Le Pain Quotidien and a stroll through the Met
I spent this sunny Sunday afternoon strolling through the city. Partially motivated by book research and partially by nostalgia, I decided to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art. In no particular hurry, I took my time getting ready to leave. I gave the dogs ample time to romp around in the yard while I gazed at my blooming Rhododendrons and late-flowering dogwood. After three years in my yard, this is the first season the tree has given me blossoms, and they are a magnificent antique white with touches of pink at the tips of each petal.
Lingering in a long hot bath, I lay back and listened to another short story podcast from The New Yorker Magazine whilst the hot water enveloped my skin. The story, written by Andrea Lee called Brothers And Sisters Around the World opened my mind to a dynamic between two very different cultures that I might never have access to otherwise.
I cut up a ripe cantaloupe and shared it with Katherine, she sat patiently by my feet waiting for me to toss her a wedge. The two of us dined on sweet fruit as I quickly checked my email, and found an incredibly sweet note from a new friend.
After a short response, I left the dogs behind and drove effortlessly into Manhattan. Most New Yorkers are already out of the city on Memorial Day weekend, so I did not really expect any problems. I parked in a public garage beneath a residential building about three blocks away from The Met. It isn’t hard to do really, in that neighborhood almost all the buildings are either residential or they are consulates, with a handful of private schools, churches and synagogues thrown in for balance.
In New York, you know you are in a wealthy neighborhood when you walk down the street and find well-manicured and magnificent flowerbeds at the base of every tree, each encased in their own private wrought-iron fencing. People walk their dogs with plenty of poop-bags in hand and the local coffee shop charges $5.00 for a small iced coffee.
The architecture of the Upper East Side is really quite fantastic. Most of the brownstones that line Central Park are at least 100 years old, or more. Many have gothic elements or ornate baroque-style carvings that remind me of the decorative stonework on the buildings of Paris. Many of these brownstones have courtyards out back and only one or two families in residence— families with either a ridiculous amount of money (certainly out of my price range) or ones that have kept their property handed down for many generations, while maintaining enough of an income to support the upkeep.
As a teenager that came from a working-class family, I used to walk past these buildings with a mixture of envy and inadequacy – like an outsider peering through a fancy shop window and thinking about the last dollar they have in their pocket.
Today, I walked into a cute (but expensive) little French bakery/café and ordered an iced coffee along with a cranberry walnut stick. For those unfamiliar with such a delicious, decadent and decidedly French treat, they are a whole-grain, rustic-style breadstick studded with raisins, cranberries and walnuts. When smeared with a touch of freshly churned butter – it is a self-indulgent breakfast or a fantastic mid-day snack.
I omitted the butter and ate while I walked, slowly munching and sipping as I sauntered past the multitude of pedestrians walking their dogs, jogging, strolling through Central Park or just walking down the street. I continued past the hundreds of tourists from around the country and the world that either came or went from the museum. I lingered in front of the dozens of street peddlers selling cheap prints, reproductions of master works of art throughout antiquity. I smelled the numerous perfumes from the handful of active food carts that sold everything from empanadas to hot dogs to pretzels and roasted nuts.
Then I walked up the majestic staircase and entered the museum. I started with the Temple of Dondor, if, for no other reason than I have always found it really cool that the museum has a reproduction of an Egyptian pyramid inside the building! Immediately, a seven-foot resting female stone lion welcomed me into the exhibit. In her pink and black flecked granite, she opened a gateway for my imagination into the 2,500 year-old and partially lost Egyptian Empire.
Then, I wandered over to the Medieval armor, where I gawked at several hand-folded Katana that their master creators folded more than 1,000 times before creating a blade so perfect that I am unsure modern machinery could replicate it. I looked at the full plate armor of numerous dukes of King Henry VIII’s court and wondered what the men that wore these coats of arms thought about walking around in them! Of course I knew immediately when I came upon French Armor. . . You see, the French added all sorts of ornate patterns and fancy metal-work throughout their coats of arms, much they did to their buildings, their houses, their furniture. . . you get the picture.
As I walked through the great halls of this phenomenal museum, my thoughts drifted back into my teenage years. I would often spend a Sunday wandering through the museum. I really felt young, energized and idealistic back then. I romped through those halls as though they were my own personal playground, absorbing everything I could about the art in front of me. In those days, I only cared about the art –and why the cultures it came from created it. Now, I am fascinated by the whole of the culture as well. . . How did they live? What did they care about? Why did they want/need this art? And, most importantly, how did they do it? I want to absorb the society along with its artifacts and use them as a time machine into the past – to see a sliver of life in a totally different existence.
