Brooklyn in Love

by Amy Thomas

  The months ticked by. I was winked at—the lazy way of expressing interest online—by guys in their twenties who probably thought they were being sweet by coming on to an older woman. I also received inquiries from earnest men in their fifties and sixties suggesting an afternoon glass of wine. But when it came to the guys in my box—in their late thirties or forties, who appeared well groomed, sounded well informed, and who wrote well in their profiles—well, they were conspicuously absent. The site claimed tens of thousands of users online at any given moment, but for me, it was a desert. But why was I surprised? After all, Joe himself had divulged that he not only trolled for women who were ten to fifteen years younger than him, but he had also shaved eight years off his own age in order to seem a more appropriate match for these ladies. Apparently, if I expected to find love online, I needed to pump up my chest and dial down my age.

  • • •

  It wasn’t all dire. One day I had an intriguing message in my OkCupid mailbox. It was a concise note bordering on formal, but it contained just enough intelligence, humor, and modesty for me to click through to the profile. This guy grew up in the Midwest and now lived in Brooklyn. He’d spent time living in France as well as Senegal. He had dark, curly hair and thick-framed glasses. One of his profile photos was an awkward selfie he had taken in his full-length mirror, wearing a black Izod with the collar popped. This was somehow endearing. My fingers tap-tap-tapped my desk as I reread his note. It was another Friday night, chez-moi. I was minutes away from a pint of Phish Food and season three of Sex and the City—the one when Carrie meets Aidan. I could hear the shrieks of drunk NYU girls outside my East Village apartment and sense my black tabby cat, Milo, waiting for me on the couch. “That’s it,” I said aloud in my living room, staring at this stranger’s photo. “I’m having sex with him.”

  One week and a couple polite back-and-forth emails later, I was walking down Fifteenth Street to meet my potential seducer. “Andrew?” I asked a bespectacled guy with his nose down in his iPhone outside Park Bar.

  “Hi,” he said, smoothly sliding the phone in his coat pocket.

  “I’m Amy.”

  “Andrew. Hi…I’m…Andrew,” he responded, realizing that had already been established.

  “Hi.” I smiled, absorbing the awkward moment.

  “Shall we?” he asked, gesturing to the door.

  Inside, two stools stood auspiciously empty at the bar amid the bustling postwork crowd. I ordered my go-to glass of pinot noir, and after a moment of what looked like indecision or internal debate, Andrew ordered the same.

  “So, you were coming from work, I suppose?” he asked, kicking off what was now a routine conversation. Despite my sad track record—or maybe because of it—I had first dates pretty much down: you compared notes about where you lived in the city, what you did for a living, and how you liked spending your free time—about an hour’s worth of chitchat. It was rarely romantic or steamy, more like a job interview when you’re trying to make a good impression while striking the right balance of talking and listening, coming off as interested but certainly not overeager.

  Some guys got off on talking about online dating itself, sharing anecdotes about previous dates gone awry or—it never failed—how crazy New York women are. Others consciously avoided the topic, probably preferring to pretend we had met in a more palatable way. Travel, family, and hobbies indicated broaching intimacy and could lead to revelatory discussions. But everyone had their own tests. I always brought up food and restaurants to gauge a man’s awareness of and appetite for what I considered essential topics like Andrew Carmellini’s newest venture or which of the swanky Midtown hotel bars made the best manhattan in the city. Andrew didn’t rattle off the names of chefs or trendy restaurants when I started waxing poetic about the season’s newest crop of hip restaurant openings, but he did share that the best meal he’d had in New York was at Babbo, Mario Batali’s acclaimed three-star Italian restaurant, an instant classic when it opened in 1998, which I saw as very promising.

  Our two rounds—a sign that the date was engaging enough not to send one of us packing with a made-up obligation after one drink—were spent talking about writing (he was a legal affairs journalist at an international news agency located in Midtown and a fan of Michael Lewis), living abroad (a Fulbright scholarship had been responsible for his stint in Senegal), and what we did on weekends (he was a big fan of college basketball—not terribly exciting or sexy, but there were worse things). It was just another first date in another bar on another weeknight in the great big bustling city of New York. It had been a nice couple of hours, friendly but benign. So when he leaned in and quickly but firmly kissed me before descending into the Union Square subway station, I was a little surprised. Was he feeling something I wasn’t?

