Driver's Test

Monday, March 3, 2014
A bitcoin for your thoughts?

A new month, and a new restaurant.  85 Chinese Restaurant, 85, Chrystie Street, obviously gets straight to the point.  It is medium sized, holding 4 round tables and about a dozen two tops pushed together as needed.  The walls and the furniture are mostly blond wood, giving a bright, airy feel to the joint.  I ordered Singapore chow fun ($7.50), one of my favorite dishes.  As with many restaurants, it does not appear on the menu, but, once you see beef chow fun (the wide noodle) and Singapore chow mei fun (the thin noodle), you know that you can get them combined.  The portion was very large.  In fact, my only complaint is how the dish cooled down as I soldiered through the heap of shrimp, pork, egg, scallions, onions, green pepper, bean sprouts and noodles cooked with curry.  

Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Today is Mardi Gras.  However, on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, unlike other parts of the U.S. or the world, you are unlikely to see half-naked drunks throwing jewelry to bystanders, in spite of my urging.

Wednesday, March 5, 2014
I was reminded of my first car this morning.  It was a 1958 Dodge sedan, purchased used from a Dodge dealer in Queens, during my second year of graduate school.  We were a Dodge family.  The first car in the family that I knew of was a 1937 mouse-gray Dodge.  In 1950, my father traded that in for a pea-soup green Dodge sedan, which we inaugurated by taking a trip more or less around the perimeter of New York state.  I remember stops in Binghamton, Buffalo and Glens Falls where, at a firemen’s carnival, my father and I won consecutive Bingo games on the same card.  My father replaced that car with a blue and white 1957 Dodge, which influenced my purchase about 6 years later.

Dodge, as most other domestic automobile manufacturers, was then in thrall of tail fins, so the chrome trim and the two-tone paint jobs on both the 1957 and 1958 Dodges emphasized the faux aerodynamic lines of the automobile.  I paid $600 for the car, I think, which was painted cream and gold, quite stunning at the time.  It also featured a push-button automatic transmission, another touch of modernity.  My reverie did not last long, however.  On my first trip from Queens to Ithaca, the car blew up or something like that.  Pardon me, but the fine education that I had at Stuyvesant High School and CCNY unfortunately omitted automobile mechanics and repairs.

Time and pain have obscured a lot of the subsequent details, but I managed to get the car fixed at a garage somewhere along Route 17, the major link between New York City and Ithaca.  I paraded about Ithaca for a bit, before heading back to New York.  About halfway, the car blew up again.  I had already reached the area known as the Borscht Belt, because of the density of Jewish summertime visitors, and was able to find my way late at night to the bungalow where the Friedmans, very close friends of my parents, were staying.  I arranged to have the car towed back to the dealer in Queens, and rolled (pushed) it onto his lot, demanding a refund.  Years later, I got $200, although my lawyer, a relative, may have done better than me in the transaction.

All of this comes to mind because of the news that a 1967 Ferrari 275 GTB/4 NART Spider sold at auction for $27.5 million last summer, while, a few days ago, a 1958 Ferrari 335S sold privately for $21.5 million.  Now, if somehow I managed to retain and preserve my father’s 1957 Dodge and my 1958 Dodge, and sold them as a set, which the Ferrari owners were unable to do, I would likely have become a Republican.

Max K., once the Belarus Wonder Boy, now an American real estate investor, came to lunch with me.  We went to Jing Fong, 20 Elizabeth Street, which feeds dim sum of the highest quality to enormous crowds  in a wonderfully garish setting.  We ate and ate and ate, and managed to spend just over $20.  The pleasure of Max’s company distracted me from keeping count of the number of dims that we summed, but it seemed to have been about 9 or 10.

Thursday, March 6, 2014
The College Board has announced a major revision of the SAT, the great hurdle to college admissions, because it had “become disconnected from the work of our high schools.”  The College Board claims that only 20% of classroom teachers see the SAT as a fair measure of the work their students have done.  Or, is it possible, that the work that their students have done is only 20% of what they should have done?

I admit a certain bias in this regard, representing the reverse side of this formula.  Throughout my 20th century school years (law school was mostly a 21st century event), I usually went through an extended period of academic sloth and indolence, only to pull many of my proverbial chestnuts out of the fire by wielding a #2 pencil accurately between those narrow parallel lines.  My test scores, therefore, seemed to demonstrate academic diligence and rigor that had no basis in reality.

I agree with the College Board’s attempt, however, to deflate the SAT prep and tutoring industry, with its distinct flavor of “money talks,” the secular religion of the U.S. Supreme Court’s right-wing bloc.  I am all for rewarding practice and concentration, but it seems that test-taking tricks and strategies were often being peddled as keys to SAT success.

The best news concerns the character of the SAT essay section.  Quoth the New York Times: “Students now write about their experiences and opinions, with no penalty for incorrect assertions, even egregiously wrong ones.  In the future, though, students will receive a source document and be asked to analyze it for its use of evidence, reasoning and persuasive or stylistic technique.”  Oh my!  Quite unlike television reporting and commentary, students will be penalized for “incorrect assertions, even egregiously wrong ones.”  Applied to the communications industry, a thrice-married Australian media magnate might have to retire to raising kangaroos.  

Friday, March 7, 2014
Speaking of looking out for your own, the lead article on the front page of today’s New York Law Journal deals with the charges against four big shots of the now-defunct law firm Dewey & LeBouef, all of whom earned more than $1 million annually.  The New York County District Attorney indicted them for “concocting and overseeing a massive effort to cook the books.”  Making it a bit easy for the prosecutors is a trail of e-mails by these perps, which included such gems as “I don’t want to cook the books anymore” and a list of “Accounting Tricks.”  Accompanying the article is a photograph of the four no-goodniks walking down the hall of the Criminal Court building.  The photo caption politely identifies them as “[f]rom left with hands folded: . . .”  Well, their hands are folded out of necessity because they are all wearing handcuffs, a departure from their usual cufflinks.

