Monday, December 24, 2012
At the behest of the taxpayers of the State of New York, I stayed home today using an accrued vacation day. I spent part of the afternoon walking up and down Broadway in our part of the upper West Side. Barnes & Noble was very crowded with last-minute gift shoppers. Zabar’s was very crowded with folks stocking up for holiday celebrations. Fairway, by contrast, was totally manageable when I shopped for some regular groceries, maybe because it would be open on Christmas day. In general, I’ve escaped the combination of panic, elation, frenzy and voraciousness that seem to characterize many people rushing in and out of retail establishments at the time of year. First of all, my holiday, Hanukkah, ended on December 16th. We had our party on December 9th, more than two weeks ago. The shopping, the wrapping, the eating, the drinking, the cleaning up are all fading in memory. Naively, in the last few days, I’ve occasionally wondered why all the fuss now.
Also, my preparation for gift-giving begins long before December rolls around. I take pains to avoid the combination of panic, elation, frenzy and voraciousness attending the late search for the appropriate, if not the near-perfect, gift for the many diverse souls on my hit list. Simply, I shop for gifts all the time. Last week, I bought six of the same item for next Hanukkah, which, by some extraordinary circumstance, begins on Wednesday, November 27, 2013, the day before Thanksgiving. I’ve already discussed the weirdness of the Jewish calendar, with its leap month inserted every few years, but I don’t recall this strange configuration of dates ever in my lifetime.
Of course, this is added incentive to start shopping early for next year, but my obsessiveness in this matter is really independent of anyone’s calendar. While I don’t want to be pressured into last-minute shopping, I really enjoy this perpetual search for the right gift. I always spend time on our trips abroad wending my way through street markets, bazaars and emporia seeking less-than-commonplace items. Favorable prices, especially after a dramatic bargaining interlude, add to my pleasure on these foreign sojourns, as long as I keep my mind free of images of child labor.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
I’m not going to name any names, but a recent letter to the New York Times by Susan WADLN (with a distinctive last name), a law professor, brought back memories. The writer was not a classmate, nor an instructor of mine. When I met her, about 25 years ago, she had a law degree, but was working in her father’s successful textile business in a pretend role that would fund her privileged lifestyle. The business was a prominent client of the firm where I was a management consultant, and I was assigned to try to extend our range of services to them.
I began a professional courtship of the charmed daughter, and requisitioned a pair of my firm’s tickets to the U.S. Open tennis championship, a major, late summer event in New York City. She agreed to go and offered to drive us out to the site, near LaGuardia Airport, in Queens. I went to her apartment, about one mile from mine in Manhattan. I was not invited upstairs, but the building was a nice one in a particularly nice neighborhood. She pulled her Jaguar sedan out of the underground garage and we drove off. She spoke of some of her interests and inquired of mine, as she drove her Jaguar sedan, I don’t recall whether I spoke of the Mets and the Rangers as I rode in her Jaguar sedan. However, I seem to remember admitting ignorance of or lack of interest in some of the writings, practices, teachings, philosophies, and techniques of self-knowledge and self-improvement that preoccupied her as she drove her Jaguar sedan. Finally, out of frustration with my obvious obtuseness, or, worse, my willingness to play with the cards I was dealt, she said, as she drove her Jaguar sedan through traffic, "You know, you’re not a very spiritual person."
Whoa! Stop the presses! I got it wrong, somewhat. The story is true, and my identification of the young woman is correct. But, and here’s the BIG BUT, Susan WADLN, the Jaguar owner/operator, did not grow up to be Susan WADLN, the law professor. Just before publishing this latest contribution to human understanding, I searched the Internet. It turns out that there are two women, both 50-60 years old, named Susan WADLN in all of the good old USA, one the law professor, a specialist in international human rights law, and the other, who has written a collection of short stories and a novel using her married name. Armed with this information, I am contemplating reaching out to "my" Susan WADLN and asking if she now drives a Prius and would she send me a copy of one of her books.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
I did not expect to find a new place today. The weather was cold and gloomy and I wasn’t eager to wander about except I wanted to escape from the sad case that I’ve been working on for the last few days. So, I headed east, aiming for my mother’s birthplace at 13 Essex Street. Just before I got there, I went into Sunkiss Bakery, 160 East Broadway, a very narrow, but deep space. Only its first five feet are available for customers who come and go quickly with their takeout orders. For those who linger, there is only a 9" L-shaped ledge without any stools. I lingered, probably the first person in the last decade to do so. In any case, the traffic kept four people busy preparing the food.
The menu is quite large, mostly noodle and rice dishes with assorted toppings. I ordered a pan fried scallion cake ($1.50) and corn and fish cakes (3 for $2). Both were prepared (more reheated than created) on the grill right behind the counter, and emerged quite successfully. The scallion cake was a first-rate scallion pancake, not greasy after cooking on the grill with little or no oil. The corn and fish cakes were 3" in diameter and just shy of ½" deep. They too were lightly grilled and almost delicate in taste and texture.
Before I finished, I got into conversation with a letter carrier who stopped in for a bite. He was a Sikh (adorned with a big beard and a turban) and a vegan, so he had to choose his food with care. I didn’t hesitate recommending the scallion pancake, but there was little else that we could find that was free of animal, dairy or fish contents. I’m sure that he is used to this, and, by the size of his corporation (remember when this was a euphemism for potbelly?), he seemed equipped to continue on his appointed rounds.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
The New York Times has an interesting article chasing down the phrase "the whole nine yards." http://www.nytimes.com/2012/12/27/books/the-whole-nine-yards-seeking-a-phrases-origin.html?hpw. Contrary to the conventional view, I’ve always regarded this phrase as an admission of failure, rather than success. When I first heard it used, some 40 years ago, I immediately connected it to progress on a football field, where it takes ten yards to make a first down, that is to allow the team with the ball to continue its progress towards a score. If you have traversed the whole nine yards, you are still short of a first down. In football, then, you have to turn the ball over to the opposing side without having scored. Upon first hearing the whole nine yards, I thought how wonderfully ironic the phrase was, praising in such robust terms an effort that fell short. When, after some time, I heard the cement-mixer-truck rationale (nine cubic yards is supposedly a truckload), I was unconvinced, and still today I stick to my subversive view of a thwarted effort by mud-encrusted, near-breathless, bone-weary gladiators on any given Sunday. It’s just more real that way.
Friday, December 28, 2012
I read in today’s New York Law Journal that the beds at Riker’s Island, New York City’s main jail complex, "cannot accommodate anyone taller than 5 feet 11, and cause lower back, neck and leg pain" for taller individuals, if a lawsuit against the City can be credited. Thank goodness that I didn’t learn this first hand.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Friday, December 21, 2012
The Name Game II
Monday December 17, 2012
I am essentially an evidence-based person. I like to begin with empirical data before applying the inevitable gloss of ideology and delusion. This morning, all the local meteorological readings were no doubt in the moderate range, temperature, humidity, wind speed. However, it was just crummy out as I walked to the courthouse from the subway station four long blocks to the west. Just damp and raw and yucky. So, I was a little surprised to see a film crew at the foot of the courthouse steps shooting an episode of Law & Order: The Rule of Perpetuities. I did not recognize any acting types among the huddled masses handling sound equipment, lighting equipment, props and significant clipboards. They probably were being sheltered until they were called upon to glare into the camera and say, "But, he wasn’t home at the time."
