Tag Archives: food

August 22, 2023 · 5:22 pm

If you go to NYBG in late summer prepare to get happy.

It is almost impossible to feel down when you visit. The New York Botanical Garden always has something new to see. Or something not new but ever-fresh. A bee on a blossom.

Yes, the flowers are flowering. The dahlias.

The hydrangeas, some more exotic than others.

The lilies.

Especially nice when you bring someone who loves plants.

She likes the trees, some of which remind her of when she once lived in Japan.

They are incredible.

From a distance, or close up.

Some she had not met before, like the dawn redwood.

The recorded spiel on the tram tells us that it is ancient, was forgotten then rediscovered, magically.

Or swamp white oak.

Anyone would marvel at some of the behemoths here.

Yes, we go on the tram. I like to do so every time I’m at NYBG, even though I’ve heard the same NYBG lore many times before. I want to crystallize it all in my memory, to mentally map which garden is the dwarf conifer, which the azalea, which the “old growth” forest.

I always like to see the people employed to work in the garden as we trundle by.

And the people working there for fun, as at the Edible Academy.

It’s almost as much a pleasure to see the people on the tram as it is to gaze out on the manicured landscape.

This time, a special treat. The African American Garden: The Caribbean Experience, where diverse and delicious foods get their due.

Corn.

Squash.

Pumpkin.

Exotic okra.

Pineapple.

Rice.

Beans.

Flowering currant.

All so wonderfully labelled with kitchen utensils.

I’m not quite sure about some plants here but I know I’d like to investigate further.

Along the paths, posted poetry. Haitian poet Marie-Ovide Dorcely:

I go, just hands, beyond the just, and climb,

clamber, through begonia, a blue husk,

impatiens, a dolly for leaves,

I breathe for the hush of happiness.

There is even a magical bottle tree created by high school students.


Some mysteries here. Food for thought. Cardoon.

It’s hard to tear yourself away from this lyrical food garden. But there are more flowers to see.

And greenery.

And more greenery.

And even more greenery.

Today I like the vivid green as much as the pulpy red. Crimson clover. (Over and over.)

And the pods.

Nature offers such marvels, if you’re just present for them. Allow me to introduce you to stonecrop.

Artichoke thistle.

Always something to learn, like what lily of the valley looks like after it’s bloomed.

And some woman-made marvels, such as the flocks of scary-beautiful vultures installed among the borders by genius artist Ebony G. Patterson.

Who doesn’t love hibiscus?

Or caladium?

Especially the caladium. Or the glowing lantana.

It’s all there for us.

All of us.

Even if you’re one who likes to take the tram.

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July 28, 2023 · 7:08 pm

Why fry by the ocean when you can scorch on the NYC sidewalks?

I hadn’t been to Manhattan in quite some time. Returning, I see all its contrasts as poetry.

The old side by side with the new. Burned out church, new construction.

Antiquated evidence of New York’s beaver-rich past in the Astor Place subway stop.

A million year old hotel, updated several times.

The struggles of nature.

Pity the poor oak that hits its head against the shed scaffolding for years.

Or the struggling ginkgo.

Still, its rugged New York bark survives, as tough as any New Yorker.

You wouldn’t think it, but in addition to the dead and the wrecked and the unpruned, some trees flourish. As we walk, we look up to see the honey locust offering up its elegant chartreuse pods right on schedule.

Pagoda tree lets down its perfect profuse blossoms.

A Chinese elm appears to be strutting its stuff with that glorious bark.

Yes, we know you’re beautiful.

There’s even an allee of London planes by a Christie Street playground. Take that, Central Park!

Don’t say that New Yorkers aren’t fond of nature. If it’s possible to buy it, they like it.

Nature is everywhere in Manhattan if you’re looking for it. Never know when you might trip over a critter of carved driftwood.

Or an ancient stone lion guarding a tenement stoop.

The East Village does change, but somehow remains as gritty and vibrant as ever. An old signpost at Astor Place.