Winter Wonderland

Monday, February 24, 2014

I finally watched a few minutes of the Winter Olympics this weekend during the men’s hockey finals between Canada and Sweden.  I was rooting for Sweden because Henrik Lundqvist of the New York Rangers was Sweden’s goalie.  I also found the symmetry of the Swedish team attractive.  Lundqvist aside, Sweden’s leading players were Erik Karlson, Karl Erikson, Erik Erikson and Karl Karlson, or so it seemed.  However, the randomly named Canadians dominated and captured the gold medal.

With the weather at 37 degrees, under a clear, bright sky, I took a practice run at my signature event, Walking for Food.  I found Savory Kitchen Inc., 237B Grand Street, a very new joint, as indicated by the large collection of red-ribboned plants on display.  It’s a small place, about ten tables of varying sizes crowded into the 2/3 of the floor space not taken by the food preparation area in the front left of the restaurant.  The tables were all occupied and a steady stream of take-out orders were handled as well.  The menu listed well over two hundred items, almost all familiar to the old China hand.  

I ordered Scallion Pancake in Hong Kong Style ($2.75) which might be why there was shredded lettuce under the slightly undercooked pancake.  From the 64 item lunch special list, all at $5.25, I had Beef with Satay Sauce, which came with a small bowl of vegetable broth and white rice.  As I’ve noted before, Beef with Satay Sauce, not to be confused with Satay Beef as served in a Malaysian restaurant, is never the same place-to-place (August 9, 2010, January 5, 2011, October 23, 2012).  This version was okay, C+, no unique flavors.  I’m not writing Savory Kitchen off with its hundred of untried alternatives, but I’m not rushing to return.  

 

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

By THE ASSOCIATED PRESS - FEB. 25, 2014, 9:04 A.M. E.S.T.

“U.S. home prices fell for the second straight month in December as brutally cold weather, tight supply and higher costs slowed sales [according to the S&P/Case-Shiller composite index].”

By REUTERS - FEB. 25, 2014, 9:06 A.M. E.S.T.

“U.S. single-family home prices in December rose slightly more than expected from the previous month, a closely watched survey showed on Tuesday.”  Yes, the S&P/Case-Shiller composite index. 

I was delighted to have Stony Brook Steve come down for lunch with me.  We chose Lotus Blue, Dong Tian Kitchen, 110 Reade Street, in the western suburbs of Chinatown, which was simply called Lotus Blue when I first ate there, soon after it started serving lunch (April 17, 2012).  Dong tian means winter, but there was no other indication that the restaurant has turned into an Eastern version of the Four Seasons.  With this alteration of its name, Lotus Blue, Dong Tian Kitchen adds one to my count of unique restaurants.  We ordered stir fried rice noodles with chicken ($12) and spicy cumin lamb cubes ($12), with complimentary bowls of mushroom broth to start.  Another extra which was much less welcome than the hot soup was the cold winds which managed to enter the restaurant in spite of the double entry doors.  

We both liked the noodles, containing shredded chicken, onions, celery, carrots and a covering of chopped peanuts.  We differed on the lamb, which was chunked, not cubed.  It must have been broiled and then roasted with (a lot of) cumin, scallions and hot peppers until very dry and chewy.  I ate all of mine and most of Steve’s. 

Thursday, February 27, 2014

Michael Ratner, another distinguished grandfather, joined me for lunch today, and, after comparing pictures of the little darlings, we continued the duck hunt at Joe’s Ginger Restaurant, 25 Pell Street, noted for its soup buns and scallion pancakes.  After an order of 8 soup buns ($4.95), we had a whole Peking duck ($39.95), which came with 8 pancakes, scallions, cucumbers and hoisin sauce.  The waiter prepared all 8 packages very tidily.  The duck was excellent, nearly fat-free, the skin crispy.  We had to ask for the carcass, and when it arrived, I think it was from another duck.  However, we had had plenty to eat by then, so it didn’t make much difference.  As I walked Michael towards the subway, I stopped for mangoes, so that he might have another special treat when he got home.

     

Friday, February 28, 2014

“But, it’s a dry cold” is probably the only reasonable response to learning that the temperature is 12 degrees outside as you went to work, the analog to what people in Arizona and California say when their brains are sauteeing.  

In a way I was disappointed that Arizona’s governor vetoed a bill that would have made it easier for businesses to refuse service to gay men, lesbians and other people on religious grounds.  I planned to campaign for Madison Square Garden to ban admission to New York Ranger hockey games to fans of the rival New Jersey Devils, since so many of us hold deeply-felt religious scruples about Satanism.

My last word about the many non-sports that populate the winter Olympics, where ultimately futile attempts are made to quantify quality, comes from a review of a fine bottle of Puligny-Montrachet:

“A slightly riper nose features aromas of dried peach and apricot as well as spiced pear and background floral hints.  There is excellent volume and plenty of mouth coating extract supporting the delicious, round and voluminous medium-bodied flavors that terminate in a very generous finish that really fans out on the lingering finish.  This is fleshy but not flabby and is definitely worth a look.”

This may all be true, but you’d have to be crazy to assign a number to it, as the supposed judges do to ice dancing or free style skiing, as examples.  The endeavor may require great skill, concentration and practice, but if it’s not faster, longer, bigger, it ain’t a sport. 

Michael Jordan Also on the 17th

Monday, February 17, 2014

We were very excited to see that Staple’s was offering the smartyphone rated highest by Consumer Reports for only one cent with an extension of cell phone service.  With both of our plans about to meet the two-year renewal period on February 26th, my young bride and I headed to the Staple’s store on Broadway, opposite Zabar’s.  A young man served us competently and answered our questions about new features and compatibility with our existing smartyphones.  “Proceed,” we instructed, and spent about one hour in all as he fetched two new phones and entered all the necessary information on his computer, several times it seemed, to complete the transaction.  

