You know when you bump into an ex unprompted on the street, and your stomach immediately drops into your feet, and your pulse thrums so loudly in your ears you’re surprised they can’t hear it?
And the very first thing you notice is something silly, like that they’re wearing a new jacket you don’t recognize? And you despise that that’s really what you’re thinking at a time like this. Because how laughable is it that something as complex as love—gaped-open, honest love—can eventually be contorted into strange feelings of ownership over something as simple as a blue puffer jacket you don’t have any personal connection to? And you know how only as soon as you’ve parted and you get inside your door is the adrenaline finally able to quiet, no matter whether that results in stillness or laughter or your eyes welling up in response to the jumbles of emotions your brain is trying to untangle?
That’s kind of how I anticipated it to feel, visiting New York for the first time since September. Not a strikingly long amount of time, no, but after a decade of waking up to the hard, gum-stained concrete of it, I knew it would be long enough to feel a difference. To take notice of the minutiae again in a way that wasn’t possible anymore.
Because of that, I was on high alert the whole time, demanding meaning to rise from every thought ruminated on and view witnessed. Brain on fire and ready to field questions, from the moment I arrived I repeatedly asked myself, “How are you feeling right now?” I tried to channel Jemima Kirke and just enjoy it all instead—but I couldn’t help it; I had change and stagnancy on my mind, and I wanted to land on some easy answers.
Even my damn AirPods stayed firmly buried at the bottom of my bag. Struck with a profound urge to be present, it didn’t feel right hitting play and going on autopilot. I wanted to hear the sweaty boys shouting “Slower! Slower!” as they angled a heavy couch through the narrow doorway of a six-story walk-up. And the sputter of the car engines as I trekked across Atlantic Avenue. And will myself to emerge with some sort of great analysis or conclusion on all that had changed—for the city, and for me.
And there were moments when I was right in the end.
Like turning the corner and seeing what used to be the bar with the shiny booths and the delicious-smelling candle in the bathroom, with its sign removed from the window. Like turning a different corner and stumbling onto what could only be considered a perfect city block, where evening sun was streaming in at just the right angle, and the streetlamps had yet to flicker on. Little gut punches—ones that make you question every aspect of your life in the same way those surprise ex-run-ins are so famous for doing. Staring into the face of a person or a place, and reckoning with the duality that time brings. How it can charge ahead without a care, and yet still be held so preciously inside the palm of a hand. Looking at a person or a place, aware of how much change has happened on either side. How you’ve shifted, and God, how you’ve stayed exactly the same.
But though I was demanding ‘aha’ moments left and right, in the end my time was spent the only way it could’ve been. Because no matter my postal code, or how long I’m away, I’ll never want to play tourist and take angular photos of buildings and exhaust myself on the subway. I want to sit on the couch next to my best friend and order takeout. Lie in the grass of the Botanic Gardens, feeling the sun bake my legs. Talk shit with my beautiful friends and text them when I’ve made it home safe. I did a whooooole lot of that.
I will admit, however, the AirPods eventually emerged. There was one hot evening, one that felt more like summer than the end of spring. The sky was a swirl of murky clouds, and the streets were full of post-work people in thrown-on clogs and flip-flops, taking their dogs out to pee. I had a half-hour walk to make, and whether it was the red wine I’d just sipped, or the thick trees lining the streets of beautiful, unattainable brownstone-Brooklyn, I felt the craving. So I put on something I’ve probably heard a thousand times—something with a soft beat and a resonant melody—and I let the thoughts and all that heightened awareness dissipate completely. Volume too loud, stomping on concrete, I glided on air in that way that you do in the city when the music is just right and you know a place so intimately that you can turn right off.
I have a lot of favorite New Yorks. But a warm summer night... one spent walking in shoes that are causing blisters, through the triangle-shaped neighborhood that I’ve grown into an adult within. Past bars with flushed people spilling out onto the sidewalk, taking secret, darting glances into them and wondering if I’ll recognize a face or two. That’s at the top of the list.
AND AS FOR THE FOOD.
Matzo Ball Soup was my requested first meal after landing.
Mile End delivery hit the spot. (And yeah, I shoved a box of grocery store matzo meal into my suitcase to make the next time I’m sniffly!)
US beverage portion sizes are wild.
I kept exasperatedly texting people after I ordered coffees, unable to fathom the cost (the tip! the tax!). But I forgot how massive the drinks are, too. I continued to get angry at the prices but, admittedly, gleefully traipsed around the city with giant plastic cups of iced coffee in my fist, as God intended.