  Apparently—and fortunately—he was, because our second date was a whole different story.

  “So what do you think about Bloomberg?” I asked, intentionally steering the conversation into politics—a potential minefield and telltale topic for detecting irreconcilable differences—halfway into our first drink.

  We were huddled against a fogged-up window at an Upper West Side wine bar. Outside, a freak October snowstorm was dumping flakes fast and furiously. I had thought myself so clever when Andrew asked for a second date and I suggested an early evening drink that I’d cram in before a friend’s dinner party Uptown. Unsure of this guy, I had wanted to have an easy out. But as the minutes ticked by, I was more and more annoyed that I had to be somewhere in an hour’s time. I was feeling cozy and smitten, and wanted to keep gazing at this charming man sitting across from me. He had an awesome head of curly hair, which was becoming increasingly disheveled since he occasionally raked his hand through it. Behind his glasses—which were brainy and preppy, just like his pinstripe button-down—were chocolate-brown eyes.

  “You know, he can be a real dick, but I think he’s a pretty great mayor in terms of getting things done,” Andrew said. It gave me a small thrill when he said dick, not because I was that horny, but because he otherwise seemed like such a wholesome Midwesterner. I was happy to know he had some edge—or at least the wherewithal to cuss. As he went on about our controversial three-term mayor, the depth of his knowledge impressed me. I kept trying to suppress a smile, feeling like the Cheshire Cat. But if I wasn’t mistaken, he was looking pretty content too.

  We comfortably drifted into sundried topics like the virtue versus burden of subscribing to the New Yorker and whether guys who do yoga are cool or annoying. I learned Bob Dylan was his music hero and shared that Chrissie Hynde was mine. We bantered like friends who hadn’t seen each other in months and had so much to catch up on. Yet I desperately wanted to make out with him. We ordered another round of Italian reds served in oversized goblets. I was simultaneously keeping track of and ignoring the time, knowing I was due at my friend’s. Finally, I was really late and had to go.

  Outside, we huddled under my umbrella. The air was both still from the falling snow and charged with the energy of something unusual happening. Giant flakes cartwheeled beneath the streetlights, and taxis slowly steered up the avenue. We reached the corner and were watching a cab makes its way to us in slow motion when Andrew turned and kissed me. And kissed me. And kissed me. I don’t know if it was because it had been so long since I had been properly kissed or if we had amazing chemistry, but the only reason I wanted to leave him and go to this dinner party now was to recount this magical encounter to my friends. Which I did for the rest of the night ad nauseam.

  It had been such a great date, I figured I would get a text from Andrew the next day. When I didn’t, I thought maybe, in true dude fashion, he was waiting for the start of the workweek. But I heard nothing from him on Monday. When Tuesday came and went without any sort of acknowledgment of the unbelievable time we’d had, I was as furious as I was flummoxed. I was pretty sure I hadn’t misread any cues: the knowing glances and smiles, the easy
rapport, the heavy make-out session. Why was he blowing me off? Was I so rusty that the connection I felt was all one sided? Was Andrew out doing this with a different woman every night?

  Normally I wouldn’t wait for the guy to initiate contact. A proud feminist who grew up watching Martha Quinn and Madonna on MTV and Watts and Tess in Some Kind of Wonderful and Working Girl, I knew I could do anything that men did. I had no problem popping off an email or text when interested. But I had recently been burned—not once, but twice—thinking I was clicking with a guy only to get ghosted when I reached out after a couple of dates. I was okay being vulnerable, but was over feeling like a fool. Plus, as I got older, I was apparently getting a little old-fashioned. Was it really so bad to want the guy to pursue me? I consulted with AJ’s husband, Mitchell, who was well versed in modern dating manners. He suggested that I give it one more day and then text Andrew. “Really?!” I asked, exasperated. Mitchell assured me this was the smart play. Begrudgingly, I agreed to humor the male species and wait one more day. Not even two hours later, Andrew called: Was I free Saturday for dinner?

