the P.S.1 Contemporary Art Center, where my MoMA dual membership came in handy. Out front, the museum’s annual architectural installation, designed by the winner of the annual P.S.1 and MoMA-organized Young Architects Program, was being constructed for this summer’s Warm Up series to run ten Saturdays — June 30 through September 1, 2007.

B was sad to miss out on the photography exhibition by Vik Muniz which closed May 7, though the sign outside still promoted it. But since we were there, we explored the other exhibits on view inside the converted brick and stone public school building. Much of the original structure was left intact, making it easy to envision the space’s early function as the first school in Long Island City; it was shuttered in 1960 due to low attendance, a victim of an improved railroad and subway system that detracted from the area’s appeal as a residential district.

Afterwards, we hopped the air-conditioned B61, not to its Red Hook terminus, but to Williamsburg for lunch at Sea Thai. The city was emptied of many locals this Memorial Day weekend, so we managed to avoid the usually painful waits for tasty, reasonably-priced Thai in this sleek, hipster haven.

Our post-meal trip to the waterfront was thwarted by graphic-printed barriers erected around a huge construction site, soon to be the 892-unit Williamsburg Edge — “Sexy on the Outside + Beautiful on the Inside,” “The Hippest Dress Code + The Coolest Zip Code.”

And finally: once more unto the breach, dear friends. Our trio wound down the day at Spike Hill, a cozy tavern from which we could watch the parade of scornful “hipper-than-thou rockers” on Bedford. It didn’t sting nearly as much as my shoulders did that night.

It was AC’s first visit to Long Island City, so B brought him by to check out 5 Pointz — the colorful block of converted warehouses full of artist studios, abutting the elevated 7 line.

The ever-changing walls are a living collage of (entirely legal) graffiti and a refreshing departure from the sometimes over-sterilized Manhattan art scene. Not everyone is a fan, though.

The three of us took in the scene as we wandered among the graff writers, hard at work this hot afternoon.

I met the Reuters boys in LIC early this afternoon, for the Memorial Day kickoff weekend of the Water Taxi Beach.

After a couple of coffees at Cafe Henri, we wound our way west past quiet warehouses and construction sites, during which B and I did our best to explain the concept of the “beach” retreat to our British friend: tons of trucked-in sand dumped onto a lot overlooking Midtown Manhattan, set up with picnic tables, bar and grill stand, and DJ booth. Is there any finer fake beach in the world?

Despite what appeared to have been a few cosmetic improvements outside the gates, the stock management was as spotty as last year. At half past noon, i.e., 30 minutes after the bar could legally begin serving alcohol, there was still just a scant handful of people scattered on the hot sand, and no food or beverage service available. We staked out our spots at a wooden picnic table by the chain link fence, and drank in the sun and views as the staff gradually trickled in to begin their leisurely business of setting up for the day.

Eventually, the bar opened, and was promptly swarmed. We enjoyed a few rounds of frozen margaritas, but sadly, none of Harry’s famed burgers – “maybe later,” we were informed vaguely – so we had to be satisfied with the black Angus beef dog and fries. (We were.)

Eventually, the late risers began strolling in as well, as did a ferry full of visitors from the adjacent water taxi stop. The hoses were turned on, spraying their cooling mist from the white PVC piping lining the fence.

In June 1997, the Chicago Tribune published an essay by Mary Schmich, in which she put forth a “Guide to Life for Graduates.” The entire essay was set to music and released two years later as the successful single, “Baz Luhrman Presents: Everybody’s Free (To Wear Sunscreen): The Sunscreen Song (Class of ’99).”

Most of Schmich’s advice is of the usual graduation speech variety: “Do one thing every day that scares you… Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them. Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.”

But it begins:

Wear sunscreen.
If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience.

Ah, so true. As I was reminded later that night, even a fake beach can give you a very real sunburn.

In the summer of 1998, the Powerball jackpot approached a then-record $200 million dollars. J and I were at Mom and Dad’s watching the local news coverage of Powerball fever, when we were both struck almost simultaneously with the same thought: We have to win this.

