(Here’s the majority of the second New York essay. Yes, there are two New York essays. No, this is not a book exclusively about New York. These are the only two. Also, I say “the majority” because this isn’t the whole thing, because I haven’t quite finished it yet, but I wanted to get something out today. Again, this is a rough draft, so, parts of it are, admittedly, rough.)
Throughout my life, I would say that I’ve eaten well. I’ve hit all the usual suspects, lobster, stuffed quail, fresh crab on the piers of Baltimore, and of course, being born and raised in Texas, all of the delicious Southern home cooking that make the heat and humidity worth it. On the other hand, I’ve never been anything close to a foodie. I don’t know the hip spots to eat, even in towns I’ve lived in for years, I get uncomfortable when a menu’s average item is above twenty bucks, and the one time I had foie gras I thought it was fucking disgusting. In other words, as much as it would absolutely thrill me, I will never be able to hang with Tony Bourdain, at least not at a dinner table. I suppose my palate just isn’t refined enough.
But I digress. Before the road trip, my death row meal would have been a large, deep bowl of chicken and dumplings. As far as I knew, there was nothing better. But on June 19, 2010, I had the best meal I had ever tasted, and to this day I have not found anything that makes my tastebuds quiver in such response.
I had just parked in Brooklyn, and was meeting my friend Sloan for a day of sightseeing. Sloan had attended Texas A&M University at the same time I had, and we had been in all the same architecture classes our Freshman and Sophomore year. Of course, Sloan actually passed the classes, whereas I didn’t, but we remained close friends throughout the rest of college. Sloan continued his graduate architecture studies in Syracuse, and as some things just conspire together in the name of a good old time, happened to be taking summer courses from CUNY at the same time I passed through New York City.
Sloan met me at my car, and showed me the apartment he was staying at. I say apartment, but it was actually a 15 by 8 foot room in some other dude’s apartment, and knowing the city, was probably paying more for rent than we paid for leased houses in college. We went up to the roof to drink the two remaining Lone Star beers Sloan had in his mini-fridge. “A little slice of home”, he called them. The building was tall enough that you could get a good view of Manhattan from the roof, and just the sight made me excited to be back in the city. Despite my Texas heritage, there are few cities I love like NYC, and I couldn’t wait any longer. We downed the beers and headed towards Manhattan.
I assumed we would take the subway straight into downtown, but we were close enough to the East River that we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge instead. Now, I’m aware that crossing the Brooklyn Bridge on foot is not a big deal for a lot of the people doing it, and is probably even a mandatory nuisance of daily life for some. But I thought it was neat. The walkway takes you up above the motor traffic, and the individual cables seemingly merge across the horizon as they approach the vanishing point, creating as much of a piece of art as a structural device.
Within a minute of walking across the bridge, one thing became evident. On the Brooklyn Bridge, there are rules, and you better follow the fucking rules, or else you’ll get cursed at in the best case, or run over at worst. The “pedestrian” walkway of the bridge is divided into two lanes, one for foot traffic, and one for bikers. The two sides are defensive of their respective territory in a manner that borders on religious fanaticism. The problem is, this is New York City, and tons of people exist at any given time and place in New York City, including the Brooklyn Bridge, which makes it impossible for either side to stay completely in their section. To you and me, this is understandable. To everyone else crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, it is not. Multiple times I saw pedestrians cross over the line while trying to bypass a slower crowd, with not a single bike within fifty yards, and still a distant cyclist will take it upon their self, as mandated in some New York bylaw, to immediately start pointing and screaming at the infractor.
I don’t want to make it sound like pedestrians are the poor, innocent party here. Not by a long shot. The bike lane is not divided into further, separate lanes for northbound and southbound riders, so occasionally a few centimeters of rubber would cross into the foot path. The instant this happens, pedestrians freak out, swearing at the biker and in general acting as if they were just nearly a victim of vehicular manslaughter. In theory this all sounds like a very serious and frustrating experience, but I found it amusing.
After reaching Manhattan, we immediately hopped on the J train and rode to the Essex stop. Sloan told me we were going to eat at a place called Katz’s. The name didn’t ring any bells for me, but I trusted Sloan. Sloan, unlike me, could be considered a foodie. In college he had been cooking three course meals for our group of friends as soon as he moved into a house with an oven. He asks for cookware as presents on his birthday and Christmas. The guy was talented enough as a cook to go to culinary school, and the only reason he didn’t was on account of how fucking gifted he is in architecture. So I’m not one to object when he makes a restaurant suggestion.
