New York Is Our Playground for Movies & Meals

Photo from NY Times review of the Irish documentary, "Housewife of the Year," playing in the Village.

Illustration by Conor Merriman/Juno Films, Inc. 2025.

That glittery city, that gritty city. Its frissons of energy give our batteries a jolt. Its hard-boiled love runs deep. New Yorkers may seem to keep to themselves, but lose your pearl necklace walking around at lunch as a young woman or have your handbag stolen as the subway doors close, and watch people step up and step in.

Dan and I were young writers on those sidewalks, winding up and down streets and across avenues, chasing our dreams, wearing down the heels of our shoes. We were young believers, young parents. We looked up to people. We marveled at the city's gifts, free for the taking. The skyline. The Empire State Building. The Flatiron Building. The Village. The arch at Washington Square Park. Bagel shops, F train rides, Central Park, the day the circus came to town.

We are not young now, but if we somehow live until 95, then we are only about 2/3 through life. Time enough to chase more dreams. 

Lately, we did a couple of NYC firsts.

Saturday-night movie and late supper in the Village. Nothing on our many local NJ movie screens interested me this weekend. Dan, my entertainment concierge, discovered "Housewife of the Year" playing at Quad Cinema on West 13th Street. It's a documentary about a televised competition in Ireland from 1969 to 1995. Check this NY Times review Dan found. I loved the film. The hairdos, dresses, skirts, shoes, stockings and jewelry the contestants wore; the glimpse at the husbands, how each couple met; the roles women were expected to play; the back stories; the talents; the toothy grins; the TV host, Gay Byrne; the number of children each lady had (one with 13!!!!); and the dinners they made to woo the judges (roast lamb, fancy potatoes, custards, etc.). The way women's roles slowly changed with reproductive rights. The Catholic Church's strong clench, and slow release, on family choices. 

Surprise, the young Irish director, Ciaran Cassidy, was there afterward, to field questions. So cool. I felt like a student again--and we were right near The New School, where we had gotten reacquainted in an evening writing class and started dating. Then we walked across the street to Da Andrea, a bustling Italian restaurant, for dinner at 9:30. We sat at the curved end of the small bar and Nelson took us in, between manning the cocktail shaker and pouring the wines. Warm, tender bread with olive oil, spinach ravioli stuffed with truffle mushroom and fluffy ricotta, then the perfect period at the end of the sentence, my latte and Dan's baby-size espresso with two tiny biscotti, a parting gift we ate from a plate. Nelson poured us a glass of the restaurant's homemade limoncello, delicious, before we slipped out into the night. We plan to return to Andrea.

Dinner at The Waverly Inn! I'd been curious for years about this exclusive West Village hideaway co-owned by Graydon Carter of Vanity Fair editor in chief fame. We wanted a nice place for Monday dinner on President's Day Weekend, to celebrate our February 17 wedding anniversary. The Waverly had a table at 5 or 9 p.m., so we went early. The truffled macaroni and cheese was over $100, but other entrees were in reach. 

The dinner opener, two simple circle biscuits served warm with a ramekin of butter, was perfection. Recipe wanted. The Iceberg Wedge Salad was very nice with the crispy bacon on the side, since Dan is a vegetarian. But the ambiance, that provided the golden nourishment. Roaring fireplaces, bright mantles, a famous mural, good people-watching. We were elbow to elbow with the in crowd. We had all ducked in from the cold, descending the stairs to an historic space. Next time, I will wear better shoes to a place run by the king of vanity publishing and Oscar fêtes. But one of my black suede Italian pumps went missing in my closet. (As a new college grad, I heard that Condé Nast interviewers look right at your footwear to evaluate style and substance. And the pretty raven-haired HR person did just that.) Mr. Carter lives a stone's throw away, so walking that neighborhood felt important.

It was fun to get out of the suburbs. Holding the key to the city means we can always get a welcome jolt. 

Good night.