photos from vogue and style bubble

i recently ate an amazing nutella-nut-pretzel bar at iris cafe in brooklyn heights. my sister was so moved that she wanted to make them. i’m sure she can find the recipe among the hundreds listed here.

photo from new york magazine.

photo from knight cat

an andy warhol bar tab, showing a $200 credit for a work of art

from left: paul morrissey, warhol, janis joplin and tim buckley, 1968

steven kasher gallery / 521 west 23rd street / max’s kansas city

loretta howard gallery / 525 west 26th street / artists at max’s kansas city, 1965–1974 hetero-holics and some women too

photographs from the new york times

little italy, 1908

coney island, 1928

3rd avenue el, bowery and doyer

from bluetramontana

from the sartorialist

curator skye parrot:
“being young here was a singular experience–riding the subways, walking everywhere, phone booths, beepers, sitting on stoops, the feeling that you owned everything. part of that was just the joy and omnipotence of adolescence. part of it is the overwhelming experience of coming into one’s own in a place as exceptional as new york.”

exhibit runs through may 23 at bam.

knowing little about patti smith, i bought just kids, her new book about life with robert mapplethorpe. unable to put it down, i entered the magical world of new york city in the late 60s and 70s. this is my favorite time period to read about, and i devour books such as just kids and please kill me, fully romanticizing this era.

when smith and mapplethorpe share a hot dog at coney island because it’s all they can afford, my heart leapt. when standing outside in the cold, debating on whether their remaining dollar goes to a grilled cheese or art supplies, i cheered when the paint brushes won. and nothing seems more blissful than nights at their first apartment near pratt in brooklyn, playing the same record over and over, creating art and making lettuce soup.

but hunger is hunger which is never fun, especially for a tall, thin, speedy girl like smith. speedy, but not in a drug related way. smith was not into drugs and although mapplethorpe took the occasional acid hit, their lives were dedicated to art, which requires clarity and focus. the duo seems relatively grounded considering their presence at the chelsea hotel and max’s kansas city. beyond art, their devotion to each other, as only true soul mates have, is beautiful:

“robert and i were always ourselves – ’til the day he died, we were just exactly as we were when we met. and we loved each other. everybody wants to define everything. is it necessary to define love?”

here are some excerpts from christopher bollen’s interview with smith in interview magazine. to read the entire article, go here. better yet, pick up just kids.

Robert had different goals. He came from a different upbringing. His upbringing was Catholic, middle class, precise, military, well ordered, spanking clean. I came from a very chaotic household. I really believe that Robert sought not to destroy order, but to reorder, to reinvent, and to create a new order. I know that he always wanted to do something that no one else had done. That was very important to him. I was a little different. I always wanted to do what somebody else had already done—I wanted to write the next Peter Pan, the next Alice in Wonderland. I loved history, and I wanted to be a part of it. Robert wanted to break from history.

It’s very unfair to young struggling people. When I came to New York in the late ’60s, you could find an apartment for $50 or $60 a month. You could get a job in a bookstore or be a waitress and still live as an artist. You could have raw space. That’s been rendered impossible. I mean, my band lost its practice space and had to move out of town. They’re all fancy galleries. CBGB is now a fancy clothing store. The Bowery used to be home to winos, William Burroughs, and punk rockers. Now it’s a whole other scene. That’s part of New York’s tragedy and beauty. It’s a city of continual reinvention and transformation. I think the way things are going now is good for commerce, bad for art. Bad for the common man. [Mayor Michael] Bloomberg does not serve the common man. He serves the image of the city as a new shopping center. A place to get great meals. Little parks that make no sense. Places like Union Square, as if we were in Paris. We’re not Paris. We’re New York City. It’s a gritty city. It’s a place where you have all races and all walks of life, and that has always been its beauty. It’s the city of immigrants. It’s the city where you can start at the bottom. I feel the Bloomberg administration has reinvented the city as the new hip suburbia. It’s a tourist city. It’s really safe for tourists. I guess I liked it when it was a little less safe. Or I liked it when it was safer for artists. Now it’s unsafe for artists. I’m not saying this for myself. I’m saying this for the future of creative communities. Because, one day, all the people who have driven out the artists and have only these fancy condos left are going to turn around and say, “Why do I live here? There’s nothing happening!”

photo credits: interview magazine; smashbox studios

last night, i met my gal-pal ilene at tipsy parson, a new(ish) soulful restaurant in chelsea. high scores for delicious food, fun atmosphere and a kind staff. we left vowing to return. if you need further encouragement, take a look at what their website suggests meal by meal.

