Going Underground

Rainy, windy Friday afternoon...perfect time for one of life's greatest pleasures, a stolen nap. I love to be sheltered in a warm, cozy house in foul weather. The louder the rain pounds on the windows, the better.

Before that, I took the R train from Times Square to 8th Street to meet my friend Celia, who grew up in New York City and still lives there with her husband and son. I love her stories about being a kid in Manhattan--so much more sophisticated than Dumont. [Full disclosure: Celia was H.'s editor--and friend--first, but then I happily stole her as a friend too.]

Pierogies and Stories
We met at the Ukrainian East Village Restaurant [140 Second Avenue; Celia's husband Greg Vimont, a really talented photographer, took the photo above]. I had the lunch portion of pan-fried pierogies [three potato, two cheese]; Celia had blintzes. Each came with a little plastic cup of sour cream. We shared a basket of dark bread and sweet challah. It was really cozy and comforting, and cost us only $9 each, counting tip.

Then we went to Moshe's Homemade Kosher Bake Shop on 115 2nd Avenue.

"This is my favorite bakery," said Celia, who stocked up on challah, rainbow cookies for her son, Ben [whose bar mitzvah was only the second I've ever been honored to attend]; and hamantaschen, the triangular, filled pastries that are a tradition during the Jewish holiday Purim.

The shelves were stocked with lofty sponge cakes in plain and marble, long black and white stacked layer cakes, and cookies of every kind. I felt compelled to try a cupcake, since I've been sampling them all over the city lately, from the tiny ones at the Lilly party to the luxurious ones at Sweet Revenge.

"They're not fresh," the nice woman working the counter said when I ordered two chocolate ones from the window. Instead, I got a smallish piece of the black and white cake [sold by the pound], one small filled chocolate cookie and one of the small hamantaschen, with raspberry filling [you can choose apricot, poppy seed, and other flavors too]. Haven't had many hamantaschen, but this one was far superior to the ones I have had. The crust was richer, more crumbly, more shortbreadlike.

Subway Culture
Then it was back underground. I have to say I love the subway culture when I'm not too cramped to appreciate it. Today I heard New Yorkers giving friendly directions to very trusting tourists with southern accents. Saw groups of men singing in harmony on my ride down and my ride back. Sat near a well-dressed blonde in a chic coat and perfect black suede boots and a young man in hip jeans and cool glasses.

Hats Off
Noticed when we stopped at 23rd Street that there are hats of every kind portrayed on the platform walls at the station. Wondered why. Just found out [thank you again, Wikipedia] that the glass mosaic hats are by artist Keith Godard. There were dark men's hats, women's hats with ribbon and trim, a wealth of hats.

"Memories of Twenty-Third Street, 2002" is Godard's take on the toppers that may have been worn from the 1880s through the 1920s, "when 23rd Street was a major vaudeville, entertainment, and cultural district, and 'Ladies Mile,' the fashion and department store haven of the time, was located nearby." How cool is that? "The celebrities he had in mind include Jim Brady, Oscar Wilde, Sara Bernhardt, Mark Twain, and Lillian Russell."

Good God. How could I have missed the train so long on this? A fashion and shopping district I haven't followed? And my own grandmother, Rosie, was employed in the 1920s and 30s making flowers for hats--she worked from home, in the Bronx. The well-dressed foreman would drop off the supplies, and pick up the flowers. My father remembers that as a little boy, he and his two older brothers would sit around the table and help. And Sis remembers getting some of the petals or blooms to play with as a girl.

And now, today's hat theme is magically expanding--according to my copy of Food Lover's Companion, hamantaschen are also called Haman's hats.

Copycat
One of my favorites today was the man in the warm-up suit sitting across from me.

His cell rang before the train pulled out.

"Jallo?" he said. He wasn't English; he had a New York accent. He listened.

"I'm on the R train," he said. A couple more words and he hung up. He seemed like a nice guy, you could just tell.

That's what I love--the people watching, the style-setting, the lingo. New Yorkers live together, travel together, stick together.

I think I will start saying "Jallo" sometimes when my phone rings, just for the fun of it.