The Riverside Church food pantry was quiet when I entered. The seating area was dotted with a few little families, mostly middle-aged Dominican women though, come on their own to pick up provisions for themselves and their children, lost in this bad bad Land of Plenty. It was a slow start: there were no information cards in the tray by the administration desk, those little cards that I pull and struggle to read names off of in a good Spanish accent, and there were few volunteers present--just Wim (pronounced Vim) the Dutch guy standing around quietly, and of course the Caribbean duo Olveda and Alida. Jarrit, the manager of the pantry, smiled his little kid smile from burning skin of Bronx color, shook my hand, and thanked me for coming, like a gentleman.
When Jarrit filled out some tarjetas, I grabbed one, and started calling people up out of the airy, quiet seating area. A meek middle-aged fellow, Antonio I believe his name was, edged into the pantry room after a little confusion about his name. We grabbed a shopping cart and began to move through the racks of food. His brow was low, his hair matted down. I asked him, English, espanol? He said Espanol, and I gave it my best as I always do--OK senor, tu puedes cojer dos latas de carne. Hay... so on and so on, yet he responded in pretty good English, albeit whispered, and after a little while I just switched to English and we swooped back and forth through the aisles of canned veggies, bags of dry beans, and juice, and I would say everything first in English then repeat what I could at a mumble in Spanish. He seemed appreciative afterward, and after I handed him his bags full of food in the terrible fluorescence of the pantry room, he said Haf a nai day, and shuffled away.
I brought another client through, a kind of handsome, nearly black mid-age Dominican woman. We pushed the cart among the aisles of food, and she was really stuck on getting more cans than were allotted for someone with her number of family. Mas mais? Solomente tres? she asked frustratedly as her finely shaped arms grasped for more cans of corn, and I told her it was not allowed--quatro personnas, tres latas. Sorry lady. This continued on with the fish, beans, and juice, her asking for more than was allowed in really fast, complex Spanish that left me dribbling Uuuh, no, uuuh, no es possible. But we did make it through, as me and the clients always do, and I scorn her not... she's got to put up with some stingy church pantry to supplement her food once a month in a city that doesn't really think much of her.
When the seating area emptied unusually early, I ended up talking with Christopher, or Cristobal as he introduced himself in Spanish. He's a volunteer that I've seen now and then at Riverside. He started asking where I learned Spanish (the whole glossary of 13 words I know), and I asked where he learned his. I thought he was Dominican with his dark skin and wavy hair, but his strangely formal Spanish accent he used while speaking with clients prompted me to ask where he learned Spanish. He told me about his studies in human geography, a subject I had never heard of before, and that learning languages was just something he did everywhere. Cool, me too. As PJ, another woman who volunteers more frequently at the pantry passed by the rack of tomato sauce cans, they called a couple of short words to each other--osht and ekii--that sounded like Dutch. When I asked if that was indeed the strange tongue they had been uttering, Christopher gave his slight, feminine laugh and said No, it's Chalokee, an American Indian language. Cherokee. This floored me and I immediately began telling him of my interest in languages and Indian issues, anthropology and history and he mirrored it all intelligently as a giggling professor. I found out that PJ is actually his mother, a woman with an advanced degree in linguistics, and that Christopher is Cherokee, and had studied Chalokee on his own. Soon we were discussing the bleakness of Indian reservations like Lone Pine, the Sioux reservation in South Dakota. I began to get very angry as he told me about the failings of the Bureau of Indian Affairs and we spoke of the total marginalization of Native Americans everywhere, and I started spitting some thoughts about the oppressed uniting to fight, and he, with hands folded, laughed wisely like an old monk, Aaah, that sounds like Marxist doctrine! I think it was.
