I can't cook. Well, of course I can cook, and I do it well (when I feel like it), but I can't cook in our NYC apartment. I don't have all my nice cookware, acquired gradually over many years of experience in the kitchen. When we moved from North Carolina to New York City, we brought only the bare essentials. What wouldn't fit in our 3 airline-approved suitcases was shipped in 6 small U-Haul boxes. We had to limit the number and size of items we brought not only because of the cost to get things here, but also because of the size of our living space. We rented a 340-square foot studio apartment. I know that you're gasping at the thought of it, but it's not so bad. When you live in the city that never sleeps, you don't spend much time at home. We could have rented a larger space, but we wouldn't have our saving grace -- the river. We have a very expansive view of the Hudson River, which may not sound like a selling point, but let me explain. NYC is obviously a very busy, noisy, non-stop action kind of place. Tourists go home exhausted after spending a week here, so imagine living here! It's also very crowded on the sidewalks, buses and subways. It's difficult to find peace and quiet. Having spent 18 years living in Montana, we knew that we would need some feeling of space and peace, so a place with a river view was imperative. We couldn't imagine coming home from a busy day at work, after riding home on a crowded subway, to looking out at more action, or worse -- the side of another building. From our 30th floor apartment, we still hear sirens, believe it or not, but at least the activities we see are relatively serene -- ferry boats crossing back and forth from New Jersey, helicopters taking off and landing, and the occasional cruise ship departing or arriving.
Back to the cooking issue... Yes, we have a 4-burner gas range/oven, which I desire over electric any day of the week. I was so happy about discovering Fresh Direct, a service that brings your groceries to you, that I thought I would start cooking. It would be a nice change from eating out so often, now that I have finally tired of it after several months. I was somewhat lazy about the items I ordered, choosing specialty frozen pizzas and pre-made salads. The pizzas sounded so appealing that I ordered 6 at a time, stocking my tiny freezer. Unfortunately, the pizzas have to be cooked at 400 degrees F, which is just the right temperature to produce a puff of smoke which set off the smoke alarm. Nothing was actually burning, but the small amount of smoke accumulated in the tiny kitchen with it's low ceiling and smoke detector in close proximity. This is not the kind of smoke detector one can rip off the wall, yank the batteries out of, and be back in business. No....this is the hard-wired kind and has not only a piercing, repetitive beep, but also a monotone voice that says, "FIRE, FIRE!" Picture Richard jumping out of his chair, asking, "What's happening in there?" while he opens the window, fanning out the imaginary smoke with a towel, the neighbors coming into the hall to ask if everything is alright and a maintenance man coming to the door to find out what's happening. This was all too embarrassing for Richard, so he made a declaration right then and there: NO MORE OVEN TEMPERATURES OVER 350! Okay, I can find other things to cook that won't require such a hot over, but it's too bad I just bought so many of those darn pizzas! It took me a week before I attempted to cook again. It was a Saturday and rather than get another bakery item for breakfast, as we do every day of the week, I wanted some old fashioned oatmeal--the kind you cook on the stove for 5 minutes. Ahh, comfort food! No oven required! Well, comfort turned to chaos quickly as the pot of oatmeal produced a great amount of steam. "FIRE! FIRE!" Oh, crap! We had a repeat of last event, including the towel waving. The pot immediately went into the sink and we went out to the bakery. No oven, no stove, no nothing! Microwave only from now on!
Dining out has lost the thrill now that we HAVE to eat out. Even after a long day at work, we have to go out for dinner. We live in a more residential area, so it's at least a 10 minute walk to the true restaurant row. One night, when neither of us was particularly excited about going out, mainly because it was raining, we walked past one restaurant after another. We kept asking each other, "How about this one?" "Nah, we had that last week." Suddenly, the sky opened up and it poured rain like I've never seen before. In desperation, we ducked into a tiny place we hadn't noticed or heard of. It was an Italian place called Don Giovanni. We peeled off our wet coats, sat at a tiny table, and had the best meal and best service we've ever had! The place is kind of dark, small, and old, making it quaint, but it also had a very hip vibe because of the young servers and clientele. Richard and I usually like our space, but we didn't mind the squished-together tables here. Something felt familiar about this place. We were thankful that the rain pushed us inside. We returned a week later for a repeat experience, and the waitress remembered us! Score! We always love a place where we are remembered. We have a Saturday breakfast place like that, called Kava. They have the most fabulous Ricotta pancakes, but their best asset is their waitress. As soon as she sees us, she puts in our order and pours our coffees. Feeling like you have a home, even if it IS a restaurant, makes you feel comfortable in such a big city.
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