Problem was that New York was not one of the 20 states in which one could purchase Powerball tickets. Taking our 1 in 80 million shot would entail cross state lines into… Connecticut. Did the idea of jumping into our car and making a beeline for the Constitution State – for the sole purpose of gambling — give us any pause that night?

It took about five minutes for me to find the car keys and to scrawl out an explanatory note to Mom and Dad.

We ended up in Stamford, Connecticut that Saturday night – calculating that Greenwich, right over the border, would be hit with the brunt of the out-of-town onslaught (we were right) – but still ended up waiting on line for over an hour. During that time, most of which we spent comparing notes on how we would spend the untold riches, we got to witness some of the basest of human instincts at play: avarice, envy, and most of all: rage. Powerball rage. By the time J and I bought our $10 worth of tickets, the line of would-be multi-millionaires stretched around the block, many of whom we quickly realized were not going to see the inside of that newsstand before the 9PM cutoff. Sensing an impending riot, we hopped into the red Duster and vamoosed home, our hearts wild with hope.

And yet, alas, we did not win.

No, we did not drive into Connecticut this afternoon to purchase lottery tickets. But thinking about that night still makes me smile.

It’s going to be a scorcher. The temperature in Central Park hit 90 degrees this afternoon — the warmest day of the year so far.

This photo puts me in mind for a vacation. There is a road trip planned for early August, but until then, fond memories of my recent trans-global trek will have to suffice.

Yes, dear reader(s), technical difficulties delayed me from blogging my last adventure, and since then I’ve approached the rather daunting task of tackling such an action-filled week with a bit of trepidation. But as we say, a journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step. A journey of twelve thousand miles, with the first blog entry.

I’ll continue to post entries about the late-April trip, and will do my best to alert you as those go up. This way, it will be like visiting the land of Oz all over again.

In the interim, you can check out the Flickr sets — comments welcome.

Shanghai Café opened in 2003, in the wake of the late 1990s New York City soup dumpling craze.

The outwardly unassuming restaurant is located on Mott Street, on the north (formerly: Little Italy) side of Canal Street. The interior design is trendier than most, or at least what passes for “trendy” in Chinatown, i.e., circa-1985 peach and mauve walls, roomy wooden booths, metal mesh chairs, black t-shirt clad waitstaff, and swirls of pick and blue lights projected onto the ceiling overhead. The left wall of the restaurant where we were seated this afternoon was lined with translucent plastic panels, behind which glowed hot pink neon bulbs that cast a sci-fi-y tinge over our entire table. See?

Designers tout the soft, warm glow of pink lighting as the most flattering to human skin tones, but at this intensity, not so much. I was amused to read that Lancashire, England police flood high crime areas with pink lights as a teenage crime deterrent; it seems that when turned bright, the hue highlights their acne, which many young offenders want to avoid at all costs.

The Village Voice‘s food critic has praised Shanghai Cafe for its exceptional soup dumplings, which were indeed delightful (and blemish-free), and a great improvement over the ones we ordered at New Yeah Shanghai Deluxe three weeks ago; for starters, they arrived hot, and on the traditional bed of napa cabbage, not on paper as NYSD’s did. The dumplings themselves had a rich, flavorful soupy pork filling; the doughy skins, however, were slightly thicker, and therefore less delicately tender, than the ones at New Green Bo. Small quibbles, though: I was satisfied. I’ll be back for the crab version next time.

The 9th annual Dine Around Downtown event, hosted by the Alliance for Downtown New York, is a celebration of lower Manhattan’s food and beverage. As in years past, the festival was held at Chase Manhattan Plaza, with live entertainment and food tents drawing lunchtime crowds in excess of 20,000. Food samples from over 50 downtown restaurants (including Harry and Peter Poulakakos‘ newest financial district venture, Gold St.) were available for purchase at $3-$6 apiece.

On this beautiful afternoon, the plaza was more crowded than I’d ever seen it. As the happy sounds of jazz floated in the air, CS, SYB and I wandered among the snaking lines, trying to narrow down our selections from among the vast variety of food before us.