An hour later I was on the little terrace that sticks out from behind my apartment, reading up on The Meaning of Marxism for a study group but hours away. Quietly, distantly, my temporary subleter roommate Kianoush, an electrical engineer from Iran working at Columbia by way of Birmingham University in England, sat on his bed, watching the minutes pass before he would hoist his huge suitcase and leave. As I read about the nature of capitalism's expansion, he would tell funny anecdotes and teach me new words in Farsi. Erin, my regular rommate, arrived just in the nick of time, smiley and tan and laughing, to meet Kianoush with an formal handshake and "So nice to meet you" before he had to head out to the airport to deal with special customs procedures, since he has a passport issues by a member of the Axis of Evil: Iran. I walked him to the subway, told him I would see him again, perhaps in England, that he must teach me more Farsi, and with his balding head and dark eyebrows pearled with sweat, we hugged oddly and said goodbye. More reading on government's historical ties with economic interests, some happy conversation with Erin just returned from her road trip across the groaning American continent, and I was off on the bus uptown to The Meaning of Marxism study group.
In the little West Harlem cafe called La Pregunta, my fellow socialists and I sat around a wooden table covered in Dominican food and notepads, and Matt, the brilliant Columbia student dressed as usual in a plaid skirt, gestured with raised skinny shoulders and gave his ideas on the economy's abilities to determine the political pecking order, and the lack of true democratic representation in American government. We 'mhm'-ed and 'right'-ed and asked questions about loopholes used by corporations to act above the law. I ate a bean salad and took mild notes on the conversation. Wally, an older fellow, got the angriest when he talked about big business, but said some really sharp things when I asked about the relationship of economic monopolies to colonialism, and I was glad to have this wise, impassioned guy in our group. After a half hour or so, the Thursday night band, a Dominican rock group, began to set up and made a lot of noise, as they practiced their riffs and tested the mics. We pushed out of the little spot and headed over to the plaza tables at City College directly across the street, and continued our discussion there. It was magical, as our multicolored band of socialists kept up the conversation at a round table, everyone exchanging democratically and out in the open air. When I raised the question of why separeness is necessary to Lenin's revolutionary vanguard, why the leaders and the directors must be distinct in any way from the masses, a great debate started, with Matt gesturing with his raised shoulders and Dave, a soft-spoken man, adding in comments about the intellectual nature of the vanguard and their duty to constantly recruit and expand into the masses. The sun was crashing and breaking up into gold-orange shards on the mighty Hudson River, and long shadows stretched from the little trees in the plaza onto our table, and it was lively and good-natured and an evening breeze blew and I felt really content. After some minutes of talking we looked at our watches, made jokes about our tardiness, and headed down to the International Socialist Organization's uptown meeting which was unfolding as we spoke. We walked down Amsterdam Ave. in Harlem shadow, and made frustrated remarks and speedy insights about the housing projects we passed, and the inequality they represented.
At the ISO uptown meeting in the quiet little leftist church, St. Mary's on 126th street, ancient and red, we crowded into a big office room and listened to a presentation by ISO member Hadas, a little brilliant Israeli woman, on the workings and non-workings of capitalism. She made some basic and important points in good-humored language (not cold and mechanical as many people think socialists to be) about the boom-and-bust cycle inherent to capitalism, and a great discussion began. Many people stood and preached small truths with big implications about the hypocrisy of a government that gives 13.9 billion bucks in bank bailouts and then allows itself to be co-opted by healthcare biz lobbyists against a billion-dollar healthcare reform bill. Sickening. I took no notes, my eyelids sagged with fatigue, my eyeballs floated in and out of focus, and I kept my ears open. Brian Jones stood and made smart remarks with character, and his actor training shone in every swing of his upper body and bent smile. It was so goddamned hot in the room I felt like a martyr, and people swung pamphlets by their faces in the heat. A little toddler on the sidelines didn't seem to mind, and he climbed around his mother's legs, a smooth Vietnamese woman, as she gently looked on. The comments came in from every corner, people spoke of the bank bailout being a sign of the capitalist government's desperation and structural weakness, and finally the time came for Hadas to respond. She did so briefly to several of the points raised, and then they began the process of democratically choosing the topic of the next meeting, raising the merits of talking about healthcare reform versus talking about gay rights, and so on. I stood and pushed my sweaty way to the edge where I stood and listened for a bit, dropped a dollar on the desk and picked up a Socialist Worker, and then glided quietly from the little wood building attached to the church, where an older bearded white man--I think he was a social worker--was still talking actively with a group of down and out Blacks. True exchange. I eased out the door into the little stone, gated courtyard in the gentleness of night. I made some calls as I strode west along the forgotten tip of 125th street, past projects and a little library, and halted at 125th and Broadway. Looking upon the mystical corner covered in neon light from soulless banks and beat Chinese food restaurants, the bottom of a small valley actually, I watched brown and black faces disperse east north, and south. I thought the ones heading south, in the direction of Columbia, must simply evaporate en route, since when one reaches the university gates but 10 blocks down, none of these heavy Harlem faces, meaningful under the giant bones of the 125th street 1 train station high above the street, are ever seen. Like ghosts in the summer night. I slouched against a brick wall and tried to pour out the truth in that scene on the inside jacket of The Meaning of Marxism, and some street song flowed from my pen before my friend descended from the stairs leading down from the 1 train up in the sky, and we left.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 2, 2009
