Tread Softly, NY: Neighborhoods

I talked to Tom this morning, who admitted to getting on his "real New Yorker" high-horse. You people from the suburbs have the wrong view of New York. It's not just about Williamsburg, and cafes and trendy bars. What it's really about is the neighborhoods. That may not be verbatim, but it's close enough. Tom's right. The rebuke was spurred because I impulsively exclaimed the city is just not conducive to marriage and families, wrapped up in the shallow belief that everyone is too independent, to career and goal oriented, maybe even too intoxicated to truly be serious about relationships, whatever form they may take. He shot me down in a matter of seconds. After all, what do I really know?

I come from about 40 minutes away in New Jersey, but the distance can't really be measured in miles. Childhood to me was summer nights, running through backyards playing manhunt, lightening bugs, BBQs, Belgian waffles on our deck at night with the next-door neighbors who would come over for tea during the day. Building Fort Ticonderoga in the woods behind my house, treehouses, girl-scout cookies, snow past my thighs. Like all reminscences of childhood, it's biased nostalgia that makes the thought of having a family in NYC--where a second bedroom, nonetheless a backyard, is a luxury--seem depressing.

I suppose to a semi-new NYC resident coming from the suburbs with so much at her feet, so much entertainment and alcohol and art and creativity, and yes, lots of ugliness and consequent beauty, it's hard to think about life as eventually being real. Especially coming from a place where none of that was very accessible. And for a child, at first, it doesn't matter much what is at your feet, when your own imagination makes mudpies, snow forts and always daydreams. But after a certain point, the nostalgia fades. And then I remember that plain old boredom that came with the suburban neighborhood. Then I started to feel what wasn't directly at my feet and boredom eventually grew into, pardon the cliche, feeling like a square peg in round hole. Trapped down a man-hole. Maybe even a black hole. You get the point.

Artist rendition of my suburban life.

(Photo taken from http://www.tutorgig.com/ed/Black_hole#_note-1)

So, I'm not a real New Yorker, but I'm fascinated by them, and I am trying to find some balance between the surreal and the stable, because I think I would like to stay for a while (at least until the Icelandic economy picks up). Personally, I thought maybe I'd cut back on some, (just some) of my time spent in West Village pubs and explore what Tom refers to as the neighborhoods.

It's a subject that's been coming up often, in the media especially (and by "media" I actually mean public access channels). Last Saturday night, Reel 13 on PBS featured the short-flick The Last Butcher in Little Italy, a brief documnetary about Moe Albanese, owner of the now-Nolita butcher store store started by his Sicilian father. Located on Elizabeth and Prince, Moe has still managed to keep his business despite the sprouting and less accessible boutiques that are slowly smothering him. He reflects on a different time when he would spend "three quarters of an hour to serve one person" and customers would inundate him with their stories and problems. All as their meat was sliced. It's the same, nostalgic story that gets told repeatedly as old-ethnic-city Manhatten becomes more and more--and here's that word again--gentrified. But I think it's one that we should continually be reminded of.

Astoria seems to have avoided the dreaded "hipster" sprawl, at least for the time being, despite a recent move by many younger people priced out of Manhatten and Brooklyn (myself included). While I have always said that Queens would never be as aesthetically pleasing as some of the other boroughs, I'm beginning to take comfort in the rows of brick-stone houses, of the porcelain and plastic Virgin Mary's and Saint SoandSos sitting on terraces or in front-yard gardens. The massive pool at Astoria park and the Triborough rumbling above. And, right now, we still have some obvious signs of autumn as well!

So, in homage to quaint explorations and truly adopting our neighborhood, Colin and I recently visited Rosario's deli on 31st and Ditmars, whose mozzerella and sundried tomatoes we had sampled at our friends' place the night before. We bought a ball of fresh mozzerella for about $5, as well as some other gourmet treats. The mozzerella is rich and as tasteful as mozzerella can possibly be. The sundried tomatoes are plump and slightly juicy to the bite. There was something comforting about this place, walking into the smell of cured meats and provolone, pizza and garlic and peppers. The chatty Italian guys behind the counter. (One with rosy cheeks sniffed my pumpkin coffee. Man, that smells good). Yes, it was familiar and brought me back to what I could recollect of my Grandma Anne's in Belleville. On Sundays she would always talk about her weekly trip to Violente's deli. (The infamous salami sandwhiches from Violente's was the subject of a much earlier post.)

Rosario's specializes in meats, cheeses, cold cuts, sandwhiches, pizza, and has a ridiculous selection of Italian/European gourmet products if you choose to peruse the well-stocked shelves.

I think this may become a regular weekend trip.

Unfortnately, our camera was dying and we couldn't get too many pictures. At least here you can see the vast selection of olive oil.