I sampled Brasserie Les Halles‘ Mini Hamburger Rossini with Foie Gras Terrine, seared and juicy, and topped with a surprisingly generous slab of foie gras. (I know, I know… so un-PC.) Realistically, I probably won’t splurge on chef Daniel Boulud’s famed DB Burger any time soon, so this was a reasonable substitute. The DB Bistro Moderne version is comprised of 9 ounces of “ground sirloin with a filling of boned short ribs braised in red wine, foie gras, black truffle and a mirepoix of root vegetables” and accompanied by a silver cup of pommes soufflées. (Well yeah, for $32 fries had better come with that.)

Assorted pastries from another Poulakakos holding, Financier Patisserie:

SYB picked up a quartet of Harry’s Café and Steak‘s Mini Kobe Beef Hot Dogs with Poppy Seed Sauerkraut to share. (Yes, Poulakakos grub yet again! They’re everywhere!) Only beef from black-haired Wagyu cattle, which are raised in Japan’s Hyogo Prefecture can carry the appellation “Kobe.” Wagyu beef from identical cattle raised elsewhere is technically not “Kobe” – just as sparkling wine made anywhere outside the Champagne wine-growing region of France may not be legally labeled “champagne.”

The cattle themselves are famously pampered and raised (at great expense) on a diet of organic grains, Japanese beer, and sometimes sake mash, all of which results in an intensely marbled flesh. Kobe beef is prized for its full, rich flavor, supreme tenderness and almost buttery mouth feel. The term “foie gras of beef” is employed a lot, which, given the extraordinarily high fat-to-lean ratio of the meat, is probably an apt analogy. I don’t know… maybe our palates could use some refining — and this probably isn’t the best way to show off Kobe beef’s luxurious qualities — but these tasted like regular hot dogs to us. Above average hot dogs, certainly, but regular just the same.

These Kobe beef dogs are cropping up all around the city. Last month, the meatpacking district’s Old Homestead Steakhouse rechristened its sidewalk seating area as Prime Burger Café with a $15 foot-long(!) Kobe beef hot dog – and New York’s Insatiable Critic Gael Greene’s new favorite burger — on the menu.

Later that night, SC had scored us invitations to West Chelsea’s Home for Maxim’s Trump Super Premium (Ultra Fantastic) Vodka launch party. Yup: buildings, resorts, casinos, a menswear collection, on to bottled water… and now it seems that The Donald has moved on to the hard stuff – at least in name, as Trump himself is known as a strict teetotaler. Is there anything this man won’t put his name on? (Actually, no.)

In the pimped out, mirrored, chandeliered den of banquettes, we sipped the evening’s specialty libations which included the “Trump & Tonic” and the “Trumptini” (Trump Vodka martini, garnished with a blue cheese-stuffed olive — not shredded money or prenups, as we had hoped), as a promotional video clip was looped on a projection screen behind us, touting the Trumptastic brand. “Success. Distilled.” Seriously.

Eventually, the man with the Hair arrived, making the obligatory rounds and looking oddly out of place among the Maxim crowd. The pounding, thumping 80’s/pop/dance/hip hop beats made group conversation all but impossible – and resulted in a persistent ear ringing that lasted hours after the evening ended — but CS and I still managed to share one special moment on the dance floor:

You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar
When I met you
I picked you out, I shook you up, and turned you around
Turned you into someone new

My block association hosted a wine and cheese reception at Maya Schaper Cheese and Antiques on West 69th Street. (For those of you who know: no, technically, this isn’t my block, but close enough.) The first time I passed by this quaint-looking shop, cheese and antiques did strike me as an unnatural combination (unlike my combo bar/laundromat idea: “Buds and Suds”– hey, it could still work!), but most of the antiques do seem to be food-related items, so perhaps not so strange a pairing.

The shop, though, is best recognized as the exterior stand-in for Meg Ryan’s children’s bookstore in 1998’s You’ve Got Mail — an association proudly displayed on a movie poster at the front cash register wall.

Nora Ephron’s gauzy film was a valentine to this part of town (and to America Online) – as much a love story about the neighborhood as it was about the characters. The movie website even offers an interactive tour of some of the actual Upper West Side locations featured in the movie: the café where Meg Ryan arranges to meet Tom Hanks, Gray’s Papaya (also rhapsodized about in the Matthew Perry-Salma Hayek romantic comedy Fools Rush In ), H&H bagels, Zabar’s – even one of my favorite local warm-weather spots, the W. 79th St. Boat Basin Café.