By lunchtime, there was no trace of law, order, crime, punishment, actors, extras or crew in front of the courthouse. It still wasn’t nice out when I walked over to Tribeca to have lunch with Marty the Super Clerk. Befitting the down-to-earth guys that we are, we ate at Zucker’s Bagels & Smoked Fish, 146 Chambers Street, a creditable enterprise, though not in the league of Ess-A-Bagel, once my home away from home.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
The weather improved today, warmer, drier, less wind, although it rained fiercely overnight. I had the pleasure of having lunch with Margarita K., Stuyvesant ‘07, Harvard, ‘11, now living and working in downtown Manhattan. While I lack her knowledge of so many things given my modest background of Stuyvesant ‘58, CCNY ‘62, I have home court advantage in Chinatown. Therefore, we proceeded to Peking Duck House, 28 Mott Street. Since there were only the two of us, we could not order the Peking duck dinner, which includes three appetizers, soup, choice of two main dishes and dessert, in addition to the duck, at $29 per person for four people minimum. Every extra body above four brings on another main course. Instead, we had our own duck for $45. It was a good duck, but, inevitably, a fatty duck, so I have to deny it a place on our moveable feast. I'm beginning to believe that a tea-smoked duck may be a better choice for our notional banquet because its preparation dries out the duck considerably, leaving a pungent flavor though that does not appeal to everyone.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
As a native New Yorker and a devoted puzzle fan, I’m embarrassed to admit that I was once (long ago) unable to quickly supply the next number in the sequence 14-18-23-28-34. I had the same feeling of inadequacy this morning as I approached the courthouse from the northwest instead of the southwest, as I usually do. Standing at the corner of Lafayette Street and Leonard Street, I gazed up at the municipal building that covers the entire block from Lafayette Street to Centre Street, Worth Street to Leonard Street. Its proper address is 125 Worth Street, and it is currently occupied by the New York City Health and Hospitals Corporation and the Department of Health. But, my interest was not aroused by anything about the building’s current operation. Rather, along the top, just below the roof line, a series of names was deeply engraved in two-foot high letters – FARR, HOWARD, LISTER, NIGHTINGALE, SHATTUCK, LIND, SIMS, MORTON, BARD, SEMMELWEIS, WELCH, SMITH, MOSES, JENNER, RAMAZZINI, HIPPOCRATES, PARACELSUS, PINEL, DALTON, BIGGS, GORGAS, REED.
Who are these people? Since their names circle the building on all four sides, without an obvious beginning or end, we don’t have to supply the next in the sequence, that is if we can find any logical connection among them. I propose that the best way to deal with this conundrum is through rapid response, without external assistance. Who comes to mind when you hear the name? Here’s my contribution: Jamie Farr, Cpl. Klinger on MASH; Ryan Howard, Phillies first baseman; Joseph Lister, British medical neat freak; Florence Nightingale, heroic nurse; pass; Jenny Lind, the Swedish Nightingale (no relation to Florence); Phil Sims, New York Giants quarterback; Thruston Morton, former Republican Senator from Kentucky; Bard, Shakespeare’s nickname; pass; Robert Welch, founder of the John Birch Society; Maggie Smith, English actress; Moses, big Jew; Bruce Jenner, former Olympian; pass; Hippocrates, oath giver; pass; pass; Timothy Dalton, film actor; pass; pass; Willis Reed, former captain of the New York Knicks. While not everyone of these folks deserves immortalization atop a New York City municipal building, I think it’s a pretty good crowd, on the whole. I welcome your suggestions.
At lunchtime today, my department (or at least some of its more convivial members) held our annual White Elephant Party, a chance to offload some untreasured treasures, at the risk of gaining ownership of some more undesired item. I probably could stock such an endeavor entirely on my own, with a collection of unwantables stretching back over many years. I admit that my collection of hidden ge(r)ms is not merely the result of misguided generosity on the part of others. I am not easy to please – you would never guess. First of all, I was a bachelor for 23 years, between matrimonial adventures, providing for myself. I had to clothe myself, furnish and decorate an apartment myself, and find ways and means to amuse myself. Over 23 years, I was able to satisfy most of my material needs, and many of my whimsical ones as well. Second, for much of that time, I was gainfully employed, earning on the average more than the average. I had no excuse to deny myself reasonably-priced goods. Third, I’m picky. The net result is that many well-intentioned gifts to me were either quickly outplaced, or parked in the deep recesses of some closet. Accordingly, I welcome our annual White Elephant Party and have encouraged more frequent gatherings of the sort. But, you may ask, don’t you emerge from each such event with another space-occupying, dust-collecting, taste-defying eye sore? Aha! Allow Grandpa Alan to tell you his secret: Forget to pick up and carry your selection out of the room after issuing the necessary Oohs and Aahs upon first seeing it.
In any case, I did not go out to lunch.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
I realize that this is very short notice, but Mount Rtanj, in a mountainous region of Serbia, is considered to be a good place to survive the end of the world tomorrow. According to local lore, mystical powers attend to the pyramid-shaped mountain after it swallowed a castle belonging to a well-to-do sorcerer, trapping him inside. However, the local hotel is supposedly fully booked for the weekend.
In case sleeping outdoors during Serbian winter nights is not the way you would like to face the end of the world, there still may be room in or near Bugarach, a village in the French Pyrenees, which also harbors a magic mountain. Of course, while either destination is off the beaten path, just think that you can put all your travel-related charges on a credit card, even fly first class, and not be around to pay the bill.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Is there anybody out there?
I am essentially an evidence-based person. I like to begin with empirical data before applying the inevitable gloss of ideology and delusion. This morning, all the local meteorological readings were no doubt in the moderate range, temperature, humidity, wind speed. However, it was just crummy out as I walked to the courthouse from the subway station four long blocks to the west. Just damp and raw and yucky. So, I was a little surprised to see a film crew at the foot of the courthouse steps shooting an episode of Law & Order: The Rule of Perpetuities. I did not recognize any acting types among the huddled masses handling sound equipment, lighting equipment, props and significant clipboards. They probably were being sheltered until they were called upon to glare into the camera and say, "But, he wasn’t home at the time."
By lunchtime, there was no trace of law, order, crime, punishment, actors, extras or crew in front of the courthouse. It still wasn’t nice out when I walked over to Tribeca to have lunch with Marty the Super Clerk. Befitting the down-to-earth guys that we are, we ate at Zucker’s Bagels & Smoked Fish, 146 Chambers Street, a creditable enterprise, though not in the league of Ess-A-Bagel, once my home away from home.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
The weather improved today, warmer, drier, less wind, although it rained fiercely overnight. I had the pleasure of having lunch with Margarita K., Stuyvesant ‘07, Harvard, ‘11, now living and working in downtown Manhattan. While I lack her knowledge of so many things given my modest background of Stuyvesant ‘58, CCNY ‘62, I have home court advantage in Chinatown. Therefore, we proceeded to Peking Duck House, 28 Mott Street. Since there were only the two of us, we could not order the Peking duck dinner, which includes three appetizers, soup, choice of two main dishes and dessert, in addition to the duck, at $29 per person for four people minimum. Every extra body above four brings on another main course. Instead, we had our own duck for $45. It was a good duck, but, inevitably, a fatty duck, so I have to deny it a place on our moveable feast. I'm beginning to believe that a tea-smoked duck may be a better choice for our notional banquet because its preparation dries out the duck considerably, leaving a pungent flavor though that does not appeal to everyone.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
As a native New Yorker and a devoted puzzle fan, I’m embarrassed to admit that I was once (long ago) unable to quickly supply the next number in the sequence 14-18-23-28-34. I had the same feeling of inadequacy this morning as I approached the courthouse from the northwest instead of the southwest, as I usually do. Standing at the corner of Lafayette Street and Leonard Street, I gazed up at the municipal building that covers the entire block from Lafayette Street to Centre Street, Worth Street to Leonard Street. Its proper address is 125 Worth Street, and it is currently occupied by the New York City Health and Hospitals Corporation and the Department of Health. But, my interest was not aroused by anything about the building’s current operation. Rather, along the top, just below the roof line, a series of names was deeply engraved in two-foot high letters – FARR, HOWARD, LISTER, NIGHTINGALE, SHATTUCK, LIND, SIMS, MORTON, BARD, SEMMELWEIS, WELCH, SMITH, MOSES, JENNER, RAMAZZINI, HIPPOCRATES, PARACELSUS, PINEL, DALTON, BIGGS, GORGAS, REED.