I had the time of my life grocery shopping.
I guess all you need to do to instill a renewed sense of wonder and awe into your adult life is leave home for nine months and return to witness the 45 different kinds of cereal lining the aisles of a suburban Stop-and-Shop? Despite living in a bustling place like London, the energy I was giving whenever I entered a grocery store this trip was Girl who has just been freed from a bunker she’s been held captive in for a decade. Spending 90 minutes in a Trader Joe’s. Taking selfies in the freezer aisles. Marvelling at how, at once I could buy a lawn chair, three variations of Jolly-Rancher’s-flavored popsicles, and a year’s worth of ibuprofen. Appalled and in shock, but admittedly having a blast. USA!
I’m kind of over the whole bakery thing.
I’m being dramatic—baking talent and pastry innovation in both NYC and London is extremely impressive right now, and I can appreciate a treat with a “twist” as much as the next gal. But honestly? I’ve been less into the pastry craze these days. There are now arguably too many great places to try, they’re all wildly expensive, and I’d selfishly prefer some of the same impressive modernization to hit other kinds of quick, savory bites (but maybe I’m just bitter I can’t get an excellent taco across the pond).
That being said…I went to Thea and Smor and Radio Bakery (twice). But the best thing I got was a tuna sandwich.
The sentimental lover of Prospect Heights in me hates the infiltration of Tik-Tok Trendy Bakeries (even if the hype is warranted based on quality in this case) into the neighborhood. But the eater in me moaned with delight over Radio Bakery’s simple tuna salad baguette with lemon zest and pepperoncini. Chewy, light n bright.
The tomato martini at Theadora is the best cocktail I’ve had in ages.
Last time I went to Theadora, I got their feta-washed cocktail and remember thinking it was heaven in a glass. I insisted upon returning for it only to find that the feta cocktail had been replaced with a tomato martini that our cheeky waiter insisted was ‘claimed somewhere as the best martini in Brooklyn’. And? For the savory cocktail-heads out there? Oh my god. That ‘somewhere’ might be right.
I wish I could performatively hate on Apollo Bagels, but they’re stellar.
I’d been looking forward to my reunion with a New York bagel for months. And while 9 times out of 10 it’s a classic bagel counter experience I’m after, I can’t deny that the bagels at Apollo are as unreal as remembered. A crispy, chewy sourdough pillow topped with perfectly seasoned tomato, fatty lox, or a shower of dill …top-notch in quality, and dreamy as hell.
The Lincoln Station Rotisserie Chicken Sandwich hasn’t even slightly changed in years, and if there’s one thing we have in this life, it’s that?
Still stuffed with hunks of celery and parsley and too big to finish in one sitting. Still just as difficult to get them to remember your “side of hot sauce, please.” Still an arguably perfect sandwich (once you walk back to the counter and finally get the damn cup of hot sauce, that is). Love may die, but the Rotisserie Chix Sandwich is forever, baby!!
The crab fried rice special at Strange Delight had me on all fours.
I had a near-perfect meal. Every dish had us oohing and aahing (it was a flawless order, ask me about it). But the fried rice special needs to be a permanent menu item. It was full of the sweetest pieces of crab meat, speckled with crispy rice, and so umami we were convinced our brain cells must have been lighting up with as much dopamine as your drug of choice.
The food in New York City. Goddamnit.
I won’t return to dine here again until I am once again deeply, madly, truly, FULL-TIME EMPLOYED. That being said: from my larger/buzzier dinners to every fast, sunny afternoon sandwich or snack, I was reminded that the quality, innovation, and flavor of dining in New York is simply unparalleled. If I’m going to go broke, I’d be thrilled to do it snarfing plates that taste this good. Ruined forever. Happily so.
Pictured and heavenly: Chinese broccoli salad, smoked fish dip with fried saltines, and shrimp cocktail from Strange Delight; Taylor with a Smor cardamom bun; Apollo Bagels; My tomato martini from Theadora; Agnolotti filled with peas, ricotta, panna and tomato sugo rigatoni from Briscola Trattoria; Dani and our split kale salad and chicken salad sandwiches from R&D Foods; Crab dip, carrots and labneh, and three different wines from Rhodora. Unpictured bites from Mitsuki, Dinner Party, Chavelas, and Vineapple.
could weep at the grocery store pictures
bar meridian shoutout 🗣️