Sandy is already a distant weather memory for my little corner of Bed Stuy, but the clean up has been a mammoth task for the thousands of people that were affected, and it has certainly changed the nature of my day-to-day routine.
I work for Cuny and our department is normally hard at work processing specific scholarships, and raising funds for the school. Since Sandy however, we have also been involved with helping students with their emergency post storm needs.
Have you ever noticed for example, that every metro card has a ten-digit code on it? Nor did I until I wrote up 200 of them so that we could log in and trace every free monthly card that we give out to the students who come daily through our doors, grateful for just a small bit of help amongst the chaos.
Its one of a number of straight forward but essential administrative tasks that I do which makes me feel like I am just tiny part of the Sandy recovery.
I feel privileged to play a role in the nations leading urban public university and the people I meet everyday are a constant source of inspiration for me. Despite everything, so many students are determined to get to their classes and finish up the semester the best they can.
Sometimes I am not sure we all realize just how incredibly important Cuny is an educational institution here in New York. It definitely makes me proud to know that ten campuses became emergency shelters in the aftermath of the hurricane.
On the corner of an indistinct street, tucked away behind the food trucks and bodegas that thrive off the cash strapped hustle and bustle of Baruch student life is Bamiyan, Murray Hill’s own little piece of Persia. The restaurant named after an area in northern Afghanistan famous for its large limestone cliff Buddhas opened in 1993 and is currently run by two brothers, one a former Afghan Supreme Court judge.
On the day we visited, it was 4.30 and unsurprisingly almost empty. Despite the decorative iron décor that surrounds the façade and the mosaic laden entrance as you head in through the front entrance, the place is an un intrusive vision amongst its bland neighbors.
Once inside, we are immediately greeted by the sole waitress who showed us cheerily towards our table by the window. The relaxing sounds of south Asian music, providing the perfect aural back drop to the myriad of Afghani maps, Persian rugs and art work that adorn the exposed brick and wood paneling. The vibe could be described as rustic. It’s as homely and authentic as I can imagine (having never been to Afghanistan) but the cracked paint on the walls suggest there may have been more profitable days in its almost twenty year history.
Bamiyan serves what is describes as ‘traditional Afghan cooking’ which if like me you are unfamiliar with what that is, translates to; lots of subtly spiced meat choices that come with rice, in particular chicken, minced beef and lamb, an excellent range of vegetarian dishes, several curries (lamb, chicken, seasonal fish and shrimp) and kebabs (kebobs), plus a choice of 9 teas including one with the customary Afghan blend of milk, sugar, cardomon and rose petals called Shir-Chay.
I chose to start by cleansing my palette with some green tea with ginger at $3.95 This delicious and comforting drink came piping hot in a beautiful silver pot for one within minutes.
As an appetizer, the table ordered the Fesenjan $8.95, a type of thick Persian stew made with tender boneless chicken and an appealing sweet and sour flavor, thanks to the presence of walnuts and pomegranate juice. As unimpressive as stews often are to the eye, the unique combination of ingredients in this dish were a delight to savor and easily shared amongst the table, helped along by a generous portion of fresh bread that we used to scoop up the satisfying sauce.
For the entre I chose Kabuli Palow with lamb $16.95. A rather uninspired decision on my part as there was no sauce at all and besides the rice (I opted to have the white basmati rice instead of the usual brown baked rice topped with shredded carrots and raisons) the dish simply came with a liberal pinch of onion on the side.
The lamb chunks didn’t disappoint however and were as juicy, succulent and expertly prepared as the chicken had been but there was no hiding from how safe and yes, boring it was. I suspect the local gyro food truck nearby could possibly have given this dish a superior run for half the money but the Mantoo, a lasagne-looking steamed beef dumpling topped with yogurt and meat sauce ($14.95), was being eagerly enjoyed by my dinner dates.
None of the four desserts including a baklava, home made vanilla ice cream (Malai e) fried dough (Elephants ear) or rice-flour pudding, really took our fancy, so we ended the lunch there, each of us vowing to return to try some of the more unusual items on the menu.
If there is any silver lining about a natural disaster, it’s that they can often bring out the best in folks. For many people the frankenstorm was devastating, but for me in my little corner of Bed Stuy, it reminded me that I still have many people who watch my back, despite being thousands of miles and an ocean away from home.
As news of the impending storm began to reach the UK, emails from close friends started to come in “are you getting prepared?” was a common question asked, and “let me know that you are ok” became a frequent tweet. I was touched, they remembered I was here, potentially alone. I made sure to reply back straight away, and to heed their advice, I added a few vanilla scented candles from Foodtown and a couple of free boxes of matches from Duane Read to my weekly shop as a precaution.