Highlighting old haunts: Remember that crazy place CBGB? Most in the East Village do.

St. Marks Place is a good location to get fitted out with a new wig, as it always has been.

Art thrives alongside commerce. Historic drug store.

Magic garb.

Throwback clothing.

We don’t go in though the window display beckons.

Signage, in New York ever brilliant. Jerk, stewed, vegan. Something for everyone.

A sign for something or other.

Or something else.

A place to go rogue. Aren’t you glad there is one? People move here from their tiny towns to be just that.

Butter above.

Encouragement below.

Further encouragement.

Also admonitions.

And observations.

Does this restaurant entice you?

How about a choice hamburger?

There is a new place I’ve been to that specializes in stewed frog and baked cow lung.

Is it just me or is absolutely every surface in the East Village tagged now?

Need wheels? Got ’em.

Some things never seem to change. Need sustenance?

You can still go to B and H Dairy and sit at the counter and delight in cold borscht. No cell phones allowed, however. What a relief.

In this case followed by the best chocolate milkshake I ever have drunk and a conversation with a witty and wise waitress.

Weed is old. New York’s storefronts have been selling the stuff for ages. Now that it’s legal, some of the cooler mom-and-pops are going under.

While others have been elevated to posh pot palaces. To which would you rather bring your business?

The Lower East Side still has a great bong selection for those who need one.

Coffee, coffee, coffee. Please!

After straggling in to an East Village café it seems there is something new to do with iced coffee. Serve it in a bag, as they do at 787 Coffee on East 7th near A.

The counter guy Diego seems surprised and bemused that we are surprised and bemused by this technological innovation.

The store opens up its wonders as we began to sweat slightly less.

Again, we are flummoxed with the heat. But it seems the store is owned by a branding genius.

Good place if you’d like an orgasm ball cap.

Or to sip your java on a swing in front of the plate glass. If you are a creative, that is.

I might be one. Not sure. Too hot to decide. We thumb through the owner’s book of aphorisms and while later they will seem a bit corny, at the time they are brilliant.

Wit and wisdom.

Reassurance.

Even the bathroom elevates the mood.

Since when did NYC get so nice? Actually it’s always been nice. In its own crochety way. We New Yorkers know that.

Diego comes over with welcome H2O.

Andy Warhol is both old and new at Brant Museum on 7th Street, housed in a vintage Con Edison substation.

Warhol’s work ever fresh.

Yes. I’m with you, perspicacious Andy.

Who knew that as a young artist he produced a pin the tail on the donkey set up?

I think he’d like the fact that his self portrait graces a 65-dollar tote bag in the gift shop..

Jeff Koons wannabe balloon piggy banks are not produced by Jeff Koons, the salesperson corrects me rather haughtily, but by an independent manufacturer. Yes, visitors do have questions. Okay Miss Lonely but you’re gonna have to get used to it, as Dylan wrote in his most famous song, you know the one.

Still, you can get yourself a Keith Haring votive for those special moments. I hope it’s scented.

Meet up with my friend Nora, herself an artist.

She’s in the middle of finishing a drawing to hang in a show inspired by New York’s venerable community gardens.

The subway hosts some lovely youngsters with their lovely comfort pooch.

And a lovely poem.

We take the train north to home along the Hudson through sheets of cooling rain.

Already nostalgic for the cafe earlier.

One thing’s for sure, New York will always be there for you.

And me. Hot. And cool.

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October 2, 2022 · 6:25 pm

The finest mofongo in New York City

would be hard to identify, there is so much fine mofongo in New York. But I have a hunch it might be prepared in the unassuming kitchen of 188 Bakery Cuchifritos, on 188 Street, just off of Grand Concourse in the Bronx. 

I worked around the corner for six months last year protecting trees, meeting some incredible people along the way.

Anthony Bourdain agreed with me, chowing down here in Parts Unknown, and his signed glossy adorns one wall of the joint, where patrons customarily ignore it and go on with their ordering and chewing.

