So…my non-fiction book club took a
trip to New York City last weekend, and I’m exhausted. It’s only the second time I’ve been to
this intriguing place; the first time was for a conference, which doesn’t
really count.
Nobody from our book club remembers whose Very Good Idea it was. All we can remember is the conversation coming back to Marcus Samuelsson’s memoir, Yes, Chef! at a meeting for another book, and saying how much fun it would be to go to visit his restaurant, Red Rooster, in Harlem. We don’t remember who ventured “well, we could take a long weekend out there. Why not?” But thus the Very Good Idea took root.Thank the heavens for planners. I am usually the planner of my family, and as I’ve mentioned before, if I don’t plan the trip for my family, we will never get out of east central Illinois. But this time I was content to have these wonderful women do most of the planning for me while I tried to maintain the rest of my life, which was becoming unhinged. They called restaurants to make reservations. They found cheap plane tickets, and we all purchased them around six months prior to our trip. They found Broadway tickets online. They sent out links to menus, maps, lists of prices, musical reviews, magazine and newspaper articles, accommodations websites, and so on. They arranged taxis and tour guides, they researched, they haggled. Occasionally we met after book group (as a subset of our larger club) to go over planning details. I volunteered to research airport shuttles and call for our first night dinner reservations, but mostly I was content for once to stand back and enjoy the generous spirit and loving energy of our group. I didn’t have to be in charge. I didn’t have to herd anyone, or persuade anyone, or override anyone’s objections, as I usually have to do before a family trip. I hoped my book club friends didn’t think I was letting everyone else do all the work….but, in fact, that’s what was the most fun for me, was for once letting everyone else do all the work when I most needed it.
And, suddenly, the time had arrived. I would leave my sleeping son, stepson, and dog, and begin picking everyone up at 4:45 a.m. to drive to our local airport. We were groggy, but excited, when we arrived. The flights to New York’s LaGuardia were easy and the connection in Chicago was seamless. Checked bags were picked up in New York before everyone had a chance to use the restroom. Two yellow cabs shuttled us to 115 119th Street in Harlem’s beautiful, historic neighborhood. The remodeled brownstone was between Malcolm X (Lenox) Avenue and Adam Clayton Powell, Jr. Boulevard.
The weather was perfect, and after we installed ourselves into the second floor apartment with 9-foot ceilings, carved fireplaces, antique fixtures, and gorgeous pocket doors, we were ready to hit the streets for lunch, then a walking tour of Harlem.
Our tour guide was Tom, a young,
good-looking import from Florida who had spent the last six years getting to
know his new home in New York City.
He had been an attorney, but then decided to abandon that lifestyle—with
its income and promise of upward mobility—to try his hand at standup comedy,
and to supplement his income with giving tours of his beloved city. His knowledge of the architecture and
history of the area were vast, and it’s clear he’s no slacker when it comes to
research, both in the library and on foot. We toured the area of the Harlem Renaissance, the rent
parties, the hey-days of yore. We
saw the hotel where Fidel Castro had stayed with an entourage that included
chickens. We took a group photo in
front of the Apollo Theatre, which has seen the performances of almost all the
notable entertainers of Motown, Jazz, R & B, and even Michael Jackson’s
pop.
We walked the streets that had been renamed as Malcolm X Avenue and Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard, and past the Abyssinian Baptist Church where so much history had been made in the black community. He gave us a brief but important history of the development of the island of Manhattan. Though hot, sweaty, and tired at the end, we knew this was the best introduction we could have had for our trip. We revived ourselves with a bit of wine and conversation on the balcony of our brownstone.
Dinner was Ethiopian, at a place called Zoma. This was my first experience eating Ethiopian food, and I loved every minute of the spicy, hands-on (literally) experience. We shared a plate of meat and vegetable stews piled onto a large flat bread not very different from French buckwheat galettes, the savory crepes from Brittany. Torn off pieces of the bread are used to scoop up the stews. There’s something terribly satisfying about having to use your hands.
Friday morning we were refreshed,
despite sharing a room (and one bathroom among seven women!). After breakfast, we went our separate
ways. Molly ventured to the Morningside
Park area; Linda and Casey met a niece for coffee; the rest of us followed
Jennifer who knows the city well after having lived here for two years.