I couldn’t come to the Met without sneaking a peek at my favorite Tiffany stained glass windows, or strolling though the ancient Greek sculpture. But before I could continue my tour of the world civilizations thorough art – they announced the museum’s closing.
Now, this is a food blog, so I would be remiss in my duties if I did not tell you all about my supper at the cute little French bakery, where I bought my cranberry-nut stick earlier in the day— Le Pain Quotidien.
I walked in looking for a light supper before driving back home to Orange County. They have a bakery counter, but they also have table seating. Just to the left, when you walk in there is a long wooden table that reminded me of the French countryside. Designed to encourage community through communal dining, the long table had many chairs around it and half-loaves of stale bread-rounds in the middle that they used to hold menus. They put quality sea salt and fresh black pepper in grinders on the table, along with small bottles of aged balsamic vinegar, and their prices reflected it. Although, to be fair – the café’s prices were quite reasonable, considering its location on the Upper East Side.
I ordered an iced Matcha (powered green tea) with soymilk from the Vegan menu and an open-faced Chicken Curry sandwich from the regular one.
While I sat and sipped my iced Japanese tea, I listened to the snippets of conversations taking place around me. Behind me, a movie producer had a potential financier in his grips while he worked hard at his sales pitch for the in-production film. To the right, a group of well-preserved middle-aged women planned a fundraising banquet for some un-named charity. In front of me, a Hispanic guy in a yellow t-shirt and shorts sat quietly eating a bowl of soup. To my left, a young French man introduced his fiancée to his parents and younger sister. They all chattered away in perfect Parisian French. Occasionally, I picked up a few words – enough to decipher the meaning of their conversation while thumbing through a book of Glastonbury that I purchased in the Museum bookshop.
The friendly foreign waitress presented me a well manicured and colorful chicken curry sandwich. The yellow salad sat neatly on top of triangular wedges of thick brown bread. Slices of pink and white radishes, green and white cucumbers and bright orange melon decorated the plate with a tiny bowl of cranberry harissa to draw one’s eye to the upper left composition of the plate.
Before I left, I had to pick the Multigrain raisin nut loaf that called to me from the top shelf of the bakery. Studded with seeds and grains, it’s crusty shell and bouncy center sang my name.
“Would you like that sliced?” the young counter girl with low-hanging black pigtails and tan freckles asked me in a flat New York accent.
“Yes, please,” I responded.
I picked up my car from the cordial and quick parking attendant, and made my way home as effortlessly as I came. Tonight I dine on crusty bread as I write to you, my dear readers. It is a decadent dinner. Sometimes, I really revel in my city, soaking up all it has to offer. Today was one of those days, a day when I am proud to say that I love living in New York.
Lingering in a long hot bath, I lay back and listened to another short story podcast from The New Yorker Magazine whilst the hot water enveloped my skin. The story, written by Andrea Lee called Brothers And Sisters Around the World opened my mind to a dynamic between two very different cultures that I might never have access to otherwise.
I cut up a ripe cantaloupe and shared it with Katherine, she sat patiently by my feet waiting for me to toss her a wedge. The two of us dined on sweet fruit as I quickly checked my email, and found an incredibly sweet note from a new friend.
After a short response, I left the dogs behind and drove effortlessly into Manhattan. Most New Yorkers are already out of the city on Memorial Day weekend, so I did not really expect any problems. I parked in a public garage beneath a residential building about three blocks away from The Met. It isn’t hard to do really, in that neighborhood almost all the buildings are either residential or they are consulates, with a handful of private schools, churches and synagogues thrown in for balance.
In New York, you know you are in a wealthy neighborhood when you walk down the street and find well-manicured and magnificent flowerbeds at the base of every tree, each encased in their own private wrought-iron fencing. People walk their dogs with plenty of poop-bags in hand and the local coffee shop charges $5.00 for a small iced coffee.
The architecture of the Upper East Side is really quite fantastic. Most of the brownstones that line Central Park are at least 100 years old, or more. Many have gothic elements or ornate baroque-style carvings that remind me of the decorative stonework on the buildings of Paris. Many of these brownstones have courtyards out back and only one or two families in residence— families with either a ridiculous amount of money (certainly out of my price range) or ones that have kept their property handed down for many generations, while maintaining enough of an income to support the upkeep.
As a teenager that came from a working-class family, I used to walk past these buildings with a mixture of envy and inadequacy – like an outsider peering through a fancy shop window and thinking about the last dollar they have in their pocket.
Today, I walked into a cute (but expensive) little French bakery/café and ordered an iced coffee along with a cranberry walnut stick. For those unfamiliar with such a delicious, decadent and decidedly French treat, they are a whole-grain, rustic-style breadstick studded with raisins, cranberries and walnuts. When smeared with a touch of freshly churned butter – it is a self-indulgent breakfast or a fantastic mid-day snack.