The specialty is Puerto Rican/Latin cuisine. The crunchy pork chicharrons Dominicano are out of this world, a nice challenge to your Lipitor. It’s a boomerang of a bone, cleaver-chopped and served in bite-size wedges of crispy skin, meat and fat.

The place has other distinctions. It is as far as I have seen the only restaurant in town with a dedicated Lotto booth on the premises. A busy one, too. Made a former New Yorker happy by taking her here to dinner.

You can fill your stomach here every day of the year, from 9 am to 11 pm. It has been in business for 30 years, and even has a Facebook page. Whether you go for breakfast or dinner it is jammed, a line for takeout snaking through the door. The counter people efficiently juggle phone orders and packing up meals.

I tend to like any handwritten sign, so the menu board at 188 Cuchifritos is a delight.

Customers cut across a wide swathe of the population.

Usually there is a fairly high proportion of street people wandering in and hoping for a handout, alongside the paying customers. The common denominator here is a craving for sustenance.

The mofongo al pilon – a plantain dish derived from Spanish, Taino and West African cuisines–is stuffed with pork cracklings and served with a tomato-and-garlic infused gravy. The cook mashes starchy platanos in a classic wooden mortar and pestle and it comes to the table as a dome that you explode with your fork. One foodie reviewer described the taste with the buzz-word umami, and I think that as pretentious as that is, it’s not far off.

While waiting for the mofongo to emerge from the kitchen you might study the cartoon tiles on the wall. I have translated some of them, albeit clumsily.

Married man, spoiled donkey.

Two children and a mother are three devils for the father.

The guests are happy but that’s when they leave.

Okay. I never claimed to study Spanish in school, and anyway my mouth is watering too much to make good sense of the jokes. There is also some fine artwork on display.

Home-made hot sauce readily available and in an awesome recycled container.

The frituras, fried snacks displayed in the window, include one I love but don’t know the name of.

I just tell the wise waitress “the football shaped one,” indicating the oblate spheroid with hand gestures, and she knows what I mean.

I have now done research and found that it is more correctly alcapurria, a yucca fritter stuffed with picadillo, the classic Latin American blend of beef, tomatoes, and olives. I’ll try to remember that for next time.

It is possible to order pig ears, tongue, or stomach, though I haven’t done so. Yet.

I can’t decide which I like better, the counter or the five or so tiny tables. The service is always superb no matter where you sit. If you order like we do you and sit at the counter, though, you can barely fit all the plates in front of you. Yes, you can even get a salad to cut the fat if you insist. Plenty of rice and beans to take home, though of course you’ll have to eat without the cartoons for entertainment.

“I don’t know any place porkier,” was Bourdain’s summation. I would just add: when you are next in the Bronx, get lucky and go.

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August 14, 2022 · 7:36 pm

Road trip revelations big and small

included some arresting sights, such as the Wisconsin highway barn painted in mile-high letters by people who obviously wanted to get their message across. These guys should work on Madison Avenue. OKAY, WE HEAR YOU!

A flock of blue jays, one of which left a memento behind for someone (me) desiring signs and best wishes for the future.

Earlier on our journey, another blue jay, by the road side. Good effort to whomever created it, and good tidings to all travelers passing by.

A message dishtowel I seem to have absconded with from the family reunion cottage on Green Bay. Yes! Agreed.

Flowers lush, fresh, unexpected. Euphorbia milli.

A rainbow, always a good harbinger, this time at what is called the American Falls at Niagara. Eschewing the yellow ponchos they give out to tourists who stop under the torrent, I looked down over the whole scene and was impressed by a) the majesty, of course and b) the tawdriness of the surroundings. Have three quarters of all commercial establishments (hotels, restaurants, etc.) shut down during the pandemic, or does it just seem that way?

