Satori at the Square

A Much Needed Dose of Dosa

The beloved dosa man has played such a crucial part in rejuvenating my own creative energy this week that I just have to throw him in here before a full report on the promised Creative Little Garden.

On Friday I enjoyed a day off of work and made my way to the NYU library, attempting to make some headway on my Medbh McGukian paper (the one that should have been handed in a few months ago...) At about 2 PM I decided to break for my all-time favorite part of paper-writing: NY DOSAS.

Emerging from my workstation and re-establishing myself among the living, I walked out into a day that gave the city a "kind of light-heartedness" to quote McGuckian, a breezy August day, partly sunny, autumn subtly creeping its way into the air. On my way towards Sullivan and Washington Square South, I was caught up in thought, grappling with the female embodiment of space, metaphor versus metamorphosis...and when exactly was Mister Softee promoted to Captain?

But musings dwindled when I saw the quirky little cart of one hundred posts and its energetic Sri Lankan owner in a dance of order-taking and dosa-making, maneuvering his elastic body up, down, left, right (I was reluctant to break rhythm by asking for a picture), splattering what looks like pancake batter down on a griddle, tossing, chopping, flipping, spicing it up.

Thiru Kumar, Dosa Man Extraordinaire, is an icon of Washington Square and has gotten plenty of media attention over the years. He was the winner of the 2007 Vendy Award and has appeared in everything from the Times to Gourmet Magazine, and probably numerous other NYC blogs.
I think the cart may actually be Zagat rated.
(Ha! Although, really, it may actually be Zagat rated....) So much for just street meat. But then again, there's no meat to be had at this healthy Southern Indian jem, which as you may already know, is 100% vegan. I will not attempt to play food critic here, a) I am no connoisseur of this cuisine, I know far too little about it; I just know that his particular dosas are heavenly.



In fact, I hadn't the slightest idea of what a dosa was the first time I visited (during the composition of The Double Sorwe of Criseyde last December), although the cart plainly states, "CREPE MADE OUT OF RICE AND LENTIL."

And also, b) I have not sampled enough of the menu to give a full report. I have only had the samosas (okay, in this case I can say that his may possibly be the best in town--including those had in Jasckson Heights--plump, fresh curried potatoes, peas, nice and hot to the bite), the Masala dosa (pictured with samosa above), and the Jaffna lunch, which is a whopping $6 combination of the two. Oh, and the cool coconut chutney and vegetable-ish soup served alongside. I am not even sure if I eat this stuff "properly"; I usually just down the samosa as a starving urchin would an apple, and then hastily conglomerate the thin and slightly crispy dosa, which envelops the wonderfully yellow potato filling, with the chutney, periodically dipping it into the soup. It works.

I'm actually surprised that on this particular day there are only about five people in front of me. I have seen over twenty dedicated customers trickle down the sidewalk in the past; in fact on one of my prior visits, entrees ran out by 2 PM. So I am served quicker than expected and wander to find a bench, noticing random people scattered about en route, all of them eating dosas out of their Styrofoam containers (packaging being the one downside of the cart). I tried to subtly photograph these well-contented patrons in an effort to illustrate communal love of the dosa, but only dared glimpses of a few for fear of appearing voyeuristic.

So I find my bench and dig in. And on this fine August day in Washing-
ton Square with a muffled cacophony of trumpets, bongo and howling in the backdrop, aaaah, total peace. That is, until I was rushed back into the library due to a sudden influx of aggressive pigeons.

So be wary, this is far from the last time that the dosa man will fragrance these pages. My goal is to have everything on the menu.

But now, once again, onto The Creative Little Garden....

Everything on the way to the garden is lovely. Almost.

Creative Little Garden Part 1: The Journey

Recently, I trekked from Union Square down to the LES in an effort to satiate my not-all-that recent community garden obsession. The primary intent was to spend some quality time amongst the cozy plots of 6B. My first attraction to these mini-urban oases was about six or seven years ago, before living in Astoria, while on a face-reddening tour of "Greenwich Village" for a one-credit summer class. Our guide, who walked around with a blaring electronic megaphone (which en route, incidentally caused a frightened homeless man to scream "I HEAR YA..." plus a slew of obscenities to our dumbfounded group)had taken us into what I deemed the most amazing little sanctuary amidst the city bustle. We were told to be as quiet as possible, and while following the shrub-enveloped path, I had the sensation of being in a sacred-to-the-point-of-eerie place—maybe it was its solemn association with the church, maybe the fact that more than one New Yorker in a shared space had the ability to not only relax, but to speak softly.
But I like eerie, and a few years later as I began visiting the city more frequently, I tried to find it. Unable to recall the saintly namesake, still not really understanding east from west side, I started to wonder if time had glamorized my memory of the experience, or if this secret little garden even existed at all. Finally, I did in fact stumble upon the elegant St. Luke's in the Fields, just about as enchanting as my memory provoked me to anticipate.