We took the subway to the East Village
and wandered around to the NYU campus, to a heavenly bakery for cannoli and
pastries, to Soho, past an Italian festival, then finally to Chinatown to meet
the others for lunch.
After an authentic, tasty lunch, we wandered further south to City Hall, Wall Street, Trinity Church, then finally to Battery Park and the famous Staten Island Ferry. The views of Ellis Island, the Statue of Liberty, and the post-9/11 skyline gave me chills that didn’t necessarily come from the Atlantic breezes.
And then it was time to return to our lodging and get ready for the main event: Red Rooster!
Reservations for Marcus Samuelsson’s Harlem restaurant can be made no more than a month in advance, so until August we had been sitting on tenterhooks, hoping that our trip to New York wouldn’t be spoiled by not being able to eat at the restaurant. We were so relieved when Linda emailed out the news in late August that we were in! Our Red Rooster visit really made me realize the importance of atmosphere and perspective in the dining experience. The food was wonderful, of course, but my appreciation of it increased exponentially by three factors: the décor and environment, knowing the owner’s story, and—last but in no way least—the company. Red Rooster is an eclectic combination of urban sophistication meeting home-cooked “grandma-made-with-love” meals.
Those who don’t know Mr. Samuelsson’s background would find it difficult to understand why Helga’s [Swedish] Meatballs (inspired by his own grandmother’s recipe) would be on the same list of entrées as Fried Yardbird and Shrimp & Grits. I encourage you to read the book if you’re intrigued! We shared cornbread, a watermelon and heirloom tomato salad, and chicken and waffles (with chicken liver butter and bourbon maple syrup—gracious!) for appetizers. I had Helga’s Meatballs, with a side of mashed potatoes and lingonberry jam as an entrée.
All this accompanied by a “white sangaree”—sauvignon blanc, St. Germain liqueur, peaches, and sage. Oh, my. And then we splurged on dessert. My favorite (always a peanut girl) was the black-bottom peanut pie with bourbon ice cream. There was a green apple confection and some cookies to die for as well. All of this with a visit from the manager who heard we were visiting from Illinois (a delightful woman from Cleveland who looked way too thin to ever have sampled these delectables), and who told us that unfortunately Marcus was away taping a television show in L.A., and couldn’t be with us. Our tummies and palates were so happy, we took it in stride.
We returned to the apartment and were invited to have wine with the other guests, two older women visiting from Austria, on the lower patio. Some of us (OK, maybe I will include myself in that) stayed up too late, but thoroughly enjoyed the conversation, and meeting new people.
Saturday morning we split up again, a couple of us to a museum, one to meet a cousin for brunch, and the rest of us on the subway to downtown again. I desperately wanted to see the 9/11 memorial, though I knew it would be a sobering way to spend a gorgeous Saturday in New York. No matter, it was necessary, and I knew I’d never forgive myself if I hadn’t seen it. I could skip 5th Avenue, a glimpse of Grand Central (you just can’t do it all, can you?), and even strolling in my beloved “nature” in Central Park. But I couldn’t miss the chance to see in person that place we all saw on television over and over that day in a beautiful September like this one in 2001. I tried in vain to quickly find the name of my former student, an ESL student from Thailand, inscribed on the list; it is enough that I know her name is there, and that it was a life cut too short.
Time and crowds were not on our side, and after a late-ish breakfast, we all had to be content with a pit stop at Starbucks in mid-town before getting in line for our 2:00 p.m. performance of Kinky Boots.
I haven’t seen the
movie, and didn’t really know anything about the show, except that it had won
several Tonys, and that Cyndi Lauper had done the score, so I was open-eyed and
ready for a wild ride. Kinky Boots
did not disappoint. To say that
Billy Porter was amazing is a gross understatement. What a show!
We had just enough time to fight the Saturday night Times Square crowds to get to our Italian restaurant, 44 Southwest. It had been recommended by Linda’s dentist, and I would recommend it to anyone else in turn. It would be traitorous of me to say that this was better food than Red Rooster, but let’s just say it ranked right up there. It helps, of course, that I’m a sucker for almost any dish with pasta (low-carb diets be damned!); also, for almost any dish with seafood. Combine the two, and put some garlic with it, and I’m in heaven.
