Elitist Slumbers

There is a certain brand of ridiculous that can be found only on this island in two rivers. What’s more, there are stupendous, stupefying things that are acceptable in Manhattan and practically nowhere else. A club that looks like a bedroom where you sip cocktails while leaning against a headboard next to a total stranger? Oh, fine. A theater festival where ‘pretentious’ is the new ‘black’ (but, with ‘theater people,’ it’s never been new) and theater bloggers (here, here) come together to blog about theater blogging. I mean, that’s graight. Bring it to the apple, and it is almost guaranteed to attract some grade of hipster and last long enough to keep you warm in the limelight until they realize you’re hip and abandon you completely for some other ostensibly post-modern act of non-conformity.

Rant-isms aside, I base much of my attraction to New York on my affinity for the ridiculous (i.e Paula Deen, dinosaur comics). So, imagine my utter joy when I uttered the words (in all seriousness, folks),

“I would like a thirty-minute nap, please.”

That’s right, kids. I paid money to take a nap. But not just any nap. I’m talking the king of all naps. The nine-course-meal-at-Per Se-that-would-make-Alastair-hard kind of nap. A nap that put me in a reclining chair designed to make you feel weightless (zero gravity napping is pretty extreme) with 500-thread-count sheets and a cashmere blanket, allowed me to choose from soothing sounds as diverse as “whales calling” and “springtime meadow” (I opted for golden silence for my golden slumbers) woke me with a simulated sunrise, and left me in a mood so zen (near zen stupor) that even Columbus Circle at peak rush hour couldn’t break.

It’s true. I paid for a nap. Not out of necessity, but to display my love of New-ridiculous-York to the world with my half-hour, midday, $18.50 luxury purchase; out of a desire to feel ridiculous (which I certainly did when I stepped into Yelo at 57th and 8th, or, rather, stepped into what looked like the lovechild of 2001: A Space Odyssey and Barbie’s Dream House). When I left, I felt ridiculous, but in a super-bad-ass kind of way. Hell yes. I’m a New Yorker. And I can take a nap better than anyone else.

(PS, I know some of you are judging me. But, somewhere along the line, you’ve paid $12 for a Jack-and-Coke weaker than my grandma. Who’s ridiculous now?)

Yelo
315 W. 57th St.
Between 8th and 9th Avenues

Ode to Pork Belly

Momofuku Ssäm Bar
207 2nd Ave (at 13th St.)
212-254-3500

Subway: N, R, Q, W, 4, 5, 6, L to Union Square

www.momofuku.com

For the last year or so, Momofuku Ssäm Bar has stirred excitement amongst food critics and gourmands throughout the city, garnering rave reviews from Food and Wine Magazine and the New York Times among others. Search Momofuku on Gothamist or eater.com and you will find entries from the past two years raving about Chef David Chang’s brilliance in the kitchen (these started when he opened his first restaurant, Momofuku Noodle Bar), or alternatively pieces by Chef Chang himself begging people to stop talking about the restaurants and to just enjoy the food. Unfortunately, it seems that I, like every other foodie in this city, simply can’t shut up. That’s right—the food is every bit as good as people say, and that’s not something to keep quiet about.

Though Ssäm is notably chic, the minimalism you find there is of the dark-wood-and-warm-lighting variety rather than the industrial-glass-and-steel that has reigned supreme in past years. The smell of pork and—corny though it may seem—the sounds of laughter leant the space considerable warmth. I and two of my graight associates (who else?) sat at the bar and ordered sparingly, selecting only the steamed buns, the hamachi collar, and the signature Momofuku Ssäm.

The food started arriving shortly thereafter, beginning with the steamed buns. Aromatic strips of pork belly rested in pockets of thick, chewy dough. The crunch of fresh cucumbers and the sharp-sweet tang of hoisin cut through the gooey, decadent richness of the pork belly: an auspicious start.

Next, the grilled hamachi collar arrived. As light as the steamed buns were rich, the fish didn’t pack the same flavorful punch as the buns, but was pleasantly refreshing. Unfortunately the absence of utensils other than chopsticks made consuming this particularly bony cut of fish something of an ordeal

Finally, the Momofuku Ssäm arrived, the restaurant’s signature dish. This traditional Korean burrito consisted of an outer wrapper, something like a doughier tortilla, filled with rice, pork shoulder, pickled shitake mushrooms, edamame, bacon black beans, and kim chi puree. Both I and my companions reacted to our first bites of Ssäm with something that one might best describe as surprise and delight at such a serendipitous conglomeration of disparate flavors. The sweet, meaty, almost creamy flavors of the pork were mirrored in the sweet-and-spicy kim chi and the earthy beans, while the sharp vinegar acidity of the pickled shitakes, and the crisp, fresh edamame struck an astounding contrast.