By late Sunday night and early Monday afternoon the emails from close friends had been replaced by new ones from former work colleagues and industry acquaintances I hadn’t heard from in months. “Hey Emmy, the news is making it look apocalyptic out there, have you survived?” I had obviously, but again I was moved. I prepared for the worst by cooking up my chicken sausages and keeping the laptop and phone on permanent charge, in case of a power cut.
Whilst TV news teams throughout Tuesday and Wednesday updated the world on the rising death tolls, the flooding and Obama flying in to survey the damage, I stayed indoors. By now I was on full update duty, the initial trickle of emails had grown into a full flood of communication which spanned the breadth and depth of my address book and I jokingly told my girlfriend it was becoming a full time job just to make sure I replied to any and everyone who inquired about my well being.
Work made sure I knew not to come in, classmates frantically re arranged study sessions so that our projects could be completed on time and old, potentially new, and sometimes forgotten boyfriends popped up to either reconnect, check in, offer to wait out the storm with me or remind me of who they were before asking about my situation. In between answering emails, tweets, Skype and Facetime messages, I kept informed of all the travel news and weather reports. “You are loved” my girlfriend said, and I felt it.
Water is the drink of the gods, its the stuff that no matter what your culture, ethnicity, age and status is good for you. Yet we spend so little time really analyzing which water source we prefer to drink from.
Water is plain, I’ve been told, boring even, but how can this be? There are infinite water sources that are mined for the product and so numerous tastes and varieties to chose from. If you can’t tell the difference between waters then perhaps you have been brushing your tongue too hard and nulled your taste buds, or you should consider drinking and eating in a quiet and calm environment whilst not being stimulated by any media sources (TV, computer, phone, music etc) Really try and connect with what you are putting in your mouth.
For me, good tasty flavorsome water invokes swimming in the Dordogne in the south of France as a child , that first toe dip in the river would send a shiver down my spine, just like the first sip of cool spring or mineral water does now, a glass of the right water should almost make you feel like you are being caressed on the outside whilst being simultaneously being refreshed from within. There should be no bitter or salty aftertaste, and it should feel smooth going down your throat, soft even.
My Aquafina this morning is chilled to antarctic levels as is popular in the US. As a Brit, I like things a little nearer to room temperature, a more natural and therefore comfortable level for the body. Gripping the soft (cheap) bottle with my hands. I squeeze a little to pour the liquid carefully into my mouth. Visually its perfectly clear, just how I like it, no floating anomalies, UFO’s (unidentified floating objects) or cloudiness. But the taste, although not terrible, is giving me more Hudson river than riviera undertones. This is municipal water, re hashed, re worked somethings have been added, some taken away, more messing around with a product that should need little improvement. It has a faint chemical aftertaste, that lingers a minute too long after the water has been swallowed, and my thirst is quenched yes, but I expect more.
Unlike water from a tap, spring waters and minerals waters should be respected for their purity, and admired for their essence, thousands of years in the making, a gift from the earth to man. You can virtually taste the journey in the subtle mix of limestone, volcanic activity and dolomite in every sip. Today I am left wanting, tomorrow I will enjoy a superior experience with a brand that deserves my hard earned dollars.
As a recent British Jamaican transplant to Brooklyn (aka Little Jamaica) it’s no surprise that I’m passionate about the representation of our culture, especially the food, but with over 50% of Americans with Jamaican heritage residing in New York, why haven’t we made a bigger culinary impact on the mainstream foodie map here?
New York is one of THE most cosmopolitan cities on the planet so ethnic isn’t a just a pretentious food genre, it’s what we’re all eating in this town.
Zagat’s latest guide however lists only 1 Jamaican establishment in the best of Caribbean restaurants review (by contrast 7 were Cuban) and Time Outmagazine’s doesn’t even list Caribbean as a cuisine category.
This is crazy, when by contrast back in July, 10,000 people made it down to Roy Wilkin’s Park in Queens for the 2nd annual Grace Jamaican Jerk festival. People LOVE Jerk!
This lack of mainstream respect may be down to a few key things, well known food bloggers have only recently started to venture off ‘The Island’ and then only to the most gentrified of neighborhoods, so aside from places like Negril’s and Miss Lily’s (the restaurant whose very existence is much to the chagrin of Vogue’s Anna Wintour) few other less upscale but still very tasty joints get promoted.