Who are these people? Since their names circle the building on all four sides, without an obvious beginning or end, we don’t have to supply the next in the sequence, that is if we can find any logical connection among them. I propose that the best way to deal with this conundrum is through rapid response, without external assistance. Who comes to mind when you hear the name? Here’s my contribution: Jamie Farr, Cpl. Klinger on MASH; Ryan Howard, Phillies first baseman; Joseph Lister, British medical neat freak; Florence Nightingale, heroic nurse; pass; Jenny Lind, the Swedish Nightingale (no relation to Florence); Phil Sims, New York Giants quarterback; Thruston Morton, former Republican Senator from Kentucky; Bard, Shakespeare’s nickname; pass; Robert Welch, founder of the John Birch Society; Maggie Smith, English actress; Moses, big Jew; Bruce Jenner, former Olympian; pass; Hippocrates, oath giver; pass; pass; Timothy Dalton, film actor; pass; pass; Willis Reed, former captain of the New York Knicks. While not everyone of these folks deserves immortalization atop a New York City municipal building, I think it’s a pretty good crowd, on the whole. I welcome your suggestions.
At lunchtime today, my department (or at least some of its more convivial members) held our annual White Elephant Party, a chance to offload some untreasured treasures, at the risk of gaining ownership of some more undesired item. I probably could stock such an endeavor entirely on my own, with a collection of unwantables stretching back over many years. I admit that my collection of hidden ge(r)ms is not merely the result of misguided generosity on the part of others. I am not easy to please – you would never guess. First of all, I was a bachelor for 23 years, between matrimonial adventures, providing for myself. I had to clothe myself, furnish and decorate an apartment myself, and find ways and means to amuse myself. Over 23 years, I was able to satisfy most of my material needs, and many of my whimsical ones as well. Second, for much of that time, I was gainfully employed, earning on the average more than the average. I had no excuse to deny myself reasonably-priced goods. Third, I’m picky. The net result is that many well-intentioned gifts to me were either quickly outplaced, or parked in the deep recesses of some closet. Accordingly, I welcome our annual White Elephant Party and have encouraged more frequent gatherings of the sort. But, you may ask, don’t you emerge from each such event with another space-occupying, dust-collecting, taste-defying eye sore? Aha! Allow Grandpa Alan to tell you his secret: Forget to pick up and carry your selection out of the room after issuing the necessary Oohs and Aahs upon first seeing it.
In any case, I did not go out to lunch.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
I realize that this is very short notice, but Mount Rtanj, in a mountainous region of Serbia, is considered to be a good place to survive the end of the world tomorrow. According to local lore, mystical powers attend to the pyramid-shaped mountain after it swallowed a castle belonging to a well-to-do sorcerer, trapping him inside. However, the local hotel is supposedly fully booked for the weekend.
In case sleeping outdoors during Serbian winter nights is not the way you would like to face the end of the world, there still may be room in or near Bugarach, a village in the French Pyrenees, which also harbors a magic mountain. Of course, while either destination is off the beaten path, just think that you can put all your travel-related charges on a credit card, even fly first class, and not be around to pay the bill.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Is there anybody out there?
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Body and Soul
Monday December 10, 2012
I was in the computer industry
for 25 years until it departed me in 1994. My interest was in business
application development, software and supporting methods and procedures
to assist organizations in doing their work better, faster. The major
lesson I learned from those years can be captured under the title of the
Roumanian Invoice Problem. I’m reminded of this by an article in the
business section of the Sunday Times under the headline Billion Dollar
Flop, describing the US Air Force’s attempt to introduce a new
computerized logistics program. After six years and one billion dollars
of our money, your money, and even Mitt Romney’s money, the effort is
being abandoned.
I give it that label, because, in the mid 1980s, I consulted with a large local manufacturing company that produced electrical parts. Not diodes and transistors, but extension cords and light bulb sockets, items that wound up in ordinary households. It was a very successful business, about 60-years old at the time, with thousands of inventory items and thousands of customers all over the world, including Roumania.
At that time, Roumania was still part of the Soviet bloc, ruled by a Communist despot. The government, accordingly, tried to exercise tight control over commerce, especially incoming goods. It probably feared the bourgeois threat posed by bubble gum, Playboy magazine and, most dangerously, rock’n’roll records. Therefore, the Roumanian authorities demanded precise documentation on any shipment of commercial goods into the country, far more detail than would be needed in the normal course of buying and selling.
While I was engaged by the company’s top management, my immediate dealings were with the company’s top computer people, who were very jealous of their domain, and had little interest in seeing an outsider introduce change under their noses. When I identified an existing automated billing, inventory and accounting system that came close to the company’s stated needs, and seemed able to handle their substantial transaction volume efficiently, the computer guys were adamant. "It won’t handle the Roumanian invoices." They voiced their objections to top management and our project was abandoned, because of the likely time and expense to modify the existing system for this special need.
I don’t take defeat gracefully, which is consistent with my lack of grace in almost any endeavor. After I learned that the Roumanian Invoice Problem was a deal-breaker, I dug into the issue. How great was the need to automate Roumanian invoices? Well, the computer guys told me, there were maybe two a month. This company issued thousands of invoices monthly, hundreds each work day. While I would be guessing about the economic value of the Roumanian trade for that company, somehow I don’t believe that the number of extension cords and light bulb sockets going into Roumania in the mid 1980s was critical to the company’s profitability. A clerk with a typewriter could have dealt with the Roumanian Invoice Problem in less than an hour each month, and the rest of the company could have migrated into a new computer system with far-reaching benefits. The good news was that we did not try to adapt the computer program to the Roumanian Invoice Problem, which would have produced a result akin to the Air Force’s, although not at taxpayers’ expense.
The moral of the story: Don’t sweat the small stuff. If you are serious about managing a sizeable operation, or even a personal relationship, figure out what’s important and invest your resources accordingly.
I entered Famous Sichuan, 10 Pell Street, thinking about the tea-smoked duck attractively-pictured in the window. Once seated, however, I realized that I wasn’t that hungry and really needed a companion to assist me in comparing and contrasting this tea-smoked duck with Grand Sichuan’s. Instead, I ordered one of the lunch specials at $5.95, up from $5.50 when I visited on March 12, 2010. I got a small bowl of won ton soup, a small dish of cold, diced vegetables in hot Szechuan (Sichuan) pepper oil, and beef chow fun. Another dish would have come with rice, as well. The portion of chow fun was small, but it contained pea pods, carrots, yellow onions and green onions along with more tender, freshly-cooked beef than noodles. That made it a very cost-effective dish. While the noodles could have been a bit more al dente, they took a back seat to the beef.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
The most typical spam e-mail
that I usuallty receive offers me means to increase the size of my body,
at least in part. Lately, however, the trend has been the opposite, to
shrinkage. I just deleted messages offering to share the weight loss
secrets of Oprah Winfrey, Ellen DeGeneres, Jennifer Aniston, Beyoncé
Knowles, Angelina Jolie, Katy Perry, Jessica Alba, Salma Hayek, Reese
Witherspoon and Britney Spears. I guess that I should be bothered that
so many famous people are aware of my weight problem. That might
explain the absence of invitations to really slick parties in my
mailbox.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Happy birthday, Harold Gotthelf.
The book is a scholarly attempt to portray the development of the Jews outside of a purely religious frame of reference. In doing so, it throws out names, places and ideas at a rate that would leave the thumb of the most knowledgeable Jeopardy contestant raw and bloody from pressing the buzzer with recognition. I managed to ask a couple of semi-intelligent questions in the group, and learned a few things, as well. It was very hard work, however, and I might go back to my own version of Jewish history, that is, Jewish history began in 1903 when my father was born.
Friday, December 14, 2012
The Law Secretaries and Law
Assistants Collegium, our local successor to the International Workers
of the World, is holding its Holiday Party (get that "Holiday" Party)
today, at lunchtime. The spread of food includes a Kosher table, just
in case you need an incentive to maintain the War on Christmas.
PS -- We have a new friend who lives in Newtown, Connecticut, and has an apartment near us for weekend visits. When I heard the terrible news about the school shooting, I called her New York telephone number and then her Connecticut number seeking reassurance that she was safe and sound. When I only reached voicemail, I sent her a simple e-mail, which evoked an immediate comforting response. I know that the horror was not lessened because this dear woman was safe, but it was a reminder that the mosaic of our lives has so many pieces, some very ugly when seen up close. I hope that those people directly affected by this terrible event will eventually be provided with at least some bright colors and beautiful images to incorporate as they move forward and look back.