“Oops,” he uttered, about 3/4 through.  On February 17th, the system would not allow him to book the deal until February 26th, or thereafter, when our current plan expires.  The only trouble with waiting, I explained, was that the one cent offer might be time-sensitive, and a quick look at the circular confirmed that it ran from February 16th to February 22nd.  We came in today to lock in the deal, but the young man and his manager were unable to break the time barrier, even after several telephone calls to higher authority.  Now, we must wait another 9 days to see if we have another chance to strike at a hot iron.  Ironically, earlier this morning, we told Professor David of our intention, and, with his mobile phone contract having expired, he waltzed into a nearby Staple’s, 200 miles to the northeast of us, and got his one cent smartyphone without a problem.  

February is a low ebb for real sports fans, with only professional basketball active.  I dismiss the Winter Olympics, on the whole, especially when it serves as the corrupt showcase of an authoritarian regime.  Even in the absence of meaningful competition, however, there is still sports news of note.  I am particularly interested in the recruiting policy of the University of Connecticut football team (the Huskies).  It seems that Ernest Jones, a running backs coach, was just terminated after saying that “Jesus Christ should be in the center of our huddle.”  Jones’s obvious lack of judgment warrants his dismissal.  Jesus, after all, was considered to be relatively frail, paying little attention to physical conditioning.  Putting him in the middle of a Huskies team that won only 3 of 12 games last season is a recipe for disaster.  Until and unless it shows vast improvement, I think that this team should be extremely careful about whom it welcomes into its ranks.  Just think about the potential for bad publicity if Jesus is felled by a cheap shot, or worse, bullied in the locker room.         

  

Tuesday, February 18, 2014

Ilana M., my courthouse colleague, accompanied by her intern, continued on the duck hunt with me.  We went to Mottzar Kitchen, 70 Mott Street, where I had had a good half Peking duck before, but, at $25.95 for a whole Peking duck, $20 less than the last duck that we shared, we could not resist a good deal.  And, in fact, the quality of Mottzar’s Peking duck made it an extraordinary deal.  The waiter covered all 10 buns with juicy (but not notably fatty) meat, scallions and cucumbers, and hoisin sauce.  Additionally, the carcass came afterwards with lots of edible chunks of meat along with 2 polkies and 2 fliegels (legs and wings) in crispy skin.  A good time was had by all, except for the duck.

 

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Last night, I attended a discussion on  political polarization.  Nolan McCarty, professor of politics at Princeton University, offered some intriguing research findings.  He has recorded and analyzed every roll call vote in the US Senate and House of Representatives, probably with the assistance of some graduate students.  Starting at the end of the Civil War, when the two major modern parties emerged in opposition to each other, legislative polarization, most of them versus most of us, ran high until the Progressive Era, early in the twentieth century.  While it is understood that roll call votes are only the end of a process where bargaining and posturing may obscure actual ideological positions, and that some issues are never framed as roll call votes on a chamber’s floor, the many thousands of roll call votes examined offer a formidable profile of American legislative politics. 

McCarty found that polarization declined through the Depression, WWII and the post-war period, but turned upward in the 1970s, rising now to an all-time high.  In other words, strict partisan divisions on roll call votes in the House and the Senate have never been greater.  Maybe that’s not a surprise to even the casual observer, but he also tracked income (in)equality through our history, using a variety of accepted measures.  He reported that income (in)equality parallels legislative polarization.  They rise and fall together.  In the short time available for his presentation, he did not offer his explanation of which drives which, or even why they might be linked.  Now, turn to the person seated next to you and discuss.

The Boyz Club met at Shanghai Café Deluxe, 100 Mott Street, and ate scallion pancakes, sesame cold noodles, tangerine chicken, fish fillet with wine sauce, sauteed sliced beef with scallions, and eggplant with garlic sauce (meatless).  With the economies of scale coming into play, it cost us $13 each, including a big tip.  The food was good, too.

           

Thursday, February 20, 2014

Alert!  Champagne mangoes have hit the streets of Chinatown, 5 for $5, medium size, 4 for $5, large size.  Wherever you shop, I urge you to get into this fabulous fruit now, and I hope that you have a wonderful person nearby to lick the delicious juices running down your chin.  

Friday, February 21, 2014

Looking back to last week’s photograph of those amazingly wonderful cookies offered by Café Trend, I think I see the face of John Kerry on the right-hand cookie.

Nihonjin ni ayamaritai - Aru yudayajin no zange is the title of a 1979 Japanese book that remains untranslated into English.  It is the invented confessions of a Jewish elder and spreads the rumor that “Enola Gay,” the name of the pilot’s mother painted on the fuselage of the B-29 that dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima, means “Kill the Emperor” in Yiddish.  Does it get any better than that?

Chew On This

Monday, February 10, 2014

I did something yesterday that I had never done before, leaving the list of undone at 87,312.  I was a shomer, that is a guardian of a dead body before the funeral.  Jewish law (or is it lore?) provides that a body not be left alone until burial.  Whether this was always a spiritual exercise or a cautionary practice to ward off animals or other predators is uncertain.  Jews of many stripes now maintain the practice at least to honor the deceased.  Observant Jews will chant psalms during their guard duty.  I, on the other hand, went equipped with the latest copy of the New Yorker, and the book review and magazine sections of the Sunday Times.  I didn't know the deceased, a recent member of our congregation, but, as someone drawn to our collection of interesting Jews, she probably would have felt comfortable with how I chose to spend my time with her.  I admit that I was nervous as I left the house, but the brown glove on my right hand wasn’t a bad match for the black glove on my left hand. 

