A New Yorker's Stories

by Philip Gould

  Why the change? Before my wife died I took meals for granted. Shopping and cooking and thinking up spices and other condiments to make food interesting was my wife’s job. She liked eating, that’s what motivated her, and I was just a beneficiary. I didn’t invest any time or effort into the food production in our home. Oh, yes, I helped out, of course, in minor ways like setting the table or clearing the table afterwards. I was good at making the tea or coffee too. I thought I brought a special something to the end of the repast like making sure the hot water was hot enough, little touches of that nature. Since I have a sweet tooth I usually prepared a slice of cake or a bit of chocolate to top off the dinner.

  Nowadays, in my widowerhood, I have the whole business of meals on my shoulders. I miss my departed wife for lots of reasons, but the responsibility of feeding myself ranks high on the list. I can prepare dinners at home from the stuff I buy at the supermarkets or at Rite-Aid. Too often, however, I am reduced to opening a can of soup, usually a last minute solution. I much prefer eating out with friends. As my son, Gregory, often reminds me “companion” means breaking bread with others. I need the company as much as the food and having them both at the same time is the best of all. So I’ve become uncannily clever about nudging my friends to meet me at restaurants where they seem happy, most of the time, to foot the bill; I don’t protest too much. And we do enjoy each other’s company. The roast duck dinner is in a category of its own for the manager of the Chinese restaurant where I so enjoyed roast duck is my “student.” I instruct him in the history of Chinese painting in exchange for meals at any time at his establishment. I’m not sure who has the better deal but neither one of us is raising that question. For the time being, at least, I have partially solved the problem of feeding myself in a socially comforting environment. Under these circumstances roast duck is particularly delicious. (2/14/09)

  DINNER WITH JAKE

  I had all but given up on Jake; by a quarter past the hour there was no telephone call and I could only think the worst. I began to prepare my own supper. I can always throw together things I have at home for an improvised meal. But the phone did ring and Jake said he was on his way. So I put the food I had laid out back in the refrigerator, put on my shoes, tied the laces, and waited for the downstairs buzzer to sound.

  We had no particular place to go to for dinner. The stretch along Broadway between 116th Street and 108th Street has at least twenty eateries of every possible ethnic or regional taste you can think of. We decided to try one place, out of default to be frank because we could not come up with a choice that really outweighed the others. So, we entered the diner that had a certain allure with its low lights and little table candles flickering against the dark. We were given the three-page menu, not too easily read for lack of illumination. Finally, Jake decided on the hamburger special and I ordered the quiche and salad dish. Even though it was late and we were both famished we ordered rather meager dishes because it was hard to find something on the menu that sounded substantial and yet not too expensive. We settled on what you might call the lesser of the evils. But that did not solve our problems. I had a certain anticipation of the quiche I ordered. The quiche on my plate, when it arrived, was almost lost in the green salad that overwhelmed the offering. I eventually found the quiche under the greenery and dislodged a morsel with my fork but the taste did not resonate with my expectations. I tried a second bite and was still uncertain. Then it occurred to me that my quiche was not the quiche I had ordered. The menu called for a mushroom and cheese dish; what I got was a spinach and egg dish. After I made this discovery I called the waiter over to point out the discrepancy. The waiter quite openly declared that there were no more mushroom and cheese quiche and the cook made the substitution, hoping, I suppose, that I would not detect the difference. It was a case of pure deception. I asked to see the manager and I did, in no uncertain terms, voice my discontent and disappointment with such an unannounced switch. We left the restaurant with Jake’s half-eaten hamburger still on his plate and my quiche still buried under a pile of green salad.

  We were back on the street, looking anew for a place to have supper. We made our way down Broadway, past any number of restaurants until 108th Street where we sidled into a Thai place that I almost always find agreeable. The room is small and intimate and yet never very crowded. There is no din of chattering voices so conversation is possible in a normal manner. I am also familiar with the menu; I can order without much scrutiny. Jake agreed with my choices, a necessary condition because we were going to share whatever was ordered. We enjoyed our dishes and talked and talked until the waitress politely advised us that the restaurant was about to close. We were completely oblivious to the time which was indeed, by then, late at a quarter to midnight.

  As late as it was the night was not over. Jake reminded me, as we walked past Rite Aid, that Rite Aid was open 24/7 and in a few minutes Monday would turn into Tuesday, the day Rite Aide offers discounts for seniors. We couldn’t pass up that opportunity. We shopped, like lots of other late night shoppers, for things we could use or imagine we could use. At the stroke of twelve the check-out clerk rang up my purchases and off we went. Jake, as cavalier as usual, saw me back to the door of my apartment house.

  CHAPTER V: NEW YORK

  BOTH ENDS OF 23rd STREET

  Today was another New York Day! I had prepared for the day the night before by writing all the objectives and numbering them in the order of execution with consideration to strategic subway stops and convenient bus connections and the time factor for each event.