Friday, December 7, 2012
So Much Food, So Little Time
Monday December 3, 2012
As we all know, December 21, 2012 will be the end of the world. On that day, the 5,125 year Long Count of the Mayan Calendar will run out and that’s that. Facing those cataclysmic circumstances, I won’t apologize for being both ethnocentric and egocentric. First, I’m trying to figure out whether the end of the world on December 21, 2012 is good for the Jews. You see, Hanukkah this year begins on Saturday night December 8 and ends on December 16, 2012. In other words, our celebration will be over 5 days before the end of the world. Jews will have given their children and loved ones gifts for 8 days with so little time left for them to enjoy these things. I doubt if the thank you notes will even be in the mailbox by December 21. On the other hands, our Christian brethren will be thwarted from celebrating Christmas on December 25, 4 days after the end of the world. That means that they can, if they wish, defer shopping for gifts and never face the hassle and expense of satisfying the expectations of myriad family and friends. We urban dwellers, of all religions, may prudently hold off on tipping our doormen, mail deliverers, hair dressers, dog-walkers, babysitters, garage attendants and newspaper deliverers who serve us during the year. On the other hand, anyone can adopt a profligate approach and let it all go before December 21. Such hedonism would obviously transcend race, color, creed or national origin. Can you imagine a Jew eating a BLT seated with a Mormon drinking a cup of coffee?
Going beyond the ethnocentric elements of the end of the world, I have to turn to the egocentric dimension. Specifically, our beautiful daughter-in-law’s birthday is December 21. Please understand that I have always been dedicated to celebrating holidays, birthdays, anniversaries and other special events, precisely on the correct date. My mother and my friend Burt always sent me birthday cards arriving 5 days or so early. Without pause, I put the cards aside until the right day and opened them when they should have been opened and then acknowledged them accordingly. I’m not sure of the exact schedule for the end of the world, morning, noon or night, so I am reluctant to send a gift to our daughter-in-law that might go unopened, or worse undelivered.
Meanwhile, you got to eat. Hua Xia Restaurant, 49 Division Street, is a bright, new restaurant with 11 round tables, ranging from 8 tops to 12 tops, all with pink cloths. When I walked in, only one table had patrons, 1 man, 4 women and 1 baby. Two women employees sat at another table shelling peas. One man sat at the front register, but joined two burly Chinese men who came in about 15 minutes after I did.
Besides a pot of tea, a small dish of salted peanuts was given to me along with the menu. Aside from the occasional goose web and pork stomach, the menu was pretty familiar. I ordered House Special Wor Yee Mein ($12.95), with the expectation of getting some form of noodles, and I did. I was served the largest plate of noodles that I ever got not from the hands of an Italian or Jewish mother. It was mei fun with egg, shrimp, clams, scallions, carrots, bean sprouts, sesame seeds and some other finely-diced or slivered ingredients. It was so good that I ate a little over half the portion, which normally would feed three people.
One anomaly that I didn’t explore was the menu calling the place W.C.J (sic) Seafood Restaurant, while the big, new sign in front says Hua Xia, which, according to a little research, means things Chinese or Chinese civilization.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
I admit to a long-standing adherence to the pinko/folksinging/eat-the-rich school of political thought. However, a letter in this week’s issue of The New Yorker has given me pause. The writer was responding to an essay on climate change, expressing pessimism about the prospect for meaningful action in the current political milieu. I was in awe of the writer’s unreflective populism. I believe that the last paragraph of the letter alone could well serve as the basis for a full semester’s examination of American political thought. It reads:
"We need a true democracy in which communities decide what is the most sensible way to satisfy their energy needs, without the interference of people and institutions that are primarily interested in profit."
Some suggested topics for class discussion:
Shall our society function as diverse political communities or one political community? Should climate change be addressed by communities responsive to (local) community needs? Should climate change, and similar fact-based issues, be subject to popular decision making?
Can a true democracy limit the polity? How and when, if ever, should political participation be limited?
Why exclude people and institutions (institutions are people, too, my friend) because of their interest in profit? Shall West Virginia coal miners and/or mining company shareholders be allowed to interfere with our energy decision making?
Meanwhile, I’m going on sabbatical.
Friday, December 7, 2012
I’m having a problem keeping a promise that I made a couple of weeks ago to identify my moveable feast. I had little difficulty making it through the fried crispy noodles, soup, egg roll and scallion pancake. Those are one-man operations. But, now that I’ve gotten to main courses, I’m having trouble going it alone. For instance, while I’ve had an excellent beef with orange flavor at Peking Duck House, 28 Mott Street, which presents its own problem because I’m limiting each restaurant to one dish and Peking Duck House, not surprisingly, does a very good Peking duck, there are so many places where I haven’t tried it yet. If you came with me, we could order beef with orange and say roast chicken with garlic sauce, another dish worth memorializing at its best. That would cut my decision time in half and the world would be a better place, at least until December 21st.
As we all know, December 21, 2012 will be the end of the world. On that day, the 5,125 year Long Count of the Mayan Calendar will run out and that’s that. Facing those cataclysmic circumstances, I won’t apologize for being both ethnocentric and egocentric. First, I’m trying to figure out whether the end of the world on December 21, 2012 is good for the Jews. You see, Hanukkah this year begins on Saturday night December 8 and ends on December 16, 2012. In other words, our celebration will be over 5 days before the end of the world. Jews will have given their children and loved ones gifts for 8 days with so little time left for them to enjoy these things. I doubt if the thank you notes will even be in the mailbox by December 21. On the other hands, our Christian brethren will be thwarted from celebrating Christmas on December 25, 4 days after the end of the world. That means that they can, if they wish, defer shopping for gifts and never face the hassle and expense of satisfying the expectations of myriad family and friends. We urban dwellers, of all religions, may prudently hold off on tipping our doormen, mail deliverers, hair dressers, dog-walkers, babysitters, garage attendants and newspaper deliverers who serve us during the year. On the other hand, anyone can adopt a profligate approach and let it all go before December 21. Such hedonism would obviously transcend race, color, creed or national origin. Can you imagine a Jew eating a BLT seated with a Mormon drinking a cup of coffee?
Going beyond the ethnocentric elements of the end of the world, I have to turn to the egocentric dimension. Specifically, our beautiful daughter-in-law’s birthday is December 21. Please understand that I have always been dedicated to celebrating holidays, birthdays, anniversaries and other special events, precisely on the correct date. My mother and my friend Burt always sent me birthday cards arriving 5 days or so early. Without pause, I put the cards aside until the right day and opened them when they should have been opened and then acknowledged them accordingly. I’m not sure of the exact schedule for the end of the world, morning, noon or night, so I am reluctant to send a gift to our daughter-in-law that might go unopened, or worse undelivered.
Meanwhile, you got to eat. Hua Xia Restaurant, 49 Division Street, is a bright, new restaurant with 11 round tables, ranging from 8 tops to 12 tops, all with pink cloths. When I walked in, only one table had patrons, 1 man, 4 women and 1 baby. Two women employees sat at another table shelling peas. One man sat at the front register, but joined two burly Chinese men who came in about 15 minutes after I did.
Besides a pot of tea, a small dish of salted peanuts was given to me along with the menu. Aside from the occasional goose web and pork stomach, the menu was pretty familiar. I ordered House Special Wor Yee Mein ($12.95), with the expectation of getting some form of noodles, and I did. I was served the largest plate of noodles that I ever got not from the hands of an Italian or Jewish mother. It was mei fun with egg, shrimp, clams, scallions, carrots, bean sprouts, sesame seeds and some other finely-diced or slivered ingredients. It was so good that I ate a little over half the portion, which normally would feed three people.
One anomaly that I didn’t explore was the menu calling the place W.C.J (sic) Seafood Restaurant, while the big, new sign in front says Hua Xia, which, according to a little research, means things Chinese or Chinese civilization.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
I admit to a long-standing adherence to the pinko/folksinging/eat-the-rich school of political thought. However, a letter in this week’s issue of The New Yorker has given me pause. The writer was responding to an essay on climate change, expressing pessimism about the prospect for meaningful action in the current political milieu. I was in awe of the writer’s unreflective populism. I believe that the last paragraph of the letter alone could well serve as the basis for a full semester’s examination of American political thought. It reads:
"We need a true democracy in which communities decide what is the most sensible way to satisfy their energy needs, without the interference of people and institutions that are primarily interested in profit."