Wanted to find a memorial to Annie Edson Taylor, the 63-year-old nearly penniless widow from Bay City, Michigan who thought she’d achieve fame and fortune by braved the Horseshoe Falls in a barrel in 1901. Challenged by a reporter to reveal the skimpy outfit she might wear to make the journey, Taylor responded, it would be unbecoming a woman of my refinement and my years to parade before a holiday crowd in an abbreviated skirt!

Apparently her only monument stands in Oakwood Cemetery in Niagara Falls, where she died as a public charge – only 17 minutes of fame for her and no gold at the end of the rainbow (bad manager blamed). A schoolteacher, she fitted herself out in barrel weighted down with a 100-pound anvil and went for the ride of her life, only getting slightly banged up.

Farm-stand raspberries just picked, before being gobbled down. Summertime, summertime…

WOW! Seemingly defunct art gallery in Manetowac, just before the Canadian border. Peeking in, dusty easels and all.

Apple plucked from the grass beneath an old-old tree, the kind of fruit people used to go crazy for in the days before candy for everybody all the time – mainly sour, cottony, with skin of leather, instantly oxidizing – which I ate down to the core before tossing out the window.

Johnny Appleseed fantasies. An interesting fellow, not a myth. John Chapman, born in 1774, was a pioneer nurseryman who introduced apple trees to large parts of the eastern U.S. He was also a missionary and when he traveled around to various states distributed materials about the New Church along with his apple seeds, giving sermons that cautioned against such indulgences as calico fabric and imported tea. 

The Runway Bar in Door County at the small airport for private planes, Bad Lands in the back (bordello?), shut down in the ‘90s but still offering a side-of-the-road sight for sore eyes, tree busting through the roof and all. A dive bar that took a nose dive, says Gil.

Another way sign I grew instantly fond of. Beach Harbor, baby. Let’s go.

Sleek windmills all along the highway. I’m told not by Cervantes not to tilt at them — they might be evil giants — but I insist. Saw some on the road being transported, accompanied by a robust police convoy.

Well-groomed Motorcycle Memorial Park way off the road.

A place to raise a beer to fallen comrades, apparently. But remember, bikers don’t let bikers drive drunk.

Aldo Leopold bench kit at The Ridges nature center at Bailey’s Harbor – 120 bucks will get conservation-minded carpenters the great naturalist’s name brand for their garden.

A canoe setting sail with family members at sunset. Sweet dreams are made of this, as the Eurythmics would have it.

In other boating news, a homemade flotilla and race at Sturgeon Bay – only plywood and caulk allowed – and almost all sink to general, gentle Midwestern hilarity.

In still more boating news, a Gideon’s bible graces the cabin on the coal-fired ferry from Manetowac, Wisconsin to Luddington, Michigan, across the great lake. Will put reading that old thing on my to-do list.

Odd tree habits. I don’t get this, but I love it. Maybe there is a biblical allegory here?

The moon that followed us as it waxed, flaming yellow and orange, so close you could see the ancient, impossible face. No Iphone pic can do justice to this fever dream of an evening sky. Truly the magic hour.

It was hard to get enough of Ottilie the German short-hair pointer taking cat naps in the back seat.

But don’t mention cats to Ottie, who has a thing about cats and other small creatures. This great bird dog, without a hunting trip to focus her, once put a chicken out of its misery at doggie day care.

And speaking of dogs, nine puppies for sale at a crossroads farm – parentage impeccable, Red Aussie/Red Heeler/ English Shepherd/ Border Collie.

Like fur-covered jelly beans, all of six weeks old. Callie the home-schooled farm girl (not sure what grade I’m in — ninth, I think?) shares a picture of the father. Pretty formidable presence, I’d say.

Will we adopt one of his progeny? I am currently petitioning my dog-loving husband, who cherishes his freedom now that all our prior dogs have crossed the rainbow bridge, as some people like to put it. Probably originated with some of the same people that put up the JESUS IS LORD barn message.

Perhaps the blue jays will bring me luck.

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August 9, 2022 · 1:55 pm

The meaning of a cairn

is debatable. It’s a marker or a meditation of some kind, says Sarah.