  I had to fast this day for blood taking. So without breakfast I left home around nine- thirty already a little late. There was a stop first at Walgreen’s pharmacy to drop off four prescriptions. I was not a little dismayed by the express train flying past my local stop filled with travelers in mid-morning too late to go to work, I thought, and too early to be sight-seeing or seeking entertainment. It is a puzzlement for me to figure out what so many people are doing traveling in the middle of the morning. I grabbed the express train waiting at the 96th Street station just to save a few minutes. The prescriptions were dropped off, and three vials of blood were taken a little later at the lab; the schedule was working. When I stopped at the corner deli I was really hungry. I ordered a take-out sandwich and coffee which I consumed, partly, on the bus going to 23rd Street. I was on time for the physical therapy session at the VA hospital. The session was productive especially since I was asked to lie upon a padded table to perform certain stretching exercises. Between movements I could simply relax and catch my breath. At twelve noon I headed over to the local senior citizen center for lunch just in time to get in the serving line without having to wait. I’m on friendly terms with several seniors there so we could converse over lunch.

  Then I took the 23rd Street bus going west all the way to Eleventh Avenue and to the “Black Market” where I met some of my African friends and spent another hour and a half looking at African artifacts. The scene there is actually in a downward spiral. Many fellows are returning to Africa probably never to return to the United States given the difficulties regarding immigration protocol. The storage house in former times was a haven for the African merchants, a place to socialize, to display their wares, to share life’s ups and downs. It was for a long time a very convivial place but little by little, due to the change in the neighborhood, the space became too valuable for just storage. Chelsea was gentrifying, boutiques were entering the picture not to mention the flood of upscale galleries. The African dealers were literally squeezed out. Besides, African artifacts, like other third world objects are not infinite, they get used up and bought up and eventually disappear never to be replaced. We are living through an historic moment, as it were.

  One of my African friends accompanied me home via taxi because the bag of African brass figures I bought was too heavy for me to lift. I served my friend a late lunch and off he went. I collapsed in my bed for an afternoon nap until six. Another day in New York, onl
y in New York, where so many events could be crowded into one day. (9/12/07)

  THE CARLYLE

  Yesterday was a day to remember. It began inauspiciously because the subway was partially closed, at least, the trains were bypassing the local stations on the Upper West Side. There are little posters plastered all over the station but no one really pays attention to them before it is too late. New Yorkers depend on their public transportation when it works. On this day it was not working and I was in a desperate way to reach my destination for a luncheon appointment, not just any luncheon appointment, but a very special one at the Carlyle Hotel. I have never been there, though the name is legendary and of another world I never expected to inhabit even for a second. But I am incredibly late. What to do? I thought about several alternatives all of which would make me extremely late and possibly jeopardize the whole thing. At that moment another fellow was hailing a cab, because he was also put out by the subway problem. In a moment of desperation I cried out “can you give me a lift?” He turned toward me and said, “Where are you going?” I told him and he said, “Get in.” So off I went with a New Yorker who saved my day in an act of spontaneous generosity and trust. We hardly exchanged more than three words, respecting each other’s privacy. I stepped out of the cab at 76th Street and Fifth Avenue, just one block from The Carlyle. I was on time because New York can sometimes be a very friendly place.

  The Carlyle was something else. The marble floors and thick plush carpets kept me, I hate to say, on my toes, making adjustments for the changes underfoot. I passed through several chambers before I found my friend already seated and waiting. Wow! What an atmosphere of elegance and privilege and money. The rooms were of various shapes with fancy wall decorations, and oriental tapestry covered low benches. The room where we met was oval shaped, in a Baroque tradition, with only four tables placed against the walls so each table was essentially isolated. The ceilings in the room were high, so the place felt spacious and the sounds were muffled; you could talk to your luncheon partner without any danger of being overheard. It was perfect for the sort of tête-à-tête meeting that requires intimacy and confidentiality. I didn’t need any of that sort of thing but the ambiance was interesting to experience.

  The menus were an elaborate set of leather-covered booklets for different parts of the meal. Mind you, this was just lunch. And four or five people were in attendance throughout the meal: maitre d’, sommelier, waiter, and busboy. I probably lost track of everyone coming to our table in the course of the meal. Prices were terrible, that is, terribly high. I settled for the little menu of three courses for $31.00. I had a puree of parsnip soup served in a shapely small, off-white tureen. When I added some lemon juice the thick, rich mix was more palatable. The main course was salmon, cooked as I requested, medium well done, surrounded by the tiniest of lentils in a white creamy sauce. I ended with a regular coffee and a chocolate cake…a cake so rich I could not finish it. This was a once in a lifetime to do, never, never to be repeated.

  The lunch was leisurely enough, actually a little too protracted, and I never did get used to the thick carpets or to the sequence of little rooms. My friend was used to treating himself well so he surely didn’t relish the meeting the way I did.