Some suggested topics for class discussion:
Shall our society function as diverse political communities or one political community? Should climate change be addressed by communities responsive to (local) community needs? Should climate change, and similar fact-based issues, be subject to popular decision making?
Can a true democracy limit the polity? How and when, if ever, should political participation be limited?
Why exclude people and institutions (institutions are people, too, my friend) because of their interest in profit? Shall West Virginia coal miners and/or mining company shareholders be allowed to interfere with our energy decision making?
Meanwhile, I’m going on sabbatical.
Friday, December 7, 2012
I’m having a problem keeping a promise that I made a couple of weeks ago to identify my moveable feast. I had little difficulty making it through the fried crispy noodles, soup, egg roll and scallion pancake. Those are one-man operations. But, now that I’ve gotten to main courses, I’m having trouble going it alone. For instance, while I’ve had an excellent beef with orange flavor at Peking Duck House, 28 Mott Street, which presents its own problem because I’m limiting each restaurant to one dish and Peking Duck House, not surprisingly, does a very good Peking duck, there are so many places where I haven’t tried it yet. If you came with me, we could order beef with orange and say roast chicken with garlic sauce, another dish worth memorializing at its best. That would cut my decision time in half and the world would be a better place, at least until December 21st.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Report From Israel
Shira R. is the daughter-in-law of friends of ours. She and her husband Daniel, observant Jews, emigrated to Israel, and are raising their family in a southwestern section away from disputed territory, yet within range of rockets from Gaza. She has kindly permitted me to reprint her unedited diary for the period November 13-19. I found it to be a fascinating account of a family under challenging conditions.
Tuesday:
I never log onto my facebook account, but someone has sent
me a link that can only be viewed by clicking through facebook. When I log on, I smile at several people’s
status “My country is under attack. More
than 100 rockets have been fired at Israel over the past 48 hours. Didn’t hear about it? Don’t worry, you’ll hear about it from the
world when we retaliate.” It seems
tongue-in-cheek. Israel isn’t going to
retaliate. It has endured missile fire
for years and is currently worried about its Northern border with Syria.
Wednesday:
We receive a text message that rehearsals for Shabbat Irgun
(B’nai Akiva’s biggest shabbaton of the year, the culmination of a month’s
worth of activities and preparations) have been cancelled due to the security
situation. We check the internet and
discover that Israel has indeed retaliated by assassinating Ahmed Jabari, the
chief architect of Hamas’ terrorist activities against Israel. Bracing for Hamas’ response, Israel cancels
school and gan on Thursday for anyone living within 40 km of Gaza.
My five daughters all pile into the mamad to sleep. It is a fun “sister sleepover,” but soon it
turns contentious as some want to sleep while others want to talk. It is crowded and they are tired. It is after 10:00p.m. before they are all asleep.
Thursday:
Daniel is at shul and I am preparing to take Shadow for a
walk. Suddenly, the air raid siren
sounds. My daughters already know what
this means. They immediately head for
the mamad with me at their heels.
Miryam, age 12, gets upset because I have left the dog downstairs. I promise that we will bring him into the
mamad if there are further sirens. We
hear huge booms. We sit in our safe room
for the requisite ten minutes, reading Cinderella and Beauty and the Beast. When we emerge, my daughters are shaken. They do not want me to leave to walk the dog
so I wait for Daniel’s return.
Our community has organized an impromptu trip out of the red
zone to the Biblical Zoo in Jerusalem, a welcome diversion. 1500 local residents set out for the zoo in
30 chartered buses. At the zoo, a
reporter interviews me about living within missile range. He wants to know if my family in the U.S. is worried about us. (Duh?!)
He asks if the missiles make me want to return “home” to the U.S. “Just the opposite,” I respond. “The missiles only strengthen my resolve to
live in this Land.”
The reporter interviews Miryam. He asks if she is scared to go home. She says she is nervous, but that home is
home. She explains “in America we used
to have snow days when we didn’t go to school.
Here we have war days.”
When we get home we learn that three Israelis were killed by
a rocket in Kiryat Malachi. Kiryat
Malachi is the closest city to our community, a seven minute drive, and the
place where we do our grocery shopping and other business. One of the victims is Mirah Sharf. The name seems so familiar to me, but I can’t
figure out why.
Friday:
Daniel and I are both
horrified by the New York Times’ coverage of Operation Amud Anan. Daniel writes a letter to the editor. Mary from the NY Times calls to verify that
our community has been under fire. They
publish the letter.
School and gan are still closed. Another mother organizes a parsha party. My 3rd graders refuse to walk by
themselves. I walk them to the party
and ask the host to call me when the girls are ready to leave. “Usually, I’m not so paranoid” I
explain. He understands.
From my roof porch I see my neighbor leave in his army
uniform. His wife and children are not
home. They are probably in Tiberias with
her parents, waiting for Abba to return safely from reserve duty. I email my friend. Her husband has also been called up. Our shul sends out an email that they are
setting up an emergency committee to help women and children whose fathers and
husbands have been called up.
My daughters are happy to idle the day away at home, but I
prefer that they not experience more sirens than necessary and I bundle them
into the car and head for Bilu Center, a nearby open-air mall that is outside
of the red zone and has advertised that its kiddie rides and Gymboree will be
free today for southern residents. I am
overwhelmed by the generosity of friends, strangers and organizations. Already, we have received three Shabbat
invitations from total strangers who live outside of the red line. We have been showered with offers of free
daytrips and reduced hotel stays. The
country is opening its arms to the children of the South.
While the girls bungee jump on trampolines, we hear constant booms in
the distance. Uzi, the trampoline owner,
explains that we’re hearing the explosions in Ashdod. Two visitors from the North are surprised at
how close the rockets are. A woman nearby
shouts that there is a siren in Tel Aviv.
Tel Aviv. We all said it could
happen, but we are in shock that it actually has.
On the way home we are stuck behind a massive flatbed truck carrying
a huge tank to the front line. The truck
moves slowly and I am in a rush to get home before Shabbat. We pass the tank and the girls are amazed by
its size. They want to know how you go
to the bathroom in a tank. I explain
that there is a hatch in the bottom that can open to the ground. They laugh, but not because it is funny.
We return home an hour before Shabbat candle lighting. My husband hasn’t finished cooking, the house
is in chaos, and everyone needs to shower.
My husband confirms that we missed several sirens while at Bilu
Center. It was worth the late afternoon
rush, I think to myself. We are cooking
and cleaning like crazy. It is 20
minutes before candle lighting and we are trying to finish our
preparations. My 7 year old is in the
shower. The siren pierces the air. It isn’t the pre-Candle lighting siren that
gives us a 20 minute warning. We race to
the mamad. My daughter is in her towel
with shampoo in her hair. We laugh with
her. We worry that the schnitzel will
burn on the stovetop and that the final dish won’t make it into the oven with
enough time left to cook. Daniel leaves
the mamad a few minutes early to salvage dinner. The rest of us wait ten minutes and emerge
from the safe room to finish what we can.
I light Shabbat candles and wait for the peace and
tranquility to descend, as it always does.
Before I finish the blessing, the siren sounds again. I grab the prayer text and we rush back to
the mamad. My 12 year old is upset
because Daniel is not in the mamad. We
didn’t leave the light on in the mamad because it is also a bedroom. When we pull the outer door shut and close
the shutters, the room is pitch black.
At first, the girls aren’t scared.
We sing lecha dodi together loudly.
Then, one of the girls is petrified and turns on the light. (This will be rectified by a visit from the
local Philippino later…)
Daniel returns from shul.
He reports that it was extremely empty, as anticipated. Many have been called up to miluim. Others have gone to family or friends outside
the red line. (Later, those who went to
Jerusalem will report that they, too, heard a siren on Friday night and that
they should have stayed home where at least they have a mamad in the house.)