An ode to the fact that people have been here. Yes. Sarah swims in the cold, rough ocean, and knows something about everything.

Traditionally, in the Andes or Mongolia, say, rock cairns were used to mark routes to safety, to food, and to villages. Three or more stones piled up, usually.

Thomas believes that they were first used to prevent marauding predators from defiling corpses, but remembers that in Boy Scouts, hiking, they built them to use as a sign for those who follow. That must surely have been fun.

Finding your way in the world can be fun. Or not. It’s always an adventure. Even pain lets you know you’re alive. Can help you find your way.

All kinds of signs, not just cairns, in this Midwestern sortie. The wall leading to the beer hall restroom.

The supermarket aisle, full of Midwestern cute-isms.

The roadside wayfinder to the coming old-time thresheree. Missing it. Rats.

Even the fish store has its own signpost, useful for dinnertime filet crust-creators.

Something called a chambered cairn in ancient times featured a grave underground and a cairn above.

Marking your way, finding your way, figuring out where the heck you should go. You probably have heard that men and women organize space differently, and wend their ways differently when they take to the road. Women determine where they’re going by landmarks, men by maps.

Here on the shore of Green Bay, sticks and stones.

Sticks and stones won’t hurt you. Stones might. Hundreds of thousands of spiders swarm the shore and clamber whooshingly into the cracks when you make your way across.

Sculptor Andy Goldsworthy is known for his sculpture at Storm King sculpture center in New York. With the help of five men he built a wall 2,278 feet long out of rough stone dug from local fields—1,579 tons of rock. Incorporating an old farm wall, it wends its way through groves of trees before “disappearing” into a lake and “emerging” at the other side. Goldsworthy has noted, Trees, stone, people—these are the ingredients of the place and the work. The stones connect to past and present. Touching the wall can bring luck, as Maud knows well.

Past and present. Mimi told me that cheese shops were commonly built at the crossroads in rural Wisconsin. Whaaat? Gil and I call such facts when used in written works bite-in-the-ass-details. Almost too delectable to be true. BITAD’s.

But I checked in with Rick, a Midwesterner born and bred. His grandpa was a cheese professional – got his degree in cheese-craft at the University of Wisconsin-Madison in the 1930s, then went about the cheese business in rural Wisconsin at crossroads cheese factories. Seriously.

What if you find yourself at a cheese crossroads?

Sometimes –usually — a hammock is the best place to reflect on the tides of life.

My proposal for a book about American forests is out there, wending its way through the publishing quagmire, looking for a home. Waiting to find a home is hard, but I like to think I’ve done good work and the rest will come.

Over every mountain, there is a path, although it may not be seen from the valley. That’s what Theodore Roethke said. Lyn said that she recalls a kind minister helping her overcome some of her shyness by appointing her the church’s liturgist – she didn’t foresee that path but will always be grateful.

Charlie used cairns as a backpacking counselor. One trail was on Bomber Mountin in the Bighorns of Wyoming. The group found the WW2 wreckage near a peak, then cairns guided them down a 1,500 foot descent to safety.

Only one thing for certain: there will be peach upside-down cake for dessert.

How many more perfect sunsets will you view in your life?

How many perfect cedar skies?

How many slices of peach upside-down cake? How many Midwestern Van Gogh sunflowers kissing the light?

How many cheeks will you kiss? How many times will your own face be kissed? 

How many sweet summer vacations? I hate to break it to you, the number is finite. 

The ways are innumerable, though, I hope. Keep an eye out for signposts.

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August 1, 2022 · 3:21 pm

Beef grease begrimed

but content, with bulging bellies, we pull away from Mr. Beef in Chicago and back on to the highway.

If you’ve watched The Bear, streaming on Hulu, you know something about Mr. Beef.