I omitted the butter and ate while I walked, slowly munching and sipping as I sauntered past the multitude of pedestrians walking their dogs, jogging, strolling through Central Park or just walking down the street. I continued past the hundreds of tourists from around the country and the world that either came or went from the museum. I lingered in front of the dozens of street peddlers selling cheap prints, reproductions of master works of art throughout antiquity. I smelled the numerous perfumes from the handful of active food carts that sold everything from empanadas to hot dogs to pretzels and roasted nuts.
Then I walked up the majestic staircase and entered the museum. I started with the Temple of Dondor, if, for no other reason than I have always found it really cool that the museum has a reproduction of an Egyptian pyramid inside the building! Immediately, a seven-foot resting female stone lion welcomed me into the exhibit. In her pink and black flecked granite, she opened a gateway for my imagination into the 2,500 year-old and partially lost Egyptian Empire.
Then, I wandered over to the Medieval armor, where I gawked at several hand-folded Katana that their master creators folded more than 1,000 times before creating a blade so perfect that I am unsure modern machinery could replicate it. I looked at the full plate armor of numerous dukes of King Henry VIII’s court and wondered what the men that wore these coats of arms thought about walking around in them! Of course I knew immediately when I came upon French Armor. . . You see, the French added all sorts of ornate patterns and fancy metal-work throughout their coats of arms, much they did to their buildings, their houses, their furniture. . . you get the picture.
As I walked through the great halls of this phenomenal museum, my thoughts drifted back into my teenage years. I would often spend a Sunday wandering through the museum. I really felt young, energized and idealistic back then. I romped through those halls as though they were my own personal playground, absorbing everything I could about the art in front of me. In those days, I only cared about the art –and why the cultures it came from created it. Now, I am fascinated by the whole of the culture as well. . . How did they live? What did they care about? Why did they want/need this art? And, most importantly, how did they do it? I want to absorb the society along with its artifacts and use them as a time machine into the past – to see a sliver of life in a totally different existence.
I couldn’t come to the Met without sneaking a peek at my favorite Tiffany stained glass windows, or strolling though the ancient Greek sculpture. But before I could continue my tour of the world civilizations thorough art – they announced the museum’s closing.
Now, this is a food blog, so I would be remiss in my duties if I did not tell you all about my supper at the cute little French bakery, where I bought my cranberry-nut stick earlier in the day— Le Pain Quotidien.
I walked in looking for a light supper before driving back home to Orange County. They have a bakery counter, but they also have table seating. Just to the left, when you walk in there is a long wooden table that reminded me of the French countryside. Designed to encourage community through communal dining, the long table had many chairs around it and half-loaves of stale bread-rounds in the middle that they used to hold menus. They put quality sea salt and fresh black pepper in grinders on the table, along with small bottles of aged balsamic vinegar, and their prices reflected it. Although, to be fair – the café’s prices were quite reasonable, considering its location on the Upper East Side.
I ordered an iced Matcha (powered green tea) with soymilk from the Vegan menu and an open-faced Chicken Curry sandwich from the regular one.
While I sat and sipped my iced Japanese tea, I listened to the snippets of conversations taking place around me. Behind me, a movie producer had a potential financier in his grips while he worked hard at his sales pitch for the in-production film. To the right, a group of well-preserved middle-aged women planned a fundraising banquet for some un-named charity. In front of me, a Hispanic guy in a yellow t-shirt and shorts sat quietly eating a bowl of soup. To my left, a young French man introduced his fiancée to his parents and younger sister. They all chattered away in perfect Parisian French. Occasionally, I picked up a few words – enough to decipher the meaning of their conversation while thumbing through a book of Glastonbury that I purchased in the Museum bookshop.
The friendly foreign waitress presented me a well manicured and colorful chicken curry sandwich. The yellow salad sat neatly on top of triangular wedges of thick brown bread. Slices of pink and white radishes, green and white cucumbers and bright orange melon decorated the plate with a tiny bowl of cranberry harissa to draw one’s eye to the upper left composition of the plate.
Before I left, I had to pick the Multigrain raisin nut loaf that called to me from the top shelf of the bakery. Studded with seeds and grains, it’s crusty shell and bouncy center sang my name.
“Would you like that sliced?” the young counter girl with low-hanging black pigtails and tan freckles asked me in a flat New York accent.
“Yes, please,” I responded.
I picked up my car from the cordial and quick parking attendant, and made my way home as effortlessly as I came. Tonight I dine on crusty bread as I write to you, my dear readers. It is a decadent dinner. Sometimes, I really revel in my city, soaking up all it has to offer. Today was one of those days, a day when I am proud to say that I love living in New York.
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