We make Kiddush and hamotzi and start to eat. The siren sounds again. Back to the mamad. We know that we are relatively far from the
Gaza epicenter, that my daughters’ classmates from Ashdod and Kiryat Malachi
are faring much worse. We live near the
Tel Nof airforce base and the sound of jets is constant.
For the third night in a row, all five girls crowd into the
mamad to sleep so that we don’t have to wake them up in the middle of the night
in the event of a siren.
Shabbat
There is no mamad in our shul and the girls are afraid to
walk there and back. I wait for Daniel
to return from the early hashkama minyan and then I walk the dog. Someone must be home with the girls at all times.
It is 8:00a.m. My 3
year old is musing while sitting on the toilet.
“Ima, why isn’t there an azaka (siren) now?” My heart sinks. Have the sirens already become such a part of
her consciousness that she questions their absence? I tread lightly. “What do you mean, sweetie? We don’t always have azakot, just
sometimes.” “I want there to be an
azakah” she replies. “Why
sweetheart?” “Because I want to be all
together in the room.” My heart soars
and for a moment I nurture the hope that the warmth of our family and the power
of community can turn traumatic memories into rosy ones.
The girls and I all daven.
My 7 year old tells me that she is saying an extra chapter of Psalms to
pray for the safety of the soldiers.
Homefront command has stationed dozens of soldiers in a
gymnasium in our community. By now, they
have called up 75,000 reservists.
Stationed with us is a search and rescue unit. They want them close to the front, if
necessary. Although our yishuv is
generally closed to traffic on Shabbat, this is a milchemet mitzvah, an
obligatory defensive war to protect the Land and People of Israel, so travel is
permitted. Some soldiers arrive on
Friday. Others arrive in the middle of
the night. By the time they wake up,
there is a line of families waiting to host them – religious and secular
soldiers – for Shabbat meals.
Shabbat passes quietly.
We host a family of 8 for lunch and the children enjoy each other’s
company. The girls are too anxious to go
to the park or play outside in the street as is their usual custom on Shabbat
afternoon. B’nai Akiva’s Shabbat Irgun
has been cancelled due to the security situation. Homefront command does not want groups of
more than 100 children congregating outside of a mamad. My daughter is extremely disappointed. I try to put it in perspective for her. I tell her that I understand how important
this is to her, but that it will be rescheduled. Meanwhile, people are dying. She knows I am right, but she is still
disappointed. She and her friends have
been practicing their dance performance for weeks. They have been preparing to paint the walls
and stay up all night and graduate to the next “shevet” in the movement.
My friend tells me that Mirah Sharf was a 26 year old,
pregnant, mother of three, a Chabad emissary in India and that, strikingly, she
was killed on the anniversary of the Holtzbergs’ death. (The Holtzbergs were the Chabad emissaries in
Mumbai who were murdered by terrorists last year.) All of a sudden, I realize why the name Mirah
Sharf is so familiar to me. I am heading
to India with my parents for two weeks and I have been in email contact with
Mirah several times. When Shabbat ends I
open my email and re-read Mirah’s friendly invitation to come to the Chabad
house when I am there. Now, her words
are eerie and I am profoundly sad. I
can’t believe I have three emails in my inbox from the stranger who was just
murdered in Kiryat Malachi.
The youth groups set up a “pinah chamah” for the soldiers
stationed in the gymnasium. For bonding
purposes, the army doesn’t want the soldiers spread to different host homes, so
families bring a constant supply of home-baked goods, hot drinks, and treats to
the soldiers. The soldiers are
overwhelmed by the support and love shown by the community. It is one of the times in Israeli life when
religious and non-religious communities transcend their differences and
appreciate what each has to offer the other.
My 9 year old’s best friend sleeps over as she has so many
times before. She awakens in the night
and is scared. She can’t sleep and is on
the verge of tears. She wants to go
home. For the first time ever, her
father picks her up in the middle of the night.
Sunday
School and gan are still cancelled, but once again the
community has organized a trip outside of the red zone for the children. Miryam goes to Jerusalem with her middle
school and I accompany the younger four to Keftzuba, a children’s Gymboree and
funland. In the car, my 7 year twins
debate whether this trip is really far enough out of the red zone to keep us
safe. One argues that Iran has given
Hamas missiles that can reach farther into Israel and that sirens in Jerusalem
and Tel Aviv mean that keftzuba is still in range. Her twin sister insists that the Iron Dome
system can be deployed, if necessary, and that we will be safe at
Keftzuba. I wonder if their 7 year old
counterparts in the U.S. are talking about current events or Barbie Dolls.
In Keftzuba we meet youth from Sderot and Ashdod, as well as
a group of adults with special needs who are all in wheelchairs. I wonder how long it takes them to get to the
mamad. In our community, we have 64
seconds from the time that we hear the siren to get into the mamad before the
rocket hits. In communities closer to
Gaza, the amount of time is far shorter.
As the girls jump and play, I set up my computer and try to
work – something that has been difficult these past few days. I think of the many thousands of other
parents and employees who have been unable to work since Wednesday. My boss is understanding, but I feel the
internal pressure of a work-aholic to perform regardless of the
circumstances. I succeed in writing 1.5
grant proposals.
From Keftzuba we head to Jerusalem for a performance of Anne
of Green Gables (in Hebrew) at the Jerusalem Theater. The actors have donated a special show for
children of the South. At the end of the
show, one of the characters tells the children how happy the cast is to be able
to do something to make the children happy.
He encourages them and wishes them strength in the coming difficult
days. While we are enjoying the show,
tens of thousands of soldiers are amassing on the border of Gaza preparing for
a possible ground invasion.
When we get home we see that three cement public shelters
are being delivered on flatbeds.
Hundreds of families, all former residents of Gush Katif, live in
caravans in our community. The caravans
do not have safe rooms so external, communal safe rooms are being
delivered. I reflect on the irony of the
situation. The families of Gush Katif
left their homes so that Israel could have peace in Gaza. Now, seven years later, they live in Southern
and Central Israel and are being fired on from their former home.
Miryam beats us home from Jerusalem. She says that we missed two sirens. Her younger sister hugs her and apologizes
for getting home late so that Miryam had to be in the mamad by herself.
Monday
It is my turn to go to work and Daniel’s turn to
parent. Once again, he takes the girls
on a community tiyul outside of the red line to a park in Modiin. They boat and get their faces painted. They get sparkly tattoos on their arms and they
succeed in escaping their reality.
As I make the long, two-hour drive to my office in the
North, I listen incessantly to galei tzahal army radio. It seems that the army had mistaken
intelligence and bombed the wrong house, killing 9 women and children instead
of the sought-after terrorist. High
ranking officers are apologizing on the air.
Mistakes happen in war, but the entire country feels deflated. Nobody, and certainly not the soldiers, want
to kill civilians. I wonder if our Gazan
counterparts are as upset by the civilian casualties caused by the rockets
fired indiscriminately at civilian population centers. No matter what the answer to the question is,
we hold ourselves and our army to a high moral standard and we don’t want to
make such mistakes.
On the way home from work, army radio reports that Tzahal
successfully hit a building where four Islamic Jihad terrorists were
meeting. Initial reports confirm that
one is dead and we wait with baited breath for news of the other three. Hamas reports that only one was killed. The BBC reports that Israel hit a media
building that had foreign media offices inside.
They neglect to mention the Islamic Jihad terrorists or the fact that
the operation was very particular and targeted only the place where the meeting
was being held, not the other media offices.
Galei Tzahal takes a break from war-related reports to discuss the
all-important soccer match results. The
sports report is regularly interrupted by “tzeva adom” announcements indicating
where missiles are falling. Are they
kidding? Maccabi Tel Aviv at a time like
this? CNN reports that more than 57% of
Americans support the Gaza operation.
A friend calls to say that the community has received
permission to resume school tomorrow. Children
in communities closer to Gaza will remain at home. She is concerned because some of the children
study in caravans that don’t have a mamad.
