New York Revelries- a March Installment

Yesterday seemed doomed to go down in history for our heroine as the longest day (conceded by the morning gobbling up one precious hour in favor of Sunday coming sooner that it ought).

It could have been waking up at five a.m. but really that’s almost a monthly ritual. Perhaps it had something to do with a two and a half hour layover in Denver because of inclement weather at Laguardia. But no, we found her sitting patiently reading notes from her mentor, revising poems and finishing up the poems from the Europe section of the anthology of world poetry. Having boarded the plane and set out a spell on the tarmac, it could have been the announcement that they would have to wait another hour and a half in the middle of the tarmac. Her seat began to feel fettered. The Middle East poems of war and exile did little to soothe and abate the growing restlessness. She stood up and paced, calling New York; she would be very late. And then came a guy called Bill*. Now Bill had had a few drinks before boarding Flt. 589. And he felt compelled to share with the flight attendants the nicotine craving running up and down his spine like a manic overtone of voice and thrum of fingers drumming. He refused to give up his independently claimed emergency exit seat, thus terrifying Patricia* a seat over. Our heroine stood next to the emergency exit door, on the phone with New York, hip extended out, blocking any possible attempt at escape from Mr. Erratic. He really terrified the purser, when he almost threw a punch at his face before playing nice and walking back to his seat at the end of the plane. Purser and flight attendants mulled. The captain came on the air, announcing they would need to go back to the gate to refuel. And thus the police officer was given access to escort Bill* and friend off the plane, drunk and denied access from a previous flight.

Once in the air, all stabilized- or did it? Our heroine saw the edge of the wing nearly nip the corner of a Home Depot roof, as the winds tugged at what could have been a child’s toy. Landing at last in New York, news broke out that a power outage had darkened the terminal into which they flew. And so she walked in darkness, as TSA agents held flashlights, stood like silent sentinels. In the taxi line, the agent motioned her to a taxi that refused her access thinking she had jumped the line. Her inner New Yorker had been summoned and the yelling commenced until a cabbie relented. Once safely ensconced inside his cab she could laugh with him about the day’s events and discuss how language reveals links in culture, his Pakistani accent corresponding with her rolled R in “gracias.”

And the night had settled in for a quiet Saturday, even in Times Square where lights, horns and the sound of breathing screamed into the crisp night winds. Almost there, as our heroine checked in, she was told she only had a reservation for two nights. And out again came the politer but aggressively edged inner New Yorker demanding a solution (with a smile of course). The front desk manager problem solved as our heroine expected she might. It is the hospitality industry afterall. And the evening ended in a corner suite surrounded by pillows and bed that at last accepted her whole, heard her story and took away all the rough edges with their rounded forms.

Toronto Revelries: an Installment

Our heroine flew with congestion-filled head and chest to the oh-so cold city of Toronto last Friday. She touched down to find herself in the middle of a blizzard and doomed to wait in an hour long taxi line. But have no fear, a nice man from Abu Dhabi offered to share his cab with her, cutting the wait time in half. Along the way, their taxi meandered through the treacherous streets, but inside she, the sheikh of Abu Dhabi ” I dabble in oil” and the Turkish driver sat ensconced in warmth over conversations of tea and delectables.

Over the course of the next few days, she walked the largest underground shopping mall, worked a food show and found Canadians to be fixated on pizza. At the show that is. Holly, a server at the hotel became quick friends with our heroine as they exchanged tips on how to channel energy into working a double or working sick. But the food. Oh the food was rather pitiful, although a cold paired with no sense of smell or tastebuds had nothing to do with it. After a disappointing meal eating Roti and drinking Mauby, D. strove to turn things around. And how he did!

Walking in the rain does not sound like something our heroine would naturally do, but the rainbow at the end dangled in front of her in the form of an Indian restaurant Dhaba. Their housemade chai had a bite at the back of the throat and as they discussed all things personal, political and professional, they broke edges of papadum to nibble on. Course 1 arrived. “Duo of Burgh” demonstrated two ways of preparing chicken breast: five spice marinade and basil-almond marinade with hung yogurt. Both whet the palate and warmed the appetite. Next, they dined on roasted garlic naan with a side of saffron rice (with chunks of roasted ancho chiles and browned, crisped onions) alongside Makai Okra and P.K.’s Rogini Chop Rack. The Makai okra blended baby corn and okra with fennel seeds, ground haldi and a hint of mango masala. Yum. P.K.’s chop rack featured lamb popsicles from New Zealand prepared the Kashmere way in a nutty broth and infused with fenugreek. The servers were attentive and personable. The room’s ambiance leant itself to an intimate union with taste and aroma being the predominant intoxications of the moment. As a great touch, two mini Mango Lassi drinks accompanied the bill. Definitely going down in the book as a restaurant to revisit and acquaint oneself with the menu more fully.

The next evening continued the love affair with Toronto cuisine. Instead of the rain of the previous evening, snowflakes gingerly traipsed from the vacuous night sky. And began picking up in speed. Our heroine, refined by the suns of the Equator, had never encountered walking through a blizzard and proceeded giggling from the persistent flecks touching any surface in their path.

Upon stepping into Archeo, the dining room appeared empty, no doubt due to the impending blizzard. D. led the way to neighboring restaurant The Boiler House, where they proceeded into a friendly and modern dining hall accented by slabs of wood, stainless steel and low amber light. Choosing from their far too interesting menu selections, they settled on Mushroom soup and a mystery appetizer to be selected by the server du jour. Michael ended up bringing out the soup with the chef’s housemade spinach gnocchi in a parsnip goat cheese sauce finished off with watercress and a caesar salad with double smoked crisp bacon, herbed croutons and a garlic dressing. The gnocchi’s consistency was light and fluffy like little pillows of potato while the creaminess of the salad rounded out the saltiness of the bacon and croutons. The soup’s rich consistency and just-pureed-enough texture pleased. A few mouthfuls of entrees ensued with pan-roasted Arctic Char, confit leek and Peruvian potato hash, Meyer lemon beurre blanc. The salty crisp skin of the buttery fish mingled perfectly with the sweet notes of roasted corn and purple potato. D. ordered the pan-seared Pekin duck breast atop a spaghetti squash galette, finished with fig gastrique. No room for dessert, they sailed from dinner table to car leaping along the way through now ankle deep snow.

Snow caked the roads in white. With only two hours of sleep under her belt, our heroine boards the plane waiting in a stupor for the bags to be loaded on, waiting to be de-iced, waiting for the next time Toronto comes onto her horizon again in the future. Sleepy once again as she leaves a city that still holds so many more secrets to be unlocked.