The core customers often think their grandmother, Aunt, cousin, uncle can do it better, so blogging or tweeting about the latest store bought curry goat dish really isn’t on the to-do list, and frankly the surly, you better know what you want because I haven’t got time to answer your questions about what the hell is on (or most likely off) the menu today attitude, of some of the smaller establishments don’t make for the most welcoming of visits.
It’s not all bad, The Huffington Post just named Goat as the in-meat for 2012 but in the meantime I am going to brave the bad service, inaudible mumbling and get my chicken and plantain to go before, the hipsters push the price up.
While Obama and Romney debated over who had the right economic formula to get America back to work, we enjoyed Detropia. An award winning 90-minute documentary by Heidi Ewing and Rachel Grady, that lays bare the moving human testimony behind the collapse of the car manufacturing industry in Detroit.
A trio of interesting and articulate personalities provide the bulk of the film’s narrative. There is Crystal Starr, a local coffee shop worker/ avid video blogger, who pays particular attention to the decaying grandeur of the city’s many abandoned buildings, and George McGregor the pragmatic president of the United Auto Workers (UAW) union, who continues to preside over a dwindling and disgruntled workforce. Tommy Stephens is the charismatic owner of a local blues bar ‘The Raven Lounge’ which is struggling to survive without the business from the once plentiful car plant workers.
Classical opera under scores the opening scene. A man in an oversized jacket and headphones, walks down a typical urban street playing an imaginary mpc with his fingers.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SRce1KFsH-g
And so the film begins. Gorgeous nighttime aerial shots capture the emptied city streets where the marginalized few eek out a living from unsavory means. Emotionally charged commentary from a range of carefully chosen secondary characters, paint a colorful and in depth picture of what life was like in Detroit in the job abundant years, the gritty realism of today, and what it may be like in the future.
The Detroit Opera House has a recurring role throughout. Its existence and survival, symbolizing the idea of hope and renewal for a city struggling with the loss of 50% of it’s manufacturing jobs. It is by no coincidence that Ford is one The Opera House’s key sponsors, and one of the major backers behind this little film that could.
Theater director David Dichera laments, “This is a city going through one of the greatest challenges of the twentieth century”
At times Atkinson’s gritty cinematography is almost Mad Max esque, the snow on the ground detracting little from the familiar lawless sentiment of the young men and the apocalyptic landscape.
But after harsh winters, then comes spring. An artistic young couple have moved in to the city and purchased a loft conversion for $20,000. Like others, they were enticed by the cheap housing options and vast amounts of open space. Could this be the start of the city’s comeback? The UAW slogan says “We built this city” but who will be the builders of Detroit’s future?
Obama’s picture still has pride of place in The Raven Lounge, but for how much longer? People remember that he bailed out the big three on the verge of bankruptcy. Romney by contrast, is the would-be president who said the car plants should simply just go broke. I hear he had a good debate tonight. Motor City will be watching carefully, the people there know just how much is at stake.
Neither judgmental nor preachy, the subtle genius of this movie is that it lets Detroit speak for itself.
This eight-minute gem of a short by Canadian producer/writer/director Jason Reitman, tells the story of how two young people carefully negotiate the terms of their first sexual encounter.
Consent brilliantly encapsulates the best comedic aspects and plays up the ‘worst’ exaggerations of the full length rom com, using the hilarious ‘sex contract’ bedroom scene as a microcosm of the compromise couples go through in all budding relationships.
By concentrating on a simple sex scene, Reitman is able to very quickly portray what is often stretched out and over indulged in a standard romantic feature.
At their most annoying, the courtship phase in an ordinary rom com can become tiresome and clichéd. In Consent it has essentially already happened. Hollywood rom coms are also not known for their subtle and intelligent humor. In this film, the marriage of a concise and witty script, and a group of skilled actors, means that the humor and the ending twist, really get a chance to take center stage. It’s funny, sweet, enjoyable, light, and has bite. All the things I enjoy most about the best in the genre.
In just eight minutes there is nowhere to hide corny, and Consent is a masterful illustration of a romantic comedy at its most succinct.
I don’t watch many movies, so a passionate rant about horror flicks would go something like this. I hate them because they scare me, I hate being scared, the end. A rant about my love hate relationship with romantic comedy’s on the other hand may expose my need to be a culturally shallow, fairytale loving, air-head once in a while. However as I haven’t seen many horrors, action films, or sci-fi’s I have little choice than to expose myself with the later, so here goes.
We’re all familiar with the rom-com plot lines, deceptively slim and perfectly groomed woman, normally blonde 5 foot 7, think Cameron Diaz in There’s Something About Mary or Jennifer Aniston in The Break Up
(Hollywood exceptions made of course for Sandra Bullock and Julia Roberts) have trouble finding ordinary (if that’s what you call Bradley Cooper and Gerard Butler these days) but perfectly matched man. (Normally mousey brown haired, 6 foot plus).