  Before long (five dates, to be precise), I made good on my vow to have sex with him, and not long after that, Andrew had sort of become my boyfriend—though I had a hard time calling him that. At thirty-nine, I was more than comfortable being single, independent, and calling the shots. As much as I bemoaned those long months of parking it on the couch, watching sentimental television with my cat and bonbons for company, and as excited as I was to have met Andrew and be devirginized again, I enjoyed my time alone. I was my own person, a whole person, with a rich life. Now that there were certain expectations with Andrew, I realized the difference between the idea of a boyfriend and the reality was a lot of time and emotional investment. Was I ready to do this? Was I ready to do it with him?

  Andrew was lovely but lacked an edge. Previous beaux had been wildly romantic in their seduction, filling hotel rooms with flowers, taking me to poetry readings and on motorcycle rides. If I was going to do this, I wanted someone with a little swagger, someone who would take control and wow me. But Andrew was maddeningly methodical, suggesting predictable dinner dates near my apartment in the East Village once, maybe twice a week, for weeks on end. He didn’t stray from the script; he never took me by surprise or made grand gestures. Could I really commit to someone who didn’t understand that there were amazing restaurants to try beyond one neighborhood? That spontaneity is sexy? That a girl who loves sweets would surely be seduced by a box of truffles—champagne truffles flown in from Switzerland, to be exact? Where was this man’s connection with and passion for food?

  And yet I was intrigued—just when I’d give up hope, he’d send a text that made me blush or we’d have a conversation that made me feel like we were cut from the same cloth. And the sex kept getting better. I decided I needed some outside perspective; it was time to introduce Andrew to my friends.

  • • •

  Two Sundays later, we joined AJ and Mitchell and Ben, another of my oldest friends, and his girlfriend, Merrill, for brunch, a classic New York tradition and nonthreatening occasion for them to covertly assess this new man in my life. AJ and Mitchell knew the blow-by-blow events of our first couple of months together. They understood my misgivings and insecurities, and I trusted them to tell me if I was being an annoying, hypercritical New Yorker. Ben and Merrill, knowing only that this was the guy I had been dating, would offer a more organic read.

  We all met at Jack the Horse, a neighborhood tavern in Brooklyn Heights that has the most incredible smoked trout salad: warm chunks of smoky fish mixed with crunchy almonds, soft fingerling potatoes, and sweet grapes over slightly bitter arugula. It’s not your typical brunch fare, but this salad is too good not to get at any opportunity, no matter what time it is. The six of us sat at a round table, Andrew’s hand on my thigh, my cheeks flushed. This was the first meal with friends in years in which we were an even number. I was accustomed to being the third or fifth wheel to AJ and Mitchell and Ben and Merrill. As coffee was refilled and our shared smoked trout salad in the middle of the table was reduced to just a few smears of the thick, creamy dressing, I could tell Andrew was getting high marks for his mild manners and sardonic humor. He made Ben laugh and talked to AJ about the Democratic Party, about which she is fiercely passionate. He asked Merrill just as many questions as she did of him—reciprocating interests and listening skills, no lost arts with this guy!—and Mitchell gave me a subtle thumbs-up across the table.

  But it wasn’t until Andrew agreed at the last minute to pile into a car with the rest of us and drive across the Gowanus Canal to Four & Twenty Blackbirds, a pie-centric bakery, that all of my friends—and I—were really sold.

  • • •

  When people talk about Brooklyn and its peaceful, verdant streets, they are not talking about Gowanus. In fact, with its sewage-stinking, chemical-slicked canal that is one of the most-contaminated waterways in the country, Gowanus is the butt of many jokes. And yet when sisters Emily and Melissa Elsen were looking for a home in which to open their pie shop, they proudly chose the maligned area that lies between the more family-friendly, picturesque neighborhoods of Carroll Gardens and Park Slope. They vibed off the area’s diversity and were prescient enough to know its slow, steady growth was going to transform the area and be good for business.