We had a sassy waitress, a friendly bartender, and a European feel to the restaurant open to the street. It was here that we drank a toast to Glenn, my friend who passed away this summer before he had the chance to celebrate his 50th birthday. I posted the photo on his Facebook page as one of hundreds of similar photos taken around the world; I hoped his twin sister was finding a way to celebrate their lives. We also called Jan, our book club’s founder, and toasted her for starting the book group in the first place.
On to the next show! Gluttons, we were, to think we’d have all this energy.
It’s Only a Play
was a bit of a letdown; despite the star-studded cast--Nathan Lane, Matthew
Broderick, Megan Mullally, Rupert Grint, F. Murray Abraham, Stockard Channing
(for whom we saw the understudy)—the play, still in previews, was a bit slow
and draggy. Or maybe it’s just
that we were slow and draggy. We managed to find our way through the
night-is-day Times Square again to get the subway back to Harlem afterwards.
We took turns in the single bathroom for showers, and packed up our belongings and our memories for the trip back to Illinois early Sunday morning. Though tired and groggy once again, I experienced the bittersweet combination of regret of not seeing and doing more in our short time, and the relief of coming home.
That’s the thing about travel; you can always think of a million reasons why you shouldn’t/can’t/are afraid to go somewhere. It’s expensive. It interrupts your quotidian existence; you need to find pet care, childcare, someone to water your plants. You have to put up with the TSA and packing efficiently. It’s tiring. Your feet, your back, your head end up hurting. Your digestive system may or may not cooperate. But the benefits of travel ALWAYS outweigh the trouble, at least in my book. And sometimes the momentum of a group of like-minded folks tips the scales, and you find yourself actually touching the thing you’ve only read about, seeing the show in person you’ve only heard about, tasting the food you’ve seen some expert chef preparing on television. We started out not knowing each other very well, but found so much in common. All seven of us are very different personalities with very different backgrounds, but we were united on one thing: making a book-inspired dream into a reality. And that, dear friends, is the essence of travel.
Nobody from our book club remembers whose Very Good Idea it was. All we can remember is the conversation coming back to Marcus Samuelsson’s memoir, Yes, Chef! at a meeting for another book, and saying how much fun it would be to go to visit his restaurant, Red Rooster, in Harlem. We don’t remember who ventured “well, we could take a long weekend out there. Why not?” But thus the Very Good Idea took root.Thank the heavens for planners. I am usually the planner of my family, and as I’ve mentioned before, if I don’t plan the trip for my family, we will never get out of east central Illinois. But this time I was content to have these wonderful women do most of the planning for me while I tried to maintain the rest of my life, which was becoming unhinged. They called restaurants to make reservations. They found cheap plane tickets, and we all purchased them around six months prior to our trip. They found Broadway tickets online. They sent out links to menus, maps, lists of prices, musical reviews, magazine and newspaper articles, accommodations websites, and so on. They arranged taxis and tour guides, they researched, they haggled. Occasionally we met after book group (as a subset of our larger club) to go over planning details. I volunteered to research airport shuttles and call for our first night dinner reservations, but mostly I was content for once to stand back and enjoy the generous spirit and loving energy of our group. I didn’t have to be in charge. I didn’t have to herd anyone, or persuade anyone, or override anyone’s objections, as I usually have to do before a family trip. I hoped my book club friends didn’t think I was letting everyone else do all the work….but, in fact, that’s what was the most fun for me, was for once letting everyone else do all the work when I most needed it.
And, suddenly, the time had arrived. I would leave my sleeping son, stepson, and dog, and begin picking everyone up at 4:45 a.m. to drive to our local airport. We were groggy, but excited, when we arrived. The flights to New York’s LaGuardia were easy and the connection in Chicago was seamless. Checked bags were picked up in New York before everyone had a chance to use the restroom. Two yellow cabs shuttled us to 115 119th Street in Harlem’s beautiful, historic neighborhood. The remodeled brownstone was between Malcolm X (Lenox) Avenue and Adam Clayton Powell, Jr. Boulevard.