I sat in a corridor downstairs in the funeral home, behind the casket display room, where a nice piece of wood could run to $13,990.  In contrast to the calming decor of the showroom, the corridor’s cinder block walls were painted yellow -- a long time ago.  The floor was covered in linoleum trying to look like fitted slate rocks.  As I sat at the end of the corridor facing the door that I entered, there were two rooms on my right, maybe 10 x 10, that were fitted with stainless equipment and fixtures, used for ritual washing and other corporal preparations.  On my left was the refrigerated room holding bodies; I never looked in to count.  In fact, while I was on guard, one body was brought in in a body bag and placed in that room, and, later, an occupied plain pine box, a more typical container than the oak, mahogany or chestnut beauties in the next room, was wheeled out of the refrigerated room and into the elevator to the main floor for a service.

With those rare interruptions, I attempted to concentrate on my reading, trying to forget just where I was.  Except, every few minutes, the refrigeration unit cycled on with a clamor that would have evoked calls to the super in almost any nearby Upper West Side apartment house.  Even more upsetting was the deodorant/disinfectant spray that visibly shpritzed out of a box on the wall every so often, leaving a lingering odor until the next discharge. 

The lovely and talented Ken Klein arrived just before 3 PM to relieve me, and although he is a world-class schmoozer, I left Ken in some haste to regain Amsterdam Avenue and the fresh air outside.

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

Today’s favorite headline: “Suicide Bomb Trainer in Iraq Accidentally Blows Up His Class”

The very wintery weather that we have been experiencing has resulted in soup for lunch most days recently.  Today, it was pho bo kho ($6.25), the signature Vietnamese beef noodle soup at Pho Viet Huong, 73 Mulberry Street.  The hot broth had real flavor, picking up the juices of the slices of very rare beef that continued to cook as they sat in the soup.  I threw in some bean sprouts and squeezed in the lime that sat on the plate placed next to the soup bowl.

With the good hot soup inside me, I decided to walk the extra half block up to Canal Street in spite of the 24 degree temperature, because I spotted my favorite fruit vendors in operation at the corner.  More surprising than their operating on such a cold day was the presence of a small film crew shooting two women, one young, one middle-aged, dressed as Amish women, wearing ankle-length, blue-gray skirts of a heavy fabric, and white bonnets.  The very brief scene being filmed had the women buying fruit from one of the Chinese lady peddlers, conducting the transaction almost wordlessly, pointing and grunting to bridge the cultural divide.  I’m stymied trying to extract a plot line from this strange scene. 

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

I learned that the fabulous cookie that I had at the last lunch with the Feingold Claque, the very buttery, hand-shaped Milanoesque cookie, partially covered in slivered almonds, comes from Café Trend, 596 Third Avenue at 39th Street, which claims to prepare all of its own food.  The location is a bit off my normally beaten path, but this is too important to ignore, and, with the day off for Lincoln’s birthday, still celebrated separately by New York State employees, I headed over to the East Side. 

When I got there, the genial manager was pleased that I held his product in such high esteem, but so apparently did others as they were all sold out.  He told me to return tomorrow when a new batch would be available.

Thursday, February 13, 2014

While a new batch of cookies might be available today, a new batch of snow came rushing in overnight and stayed through late morning.  The high winds whipping the snow around at least gave me a chance to test my new Brooks Brothers umbrella on the way to the subway.  It stayed intact and I stayed mostly dry.  One train line stopped as I reached the platform, but otherwise the trip went well.

By noon, about one foot of snow had fallen in Manhattan, but it was icy rain that greeted me as I went to lunch.  Several shops and restaurants were closed in Chinatown.  I was most surprised to find the Chase bank branch at the corner of Mott Street and Canal Street closed when I tried to order a new box of checks.  Fortunately, Wo Hop, 17 Mott Street, was open, having ended their New Year’s break.  Ducts along the low ceiling had been painted, but no other changes were apparent.  To their credit, menu prices had not changed even though they had over a week to print up new ones. 

The real ugliness set in at the end of the day as I made my way home.  All precipitation stopped by mid-afternoon and the temperature rose to the high 30s.  That resulted in slop just about anywhere you stepped.  Of course, the worst places were the intersections where you had to cross, á la the chicken, to the other side.  But, you couldn't, because there weren't puddles in your way, they were ponds.  I walked in the gutter on Chambers Street for a one-block stretch until I could find a place to get to the sidewalk safely with slush below my ankles.   It was only slightly better when I got off the subway uptown, and I was happy to get into the shelter of the Palazzo di Gotthelf.

Friday, February 14, 2014

Happy Valentine’s Day.  I spent the morning at the tender hands of my dearly beloved prosthodontist.  The comprehensive renovation of my oral cavity, which began about a year ago, has been a success overall.  However, whether my new teeth or my new bite or some combination therein thereof is to blame, I have been regularly chomping on my tongue, trying to turn it into steak tartare, or maybe tongue tartare.  This occurs while chewing, no surprise, but when speaking or sneezing?  Blood has been drawn.  Fortunately, my dental practitioners gave me an appointment on short notice, and, after a couple of hours, sharp edges were smoothed and surfaces polished.  Only if my personality were to be repaired in such a short time with so little discomfort.

Wearing the sloppy clothes that matched the sloppy streets, I didn’t want to go to work for the rest of the day.  That allowed me to head back to Café Trend to see if there was a Valentine’s Day present for me.  Indeed, I was recognized and welcomed.  The manager first rummaged through boxes of cookies, but could not find my favorite.  Another guy reached for a cellophane-wrapped catering dessert tray, which contained their full repertoire of goodies, and asked me how many cookies I wanted.  At first, I demurred, but they insisted that they would break up this package for me.  OK, not knowing how they would charge for the cookie under the circumstances, I asked for 10 and pulled out a $20 bill.  I’m not going to finish the story, because, if the word gets out how generous they were to me, the New York bakery ecosystem might be irreparably harmed.