As soon as we were within a couple of blocks from Katz’s, I saw the waiting line, and as soon as I saw the line, I remembered where I knew Katz’s from. It’s the famous sandwich place. I had seen it on multiple Travel Channel series before, and even though I haven’t actually seen When Harry Met Sally, I’m well-versed enough in my pop culture knowledge that I knew it was “the” place from “the” scene. These media exposures didn’t guarantee the deli’s quality in my mind yet, but I knew that the “Meg Ryan Orgasm Seal of Approval” didn’t get bestowed upon shitty meals.
After a short wait in line, we got our tickets and entered the building. These tickets are what your order is written down on, and we were told that if you lose your ticket before you pay, you’re charged fifty dollars on top of your meal cost. It was quickly becoming apparent that this place was no bullshit.
Once we were inside, we faced another line, this one almost as long as the one getting in. One thing I noticed as I stood there was how efficient the line moved. When it was their turn, a person walked up
to the counter, immediately placed their order, and after the butcher confirms the order, they step aside and the next person comes forward. There is no wasted time. And as I stood there, watching this scene unfold repeatedly, I had a revelation.
In Texas, there is a widespread, and mostly accepted generalization that people in or from New York are assholes. I’m not saying that I buy into this belief, or support it, but to deny its existence would be outright denial. In most places I’ve grown up, the term “Yankee” is an insult, and a strong insult at that. The train of thought usually goes that New Yorkers have no patience, and are therefore rude, and are therefore assholes.
What I realized inside Katz’s is that people in New York aren’t rude, New York is just overcrowded. The Brooklyn Bridge is crowded enough that, to ensure no one ends up seriously injured, each lane has to make sure to stay within its boundaries. The subway system is crowded enough that when it’s your stop, you need to be aware that it’s your stop, and you need to get your ass off the train. And Katz’s is crowded enough that in order for everyone to get lunch and get back to their daily schedule in time, you have to look at the menu while you’re standing in line, and actually be ready to order when you reach the front. Again, this isn’t a bad thing, it’s just the circumstance of living in the city.
When I finally reached the counter, I was ready. But before I ordered, I made a note of how, frankly, large the butcher taking my order was. The man was likely six four, and had to be packing three hundred pounds of lean muscle. He was bald, and looked like Butcher was just as likely to be his old prison nickname as it was his job title.
“What’ll it be?”
“Roast beef on rye.”
Roast beef, in my opinion, is the safest choice you can go with in terms of sandwiches. It is almost impossible to fuck up a roast beef sandwich. Even the cheap chain restaurants can throw together a decent roast beef. You have the roast beef, you have the bread, you’re done. But for some reason, this decision of mine gave the butcher pause. After a moment, he spoke up.
“Roast beef’s cold.”
Now, this gave me pause. Not that I had a problem with a cold sandwich, but the fact I made a choice that caused an employee to give me a heads up, a warning, worried me. I decided to move cautiously.
“What would you recommend?”
“Pastrami on rye.”
I didn’t know it at this point, but what had just happened was the butcher had saved me from making the worst decision of my life. Worse than getting married while black out drunk at night in Vegas. Worse than accidentally leaving your beloved children behind while on vacation. Worse than calling your girlfriend a name that is not her name. And for that, I will forever be in your debt, scary looking butcher dude.
“Alright, I’ll have that.”
“Want mustard on that?”
I didn’t even like mustard, but I had already put my trust in his professional opinion. “Yes.”
When you choose your sandwich meat at Katz’s, your butcher cuts off a sliver for you to sample, to make sure you don’t regret your decision. A sandwich here costs around fifteen bucks, and I can honestly say that if the fifteen dollar price tag had been just for that thin slice, I would have felt completely justified in paying it. It was that good. Not only would I have paid fifteen dollars for the sample, but I felt like I didn’t deserve more. It was like I bought a single, reasonably priced slice of pastrami, and Katz’s gave me an entire sandwich of the stuff out of the graciousness of their hearts.