Maya herself hosted the evening, which was a rare opportunity to meet a few of my neighbors on the block. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been, but I was surprised to find that most of the guests that night were quite a bit older than I, having lived on the block, in a couple of cases, for decades. Still, the attendees as a whole were welcoming and pretty sociable – granted, a self-selecting group – and seemed very willing to expound upon bits of the block’s storied history, and even to gossip about one of my own building’s more notable residents.

Maya’s shop is also a stop on the Location Tour’s “New York TV and Movie Sites” tour — and was seen briefly during the final season Sex and the City “To Market, To Market” episode. In a scene culled from a hundred nightmares, before a storefront of cheese and antiques, Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker) randomly encounters her ex-fiancé Aidan (John Corbett)… and his newborn son. Awkward amiability ensues.

Time Out‘s 2006 listing of the best residential blocks in New York City was based on a combination of factors: aesthetics, nearby amenities, the “green factor” (trees, parks, waterfront access); noise and traffic; proximity to public transportation; a wild card “New York–ocity” factor; and affordability (certainly relative), as defined by median sale and rental prices in the immediate vicinity. No, my particular block didn’t quite make the TONY cut — boo! — but we’ve got our eye on you, West 78th Street between Columbus and Amsterdam Avenues (#10) and West 72nd Street between Central Park West and Columbus Avenue (#29).

In film class tonight, La Vie En Rose, a biopic of the iconic French singer Édith Piaf, referred to by some as the Gallic Judy Garland.

The film follows the singer’s life from her troubled childhood to her death. Colorful stories about the 4’8″ piaf – sparrow – are the stuff of legend, in some cases, perpetrated by the artist herself: born Édith Giovanna Gassion in Belleville in 1915 (in a hospital, not on the street under a gas lamplight, as the story sometimes goes), she spent her early years living among prostitutes in her paternal grandmother’s brothel, during which young Édith may or may not have experienced an extended episode of blindness as a result of contracting conjunctivitis. What is more verifiable is that she was discovered singing on the streets of Paris by impresario Louis Leplée (Gérard Depardieu in the film) who booked her at the popular Parisian nightspot Gerny’s, where she became an overnight sensation. A recording contract soon followed, launching Piaf into what would become international stardom, after a dark period of infamy during which she was suspected of involvement in Leplée’s 1936 murder. The film, for the most part, glosses over the French chanteuse’s passionate affairs – Jean Cocteau, actor Yves Montand and Marlene Dietrich count among her many lovers – maintaining the romantic focus on her ill-starred relationship with married world boxing champion, “Casablanca Clouter” Marcel Cerdan.

The rest of her sad story follows the familiar “Behind the Music” arc: illness, heartbreak, morphine and alcohol addictions, a stint in rehab, and an early demise in 1963, at the age of 47.

Piaf is played by French actress Marion Cotillard, best known in America for playing Russell Crowe’s romantic interest in 2006’s A Good Year, based on Peter Mayle‘s international bestseller of the same title.

Cotillard’s physical transformation is remarkable — she disappears into the challenging role, which spans over three decades of Piaf’s life from a gamine teenager to a stooped, shockingly frail, woman. The film makes liberal use of Piaf’s iconic songs (all expertly lip-synched): the title, of course, is taken from one of her most famous, though the particular performance of it featured in the film is — sacré bleu! — in English. It closes with her signature “Non, je ne regrette rien“ (translated as “No, I regret nothing” or more pithily as “No regrets”), a fitting anthem for the artist’s turbulent life.

I did not hear “Tu Es Partout,” the song featured in the 1941 film Montmartre-sur-Seine, but recognizable to me from the wonderful scene in Saving Private Ryan in which the soldiers enjoy a lull as they prepare to defend Ramelle against German attack. Corporal Timothy Upham (Jeremy Davies) provided a translation of the song as it played on a phonograph amidst the blasted out remains of the French village:

Even life itself only represents you
Sometimes I dream that I am in your arms
And you speak softly in my ear
You say things that make my eyes close
And I find that marvelous