They meet, often by accident. We go through 90 minutes of their ups and downs, mishaps and miss steps on the way to falling in love. Other partners, (Notting Hill, Hitch) even marriages, (27 dresses, The Wedding Planner or My Best Friends Wedding) maybe even a divorce or two (The Bounty Hunter, Sweet Home Alabama) and an unexpected baby (Knocked Up), but in the end, love blossoms in a medium to large sized city, maybe San Francisco, Miami or Chicago. Oh and let’s not forget, they often share a love of dogs (Marley & Me or Must Love Dogs) and eventually they work it out, have underscored, dimly lit, choreographed sex, and live happily ever after.
It’s like Disney for grown ups, and a feminists worse nightmare, they’re predictable and mind-numbingly cheesy. The woman always ends up looking like a super model and being validated by finally ‘getting her man’ the mans ordinariness it seems, always melts away under a steaming hot pile of charm and awkward romantic gestures. I’m intelligent, I should hate this crap, but yet I go back for more every time, it’s an escape from reality, and I’m secretly hoping that the new download (I’m not stupid enough to actually pay to see this BS at a real movie theatre) will be different, they aren’t, and sadly I’m a sucker again, so clearly, nor am I. There, rant over, please excuse me whilst I get back to reading Satre and enjoying a large glass of Chateaux Le Pin
The Live From Studio H team decided to look at the photo slide shows from the DNC. The Times separates the shows by day, so 3 days of the convention, equals 3 stunning sets of shots which depict an energetic convention, bathed in blue light and brimming with character.
An effective photo story , requires a whole host of complex things to come together in order for it to be a useful tool in telling the story of an event. It has to give you just enough context, some feeling of atmosphere, a view of what really was going on, both in front of and behind the scenes, and best of all, who are the characters involved. The Times coverage does all of these things and more.
Let me say this. It’s hard to take any type of picture at a political convention that doesn’t appear like an advertisement for the Democratic party. The room is designed that way. The lighting is blue, there are numerous banners and posters at every strategic angle, and all the speakers wear patriotic colors that don’t clash with the screens behind them. But The Times images still manage to throw up a few surprises, (and by surprises, I mean not just the same old typical shots that a myriad of other news sources are currently running with on their websites) the ‘Yes We Can’ sneakers and Obama 08 Yamaka spring to mind.
The day 1 shots of the entrance and outside areas add greatly in setting the scene in a way that TV crews can’t capture, and the images of the staff preparing the flooring and wiping down the podium intensifies the feeling that we are getting a fully rounded view of what it really takes to stage such a momentous event.
I wonder though, is there a missed opportunity for Obama here? Perhaps he should have drafted in Nicole Ritchie to stage an ‘America’s next top Obama wear designer’ competition. It’s clear from the photos that people continue to rock a plethora of Obama infused attire the likes of which I thought were relegated to the backs of the wardrobe since November 5th 2008. It’s clothing that defies any reasonable categorization on the basis of style or taste, but boy, it screams enthusiasm. This is simply about repping for the president in the best and most unique way you know how, and these photographs capture this and convention life as a whole in all its crazy, diverse beauty.
In a seven video look into the varying aspects of life in the I4 stretch of Florida, a swing state, video journalist, Erik Olsen’s crisp, clear, and beautifully lit videos, are a joy to watch. Warm, non intrusive and charming, his videography style has a way of allowing his subjects to really showcase their opinions and tell their truth to camera without it seems much thought of fear or judgment. Trust me, being non judgmental is hard to do when one voter sitting beneath a confederate flag states “I was a Democrat until Obama got in because I don’t like black people” or when the Freeman family line up evokes a scene from the TV show The Munster’s (such is their rather scary choice of hairstyle and all black clothing)
But odd and offensive subjects aside (yes grandma, that includes you wearing the Super Bitch hat) overall, the people chosen are a diverse and engaging bunch, with many of the interviewees like Jeanette Ocasio, a Democrat who represents the Hispanic vote, or Alexander and Christian, the teen Super Pac Republicans, coming across as really likeable. The overall impression that remained was that no one really likes Romney all THAT much, and few people have the same fervor for Obama that was stirred up for 4 years ago. I for one have a taste for some chicken empanadas and an ice-cold mojito, so I’m off to Habana Outpost in Brooklyn to get away from all this election coverage, after all, I can’t vote in the darn thing anyway!
