the fourth weekend in new york
This weekend was the fourth of July as well as the fourth weekend I’ve spent living in Brooklyn. It began with a market (see previous post) and continued with Superfine portobello sandwiches, my wonderful friend Andrew, and the restored Jane’s Carousel, which was playing “Battle Hymn of the Republic” as it spun.
A few doors down, the new Jacques Torres ice cream shop—next to his chocolate shop—was similarly dizzying in its superior sugared goodness (and you wonder why I work in the DUMBO area of Brooklyn?) that carried us to the New Museum’s “Younger Than Jesus” exhibit and then Pier 17 for Here We Go Magic, part of the River to River Festival.
Andrew folded the boat in the program (he’s always been good with the origami and the paper airplanes),
here’s the larger version
And hearing about the artistry at Locanda Verde (I’ll return for the breakfast menu instead), we topped our dinner there the next morning with new red potatoes from the Prospect Park Farmers’ Market,
that provided a base for baby onions, fresh corn, red chard, flowering thyme, and Parmesan.
We discovered that pheasant eggshells are blue inside,
and headed off to find more visual fabulous in “We Know The Secret of the Colors,” an ambient Manhattan adventure that started here,
led to a piece by Paul Richard,
paused for a public fountain,
directed us to look up,
at a nest on the side of a building,
to unscrew the cap of a fire hydrant,
pass a park with a rusty bike,
that gleamed almost at brightly as Kee’s incredible confections at Kee’s Chocolates, where Andrew and I forked from the ambient adventure for one involving tasting the fennel and the tiramisu truffles (the truffle oil macaron is sparkly, but go for the truffles that didn’t last for a picture).
Then we developed our own progressive dinner tour—snacks at the Park Slope Food Coop, sandwiches from the lengthy Bar Reis menu (there are 95, and yes, each is a thesis unto itself), and then pizza at Franny’s with local beer.
It was a day where we spied Shel Silverstein’s name etched where the sidewalk did, indeed, end,
under red leaves that sheltered birds calling out from hidden branches,
where even plastic strips forming a curtain to a receiving area were noteworthy,
and a stationary mailbox encouraged taking risks.
So we climbed to my roof, listening to sparklers going off in the streets below, and talked about the subtle explosions of everyday life, the small events that trigger cycles, in the way old friends observe patterns—Andrew’s toasted to four jobs with me now, and I heard the little crackles portending his meteoric rise through the worlds of science, policy, and (perhaps, perhaps) epidemiology…