The Café in the Basement of an Auberge de Jeunesse, Montréal, Québec
Thursday, July 2nd, 2009
The little café in the basement, le sous-sol, of the Auberge de Jeunesse de Montréal was dimly lit and pop rock scratched in the background, like an old bar. But the place was polished and new, and I ate my breakfast of croissant, cereal, apple, and tremble-inducing green tea in peace, and scribbled observations on the cook/server of white t-shirt, shaved head, and strong Québecois accent and his crew at the counter. Since I am researching the struggle for the French language in Montréal, I had an eye fixed on this bilingual cat and his interactions with the clientel.
Interesting how, while speaking to the fat woman at the counter with great anima, he responded to the bold kid who strolled downstairs and greeted him in the language of the oppressor with a bland "Good Morning". Our man here made a side glance at the young Anglophone but kept right on talking to the fat woman at the counter in French for a moment, before turning to respond to the kid in excellent English. The American ordered a coffee and our man served it up lickety split with no fuss, but it was worth noting how he refused to recognize the existence of the young man for a moment, because, I think, the young man didn't even pretend to respect the quickly decomposing linguistic rules of Montréal, hailed as "the largest Francophone city in North America".
Moments later, a young lass in hippie-looking garb bounded down the stairs and greeted the fat woman in her forest-green shirt with a small kiss on both cheeks, and said something in tough Québecois accent. When our man, whose name I discovered is Philipe, poked his head out from the pantry and shouted something, she called him over with louder excitement, and they did the same kiss on both cheeks thing. Their excited speech of reunification climbed into the Australian-sounding vowels and R's of heavy Montréal French. Cool.
After two madly strong cups of green tea that made me sweat and a perch at the counter, I finally got to talking to Philipe. He graciously responded to every interrogating question I hit him with, even when I fumbled in French. The discussion was gold. When I asked him if he had the habit of responding to clients at the Auberge in English, ad felt comfortable speaking this tongue of the late-coming colonizers, he said Yes, and that bilingualism is necessary for almst all work in Montréal, except maybe for a few of the menial gigs, but even some of those require English. He said it without a flinch, but I gripped my heart at the reality of the situation he claimed. When I asked if he believed that's because all the supervisers or bosses are Anglophone, he shot back "No, no, it's a mix", drying dishes with a towel and hanging distant from me in the back of the tiny kitchen. The most striking thing that prompted a new and complex branch in the coversation was how he responded when I told him my French professor, who is die-hard Québecois, is a separatist (meaning someone believing Québec should seccede from Canada), and that my professor believes that all the rich powerful people in Montréal are Anglophones who oppress the Francophone majority. He said he thought that view was only held by old people in the city, and my professor's a pretty spry young guy, as far as professors go. Philipe said he voted for separation in the last referendum concerning the matter, which took place on October 30th, 1995. A historic event, which seemed to end, in a way, the radical force behind the Québecois independence movement. 93% of the eligible voting population came out on that day, never before seen. The result: 49% pour, 51% contre. So close and so many people participating, I think it knocked the wind out of the Québecois separatists, and thats why, as he recounted, his eyebrows were low and he frowned while speaking like "What can you do?" He told me "I'm a separatist, but not like a fanatic. Not the anti-Christ". Whew, that got me going, and I spent a good chunk of time trying to explain that I felt words like "fanatic" are used as weapons against the legit complaints of the colonized by imperialists who want to kep everything juuuust like it is. I brought up the example of Africa but he quickly dismissed it. C'est pas pareil, it's different, he told me. The argument went on, and there was a long silence. I sipped my tea in the styrofoam cup, he scrubbed dishes in back like a good worker, and finally I said OK une dernière question, and asked if he had ever, at any moment or in any place, found himself asking "Why continue to speak French?" It took a bit of rephrasing to really get the question across, but once he got it, he said blurrily "Yea, all the time". Despirited, I asked why. "Uh, I dunno. Yea I just don't know" he slurred while wiping some plastic tablecloths. A moment passed, I gave him my name and thanked him for speaking with me, and hunched over with melancholy at his resignation to the forces of monoculture, I slid from my seat and hauled body and brain upstairs.