  HOW TO PENETRATE THE CORPORATE INNER OFFICE

  Monday is an unusual day because I have an aerobics class at a quarter past one; too close to lunchtime to eat and too late to eat “lunch.” So I snack at ten-thirty in the morning and after gym I snack again at Zabars. The best part of this strange timing is that I have the better part of the afternoon at my disposition. I caught the Broadway bus 104 on the fly to 57th Street. Walked two long blocks, prestigious blocks, to 57th Street and Fifth Avenue. Everyone knows Tiffany’s is located on the southeast corner of this intersection.

  Tiffany’s has very rarely been my destination. However, on a mild December afternoon lots of people must have had Tiffany on their minds. The store was buzzing with shoppers, a gentle buzz, to be sure, almost on the hushed side as customer and salespeople hover over diamond necklaces or jewel-studded bracelets. Some men survey the cavernous room. You sense security must be a big concern. These fellows were so well groomed. I thought they must visit the barber at least twice a month.

  Well, I have the name of an employee of Tiffany in my little calendar book but who should I ask where to find her? I was directed to the concierge at the very entrance of the shop. And as I passed several display cabinets on my way I was startled to discover the unique way bracelets and wristwatches were presented—floating, as it were, into space. The precious items were suspended without any obvious means of support. How ingenious, I thought. What was the secret? Closer inspection revealed a collar locked onto the inner surface of the object and set in place by a means of a plug into a corresponding hole in the base.

  My mission to Tiffany’s changed on the spot. Now I had two questions for the concierge.

  The concierge was a portly gentleman. He was just a little taken back by questions and reasons for coming to Tiffany but I saw he was used to accommodating visitors. He made a couple of in-house telephone calls which looked optimistic and pessimistic by turns. Finally he said he could not help me because the supplier would not wish to disclose its identity. It had not occurred to me that such an item would be considered a trade secret but I had to bow to the protocol of the house. Then I posed the second question about the employee of Tiffany. I was informed that administrative personnel were housed in an entirely different building about two blocks away. That revelation made perfectly good sense: why lose selling space to administration. Before trekking over to the other building I decided to take advantage of my presence in the store to visit the collections of Frank Gehry, one of the latest designers to join the distinguished ranks of fashion masters in the high-end jewelry business. Paloma Picasso was another name housed on the third floor. I entered the elevator and was about to go up when the concierge suddenly appeared beckoning me to step out of the elevator. What had I done now? Will I be thrown out on my heels, or held for questioning?

  No! He had just obtained information about the mounts, all written out on a scrap of paper. Terrific. I had the name and telephone number of a person who could help me, in my hand. Now our conversation changed. The gentleman from a Haitian family could speak French, of course, and so we did. We cut through a lot of formal talk to essentials about each other in about two minutes. We had become friends. More, later about the reference I had tucked away.

  The visit to the third floor was something of an anticlimax. The highly polished silver objects looked somewhat forlorn under the glass and spaced out upon the beige satiny grounds. Besides, I was still thinking of the clever ways of supporting and showing off jewelry.

  The trip to the administrative offices was another challenge. I had the name in my little book from two months ago. In the lobby the gentleman at the reception desk mumbled something about security and how things had changed in that regard. He asked who I wished to see and if I had an appointment. I mumbled back that I had an appointment citing the name of the person in my notebook. He asked to see a photo ID, which I produced and he then punched a monitor screen many times with his finger. I thought he was clearing my name from an intelligence center. Finally, he told me to go through the gates he had opened from behind his desk. I had passed the first hurdle. I had no idea where to go from here. I took a chance with the express elevator to the eleventh floor which I thought might be right from the illuminated tenant board at the entrance. No, nothing on the eleventh floor corresponded to Tiffany’s. Back to the lobby and a few discreet questions got me to the right floor only to be greeted by another receptionist behind a huge granite slab of a desk. She took my hat and coat to the paneled door closet. I was getting the royal treatment without disclosing my role, which made me a little uneasy. Who do you wish to see? Do you have an appointment? I couldn’t bring myself to say yes or no. I resorted to mumbling once more. “I have to see such and such a person, we’ve been in to
uch for some time” and so forth as I extended my calling card. Then the telephone call was made: I held my breath. Would that person remember? Would she say “write a letter” or “send a fax.” Time was so precious now and all the ingenuity and initiative that got me this far might have imploded on the spot. My correspondent must have wondered how I managed to get through all the corporate barriers. Did curiosity win her over or a predisposition to be helpful. She came out of the inner office. We sat on the upholstered chairs in the entrance reception area and got our business done. She accepted a packet of papers I had prepared and we parted. This was one big achievement, saving lots of time and energy because I did not have to go through “regular” procedures. But the afternoon was only half over.

  There were two more stops to make, all in the same area, in that fabulous New York center of art galleries and antiquities establishments where the rents are so high only the best and most expensive items can be offered to the patrons and lovers of art. In these places time may pass boringly slow or people sweat out tense relationships but the façade must always remain impeccable and affable. I think my visits were welcome interludes; lucky me. Two more times that afternoon I found myself beyond the public rooms, now the conversation could be open and unambiguous and hopefully eventually fruitful.