Shockingly, the Ssäm was not only the most exciting, and satiating dish on the menu—it was also among the cheapest. At only $10, the Ssäm was a downright steal. I plan to return sometime soon for lunch when chef Chang replaces his full menu with one comprised exclusively of Ssäm. Surprises this genuine and delicious do not come along terribly often in the food world, and when they do you simply have to talk about them. Don’t worry, though, Mr. Chang—in the future I’ll try to save my rhapsodizing for between bites.

I'm here. You're queer. Let's booze to it.

Though Pride technically lasted the entirety of last week, yesterday’s parade serves as the ultimate gay event. It also happens to be one of my favorite days of the year-- it's no coincidence that it fell on 6 month marker of Christmas eve. As a hetero, perhaps the parade is not explicitly for me, but Pride establishes a tone of acceptance that is thoroughly refreshing and enjoyable to all who embrace it. Though Pride deals with serious issues such as gay rights and AIDS, the tone is overwhelmingly optimistic and celebratory. Looking up at fire escape upon fire escape of dancing shirtless men, one can’t help but feel joy.

Highlights of the parade included a very racy Altoids float, gay cheerleaders, and gay NYPD, who received the largest applause of all. Witnessing all the different groups, it seemed that, for every NYC activity you can participate in, there exists a group of gays who do it together (ex: take your pick of TWO gay color guard assemblies).

Though I had a wonderful time at the parade, I think our post-parade Pride party was the best part of the day. It featured watermelon vodka, the softest of gay porn, a water balloon fight, and a round of celebrity, theme of gay (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Celebrity_%28game%29). Our group consisted of a solid mix of homosexual, heterosexuals, and metrosexuals. Yet, the crowd was far from a forced alliance of orientations. It was simply another silly evening for a Graight group of friends. Friends for whom I have Pride every day.

On Leaving

(Written early Sunday morning, posted Monday at work...)

I have this theory about New Yorkers. Every month and a half or so, we feel this overwhelming urge to leave. No real reason, no specific needs, just an incredibly persuasive, possibly Canadian voice whispering, “I need to get out of the city… I need to get out of the city.”

So I did. I took off work at the lab on Friday to meet my folks upstate; after years of describing my boyhood neighborhood in Buffalo as being “in or near the ghetto,” they’re looking to buy a second property. Weird. (Although, I swear there are shootings on my street. Well, a few blocks up. Um… why am I bragging about this?) I’m writing this from a single bedroom cottage in Austerlitz, New York, nursing a single malt McClelland, and watching Arrested Development circa season two. Dad’s upset because the Yanks lost in the 13th, Mom’s upset because she lost at Scrabble, and I’m trying not to gloat because I won and so did the Twins. Life… is… good. (To be fair, Mom had a four game winning streak going.)

Here’s a quick recap of the weekend. The first night in town, we stopped in for dinner at a Chatham, NY standby, the Blue Plate. Did you know you can put bacon on top of meatloaf? You can and it is awesome. Also, Mom’s “appetizer” of calamari was gigantic. (Hah. Like a giant squid. Gee, this scotch is good.) Then, we caught a summerstock performance of The Pajama Game at the Mac-Haydn Playhouse. The performance was slightly macabre, but in an enjoyable way. The dude playing Sid was like Craig Kilborn’s sleazy, brunette brother, the chorus was full of girls last seen as Patty Simcox in their senior year production of Grease, and the most convincing performance I saw all night was this Chloe Sevigny lookalike in the back row who literally swooned, hand on heart, during “There Once Was a Man.” A one person standing ovation is a baffling spectacle.