  In 2009, Emily and Melissa were just two ordinary Brooklynites, working, hanging out, and going to friends’ dinner parties. They lived in a giant house in Crown Heights—a then-dodgy neighborhood, home to frequent shootings—with a giant kitchen, where they found themselves baking. A lot. It was a natural instinct. Raised in a town of about four hundred in South Dakota, their mother and two aunts ran the only local restaurant, a casual, family-style spot, and their grandmother was enlisted to bake. “Grandma was always a pie maker,” Emily recalls. “Pies were her thing.” As the sisters riffed and experimented in their Brooklyn kitchen, they too were drawn more and more to pies. Emily explains: “Pie is this durable thing that you can share with people. It’s kind of homey and rustic and nostalgic without being some fancy, decorated confectionary.”

  Their circle of friends included arty and creative types who frequently hosted dinners and events. The sisters always brought their homemade pies, and soon enough, this led to bona fide baking orders. Their first paid gig was a Valentine’s dinner hosted at a friend’s loft in Bushwick, for which they made the desserts. “I mean, how much more Brooklyn does it get?” Emily laughs, recounting their early days of being in the epicenter of all things cool and edgy. But the truth was, the Elsen sisters were at the forefront of a swelling Brooklyn foodie movement. Demand for their pies continued, and they kept baking and getting the word out there. “We should start a pie company,” Emily recalls saying to her sister. “But we didn’t really know what that meant.”

  As the two continued working at other jobs, they developed and tested recipes, put numbers to paper, and imagined what was possible. It was the cocktail-napkin phase of business development: part dreaming, part doing. Finally, an associate of Emily’s at the Gowanus Studio Space, an artists’ nonprofit where she worked, tipped her off to a vacant spot she had seen on Third Avenue that might be good for a bakery. Emily went to look at it. She fell in love and started shopping around their quickly assembled business plan. Within a couple months, the sisters had secured a lease with the help of a farm loan guaranteed by their father back in South Dakota.

  Then things got really nutty. The Elsens opened in the spring of 2010 and started getting high reviews from the likes of the New York Times, New York magazine, and Bon Appétit. Hundreds of customers came in the first days and cleared them out. “We were floored, floored,” Emily says of their instant success.

  • • •

  We arrived at Four & Twenty punchy from the car ride over, which reminded me of being back in high school, when we’d cram into someone’s Volkswagen for a Blizzard run at the local Dair
y Queen. But inside, it was very much of-the-moment Brooklyn: the walls were lined with tin tiles, customers—old-timers reading the communal newspapers, pairs of girls donning beanie hats and fashionable shit-kicking boots in earnest conversation, bearded yet sensitive-looking dudes wearing earbuds and carrying canvas bags—were scattered at wood-plank tables. It was farmhouse hipsterville.

  In the back, beneath a chalkboard menu, an open kitchen revealed shelves lined with spices, a couple of heavy-duty refrigerators, cooling racks filled with baked goods—turnovers, muffins, cinnamon rolls—and one central, stainless-steel table with crocks of rolling pins, whisks, and knives and plenty of room to knead dough. And there at the very front, the half-dozen pies on that day’s menu sat on display, as homey and inviting as someone’s kitchen counter.

  Four & Twenty is a seasonal bakeshop—it is Brooklyn, after all, where seasonal, local, and sustainable are the altars at which all foodies worship. The sisters aren’t opposed to experimenting with off-season or foraged ingredients but prefer following the popular credo that just so happened to also be their grandma’s philosophy: “It just feels better,” Emily explains. “Local is so much better and tastier.” While they constantly develop new recipes—honey rosemary shoofly, chocolate bourbon mint, strawberry kefir lime—there is one fan favorite that the Elsens make year round: the salted caramel apple pie. In a show of romanticism, Andrew and I decided to split a slice.

  Apple pie takes many forms: chunky fruit or dainty slices, oozing with juices, laden with spices, crumbly tops, and moist middles. Without even taking a bite, I knew this was going to be special. The thinly sliced apple rings—visible from the side but obscured from above by thick, sugar-dusted latticework—were densely stacked. Along with a commitment to seasonal fruit and local ingredients, the sisters are hell-bent on having an all-butter crust. “A good crust is a mark of someone who’s paid a lot of attention and who cares about what they’re making,” Emily insists. They don’t use Crisco or lard, no margarine or hot oil—just pure butter with a titch of apple cider vinegar to add a little tang, tenderness, and the right flake.