Snow Job

Monday, February 3, 2014
We spent the weekend away, celebrating with Boaz, the Super Bowl Birthday Boy.  We were kept very busy during the weekend with imaginative activities organized by his devoted parents, including a Bingo game where the numbered squares were replaced by the photographs of locally-prominent 5- and 6- year olds.  Except for the monumentally uncompetitive Super Bowl, there was no reason or time to watch television.  However, once back in our hotel room, we watched local television news primarily to keep track of the weather.  The news of Philip Seymour Hoffman’s death was, of course, disturbing.  I had marveled how he had managed to seemingly shed his bulk to play to the wispy figure of Truman Capote so convincingly.  Yet, his last role was that of desperate junkie with a script that allowed for no improvisation.

I was interested in how local Boston television stations handled the news of Hoffman’s death.  After giving the ugly details of his being found with a syringe still stuck in his arm, at least two different broadcasts proceeded to read Twitter feeds (Tweets) about his death.  While 140 characters cannot be expected to do justice to Hoffman’s talents, the very idea that I wanted to even hear the terse comments of celebrities about him read aloud was absurd.  Yes, his death was sad.  Yes, we feel sorry for his family.  Yes, a major talent has been lost.  I already knew that.  I didn’t have to put on makeup or have my hair sprayed into place in order to repeat these unsurprising observations to thousands of folks out in TVLand.  Do some investigating; do some reporting, or shut up!
 
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
I hope that I never stop searching, but on a return visit today to Shanghai Cafe Deluxe, 100 Mott Street (August 26, 2013), I found the scallion pancake ($2.50) to be incomparable.  It is flaky without being brittle, with a soft inside layer.  With a lot of snow still on the ground, and more predicted for tomorrow, I chose Shanghai wonton soup with shepherd’s purse ($5.95), but don’t ask me how that differs from Shanghai wonton soup ($4.95) or what in the bowl was a shepherd’s purse.  The 8 wontons, however, were very good, not gummy.  There were no noodles, leaving room in the bowl for an ample amount of hot broth.  I can handle winter under these circumstances.  By the way, many sources commend the soup dumplings here, but I still haven’t tried them.

The New York Times has a debate on “The Casual Couture of the Average American.”  http://www.nytimes.com/roomfordebate/2014/02/03/the-casual-couture-of-the-average-american
Six contributors, ranging from a psychologist to 3 bloggers (is that now a job category?), comment on whether we have “ a culture that’s taken comfort to the extreme?”  While I long ago abandoned wearing a suit and tie on an airplane flight, I am frequently annoyed at the sight of someone dressed like a slob heading to a place where slobs are not usually found, such as, an office or a theater.  One writer in the group asserts that “[c]reativity requires diversity and free expression.”  First of all, creativity is not necessarily a virtue in many of our jobs, all or part of the time.  I shudder at the thought of a creative bus driver.  Secondly, whether boiling an egg or writing software, a person has to look around, recognize and gather resources, and proceed in some semblance of an orderly fashion to achieve a goal, that is if a goal exists beyond the pure occupation of space.  Getting the mind organized, even if to then launch into an improvisatory outburst, is, I believe, the necessary first step in approaching the day ahead or any task therein.  Picking your clothes is the right kind of inaugural exercise, considering the who, what, when, where and why of your anticipated endeavor(s), to my mind.

When “we put on a smart outfit, we feel more confident,” according to the psychologist in the newspaper.  By coincidence, in this week’s Torah portion (the Jewish book of books is read continually throughout the year), Exodus 28:2-3, the Big One tells Moses about the priestly role destined for Aaron, Moses’ brother: “And thou shalt make holy garments for Aaron thy brother, for splendour and for beauty.  And thou shalt speak unto all that are wise-hearted, whom I have filled with the spirit of wisdom, that they make Aaron’s garments to sanctify him, that he may minister unto Me in the priest’s office.”  In other words, the garments qualify Aaron to be a priest.  Moreover, according to a critical source of biblical analysis, if priests “were not wearing their proper priestly garments, they lacked their priesthood and were considered like non-priests, and were liable to death if they performed the priestly service.”  Babylonian Talmud Sanhedrin 83b.  I might not go that far, but, conversely, by any measure, flip flops should never appear away from a sandy beach, a shower stall or a pedicure salon.

Wednesday, February 5, 2014
The weather is particularly ugly this morning.  The sky seems to be directly depositing slush on the streets, skipping the intermediate steps of snow and rain.  I’ll have to step carefully on my way to lunch in Chinatown.  And, speaking of Chinatown, Professor David Lee McMullen send me the following link this morning.  http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-25920980.  The report cites the gentrification of some urban Chinatowns (New York, Boston and Philadelphia) as a threat to their culture.  Notably, the white population of these locales is increasing as the Chinese population decreases, an indication of the intrusion of newer, more upscale residential properties.  I’ve seen evidence of and commented on this over the last four years that I have worked at the very edge of Chinatown.

This is a pattern, however, that has prevailed over time on the Lower East Side, Williamsburg, Brooklyn, and currently in Harlem and Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, among other neighborhoods.  Ironically, the population and geographic contraction of Little Italy, as Little Italy, and much of the Lower East Side as a Hispanic neighborhood resulted from the influx of Chinese people and businesses into those areas.  I’m really up in the air about this issue.  Yes, I’d like to see an aggressive housing development policy providing for working class and lower middle class families, of the sort that I emerged from.  However, until that occurs, likely contemporaneous with a cure for cancer, I admit to being heartened that success for many has not lead them to the suburbs, deserting their urban neighborhoods, in contrast to the white flight and suburban sprawl that characterized the second half of the twentieth century.