The weather was perfect, and after we installed ourselves into the second floor apartment with 9-foot ceilings, carved fireplaces, antique fixtures, and gorgeous pocket doors, we were ready to hit the streets for lunch, then a walking tour of Harlem.
 |
| Tom |
 |
We walked the streets that had been renamed as Malcolm X Avenue and Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard, and past the Abyssinian Baptist Church where so much history had been made in the black community. He gave us a brief but important history of the development of the island of Manhattan. Though hot, sweaty, and tired at the end, we knew this was the best introduction we could have had for our trip. We revived ourselves with a bit of wine and conversation on the balcony of our brownstone.
Dinner was Ethiopian, at a place called Zoma. This was my first experience eating Ethiopian food, and I loved every minute of the spicy, hands-on (literally) experience. We shared a plate of meat and vegetable stews piled onto a large flat bread not very different from French buckwheat galettes, the savory crepes from Brittany. Torn off pieces of the bread are used to scoop up the stews. There’s something terribly satisfying about having to use your hands.
 |
| Too dark, but you get the idea |
 |
| Yum! |
 |
| My pork dumpling soup |
After an authentic, tasty lunch, we wandered further south to City Hall, Wall Street, Trinity Church, then finally to Battery Park and the famous Staten Island Ferry. The views of Ellis Island, the Statue of Liberty, and the post-9/11 skyline gave me chills that didn’t necessarily come from the Atlantic breezes.
And then it was time to return to our lodging and get ready for the main event: Red Rooster!
Reservations for Marcus Samuelsson’s Harlem restaurant can be made no more than a month in advance, so until August we had been sitting on tenterhooks, hoping that our trip to New York wouldn’t be spoiled by not being able to eat at the restaurant. We were so relieved when Linda emailed out the news in late August that we were in! Our Red Rooster visit really made me realize the importance of atmosphere and perspective in the dining experience. The food was wonderful, of course, but my appreciation of it increased exponentially by three factors: the décor and environment, knowing the owner’s story, and—last but in no way least—the company. Red Rooster is an eclectic combination of urban sophistication meeting home-cooked “grandma-made-with-love” meals.
 |
| The interior; smaller than we imagined |
Those who don’t know Mr. Samuelsson’s background would find it difficult to understand why Helga’s [Swedish] Meatballs (inspired by his own grandmother’s recipe) would be on the same list of entrées as Fried Yardbird and Shrimp & Grits. I encourage you to read the book if you’re intrigued! We shared cornbread, a watermelon and heirloom tomato salad, and chicken and waffles (with chicken liver butter and bourbon maple syrup—gracious!) for appetizers. I had Helga’s Meatballs, with a side of mashed potatoes and lingonberry jam as an entrée.
 |
| A table crowded with glorious food |
All this accompanied by a “white sangaree”—sauvignon blanc, St. Germain liqueur, peaches, and sage. Oh, my. And then we splurged on dessert. My favorite (always a peanut girl) was the black-bottom peanut pie with bourbon ice cream. There was a green apple confection and some cookies to die for as well. All of this with a visit from the manager who heard we were visiting from Illinois (a delightful woman from Cleveland who looked way too thin to ever have sampled these delectables), and who told us that unfortunately Marcus was away taping a television show in L.A., and couldn’t be with us. Our tummies and palates were so happy, we took it in stride.
We returned to the apartment and were invited to have wine with the other guests, two older women visiting from Austria, on the lower patio. Some of us (OK, maybe I will include myself in that) stayed up too late, but thoroughly enjoyed the conversation, and meeting new people.
