(and is quite long, but then again, some days there’s just an awful lot that happens…)
As I woke up this morning I quickly made the decision that I wasn’t going to go to the taiko class in Brooklyn, and instead I would spend the whole day with my cousin and New York City. This is my one chance to spend the whole day with her in years and I wanted to experience this place with the freedom of nowhere to be. Half an hour of tea and Time Out later we headed out, and when Hatty recommended we go to a deli for Sunday brunch, I had no idea. From the scaffold-clad exterior, Barney Greengrass looked like a no atmosphere but great food place, and judging from the line outside, it was going to be really great food. Not knowing the system I followed her awkwardly as she politely made her way past the line to the door and squashed in behind her, thinking she must know something other people didn’t…and indeed she did: most of the staff. To my British horror, a couple in front of us were asked to wait outside in the cold and we immediately took their place and a number of others too, being told “sorry, we’ll seat you as soon as I get a spot free Hatty.” She smiled a smile that had probably got her on the first name basis in the first place, and as we made our way through to our table, I found it worryingly easy to forget about the couple outside whose table we were approaching.
Not being a master of description, I won’t try to paint a picture of that place because I’d fail horribly, but it was a time-warped delicacy for the eyes and ears and as it turns out a pretty good day out for the taste buds too. You couldn’t call it good service, because the guys ran that place like it was their joy, their art, their territory, and we were a momentary part in their act, but not just because ‘we’ were obviously a known entity, the experience there tugged at my annoyance of the British service industry. These guys were professionals.
After the second little treat that appeared on our small table with a “this is on me, Hatty, we haven’t seen you in so long”, I asked how she knew them all, and it turns out that they’d been her saviours three years ago when she moved here and had got lost on her own on her birthday – they’d been so nice to her that she’s been coming back, with guests when she can, ever since. It was a happy coincidence that as a concert pianist studying at Manhatten School of Music, one of the guys owns a members only artists club in Queens, where Hatty now also performs. It was one of her true New York stories with a happy ending, and we were promptly invited to cocktail hour there on Tuesday as our coffee was topped up. After that I couldn’t wait to see what was next as we headed onto the street…it wasn’t even midday.
As we headed South, purely by mistake we came across Dakota, where Yoko Ono still lives, and after a few steps into Central Park we were standing in Strawberry Fields, a quiet place and although not actually a huge Beetles fan, I was still sensitive to the emotion of that place. Walking through Central Park in the snow, with people ice-skating and horse and carriages gliding around, we ended up opposite Apple’s glass cube, and headed down 5th Avenue; and all the high street glare that comes with it. Hurrying past, I felt a strange satisfaction at seeing the Grand Central Station clock as we made our way onto the subway, still heading south. Walking Brooklyn Bridge was something I’d always wanted to do, and it happened that we were right in the centre as the sun set behind Lady Liberty, seemingly holding up not only her torch, but the entire burning sun…a very sickly sweet moment in my New York day, but it’s New York – it’s supposed to be corny.
After a wild goose chase around Brooklyn, we finally got back over to Manhattan and boarded the Staten Island ferry for a seemingly free ride there and back to see the city from the water at night. We hadn’t banked on missing the return ferry but a quick cocktail in a Staten Island bar and we were chugging past the statue on our way to find somewhere to eat. I was intent on following a recommendation of my dear friend Pear Urushima’s in Soho, and so glad I did as the food was delicious, but not sure about the restrooms right next to the tables with one-way glass – the name of this Thai place, ‘Peep’ was about right!
A few wrong turns put right and we found ourselves in Greenwich Village, walking past the very sleek looking “Fat Black Pussy Cat” club, and
through the understated, solid metal door of The Blue Note Café. It was like walking straight into a pocket of mist on the moors back at home, yet this magic was made from after-dinner liquor, the smooth black polished bar, and legacy of musical genius within. In a whisper the suited host offered us bar seats, half-off because, well, I’m not sure why, which we took silently. I slipped into a seat that held me, mesmerized, for the next hour. I couldn’t have ordered anything but liquor, straight up, as my eyes, ears and very soul were drawn in to the almost visual spiritual connection on-stage as these two phenomenal artists lured us through the emotional spectrum without warning. Fifteen minutes into their set, my eyes actually filled up – I couldn’t believe how I had ended up here, with this exquisite music, in this place, and in my life generally – I felt genuinely overwhelmed by the richness of this whole experience. Now, I don’t know a thing about Jazz, but this I do: if you have a chance to see Omar Sosa and Paulo Fresu, take it.
After they had slunk off up to their dressing rooms and the lights went up I wandered up to the Blue Note shop to buy a postcard for my sister…almost an hour later I returned to collect my things from the bar feeling like my world couldn’t be any better. Having decided to buy his CD for a composer friend of mine who I knew would appreciate the treat, I asked if it was possible to get it signed…a phone call behind the stewards desk led me to being ushered toward the dressing room door – long story short, I was chatting to Omar and within minutes discovered that in a few weeks he is meeting a percussionist to collaborate with – no other than Kenny Endo! As I walked back from the subway towards home for the night, I couldn’t help feeling that my day in New York had been just perfect, and that it couldn’t get any better.
When I woke up the next morning, it was snowing in the Bronx.
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