New York has clearly benefitted by the Asian, Latin American and former USSR residents’ immigration of recent decades, just as it did by the Eastern and Southern European immigration of 100 years ago.  The coincident arrival (or return) of over-paid financial wizards on their temporary rise to the top and then, often, to jail, seems to be an inevitable part of our dynamic growth.  These two demographic shifts are linked, at least, to  the relative ease that New York City deals with diversity and change, without resorting to arming our citizenry and shooting strangers.

The current crisis in Argentina:

Thursday, February 6, 2014
I recently wrote about the seeming windfall of a large check from my health insurance company.  Well, it was too true to be good.  A bill arrived this week from an anesthesiologist, who allegedly sent me off to dreamland during a recent medical procedure, for exactly the same amount as the check.  Today, I did the right thing.

The Winter Olympics start tonight or tomorrow.  If it did not interrupt the National Hockey League schedule, I could ignore it entirely.  I loathe the patent corruption surrounding Olympic site selection and development, rarely exercised so publicly, so heavy-handedly and on such a grand scale as by Putin and his puppets.  See http://www.nytimes.com/2014/01/26/magazine/putins-olympic-fever-dream.html?_r=0

Further, the Winter Olympics especially is host to so many events that, while demonstrating formidable athletic prowess, are not properly labeled sports.  Results are governed by judges, not goals, times, runs, points, or distance.  As the New York Times wrote today about figure skating and related events, “The major problems are that judges continue to lack independence; nationalistic impulses still often prevail; apparent conflicts of interest abound; and the anonymity of the judges’ scoring has undermined efforts to increase accountability and transparency, according to interviews over several months with more than 70 judges, referees, athletes, coaches, officials and other experts.”  Another article today has the headline “Who Needs Stopwatches? From the Shadows, Judges Take Starring Roles.”  Judgment calls play a role in every conceivable sport, and often commentary the day after the Big Game focuses on officiating.  It’s not the same, though, as having every call/rating/score entirely dependent on someone off the field.  If you and I can’t explain why X won and Y lost, it ain’t a sport.

Can You Believe He's 6?

Monday, January 27, 2014

I was disappointed to find Gold River Malaysian Cuisine, 21 Division Street, near empty.  Its nearby rival, West New Malaysia Restaurant, 46-48 Bowery, is usually 75-80% full at lunchtime, in a larger space.  While West New Malaysia is tucked away in the center of an arcade running between the Bowery and Elizabeth Street, Gold River’s position east of the Bowery places it in no-man’s land as far as most people who visit Chinatown, or even work in the municipal/judicial complex centered around Foley Square.  Malaysian food might also lack the pulling power of the more familiar Asian cuisines, but one of its greatest attractions, I think, is the presence of Chinese, Thai and Indian dishes in its repertoire, or maybe that’s backwards and the Chinese, Thais and Indians took from the Malays and made it their own.  In any case, I returned today to continue sampling Gold River’s menu and had chow kueh teow, a noodle that is or resembles chow fun mixed with shrimp, egg, sausage, chives and bean sprouts ($6.95).  Very good. 

  

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

I am a supporter of Barack Obama.  I did not hesitate voting for him twice, especially because I believe that McCain and Romney checked their conscience at the door when seeking the prize.  However, even though there is not, I repeat not, an important hockey game on tonight, I will not watch the President’s State of the Union address.  It’s not just the engineered slogans and unachievable promises that I wish to avoid, they come with the territory.  My mind reels and my stomach turns watching the popping up and down of this country’s purported leadership at the sound of some ringing presidential declaration.  While knee bends may have some physiological benefit, it would be so much more efficient, if homage is to be paid to the President (and this ain’t a Democrat vs. Republican thing) to keep standing.  Were those in the House chamber to remain in one position throughout, perhaps rising, or sitting at the end, they might look less goofy.  Goofiest, of course, are Biden and Boehner, or whoever preceded them, as they rise and fall on a strictly partisan basis, standing directly behind the President, being watched by tens of millions of people.  If accompanied by music, their movements might be taken for performance art, or over stimulated children.   

Pie Pie Q Café, 24 Bowery St. (sic), is a new joint, more a bakery than a café, although it’s a bit larger than most other bakeries, with 9 two-top tables, and two counters faced by a total of seven stools.  As usual, it has shelves of sweet and savory baked goods which I have learned to avoid.  The reason I gave Pie Pie Q a look was the small steam table at the back end of the serving area.  It held a few sorry looking items, but that’s never stopped me before.  I had a bowl of rice ball soup and a dish of sticky rice, $5.50 total  – I’m not sure how much for each.  But, since I plan never to order them again here, it doesn’t matter.  The rice balls themselves were interesting, like slightly chewy gnocchi.  The broth was tepid and also contained some strange meat and onions.  The sticky rice was well beyond sticky.  It was a nearly-solid clump of rice, peanuts, carrots, peas and diced pork.  While the people behind the counter were friendly and helpful to their only non-Chinese customer, nothing was good.  Even though Pie Pie Q had a big beverage menu, the hot tea I asked for came with a Lipton tea bag.  

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

I had the pleasure of sharing a Peking duck with Ilana M., a young colleague, at Ping's Seafood, 22 Mott Street.  Its name aside, Ping’s is one of the best Chinatown restaurants for almost all fare. Our large duck, served with 12 pancakes, cost $45.  Additionally, and unfairly to my mind, Ping's charged $2 for tea.  The duck was good, but far from fat-free.  It failed on the price/performance ratio.  However, Ilana and I exchanged some legal teasers – “What would you do in this case?” – and generally had a good time.  We will hunt ducks together again, I hope.    