breakfast: new york city’s best sticky bun, doughnuts and farm-fresh eggs

weekend brunch: our famous mac & cheese, lemon-cornmeal pancakes, benton’s country ham with biscuits & gravy, poached eggs atop a crock of creamy, stone-ground grits from south carolina

lunch: pimento cheeseburger

after worK: frozen mint julep, cheese straws, fried pickles

their sister restaurant, little giant on the lower east side is great too

The first time I discovered Fela Kuti, I remember feeling like I struck gold. I hit the music jackpot by uncovering the Afrobeat pioneer. It didn’t take long to understand that he is a massive legend and that I was hardly unique in being a fan. But he was new to me and I was thrilled.

Then I learned that he had a son named Femi, who was playing at the famed Apollo Theater. Although Femi was an established artist independent of his father’s legacy, I felt awestruck by the possibility of seeing Fela’s son. One quick call to my friend in the music industry and I had a pair of tickets.

Before the show, I dined with Katie – my companion (and I Loved NY scribe) at Amy Ruth’s on 116th Street. A true southern restaurant with all the fixings: catfish, collard greens, okra, candied yams and chicken and waffles. Come to think of it, waffles with anything – rib eye steak, shrimp or fried chicken wings. Salty and sweet does make sense. I ordered an ice tea to start and automatically added a packet of sugar. Upon first sip, I realized the tea was already sweetened and that my teeth might just fall out. I drank the entire glass. After the fried food and sweet tea, we welcomed the 9 block walk north to the Apollo.

Entering the building, it was easy to feel that you were in a special place. Knowing the talent that preformed in the music hall – Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holliday, James Brown and Marvin Gaye, was magical. I was a little fidgety through the opening acts because I was so excited for Femi to perform. And then suddenly he appeared on stage like a force and I was on my feet.

The energy that radiated from that man was incredible. Backed up by a 17-person band known as the Positive Force, the entire Apollo was under his spell. Shirtless, he was strong, confident and sexual. His lyrics told the same tale:

She said, love me now [beng beng beng]
She said, squeeze me now [beng beng beng]
To the left now, don’t slow down now [beng beng beng]
To the right now, don’t come too fast [beng beng beng]

But mostly it was Femi’s dancers that demanded my attention; I couldn’t take my eyes off them. Their moves were fluid, fast and beautiful and they oozed erotic seductiveness. Their thick, fit bodies, outfitted in bright, colorful, African costumes were mesmerizing. They didn’t stop dancing the entire show.

That evening – much like any New York evening, worlds converged in Harlem. Amy Ruth from Alabama, Femi Kuti from Nigeria and two Midwest transplants experiencing all the city has to offer. It was truly an unforgettable evening.

photograph credit: kim bacan

i’m off to a holiday party
and leave you with
a pretty piece of inspiration
the nutcracker at the
new york city ballet

i never knew that brussel sprouts grew on stalks. in fact, i never knew how they grew; i never gave it much thought. but i keep seeing stalks at farmer’s markets, grocery stores and veggie stands. so strange how one never notices something and then sees it everywhere.

preparing them from the stalk makes cooking even more fun. a quick steam before roasting them in the oven doused with olive oil, garlic, sea salt and ground pepper, makes a tasty side. i don’t know why this vegetable gets such a bad rap (picture kids being forced to eat brussel sprouts before they could have dessert), they are delicious.

jack the horse tavern, a great haunt in brooklyn heights, serves roasted brussel sprouts and radishes with a vinegary vibe. my husband and i love to snack on them at the bar while waiting for our meal to arrive. as a side or as an app – brussel sprouts are a great way to veg out.

needless to say, i did not raise a paddle, but did enjoy nibbling on mini hot dogs, sipping wine, viewing art, listening to carey lowell (richard gere’s wife) speak and hob nobbing with new york socialites. most of all, it was wonderful to see a large, supported fundraiser raising money for such an important organization. i hope many new yorkers’ lives will be made better because of it.

then, someone went to france. i can’t remember who – it must have been a friend of my mom’s. and she brought me back a purse in a blue pattern. i should have felt estatic, even privileged that i had a a bona fide french purse. but i couldn’t help feeling like a phony, like i would be spotted a mile away with a faux deux. although i felt a sense of shame, i wore the purse – which would eventually contain a true pierre deux coin purse that i purchased (with my own money).

of course, today i can appreciate that my mom arranged for me to have a french purse. it was thoughtful and kind, considering her (most likely) desire to delay my inevitable growth. but i will never forget that sense of longing and desire that i felt.