COMFORT ZONES
On my first morning back in New York, I woke up at 4, hit the street in front of my hotel in Greenwich Village at 5.30, brisk-walked around Washington Square, W. Village and E. Village, spent a good half an hour staring at cute canines, none of them my own, at the dog park at Tomkins Square Park, and walked some more to the Lower East Side until I arrived, at 7.30, in front of Katz’s Delicatessen, where I’ve gone for years for my lox bagel and Reuben sandwich fix.
Such is the measure of my love for the place—and for my daughter, who was sound asleep in our bed, as her mother set out to singlehandedly re-conquer the NY culinary scene. For it was a very important part of my plan that she tried one of those fabled skyscraping pastrami and corned beef sandwiches the good people at Katz’s had been turning out since 1888.
One problem: it was closed. And so there I was, standing before this huge New York institution, all red brick and roll-down aluminium with its red-lettered vertical signage shooting towards the clear blue August sky, feeling hungry and dejected. Unable to contain my disappointment, I started poking around at the back entrance, trying to see whether they’d let me in somehow. A woman shouted at me from across the road, Come back at 8! You’re obviously not from around here! A second blow, and so early in the morning.
So I did what any sane person would do under the circumstances and go into another café that was already open, but not before I had to cross the horrible drab expanse known as E. Houston St and walk another 15 minutes into Avenue B, and order coffee there. This being New York, it turned out to be the best coffee I’d had in, what, two, three, years, and I ended up buying a huge tin of it, thank you very much. Brooklyn Roasting Company: note that down.
On my second try, Katz’s had opened its door, whereupon I ran inside like a little girl wanting to lose herself in a candy store. Strange how nothing had changed, the sprawling room, the serving stations, the photos on the wall, the light mahogany chairs, the yellow formica tables laden with a paper napkin holder, a salt and a pepper shaker, ketchup and mustard, the sight of crisp hot dogs, rye bread piled high with corned beef, mountains of pickles, vinegary slaw, matzo balls and cheese blintzes, the vintage signs urging you to Send a Salami to Your Boy in the Army, the waiters—old timers—in their white uniforms and caps.
Strange how I hadn’t changed, still the starry-eyed girl who adored what she was about to order even if she could never finish it on her own, who didn’t care whether the place was truly the best of the old-time NY delis, and who simply loved being there because it reminded her of the love that filled her when she first entered the room, 12 years ago, giddily trying to work out which table it was where Meg Ryan pulled off one of the all time classics in the history of cinema.
When I got back to the hotel room and proudly laid my two purchases on the table, a lox bagel and a Reuben sandwich, my daughter, still in bed, said, ‘You brought breakfast!’ She seemed genuinely impressed. In no time she started tackling the goods, first the bagel, which she immediately proclaimed the best she’d ever had, and then the Reuben, and its terrific tangle of moist sauerkraut, that had her endlessly oooh-aaahing, and, finally, ‘Can we skip lunch?’ I didn’t tell her what I planned to do each morning, which was to get her my favorite early morning things from different places every day: the pretzel croissant from City Bakery on W. 18 St, the almond croissant from Dean de Luca or Tartine, the apple strudel from Citarella, the heavenly brioches from Blue Ribbon Bakery. But we would never skip lunch.