The little café in the basement, le sous-sol, of the Auberge de Jeunesse de Montréal was dimly lit and pop rock scratched in the background, like an old bar. But the place was polished and new, and I ate my breakfast of croissant, cereal, apple, and tremble-inducing green tea in peace, and scribbled observations on the cook/server of white t-shirt, shaved head, and strong Québecois accent and his crew at the counter. Since I am researching the struggle for the French language in Montréal, I had an eye fixed on this bilingual cat and his interactions with the clientel.
Interesting how, while speaking to the fat woman at the counter with great anima, he responded to the bold kid who strolled downstairs and greeted him in the language of the oppressor with a bland "Good Morning". Our man here made a side glance at the young Anglophone but kept right on talking to the fat woman at the counter in French for a moment, before turning to respond to the kid in excellent English. The American ordered a coffee and our man served it up lickety split with no fuss, but it was worth noting how he refused to recognize the existence of the young man for a moment, because, I think, the young man didn't even pretend to respect the quickly decomposing linguistic rules of Montréal, hailed as "the largest Francophone city in North America".
Moments later, a young lass in hippie-looking garb bounded down the stairs and greeted the fat woman in her forest-green shirt with a small kiss on both cheeks, and said something in tough Québecois accent. When our man, whose name I discovered is Philipe, poked his head out from the pantry and shouted something, she called him over with louder excitement, and they did the same kiss on both cheeks thing. Their excited speech of reunification climbed into the Australian-sounding vowels and R's of heavy Montréal French. Cool.
After two madly strong cups of green tea that made me sweat and a perch at the counter, I finally got to talking to Philipe. He graciously responded to every interrogating question I hit him with, even when I fumbled in French. The discussion was gold. When I asked him if he had the habit of responding to clients at the Auberge in English, ad felt comfortable speaking this tongue of the late-coming colonizers, he said Yes, and that bilingualism is necessary for almst all work in Montréal, except maybe for a few of the menial gigs, but even some of those require English. He said it without a flinch, but I gripped my heart at the reality of the situation he claimed. When I asked if he believed that's because all the supervisers or bosses are Anglophone, he shot back "No, no, it's a mix", drying dishes with a towel and hanging distant from me in the back of the tiny kitchen. The most striking thing that prompted a new and complex branch in the coversation was how he responded when I told him my French professor, who is die-hard Québecois, is a separatist (meaning someone believing Québec should seccede from Canada), and that my professor believes that all the rich powerful people in Montréal are Anglophones who oppress the Francophone majority. He said he thought that view was only held by old people in the city, and my professor's a pretty spry young guy, as far as professors go. Philipe said he voted for separation in the last referendum concerning the matter, which took place on October 30th, 1995. A historic event, which seemed to end, in a way, the radical force behind the Québecois independence movement. 93% of the eligible voting population came out on that day, never before seen. The result: 49% pour, 51% contre. So close and so many people participating, I think it knocked the wind out of the Québecois separatists, and thats why, as he recounted, his eyebrows were low and he frowned while speaking like "What can you do?" He told me "I'm a separatist, but not like a fanatic. Not the anti-Christ". Whew, that got me going, and I spent a good chunk of time trying to explain that I felt words like "fanatic" are used as weapons against the legit complaints of the colonized by imperialists who want to kep everything juuuust like it is. I brought up the example of Africa but he quickly dismissed it. C'est pas pareil, it's different, he told me. The argument went on, and there was a long silence. I sipped my tea in the styrofoam cup, he scrubbed dishes in back like a good worker, and finally I said OK une dernière question, and asked if he had ever, at any moment or in any place, found himself asking "Why continue to speak French?" It took a bit of rephrasing to really get the question across, but once he got it, he said blurrily "Yea, all the time". Despirited, I asked why. "Uh, I dunno. Yea I just don't know" he slurred while wiping some plastic tablecloths. A moment passed, I gave him my name and thanked him for speaking with me, and hunched over with melancholy at his resignation to the forces of monoculture, I slid from my seat and hauled body and brain upstairs.