Lady’s Night

I went to New York to get over someone. And in the course of a single meal, I did.

I went to New York to get over someone. And in the course of a single meal, I did. I ate my way through New York. Each morsel gave me a new persona to inflict on the city:

The humble bagel from Knickerbocker’s calmed my morning jitters about travelling solo and transformed me into a (Google) map wielding, gum slinging New Yorker ready to jump the subway turnstiles like the rest of ‘em. Oh how I had UNDER– estimated you darling bagel – gooey cheese that pools on the edge of the dough like honeycomb, crispy, virtually carcinogenic, salty bacon and a sunny side up but still yolky egg.

Accidentally locked myself out espresso martinis from the bar down the street gave me a molten feeling – an intense, but unstable surety, that all was going to be okay. Slowly getting more drunk, writing luxuriously in my diary and feeling like I was someone braver than I was.

With pizza… the anticipation of the indulgence is often better than the act itself – especially when the lactose intolerance kicks in later.

Midday hangover–get–me–the–hell–out–of–this–heat was cured by Artichoke Basille’s pizza; turning me into a purring puddle. I soaked up their infamous original, a glorious bastardisation of the classic tomato base. It was all creamy artichoke hearts, and spinach lathered in a cream sauce with satisfyingly stretchy Mozzarella and Pecorino Romano cheese. It’s like sex in the sun personified. Although the anticipation of the indulgence is often better than the act itself – especially when the lactose intolerance kicks in later.

It’s raining “I need a cupcake” pilgrimage to Magnolia Bakery and had a really quite underwhelming, scratchy dry icing vanilla cupcake. So much further from the velvet, vanilla kiss of my dreams.

But, the meal in question, wasn’t even really supposed to happen. I’d got on the ferry to Staten Island that day – crushed by the hordes of commuters, cranky parents, overly zealous children, and a soulful man playing the electric guitar – just to see the city from the water. I arrived on Staten Island and intended to hotfoot it straight back onto the next ferry when I saw a sign:

“Lady’s night: 1 lobster, 1 cocktail $20”

It was a sign, both literally and figuratively, so I went with it. I was 21. I’d come to New York, my dream city to be by myself but had been dreading this. Eating dinner alone. Yikes. There’s still something mildly taboo about it. Friends had said, take a book or chat to the waiters, but until tonight I’d managed to avoid it. Eating alone, you feel acutely alone. And I didn’t think I had the bravura to carry it off.

At this point in time, to steal from my favourite genre – the much-maligned rom com, I was in the “crisis” stage of the breakup, I felt unsteady on my own two feet. But I had an inkling of something, a kernel of potential and I felt like the city could give me back to myself if I embraced it.

River Dock Cafe is probably the Staten Island equivalent of stopping for dinner at a petrol station on the M4, rolling out a picnic blanket in the aisles at Shell.

So I did. I was nervous as I entered River Dock Café, made even more so by spying a gang of youths – vaguely cool looking young people on the patio. I dread being alone and in sight of other young folk, I feel inherently awkward like I’m back at a house party, watching them watch me and waiting for someone to talk. Sat further back were a kindly looking, elderly Norwegian couple bickering in their native tongue. Aside from that, it was pretty deserted.

River Dock Café is probably the Staten Island equivalent of stopping for dinner at a petrol station on the M4, rolling out a picnic blanket in the aisles at Shell. But even though it was located in the ferry terminal I was charmed by its cinematic familiarity and intermittently yelped, “this is SO New York” – carpeted floors, red leather booths and a bar with blue tinged lighting, made you feel like you were about to star in a country music video. Unpretentious staff took your order and left you to it. A relief really. I didn’t think I was up to a charm offensive tonight. The real star of the show was the big patio overlooking the sea. Festooned with cheap white plastic tables and chairs that shone in the sun, giving the light a zealous, bright edge. It was both tacky and glorious; a tourist trap and like a bee to honey, I waded into its glowing depths.

Inevitably, I ordered the Lobster. Having never actually eaten one before, the instruments presented appeared foreign, but with an inkling of Christmas – walnuts in the mosaic bowl at Nanna’s place, revelling in the satisfaction of cracking nuts. I smiled dumbly, looked up and nodded at the waiter like I knew what I was doing.

Already feeling like an infant in my bright red, lobster emblazoned bib, I tussled with the thing, but every object I clung to for grounding became another slick buttery mess.

Lobster, drawn butter and steamed vegetables were unceremoniously plunked on my table. The lobster was a challenge to get into. I shan’t lie. Slippery and unwieldy as the claws were, I naively poured the drawn butter over the un- cracked lobster to ‘marinade’ it, but it turned everything into a slippery weapon of destruction. Already feeling like an infant in my bright red, lobster emblazoned bib, I tussled with the thing, but every object I clung to for grounding became another slick buttery mess. Feeling heat rise to my cheeks – a familiar blush was making itself known. The elderly Norwegian couple looked on with horror and fascination. Mercifully I jammed the claw against my other hand pushing into the crackers and “crick” cracked into it. They smiled at me. I flashed a slightly insane looking grin back and sucked the meat from the claw dry.

Now, despite my misgivings about eating in a “petrol station”, the lobster was perfectly cooked: soft, buttery...very buttery and still tasting faintly of the sea. There’s a perverse kind of satisfaction in getting your hands dirty when you eat. Maybe it’s a hang-up from playing with dirt and eating rocks as a child (yeah, I was that kid). But, I also realized it was the first time I’d eaten on this trip not pretending to be somebody else.

Amongst the episode of what felt like “friendly fire” attacking the lobster, I’d accidentally become comfortable enough with it just being me. The vegetables, a mass of bok choi (a random interlude) and pallid broccoli were in parts over and under done – certainly an unusual but not entirely unpleasant sensation. Looking out to the sea, letting the brush of the jazz band drums roll over me, I specifically remember thinking, all other happinesses will compare to this one happiness – those pesky “youths” were in fact just wonderfully talented musicians.

It was the first time I’d eaten on this trip not pretending to be somebody else

The act of eating can be a transformative experience. It took a liaison with a lobster for me to realise it. My friend the black dog, the cloud of depression that that had been following me around that year didn’t need to be “got over” by throwing on different New York personas. Instead, I needed to sit, eat and share with her. Load her up with food, slap her on the tuchus and sneeze out god bless.

Heading back on the ferry, New York, the wily minx gave me the best sunset I’d ever seen. Lady Liberty perfectly framed by the sun, winked at me and said, “You’ve got you baby”, and it really felt like I did.