Thursday, January 30, 2014

While I haven’t gone to a hockey game in exactly two weeks, last night I saw my third Broadway show in one week, Matilda last Thursday, A Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Murder on Sunday and The Glass Menagerie last night.  Looking back over these three disparate works, I realized that they all deal with people trapped by their living conditions, particularly families that are unsupportive, even hostile, to their aspirations.  One thinks her way out of her dilemma, one murders his way, and one sails away, leaving his even more damaged mother and sister behind.  Unfortunately, I started with the most optimistic tale of the three and wound up with the most hopeless.  Maybe that’s what you have to expect of life.

Lunch today was with the Feingold Claque, which meant a combo over rice, with a pita, lots of white sauce and a little red ($5) from a Muslim couple sharing a cart at the corner of 41st Street and Third Avenue.  The luncheon gathering was in the conference room of a prominent Midtown law firm, which was easily arranged by one of our gatherees whose name happens to be on the front door of the office.  Typically, the host provides beverages and maybe a little sweet, and that’s where I encountered something gastronomically significant, possibly the best cookie ever.   Mixed in with the oatmeal raisin cookies, mini cheesecake bars and such was something like a hand-shaped Milano (Pepperidge Farm, you knew that), very buttery, dark chocolate filling and partially covered with slivered almonds.  Fabulous.  I had only two out of my deep respect for the high quality of this offering, not wanting to cheapen the experience by simply inhaling all that were on the platter.  Instead, I bit slowly and chewed deliberately.  I’ve sent a message to our host asking about the source of this singular treat, and I am certain that he will take the time from his busy professional life to respond, because he is, after all, CCNY Class of 1960 and a fellow gourmand.     

Friday, January 31, 2014

It's the start of the Year of the Horse and we’re off to celebrate with Boaz, the Super Bowl Birthday Boy.  Since his auspicious debut, he has been joined by a younger brother and a sister.  That means that we can look forward to a weekend of eating with hands, running noses and yelling while standing. 

Saving For A Rainy Day

Monday, January 20, 2014
Sam Polk and James D. Hoff probably don’t know each other, and I don’t know either one.  Polk is in his mid-30s and Hoff is 42-years old.  I read about them in separate articles in the New York Times Sunday and Monday respectively.  The juxtaposition is sickening, to my mind.  Polk, in an article he wrote himself, said that in his last year on Wall Street, three years ago, “my bonus was $3.6 million – and I was angry because it wasn’t big enough.  I was 30 years old, had no children to raise, no debts to pay, no philanthropic goal in mind.”  http://www.nytimes.com/2014/01/19/opinion/sunday/for-the-love-of-money.html?hpw&rref=opinion&_r=0

Polk is an Ivy League graduate, who had been suspended from Columbia University for burglary, arrested twice and fired from an Internet company for fistfighting.  I can’t say that his employer was influenced by these qualifications, because Polk admits that he kept them off his résumé.

Hoff finished his Ph.D. in English literature, about 18 months ago.  He has been unable to get a fulltime teaching position, so he struggles to earn a living by teaching several courses as an adjunct at different institutions, this semester at Manhattan College and Fashion Institute of Technology.  http://www.nytimes.com/2014/01/20/nyregion/crowded-out-of-ivory-tower-adjuncts-see-a-life-less-lofty.html?hpw&rref=education
When he collects four courses during a semester, his annual earnings are about $24,000.  Right now, he is only teaching three courses, and earning closer to $20,000.  Hoff is married, with an infant daughter.  He and his wife recently moved from Manhattan to the Bronx to save money.

I don’t want to see Polk unemployed or uncompensated, although his service to his community, his nation or the world is, by his own account, minimal.  “ I was a derivatives trader, and it occurred to me the world would hardly change at all if credit derivatives ceased to exist.”  Let him and Hoff make $120,000 annually, somewhat more than I do, which should keep them  afloat as middle-class New Yorkers, with tax policy leveling some of their lifestyle differences.

If you would like to grind your teeth more, see bp-working-for-few-political-capture-economic-inequality-200114-en.pdf #sthash.ClRIn1sD.dpuf
which reports today that “In the US, the wealthiest one percent captured 95 percent of post-financial crisis growth since 2009, while the bottom 90 percent became poorer.”

The Upper West Side’s Power Couple, having this holiday off, went to a travel agent to discuss an anticipated trip later in the year, details to follow.  Since we were in midtown in the early afternoon, we took advantage of the time and the place and window-shopped along 47th Street, the Diamond District.  This excursion was strictly for aesthetic, not acquisitive, purposes, and we kept our credit cards firmly tucked away.  Every time that we paused in front of a display, a pretty woman inside the store behind the window popped up with a wave and reached for a hand-written sign announcing a sale today only, 50-60% off.  In spite of the singular honor of being welcomed for a sale this day only, we passed by merely exchanging a modest grin for the effusive greeting.

With lunch hour upon us, we took advantage of the locale and went three floors up to Taam Tov, 41 West 47th Street, a strictly Kosher restaurant, serving the large number of Orthodox Jews who work in the Diamond District.  It’s a simple, square room, with windows overlooking 47th Street and a bearded Buddha-like rabbi seated by the cash register to enforce adherence to the sometimes-Byzantine rules of Kosher food preparation and service.  Interestingly enough, Taam Tov offers Chinese food at lunch time, that is a half-dozen beef and chicken dishes variously sauced with vegetables.  Experience has taught me that Jews should only eat Chinese food, not cook it, so I looked elsewhere on the menu, where the Middle East takes over from the Far East.  I ordered Shwarma over Laffa ($14), a 4" round, 11" long tube stuffed with marinated diced chicken, hummus and French fries.  Laffa is bigger than pita and spongier, making an excellent wrapping for the hearty filling.  It was a really good dish (taam tov means tastes good in Hebrew) and well matched to a 2014 vintage Diet Coke.

Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Elderly Jews from the New York area have been migrating to South Florida for generations.  First our grandparents, then our parents and now our friends and neighbors.  That’s why today’s news from Florida was surprising.  The state has been ordered by a federal judge to provide Kosher food to its prison inmates who request it, based only on a professed belief in Judaism, although suspicions about the quality and contents of normal prison food may have inflated the demand.  It seems that Florida is one of only 15 states who do not ordinarily provide Kosher food in its prisons, citing the much higher cost of the meals prepared and packaged by outside kitchens, reportedly $7 vs. $1.54 daily per person.  However, a 2000 federal law protects inmates’ religious freedom, and Florida, with the nation’s third largest prison system, has been ordered to comply.  As if cantankerous, retired New York Jews needed another excuse to ignore the laws and customs of the Sunshine State.

Speaking of sunshine, snow started falling as I left for work and continued throughout the day, so I went no further than H.K. Wonton Garden, 79 Mott Street, for a big bowl of hot soup with won tons and noodles, served with some mediocre sweet and sour chicken on the side ($7.95).

Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Justice will be dispensed today at New York County Supreme Court in spite of the 11" of snow officially recorded in Manhattan yesterday and the 9 degree temperature this morning.

I try to deal honestly in my everyday affairs, although not claiming sainthood.  Last week, for instance, I told the waitress that she left a bottle of wine off of our restaurant bill.  Now, I’m being put to the test.  Last night, I found it necessary to clean up the pile of papers on the sofa in the den in order to make room to sit and watch television.  In the mess was a month-old check for an interesting amount from my health insurance carrier.  The explanation of benefits page was missing, and, I must admit, I can’t connect the amount (not the typical $37.46 reimbursement) to any particular activity, although the last quarter of 2013 included examinations and/or treatments of eyes, colon, teeth, heart and associated bits and pieces.

It’s possible that this check was not even meant for me and that’s the problem.  In the past, when such an error occurred, I found it impossible to return the check or get it reissued in a corrected, lesser amount, spending hours on the telephone trying to do the right thing.  The system simply doesn’t allow it.  All of us take for granted that any error will be in the insurance company’s favor.  Roomfuls of computer hardware, large software libraries, and legions of programmers are dedicated to keeping the last nickel on the company’s side of the table.  When the unthinkable happens, which may or may not be the case with my check, the system is thrown into disarray.  Reasonable attempts to play Boy Scout will likely be frustrated by hours spent on the telephone trying to effect corrective action.  So, I’ll deposit the check, always alert to refunding the amount in whole or part, if the insurance company tells me its mother’s maiden name, favorite food, and last four digits on its passport.

Thursday, January 23, 2014
The new normal ain’t so normal.  According to Prof. Andrew Schepard of Hofstra Law School, and member of the Feingold Claque, writing in today’s New York Law Journal, about 1 million U.S. children live with parents in the middle of a divorce each year, and about one in four children live in a divorced household.  If you are as old as I am and able to remember anything that happened earlier than breakfast this morning, you can remember not growing up around divorced people.  Maybe you observed couples who should have divorced, but it simply wasn’t done among people you knew – your family and the families of friends.  In the second semester of my freshman year in college, I heard for the first time from a friend that his parents were getting divorced.  I’m not claiming that it wasn’t happening out there, just not along Pitkin Avenue or Woodhaven Boulevard.
 
Friday, January 24, 2014
Two people come to mind as the Umbrella Man, the teenaged accomplice of the so-called Capeman in the stabbing death of two other teenagers in 1959 in a park on Manhattan’s West Side, and a man standing by the side of the road in Dallas as John Kennedy drove by on that sunny day.  Now, I propose a new Umbrella Man and unlike those other two, he represents kindness and generosity.

Bravo Señor Alvaro Reinoso, manager and part owner of Andanada, 141 West 69th Street, a Spanish restaurant open just over one year.  We’ve eaten there a few times, enjoying the three different types of sangria and the interesting tapas, usually skipping a main course after a bunch of tapas.  However, it’s not the food or drinks, generally quite good, but not cheap, that I wish to pay tribute to.  On Saturday night, January 11th, a very rainy night, we ate at Andanada with friends.  I parked my umbrella in a bucket near the front door.  Now, this wasn’t your ordinary $2, bought-on-the-street, self-destructing umbrella.  It came from Brooks Brothers and its oversize canopy was, appropriately enough, pin-striped.  It was a cherished gift from Nate Persily to replace the umbrella that I had lent him that he lost, which, in fact, was a present from my cousin Michael Goldenberg, who, as marketing manager for a cosmetics firm, had some umbrellas left over after distributing them as premiums with purchases.  I’m sorry, but I don’t recall the name of the product advertised on that sturdy black umbrella.

In any case, after dinner, as we collected our coats, I found that my umbrella was gone, while more modest ones remained in the bucket.  Sr. Reinoso looked for it where it shouldn’t have been, with no luck.  He said that he would call me with any news of the umbrella in the next few days, and promised to make amends (although I knew that he was under no obligation to do so).  I dropped in again about one week later, since Andanada is right across Broadway from the Palazzo di Gotthelf, and gave him the umbrella’s pinstriped sheath which I had removed before going out in the rain, so that he could confirm its return if and when.  So, I was delighted to receive a telephone message on Wednesday from Sr. Reinoso asking me to visit him regarding the umbrella.  Last night, on the way home from seeing Matilda, a delightful musical import from Britain, I stopped into the restaurant where this fine gentleman, apologetic for my loss, handed me a brand-new umbrella from Brooks Brothers.  While the pinstriped version is no longer available, this umbrella has a smart plaid canopy and a firm wooden handle.  How about that!

Now, I want you all to eat and drink at Andanada, give regards to Sr. Reinoso and keep your umbrella to yourself.