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Femi Kuti Concert, Prospect Park, BK
Thursday, June 25th, 2009
As the horn section swaying behind Femi Kuti blasted funky brass melodies, and waists wiggled to the drummer on stage, I caught sight of a beautiful woman, hair braided African style with little bits of blue thrown in. A real Nilotic look, with defined cheek bones and a thin physique. An arm from the white guy on her right, short black hair and a slick black shirt, slipped around her waist and pulled her in. She turned to him, looked him in the eyes, and kissed him.
OK, standard romance novel stuff. But, this was a trend at the free concert of Femi Kuti, the loud and loved son of the slightly-more-legendary Nigerian musician, Fela Kuti. As there are certain bars where gays go to find other gays, singles bars for as-of-yet-uncommitted professionals, particular curbs where skateboarding teenagers congregate, and churches where only Black Baptists worship, this concert, in a more subtle way, was THE spot to bring your spouse or significant other of another race. And not just any pairing of ethnicities, but specifically, it seemed, for heterosexual Black/White couples. I was excited, kind of giddy actually, seeing so many young couples, or weddded, middle aged White men being lead adorably by the hand through the shifting crowd by Black women.
These couples were here and there throughout the masses of people standing and swaying before the stage where Femi shouted to us about sex and music in Ibo (?) and English, where his horn section drifted to the right, drifted to the left in unison, and where his dancers shook glorious hips in figure eights, and they seemed to be just part of the natural environment there. That's what I loved. Usually, when, or if, one sees a Black/White interracial couple in public, they stand physically apart, whether on train or sidewalk, adoring one another with hand, lips, and whispers in quiet protest of the standard color-matching lovebirds cruising the streets in normalcy. Or maybe there's no conscious protest at all and I'm overpoliticizing the matter, but these duos of opposing tones ebracing under the bangs of the drums and the pressure of other bodies squeezed in front of the stage added so much to the concert. They made it a thorough experience. Perhaps Femi Kuti concerts are peppered with these couples because Femi and his band have a cosmopolitan aura, being a group of Nigerians dressed to the nines in traditional Nigerian clothes who speak English better than I do, and who are used to touring around Europe. Perhaps it was just coincidence, but I think not. Some hipness in the summer air of Prospect Park, a diverse crowd of Femi devotees, and Femi's open attitude towards sex (love too, maybe), brought these mixed couples together, I think.
But I was soon part of the phenomenon, stopping scribbling in my journal to heed the call of my friend Tori, a brilliant Trinidadian woman and schoolmate, as the crowds funneled out from the bandshell under the trees. We ambled slowly with the directionless masses in shorts and t-shirts, or tight tops and short skirts, and I made mention of the phenomenon I saw throughout the crowd, that I had never seen so many hip, interracial couples in one place, and she jumped right on the comment. She talked about how cool the couples seemed, and by her smile she seemed to be as excited as I was. I realized, as we moved along Prospect Park West, amid carhorns and brownstones, that we looked just like what were going on about: she a well dressed, stylish Black woman, me a White guy in watered down summer clothes. Our talking dipped to silence now and then and a breeze blew.