It’s the premier Chicago joint to get an Italian beef sandwich, with great actors – including debatable hunk Jeremy Allen White – telling the story of a guy that inherits his deceased brother’s counter restaurant, the Original Beef of Chicagoland, modeled closely on Mr. Beef. It was even shot on site as well as a sound stage. Also Ayo Edebiri, a fast-rising newcomer who co-stars as his culinary sidekick.

Not debatable, the scrumptiousness of the sandwich sold there,”hand-carved” thin-shaved beef with what is called giardeneria, sautéed vegetables, and then the whole thing dipped in jus.

Okay to eat in the car, especially if you have dogs in the back seat and don’t want to risk broiling them by leaving them there.

Otherwise the counter by the window is the thing.

When I say dipped, I mean bun and all.

Twice-fried french fries also the best, the kind that have you licking salt off your fingers before you surrender to the necessity of wipes.

The highway spools out ahead, the trip post-Mr. Beef energized by Steve Earle’s I Feel Alright, though made somewhat tawdry by Maud’s addiction to true-crime podcasts. Also, Parliament Funkadelic, Flashlight, utilized to good effect at the beginning of the 1990 thriller Misery. James Caan speeds down a mountain road blasting Flashlight on his way to mail the manuscript for a novel he has just finished. Probably the best portrayal of writerly triumph and self-satisfaction in Hollywood history. That is, before meany Kathy Bates gets ahold of him.

Mr. Beef has many fans willing to wait on long lines.

Stars of screen and tube drop in regularly, and autographed head shots adorn the walls. The person at the counter said that Jeremy had come by several weeks ago, stimulating a bout of fan-girling.

There is a back room, but I’ve rarely seen anyone go in there. Well, we have. We’ve been to Mr. Beef many times before, having chanced on it serendipitously when taking a random exit off the road at meal-time.

Alright then, says Maud. Nuff said. That’s just about all you can say with jus dripping down your chin, onto your chest and everywhere else. Alright.

Taking a bite sets off fireworks in your mouth.

The largest (they say) fireworks warehouse on Route 80 welcomed our business, the quiet time between Fourth of July and Labor day.

Hard to know what to get in this multiple-football-field-sized store, between the ones that shoot balls, the boppers, or the ones that simply explode. Even the sparklers look somewhat iffy, though the young lady that checked us out assured us that it would all would be fine for a backyard display.

She also told us that Sturgeon Bay, our ultimate destination in Door County, has a terrific place to go if you want pancakes and also goats on the roof. We looked it up. Yes. It also has Swedish meatballs. Okay, but I believe that pancakes and goats are inherently a better combination.

Perhaps an improvement on Mr. Beef? Goats? Actually, there could be no improvement on Mr. Beef.

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August 18, 2021 · 11:22 am

The scents of the Grand Concourse,

both pleasant and foul, follow me as I walk the avenue inspecting trees to make sure they’re not injured by the major construction project underway, alerting the contractor to tree pits that have had stuff dumped in them.

First is citrus heaven, as I go past the many small produce stands where the proprietor peels oranges on a spit, afterwards bagging them for the clientele. The aroma wafts out to the sidewalk, freshening the morning.

One not so lovely, the smell of the pet store. Canine poop and pee rise like a cloud in front of the shop.

Puppy mill puppies include that little Golden in the window,  and can cost 2,800 dollars in the case of this English bulldog.

Which I would love to bring home, but can’t afford. Plus I prefer pit bulls.

Speaking of pets, the bodega I patronize just acquired a kitten named Winston, who is kept in the bathroom but has perfumed the whole store already.

Hard hats do not usually patronize shops here, but I go in if I’m interested.

I enter a nail salon to use the facilities – they really seem like every other store in the Bronx, alternating with hair braiding places – and I’m hit with dense, choking smoke from the acrylic shaping that goes on here. The bathroom is sparkling clean, as is the case in every establishment run by women here.

A relief to pass by the other big presence, the laundromat, with its sudsy air emanating from the open doors. 