I speak to the principal who says that the classes will be relocated
from the caravans to other rooms in the permanent buildings. She sends out a letter describing all of the
additional security measures that the school is undertaking including missile
drills, posting soldiers at the school, and limiting students’ movement during
recess. She asks me to translate it into
English for all of the new olim who have just recently chosen to make Israel
their home.
Talk of a cease-fire is in the air, but for now Israel and
Hamas are not willing to meet each other’s demands. If a cease-fire is not reached, a less
popular ground invasion will proceed. We
pray and we wait and we pray some more.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
On the Road to Malaysia
Monday, November 26, 2012
Our moveable feast so far begins with crispy fried noodles from Wo Hop, 17 Mott Street, Fuzhou won ton soup from Shu Mei Café, 67A East Broadway, and egg rolls from Nom Wah Tea Parlor, 13 Doyers Street. While still in the zone of starchy appetizers, we must include the scallion pancake from Shanghai Gourmet, 23 Pell Street. I’ve also enjoyed scallion pancakes at Shanghai Asian Cuisine, 14 A Elizabeth Street, Shanghai Café, 100 Mott Street, Joe’s Ginger, 25 Pell Street, New Yeah Shanghai Deluxe, 50 Mott Street and Shanghai Asian Manor, 21 Mott Street, but, as I wrote on October 16, 2012, it was "the crowning achievement" of Shanghai Gourmet. Still, the accompanying dipping sauce fails to support this wonderful creation, or go next door to Joe’s Ginger in order to dip.
I’m skipping dumplings and buns all together, because I’ve frequently expressed my preference for Dim Sum Go Go, 5 East Broadway, with a small group, and Jing Fong, 20 Elizabeth Street, with a large group, for dim sum, which would have to be a meal in itself.
The travel section of yesterday’s Times had an article about Pitigliano, a small town in the hills of Tuscany. It is a very pretty place, high up a pile of volcanic stone. What drew us there in May 2003, and the reporter more recently, was its history which gave rise to the name La Piccola Gerusalemme, Little Jerusalem. Jews were welcomed there in the 1600s, while being oppressed in neighboring regions. They eventually made up about 10% of the population in the mid-19th Century, but moved to the larger cities once granted equal rights with Italy’s unification. Now, 6 Jews remain in Pitigliano, but restoration of the traditional Jewish quarter is underway in order to attract tourists. On our visit, with intrepid fellow-travelers Jill and Steve, we bought several bottles of Kosher wine from vineyards below the town, and served the wine at our wedding later that month.
Just as I was contemplating where to have lunch today, the front (of the corridor) desk called to tell me that Nick Lewin, Stuyvesant ‘57, CCNY ‘62 and distinguished advocate, was here to see me. Actually, the court officer did not know that much Nick, but I filled in the blanks. Nick, having appeared before a judge in the building, was now hungry and off we went to Jaya Malaysian Restaurant, 90 Baxter Street (June 24, 2010). I wanted to try their nasi lemak, supposedly Malaysia’s unofficial national dish, and compare it to other Malaysian restaurants’ versions, in the name of science. We shared three dishes, roti chanai ($3.50), a thin pancake with a piece of chicken in a buttery curry sauce, nasi lemak ($5.25), which the menu described as Malaysian coconut rice with anchovy sambal (chili sauce), curry chicken, achat (spicy pickled vegetables) and boiled egg, and beef chow fun ($6.95). The roti chanai had only one piece of chicken, and the sauce was a little thin. The nasi lemak tasted pretty good, but not as good as it sounded. The beef chow fun was notable for the freshly-cooked taste of the beef; it had not sat around awaiting our arrival.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
I visited Nyonya Malaysian Cuisine, 199 Grand Street, during the summer of 2010, but apparently I only made passing reference to it in a subsequent writing. So, today, on a rainy, cold day, I went back as part of my Kuala Lumpur tour and ordered exactly the same things as I had yesterday at Jaya with better results. The roti canai (no H) ($3.50) was very good, two pieces of chicken and one piece of potato in the rich curry sauce, with an enormous pancake. Actually, the pancake (called that in every restaurant that serves roti canai) is really a slightly flaky crepe. Even after dipping pieces of the pancake into the sauce, you still need a spoon to get the remaining sauce. Nyonya’s nasi lemak ($6.95) is described as "coconut rice flavored w. cloves & screw-pine leaves. Served w. chili anchovy, pickle, curry chicken w. bone and hard boiled egg." I can’t attest to the accuracy of this, because I missed the cloves and screw-pine leaves. The pickle was either the fresh cucumber slices or the achat which were both on the plate. Whatever, the dish was very good, and the portion was large causing me to cry out for the return of Nick Lewin. Please note that Nyonya has a good selection of lunch specials, including soup, at $6.50. The room itself is L-shaped with a big section to the back left. There are many small, dark wooden tables, with a glossy finish. Service was quick and attentive.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
I suspended my Kuala Lumpur tour for a day, and went into dinkies, 118 Baxter Street, instead. dinkies is both the place and the specialty item for this new spot. They are very close to profiteroles, but the fillings range from the savory, such as chicken or gruyere green onions, to the sweet, such as apple pie or caramel banana. These all cost $5.49 for an order of 7. For $6.79, you can create your own dessert version, beginning with a choice of platform dinkie, such as chocolate chip or peanut butter and jelly, pick a sauce, such as strawberry or marshmallow, and finish with a topping, such as coconut or peanut butter chips. Again, the order is 7 dinkies. Since I am in a rare period of inter-holiday moderation, I passed on dinkies and ordered a beef short rib sandwich ($13.95), expensive but delicious. The shredded beef was served on a fresh ciabata bun, with mozzarella, and one big onion ring. A mild aioli was on the side and very good French fries came with the sandwich.
I ordered passion fruit iced tea ($3.75) which tasted good, what little there was in the pint glass overwhelmed with ice cubes. The teas, purportedly Taiwanese, Japanese, Thai, Chinese and Indian, are one link to Asia, thus qualifying dinkies for my list. Additionally, the young man taking orders behind the counter was Chinese (although probably born in Queens), as was the lone cook. Finally, cream cheese wontons (!) are listed on the menu as a starter.
dinkies, although getting no natural light because its entrance is down a corridor perpendicular to the street, is nevertheless bright and airy as a result of its aqua and white color scheme. Although it had seating for about 30 people, only one Chinese man was sitting at a table, reading and writing, throughout my stay, and one Western-type guy sat down about ten minutes after I did. Although its pricing needs some adjustment, dinkies deserves more business. I’ll try dinkies next time.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
I returned to the Kuala Lumpur tour today and headed off to Skyway Malaysian Restaurant, 11 Allen Street, which, on October 26, 2010, I found to offer good food at a low price. Alas, today, it was gone, an aluminum shutter pulled down over the empty space. So, I went to Sanur Restaurant, 18 Doyers Street, which serves Indonesian and Malaysian food. On a prior visit (September 23, 2010) I had chicken curry, more potato than chicken, but well-seasoned. I ordered roti canai ($2.95) and nasi lemak ($5.95), but of course. Sanur’s menu tersely identified nasi lemak as coconut rice. The plate held half a hard-boiled egg, two chunks of potato and two chunks of chicken, both modest, cucumber slices, peanuts, anchovies in a spicy sauce and a large mound of rice that had no hint of coconut about it. Also, the part of the dish that should have been hot was only lukewarm. The roti canai had only a piece of potato in the curry sauce, the relatively low price probably chased the chicken away. I don’t think that this is the place that the Malaysian truck drivers eat at.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Our Kuala Lumpur tour ends at West New Malaysia Restaurant, 46-48 Bowery, Chinatown Arcade #28, where I first had nasi lemak on July 29, 2010, by chance. Today, it was a deliberate choice ($6.50). The menu describes it as coconut flavored rice w. belacan anchovy, chicken, hard boiled egg & peanuts. I rushed to the (on-line) dictionary to learn that belacan is a Malay variety of shrimp paste. This was the week’s best version, although I still can’t taste the coconut in the rice. Three unadvertised potato chunks were cooked in with the two chicken chunks, which at first made you believe that you were getting a lot of chicken. The plate also held a couple of cucumber slices and there was two halves of a hard boiled egg. Unlike Sanur yesterday, what should have been hot was at least warm. Because we plan to go out to dinner tonight, I skipped the roti canai, although it would have also stood at the top of the list, based on past experience. However, I’m still waiting for a drop dead wonderful nasi lemak without using my passport.