As the horn section swaying behind Femi Kuti blasted funky brass melodies, and waists wiggled to the drummer on stage, I caught sight of a beautiful woman, hair braided African style with little bits of blue thrown in. A real Nilotic look, with defined cheek bones and a thin physique. An arm from the white guy on her right, short black hair and a slick black shirt, slipped around her waist and pulled her in. She turned to him, looked him in the eyes, and kissed him.
OK, standard romance novel stuff. But, this was a trend at the free concert of Femi Kuti, the loud and loved son of the slightly-more-legendary Nigerian musician, Fela Kuti. As there are certain bars where gays go to find other gays, singles bars for as-of-yet-uncommitted professionals, particular curbs where skateboarding teenagers congregate, and churches where only Black Baptists worship, this concert, in a more subtle way, was THE spot to bring your spouse or significant other of another race. And not just any pairing of ethnicities, but specifically, it seemed, for heterosexual Black/White couples. I was excited, kind of giddy actually, seeing so many young couples, or weddded, middle aged White men being lead adorably by the hand through the shifting crowd by Black women.
These couples were here and there throughout the masses of people standing and swaying before the stage where Femi shouted to us about sex and music in Ibo (?) and English, where his horn section drifted to the right, drifted to the left in unison, and where his dancers shook glorious hips in figure eights, and they seemed to be just part of the natural environment there. That's what I loved. Usually, when, or if, one sees a Black/White interracial couple in public, they stand physically apart, whether on train or sidewalk, adoring one another with hand, lips, and whispers in quiet protest of the standard color-matching lovebirds cruising the streets in normalcy. Or maybe there's no conscious protest at all and I'm overpoliticizing the matter, but these duos of opposing tones ebracing under the bangs of the drums and the pressure of other bodies squeezed in front of the stage added so much to the concert. They made it a thorough experience. Perhaps Femi Kuti concerts are peppered with these couples because Femi and his band have a cosmopolitan aura, being a group of Nigerians dressed to the nines in traditional Nigerian clothes who speak English better than I do, and who are used to touring around Europe. Perhaps it was just coincidence, but I think not. Some hipness in the summer air of Prospect Park, a diverse crowd of Femi devotees, and Femi's open attitude towards sex (love too, maybe), brought these mixed couples together, I think.
But I was soon part of the phenomenon, stopping scribbling in my journal to heed the call of my friend Tori, a brilliant Trinidadian woman and schoolmate, as the crowds funneled out from the bandshell under the trees. We ambled slowly with the directionless masses in shorts and t-shirts, or tight tops and short skirts, and I made mention of the phenomenon I saw throughout the crowd, that I had never seen so many hip, interracial couples in one place, and she jumped right on the comment. She talked about how cool the couples seemed, and by her smile she seemed to be as excited as I was. I realized, as we moved along Prospect Park West, amid carhorns and brownstones, that we looked just like what were going on about: she a well dressed, stylish Black woman, me a White guy in watered down summer clothes. Our talking dipped to silence now and then and a breeze blew.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
The Greek's in West Harlem
Tuesday, June 16th, 2009.
The weather cool and breezy like heaven might be, I cruised across Amsterdam Avenue after picking up a scribbled-upon resume in the neon-lit Career Center at City College. The local restaurant & diner run by a few beautifully wrinkled Greeks with quietly laboring Mexican men, looking almost abandoned with the blinds partly drawn, and its decomposing but endearing white plastic signage over the door declaring that it is just that, The Greek's Collegiate Restaurant, waited on the other side of the thoroughfare. I had to grab something to nosh on before heading down to Williamsburg to tutor for that one tiring hour, and to prep myself for the phone interview for an internship but 2 hours off.
Some concerted searching for information on The Greek's on Google today only yielded a couple of happy recommendations of the souvlaki and pea soup, and a grieved declaration that the restaurant was facing an end to its days soon if the landlord would not let them renew their lease. The prospect of renewal, from what I read, seemed dark. But my experiences there are bright.