The trees themselves offer a green breeze, especially if you harvest a few to determine the species – some sort of elm, as yet to be determined, with a problem as evidenced by the pin pricks.

And at the fish store, where the fish seem to have just swam in from the sea, the tangy salt breeze begs me to take home a salmon, bluefish, anything but the shark, a species which is now being overfished. In the morning they take them out of boxes of ice and line them up in an orderly fashion for choosy shoppers.

Or you can go to the cuchifritos restaurant, a hole in the wall that doesn’t even have a name in the window. The smell of the best fried pork in the neighborhood draws long lines, and when I wait I have the most delicious pina colada I’ve ever drunk.

It’s the only eatery I’ve ever patronized with a Lotto booth. Well used, too.

And finally, the garlic that hits my nose when I rip open the tostones package, its contents rich with grease and salt. Every day I promise myself I won’t indulge, a promise inevitably broken.

It’s an aromatic distinction of the Grand Concourse, one of so many. I’m going to get a bag of Tostones right now.

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July 28, 2021 · 2:15 pm

Dollar coffee

is a bodega staple I’ve always thought is among the best things in the Bronx. Hot, strong, milky and cheap. It’s universal in the borough, along with the chopped cheese sandwich (also known as a chop cheese), a mess of ground beef, melted cheese, tomato, lettuce, a mystery sauce and some other things on a Kaiser roll, guaranteed to drip down your chin.

Within this little microburst of a neighborhood, just a few blocks of the Grand Concourse, I’m beginning to scratch the surface of its foodways.

There is the grocery I park my car next to–onions out front– which features floors cleaner than mine at home, a full butcher counter, a sandwich maker, iced coffee, a spic and span bathroom (with toilet paper!) and a tiny litter box, presumably for a tiny cat. And at the cash register the loveliest woman, whose brother owns the place.

Searching in another greengrocer for a bathroom (It’s in the basement! Headshaking no) I’m in a quandary. This place has a dozen varieties of tuber but no public bathroom.

An elderly gentleman wearing a kerchief directs me to Lulo, a restaurant across the street.

It is the official house of goats. A guy on the sidewalk yesterday told me I look like a horse. Could have been worse. Anyway, I don’t eat horses, and I don’t eat goats, I like their Satanic eyes too much. Lulo is also immaculate, all of its furniture covered with slick, easy to wipe down plastic.

Home to the dollar coffee, the Grand Concourse is also home to The Real Coffee Man.

And, shock, the dollar slice.

I thought that was obsolete. And I’ll give it a try one of these days, coffee on the side.

There is such careful attention given to selecting among the fruits and vegetables on the little produce stands on nearly every corner. The proprietess tenderly chooses the perfect tomatoes for a man on a bike.

Kennedy Chicken, Popeye’s and Dunkin may have a foothold here on the GC, but as long as chop cheese reigns, they will never push off the mom and pops.

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April 10, 2021 · 6:11 pm

Burrata or blossoms

Usually you could have both, because the mozzarella store, Joe’s, in Arthur Avenue, is in so close proximity to the New York Botanical Garden, where the cherry trees are currently in bloom. The Sakura festival is upon us.

However, it’s 2:00, and “we sell out of the burrata early” says the counter man, not surprising when you consider how creamy, gooey, mild  and scrumptious is burrata. Joe’s has a wall of imported tomatoes.

Hoary cheeses hang above.

A picnic sandwich will have to suffice, al fresco.

It’s a good place to take pictures of people taking pictures. Everyone is doing it.

To hide behind the mysterious Prunus pendula.

We see a man juggling oranges as he walks along. And a mother with feet all dressed up for spring.

An artist named Yayoi Kusama had polka dotted the grounds. “Forget yourself and become one with nature!” says this mad person. “Obliterate yourself with polka dots!” Fabric stretches around the soaring red oaks. Patrons buy polka dot ponchos in the gift shop.

A funny combination. Blossoms.

And dots.

“Do these polka dots make my trunk look fat?” said the tree, smirking.

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