Saturday morning we split up again, a couple of us to a museum, one to meet a cousin for brunch, and the rest of us on the subway to downtown again. I desperately wanted to see the 9/11 memorial, though I knew it would be a sobering way to spend a gorgeous Saturday in New York. No matter, it was necessary, and I knew I’d never forgive myself if I hadn’t seen it. I could skip 5th Avenue, a glimpse of Grand Central (you just can’t do it all, can you?), and even strolling in my beloved “nature” in Central Park. But I couldn’t miss the chance to see in person that place we all saw on television over and over that day in a beautiful September like this one in 2001. I tried in vain to quickly find the name of my former student, an ESL student from Thailand, inscribed on the list; it is enough that I know her name is there, and that it was a life cut too short.
 |
| The new One World Trade Center |
 |
| 9/11 Memorial |
Time and crowds were not on our side, and after a late-ish breakfast, we all had to be content with a pit stop at Starbucks in mid-town before getting in line for our 2:00 p.m. performance of Kinky Boots.
I haven’t seen the
movie, and didn’t really know anything about the show, except that it had won
several Tonys, and that Cyndi Lauper had done the score, so I was open-eyed and
ready for a wild ride. Kinky Boots
did not disappoint. To say that
Billy Porter was amazing is a gross understatement. What a show!We had just enough time to fight the Saturday night Times Square crowds to get to our Italian restaurant, 44 Southwest. It had been recommended by Linda’s dentist, and I would recommend it to anyone else in turn. It would be traitorous of me to say that this was better food than Red Rooster, but let’s just say it ranked right up there. It helps, of course, that I’m a sucker for almost any dish with pasta (low-carb diets be damned!); also, for almost any dish with seafood. Combine the two, and put some garlic with it, and I’m in heaven.
 |
| Is your mouth watering yet? |
We had a sassy waitress, a friendly bartender, and a European feel to the restaurant open to the street. It was here that we drank a toast to Glenn, my friend who passed away this summer before he had the chance to celebrate his 50th birthday. I posted the photo on his Facebook page as one of hundreds of similar photos taken around the world; I hoped his twin sister was finding a way to celebrate their lives. We also called Jan, our book club’s founder, and toasted her for starting the book group in the first place.
On to the next show! Gluttons, we were, to think we’d have all this energy.
It’s Only a Play
was a bit of a letdown; despite the star-studded cast--Nathan Lane, Matthew
Broderick, Megan Mullally, Rupert Grint, F. Murray Abraham, Stockard Channing
(for whom we saw the understudy)—the play, still in previews, was a bit slow
and draggy. Or maybe it’s just
that we were slow and draggy. We managed to find our way through the
night-is-day Times Square again to get the subway back to Harlem afterwards.  |
| Times Square, a bit blurry; or was it my eyes? |
We took turns in the single bathroom for showers, and packed up our belongings and our memories for the trip back to Illinois early Sunday morning. Though tired and groggy once again, I experienced the bittersweet combination of regret of not seeing and doing more in our short time, and the relief of coming home.
That’s the thing about travel; you can always think of a million reasons why you shouldn’t/can’t/are afraid to go somewhere. It’s expensive. It interrupts your quotidian existence; you need to find pet care, childcare, someone to water your plants. You have to put up with the TSA and packing efficiently. It’s tiring. Your feet, your back, your head end up hurting. Your digestive system may or may not cooperate. But the benefits of travel ALWAYS outweigh the trouble, at least in my book. And sometimes the momentum of a group of like-minded folks tips the scales, and you find yourself actually touching the thing you’ve only read about, seeing the show in person you’ve only heard about, tasting the food you’ve seen some expert chef preparing on television. We started out not knowing each other very well, but found so much in common. All seven of us are very different personalities with very different backgrounds, but we were united on one thing: making a book-inspired dream into a reality. And that, dear friends, is the essence of travel.
How incredibly wonderful!
ReplyDeleteWonderful - I love this and appreciate very much your perspective on the burdens of travel as well. Thank goodness the benefits usually outweigh them!
ReplyDeleteErrrg. Lost my comment, in case it reappears later and you wonder why Sandra said Dan near the same thing again. ....Thanks for writing this. I would love to travel with a group of women, but it seemed so daunting, but after having read this it seems doable. AND SO WORTH IT!
ReplyDeleteDan=damn
DeleteJoy, I'm sorry it took me so long to read your blog post about the big trip (thanks to Jennifer K. for alerting me to it). It sounded amazing, and while I was sorry to miss it, I was happy to live vicariously through your words and photos. Thanks! - Sue S.
ReplyDelete