Then last year, when I was introduced to 6B garden--its infamously wonderful conglomeration of treasure-junk mixed with luscious greens and homemade plots, the "Christmas Tree" in particular, it's balmy evening brought to life and light with small orange flashlights and lanterns cast upon local actors (my dear Sophia included), the series of original garden plays written by local artists, even the bombardment of mosquitos on my legs, my skirt being too short that night--I immediately became infatuated with the quirkiness and character, as well as the sense of community of a garden on the east side. When most people think of the city, or at least outsiders and newcomers such as myself, we tend to think money, and fail to notice how free time can actually be spent, well, without spending, and more importantly, how it can bring you home.

So finally last Sunday, after musing over this long enough, I decided to play tourist/self-employed journalist for the day and made my way down to Barnes & Noble, Union Square. Here I found a tiny pocket garden guide with ample description of many smaller community gardens in Manhattan and the rest of the boroughs. And so I decided to commence a new project of, if nothing else, exploration.
But I will not make it to the first actual garden in this post--which turned out not to be 6B but rather the nearby Creative Little Garden--because, per usual, the walk becomes half, if not more of the experience than the destination. But, in this case, I'll just say half. I was completely enamored with the Creative Little Garden, and it was definitely worth the hike from Union Square. Let me just point out a few familiar vistas along the way.


On Seventh Avenue, crossing over to 11th, sitting so faintly across the street from sex super-store Fantasy World, in the shadow of fluorescent pink hula hoops and the half exposed left breast of a painted Marc Jacobs' model is Tiles for America. From a distance the fence stands like a frail, decorated skeleton, or the wall of a thousand postings. A miniature garden of overgrown grass springing from the front portion of it, I felt like I was visiting a slightly untended gravesite. Seeing so may cemeteries smogged up on the side of Jersey highways, I wouldn't be shocked to see one here, but as you approach, the fence comes to life in red, white, and blue, and green, stars and stripes and smudges, infants to toddlers, to age fifty-two, memorials made on hearts, handmade angels and tarnished doves. It's funny, I've passed by before. Not all that much, but more than a few times, and this was the first time that I really stopped to read. If I needed a reminder to never take one minute of the day for granted, there it was. I think to myself, there's still way too much empty space.


Further east, now into familiar NYU territory, I couldn't help but meander down Washington Mews, one of my favorite city “hallways.” It was the first time I happened to be passing by with a camera since moving here. As usual, it was oddly quiet down this petit taste of Provence, flowers spilling from wooden-paned windows, some adorning pastel shutters, half the path paved with what I would normally describe as cobblestone--but it's actually Belgian block stone, so worn down that it resembles cobblestone. Some of these two-story dwellings are almost completely overtaken by ivy—it's all a very a fitting scene for NYU to have established their European cultural centers. Once an alleyway of Victorian stables, then the residence of upper-crust artists, including Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney and later Edward Hooper, the street is now reserved mostly for their faculty and institutions such as La Maison Francaise which sits premier on the Universirty side of the street. Here also resides the Deutsche Haus, and the Glucksman Ireland House (where I attended my most recent NYU course) can be found right around the corner on Fifth Avenue.At the end of the stretch, taking a last glance back at Fifth, I hear the echoes of a trumpet from Washington Square, the music sweeping eerily into the alley, as if it, like the stones, were a worn out survivor from the past. ( I did read that Dizzy Gillepsie was entertained by a resident of one of the brownstones…) I wish they didn’t allow parking on this street.









Back into the greater corridor, down towards Astor place, and the sensation of wading into warmer ocean water comes over me as I fully submerge myself into the east and approach the great cube.There is a man taking a nap underneath it—hours later, on my way back, he hasn’t moved and inch. Down St. Marks, the colorful conglomeration of tattoos,spikes, sunglasses,records, vintage, sex and hummus, I see a bunch of youngish, hipsterish types all sitting on the sidewalk eating slices of pizza and gyros. I don’t even think they know each other, and I find this even more pleasant.
What I do not find pleasant is almost being mauled down by a running, CBGB t-shirt-wearing 20-year-old as I walk further, passing by Tompkins Square Park, feedback blaring and pot-smoke creeping into the air. It looks like a Misfits reunion is about to break into a full, turbulent swing. I later learn that it was the 20th anniversary of the Tomkins Square Park riots, which music aside, was celebrated by flag and dollar bill burning. Clad in a khaki shorts and a back-pack, looking like a cross between globe-trekker and misinformed safari guide, I can’t even attempt to mesh-or mosh-with this scene and find shelter in a fairly quiet, little thai restaurant on 7th and A, Mini Thai Café. I fill my belly so I can fill the rest of my senses in the Creative Little Garden down the street...