Our moveable feast so far begins with crispy fried noodles from Wo Hop, 17 Mott Street, Fuzhou won ton soup from Shu Mei Café, 67A East Broadway, and egg rolls from Nom Wah Tea Parlor, 13 Doyers Street. While still in the zone of starchy appetizers, we must include the scallion pancake from Shanghai Gourmet, 23 Pell Street. I’ve also enjoyed scallion pancakes at Shanghai Asian Cuisine, 14 A Elizabeth Street, Shanghai Café, 100 Mott Street, Joe’s Ginger, 25 Pell Street, New Yeah Shanghai Deluxe, 50 Mott Street and Shanghai Asian Manor, 21 Mott Street, but, as I wrote on October 16, 2012, it was "the crowning achievement" of Shanghai Gourmet. Still, the accompanying dipping sauce fails to support this wonderful creation, or go next door to Joe’s Ginger in order to dip.
I’m skipping dumplings and buns all together, because I’ve frequently expressed my preference for Dim Sum Go Go, 5 East Broadway, with a small group, and Jing Fong, 20 Elizabeth Street, with a large group, for dim sum, which would have to be a meal in itself.
The travel section of yesterday’s Times had an article about Pitigliano, a small town in the hills of Tuscany. It is a very pretty place, high up a pile of volcanic stone. What drew us there in May 2003, and the reporter more recently, was its history which gave rise to the name La Piccola Gerusalemme, Little Jerusalem. Jews were welcomed there in the 1600s, while being oppressed in neighboring regions. They eventually made up about 10% of the population in the mid-19th Century, but moved to the larger cities once granted equal rights with Italy’s unification. Now, 6 Jews remain in Pitigliano, but restoration of the traditional Jewish quarter is underway in order to attract tourists. On our visit, with intrepid fellow-travelers Jill and Steve, we bought several bottles of Kosher wine from vineyards below the town, and served the wine at our wedding later that month.
Just as I was contemplating where to have lunch today, the front (of the corridor) desk called to tell me that Nick Lewin, Stuyvesant ‘57, CCNY ‘62 and distinguished advocate, was here to see me. Actually, the court officer did not know that much Nick, but I filled in the blanks. Nick, having appeared before a judge in the building, was now hungry and off we went to Jaya Malaysian Restaurant, 90 Baxter Street (June 24, 2010). I wanted to try their nasi lemak, supposedly Malaysia’s unofficial national dish, and compare it to other Malaysian restaurants’ versions, in the name of science. We shared three dishes, roti chanai ($3.50), a thin pancake with a piece of chicken in a buttery curry sauce, nasi lemak ($5.25), which the menu described as Malaysian coconut rice with anchovy sambal (chili sauce), curry chicken, achat (spicy pickled vegetables) and boiled egg, and beef chow fun ($6.95). The roti chanai had only one piece of chicken, and the sauce was a little thin. The nasi lemak tasted pretty good, but not as good as it sounded. The beef chow fun was notable for the freshly-cooked taste of the beef; it had not sat around awaiting our arrival.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
I visited Nyonya Malaysian Cuisine, 199 Grand Street, during the summer of 2010, but apparently I only made passing reference to it in a subsequent writing. So, today, on a rainy, cold day, I went back as part of my Kuala Lumpur tour and ordered exactly the same things as I had yesterday at Jaya with better results. The roti canai (no H) ($3.50) was very good, two pieces of chicken and one piece of potato in the rich curry sauce, with an enormous pancake. Actually, the pancake (called that in every restaurant that serves roti canai) is really a slightly flaky crepe. Even after dipping pieces of the pancake into the sauce, you still need a spoon to get the remaining sauce. Nyonya’s nasi lemak ($6.95) is described as "coconut rice flavored w. cloves & screw-pine leaves. Served w. chili anchovy, pickle, curry chicken w. bone and hard boiled egg." I can’t attest to the accuracy of this, because I missed the cloves and screw-pine leaves. The pickle was either the fresh cucumber slices or the achat which were both on the plate. Whatever, the dish was very good, and the portion was large causing me to cry out for the return of Nick Lewin. Please note that Nyonya has a good selection of lunch specials, including soup, at $6.50. The room itself is L-shaped with a big section to the back left. There are many small, dark wooden tables, with a glossy finish. Service was quick and attentive.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
I suspended my Kuala Lumpur tour for a day, and went into dinkies, 118 Baxter Street, instead. dinkies is both the place and the specialty item for this new spot. They are very close to profiteroles, but the fillings range from the savory, such as chicken or gruyere green onions, to the sweet, such as apple pie or caramel banana. These all cost $5.49 for an order of 7. For $6.79, you can create your own dessert version, beginning with a choice of platform dinkie, such as chocolate chip or peanut butter and jelly, pick a sauce, such as strawberry or marshmallow, and finish with a topping, such as coconut or peanut butter chips. Again, the order is 7 dinkies. Since I am in a rare period of inter-holiday moderation, I passed on dinkies and ordered a beef short rib sandwich ($13.95), expensive but delicious. The shredded beef was served on a fresh ciabata bun, with mozzarella, and one big onion ring. A mild aioli was on the side and very good French fries came with the sandwich.
I ordered passion fruit iced tea ($3.75) which tasted good, what little there was in the pint glass overwhelmed with ice cubes. The teas, purportedly Taiwanese, Japanese, Thai, Chinese and Indian, are one link to Asia, thus qualifying dinkies for my list. Additionally, the young man taking orders behind the counter was Chinese (although probably born in Queens), as was the lone cook. Finally, cream cheese wontons (!) are listed on the menu as a starter.
dinkies, although getting no natural light because its entrance is down a corridor perpendicular to the street, is nevertheless bright and airy as a result of its aqua and white color scheme. Although it had seating for about 30 people, only one Chinese man was sitting at a table, reading and writing, throughout my stay, and one Western-type guy sat down about ten minutes after I did. Although its pricing needs some adjustment, dinkies deserves more business. I’ll try dinkies next time.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
I returned to the Kuala Lumpur tour today and headed off to Skyway Malaysian Restaurant, 11 Allen Street, which, on October 26, 2010, I found to offer good food at a low price. Alas, today, it was gone, an aluminum shutter pulled down over the empty space. So, I went to Sanur Restaurant, 18 Doyers Street, which serves Indonesian and Malaysian food. On a prior visit (September 23, 2010) I had chicken curry, more potato than chicken, but well-seasoned. I ordered roti canai ($2.95) and nasi lemak ($5.95), but of course. Sanur’s menu tersely identified nasi lemak as coconut rice. The plate held half a hard-boiled egg, two chunks of potato and two chunks of chicken, both modest, cucumber slices, peanuts, anchovies in a spicy sauce and a large mound of rice that had no hint of coconut about it. Also, the part of the dish that should have been hot was only lukewarm. The roti canai had only a piece of potato in the curry sauce, the relatively low price probably chased the chicken away. I don’t think that this is the place that the Malaysian truck drivers eat at.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Our Kuala Lumpur tour ends at West New Malaysia Restaurant, 46-48 Bowery, Chinatown Arcade #28, where I first had nasi lemak on July 29, 2010, by chance. Today, it was a deliberate choice ($6.50). The menu describes it as coconut flavored rice w. belacan anchovy, chicken, hard boiled egg & peanuts. I rushed to the (on-line) dictionary to learn that belacan is a Malay variety of shrimp paste. This was the week’s best version, although I still can’t taste the coconut in the rice. Three unadvertised potato chunks were cooked in with the two chicken chunks, which at first made you believe that you were getting a lot of chicken. The plate also held a couple of cucumber slices and there was two halves of a hard boiled egg. Unlike Sanur yesterday, what should have been hot was at least warm. Because we plan to go out to dinner tonight, I skipped the roti canai, although it would have also stood at the top of the list, based on past experience. However, I’m still waiting for a drop dead wonderful nasi lemak without using my passport.