And… I no longer sound straight. Oh, Sammy Sosa hit his 600th homerun and the media response was surprisingly laudatory, despite allegations of steroid use. Meanwhile, fans of baseball and ethics alike shouted a collective expletive on Friday as Barry Bonds hit number 749. That puts him at seven round-trippers away from breaking Hank Aaron’s all-time homerun record. And today, Alex Rodriguez hit his 28th of the year, putting him at 492 on his career. A-Rod is 32 and if he plays another ten seasons and hits an average of 30 homeruns a year—entirely possible given contemporary training regimens—could surpass 800 homeruns. So, when you add it all up, what do you get? Apparently, a guy can cheat, but as long as he doesn’t break any records, he can be a comeback kid. Also, according to ESPN’s Skip Bayless, A-Rod’s alleged marital infidelity is evidence enough to call his baseball fidelity into question as well. Luckily for him, he’s only at the “Doesn’t he look bigger than he was when he was a rookie?” stage of suspicion, while Bonds has been in “I MEAN, COME ON—LOOK AT HIM” territory for years now. As for Bonds, here’s the stat of the weekend… RBIs from homeruns: 1. RBIs from being walked with the bases loaded: 2.

Graight, I sound straight again. Oh, we stopped by Pittsfield to see Herman Mellville’s house, too. Mom and Dad kind of hijacked the guided tour… the old docent dude was going on about Melville and Hawthorne being more than friends… pretty standard stuff. Standing at the desk where Moby-Dick was written was pretty humbling, though. From the upper room, there’s this terrific view of Mt. Greylock, which, if it’s winter and you’re Melville, apparently looks just like the white whale. It’s been a few years since I’ve reread it and I’m feeling due, if only for that incredible chapter on cetology. (I mean, it’s all incredible, but seriously… right in the middle, there’s like, twenty pages about whale biology. It’s fucking fascinating.)

Well… my scotch is done, my parents are asleep, and Baseball Tonight is on. Jesus… Karl Ravech just called Richie Sexson “Big Sexsie” and said of his two-run performance against the Reds that he was, “bringing sexy back.” NYC, I’ll be back by noon. In time for Gay Day and the rubber game of A-Rod v. Bonds. Getting away was wonderful–but the best thing about leaving New York is realizing why you can’t live without it.

as the world turns

i had a very french beginning to my weekend. tonight, many of the graighties and i were at a bbq themed bar in murray hill, so that wasn't too french (maybe it's the french conception of america? true story: in it's a small world at disneyland paris, the america section has a lot of guys in cowboy hats and then a random football player standing in a mini endzone, and that's the representation for the good old us of a. yipee kay yie yay.) and tomorrow will be all pride festivities all day (while we're dealing in stereotypes, that's also perhaps appropriate since everyone knows that ALL french people are gay AND anti-american. oh, but i'm sorry, that's obviously redundant.) but thursday and friday were jeudi et vendredi.

last night we saw la vie en rose at the paris theatre on 58th & 5th. i started the night with soupe a l'oignon and the contents of three bread basket refills at rue 57. it really was just like when i lived in paris-- except then, it took me six months to gain those thirty pounds, instead of one meal.

at any weight, you should probably see la vie en rose. more precisely, you should probably see marion cotillard play edith piaf. i'm not a movie person, and definitely not a movie critic, because i'm pretty easily pleased and even more easily entertained, but her performance was unreal. i have been describing it as distractingly good. you know, one of those performances where you have to stop watching at moments and be in awe that you're watching an actor. the review in the daily mail said it much more eloquently than i could ever hope to do (obviously): "Unfortunately, Cotillard's performance seems to squeeze the life out of everyone else around her." so...allez! if just to see gerard depardieu seem inconsequential.

the movie is fractured as a stylistic choice, in an [unsuccessful] attempt to symbolize her kalidescope life. what is supposed to be surreal just ends up distracting. what that does do, however, is give me an excellent seguay into my own surreal, french experience: the hermes party to celebrate the opening of their wall street store.

i dont know why or how i ended up there, because who really knows. what i do know is this: guests were greeted with champagne as we walked under a wooden pegasus with a 20' wingspan suspended above the atrium among hanging white lights and against a wall of evergreens. behind the pines, the beautiful (i really mean AMAZING) space of the cunard building opened up, replete with painted dome, rotating dance floor, several top-shelf open bars, a raw bar, a charcuterie station, and about 20 imported french cheeses. if you were there and only counted 19, it's because i ate all the camembert before you could get to it. (speaking of which: NO!) but i havent gotten to the surreal part yet: an enchanted garden with topiaries made of profiteroles, strawberries, and macaroons? and men in tuxes on stilts, wearing horseheads and bowing to you from 20 feet in the air, white-gloved hands held like hooves?

no cinematographer needed: from the rotating dance floor through my champagne goggles, i was living my own kalidescope.