I remember how it felt as it was all beginning; sliding down into darker places.
Our restaurants, my restaurants…New York restaurants…for Heaven’s sake! From the small town eatery where I tipped over backwards in my high chair to the sweeping avenues of the city. Grilled cheese with tomatoes and greasy fries in a small diner; cavernous Carmine’s, The Turkish Kitchen, the hot dog stand.
I watch the silent and portly man at Columbia Bagel on the Upper West Side; wearing black and white checked pants and cap, his arms the size of logs stirring the huge vat of hot water where bagels rise and float, rise and float, in time covering themselves at the front counter with inch thick bricks of cream cheese and wax paper. Upstate, my home…the cities by the lakes; Buffalo’s lamb butter, Beef on Weck on salted buns…Rochester’s garbage plate…the high end birthday parties at Black and Blue…the fabulous plate of souvlakia at Jines…Peppermints in Henrietta and the beloved Maple Tree Inn…gallons and gallons of amber boiling syrup. Everything is shuttered and closed down by 8pm; for the duration of whatever it is we are beginning to endure.
Silence. It is astonishing; stunningly so. To support our neighborhood China Panda…I head off to purchase a significant amount of take out…a gesture if nothing more, an act of defiance. We’re not even hungry. Upon arrival, there is a hand printed sign with a note reminding the public they are closed on Monday. Of all things.
We are reduced to inconsistent take out and delivery; it is eerily quiet on the drive home. Everyone is indoors. Our restaurants, my restaurants…the city. I dig out a pan of stuffed peppers in the freezer and with reluctance, bake them.
690 Saint Paul 