This local joint is a special place. Thriving, with bells dinging and plates clinking and feet shuffling along the linoleum floor, The Greek's, as I've come to know it from hearing the name tossed around the City College Campus, is an establishment with a real 1940's Midtown Manhattan diner look to it. From the fading sign outside to the rotating stools at the counter where classic pastries wait under plastic, to the old waitresses in blue formless shirts who chat forcefully with one another in Greek, it seems of another time and place. That's why it stands out, for it does not blend with the block where it sits, flanked by auto repair shops, bodegas, and little arroz con pollo y platanos type restaurants serving up classic food from the DR. Nor does it resemble at all the new cafes, products of gentrification and the New Harlem "Renaissance" (real-estate boom), such as Cafe One across the street, or the block of new restaurants, including Tres Pasos, over by the 1 train stop on Broadway.
So it's interesting to sit in The Greek's, watching Dominican girls go by, chatting and gesturing like mad, while the inside bubbles with a diversity of races, styles of dress, and accents. From above my vegetable omelette and steaming mug o' tea, I observe students, young and unknowing, an asian girl and a black guy in a smart casual work outfit sitting at a table in the back, thin, shaved-headed white guys going and coming, and a West Indian woman approaches the counter beside me to pick up her order. She drops a straw onto my mug of tea accidently while grabbing something, and I make a joke about how I'm going to start sipping hot tea through a straw from now on, and she chuckles like Misses Clause. The atmophere is jovial, and the youngish Greek men at the cash register recieve all the customers with the same "How you doin' today miss/sir?" and the old waitresses give them all the same slow, soft smile regardless. All come and go in this spot with pretenses dropped, and the Greeks just keep on doing business. And as well they should, I thought to myself, as I hopped from my beat stool and dropped six bucks on the counter for a big veggie omelette with home fries and a delicious mug of tea, and the cashier grabbed it and rung it up on the ancient register with a real bell and a lever to open the cash drawer.
I hope they can keep on forever. They're a real piece of history, sittin' on a hill in Harlem.
The weather cool and breezy like heaven might be, I cruised across Amsterdam Avenue after picking up a scribbled-upon resume in the neon-lit Career Center at City College. The local restaurant & diner run by a few beautifully wrinkled Greeks with quietly laboring Mexican men, looking almost abandoned with the blinds partly drawn, and its decomposing but endearing white plastic signage over the door declaring that it is just that, The Greek's Collegiate Restaurant, waited on the other side of the thoroughfare. I had to grab something to nosh on before heading down to Williamsburg to tutor for that one tiring hour, and to prep myself for the phone interview for an internship but 2 hours off.
Some concerted searching for information on The Greek's on Google today only yielded a couple of happy recommendations of the souvlaki and pea soup, and a grieved declaration that the restaurant was facing an end to its days soon if the landlord would not let them renew their lease. The prospect of renewal, from what I read, seemed dark. But my experiences there are bright.
This local joint is a special place. Thriving, with bells dinging and plates clinking and feet shuffling along the linoleum floor, The Greek's, as I've come to know it from hearing the name tossed around the City College Campus, is an establishment with a real 1940's Midtown Manhattan diner look to it. From the fading sign outside to the rotating stools at the counter where classic pastries wait under plastic, to the old waitresses in blue formless shirts who chat forcefully with one another in Greek, it seems of another time and place. That's why it stands out, for it does not blend with the block where it sits, flanked by auto repair shops, bodegas, and little arroz con pollo y platanos type restaurants serving up classic food from the DR. Nor does it resemble at all the new cafes, products of gentrification and the New Harlem "Renaissance" (real-estate boom), such as Cafe One across the street, or the block of new restaurants, including Tres Pasos, over by the 1 train stop on Broadway.
So it's interesting to sit in The Greek's, watching Dominican girls go by, chatting and gesturing like mad, while the inside bubbles with a diversity of races, styles of dress, and accents. From above my vegetable omelette and steaming mug o' tea, I observe students, young and unknowing, an asian girl and a black guy in a smart casual work outfit sitting at a table in the back, thin, shaved-headed white guys going and coming, and a West Indian woman approaches the counter beside me to pick up her order. She drops a straw onto my mug of tea accidently while grabbing something, and I make a joke about how I'm going to start sipping hot tea through a straw from now on, and she chuckles like Misses Clause. The atmophere is jovial, and the youngish Greek men at the cash register recieve all the customers with the same "How you doin' today miss/sir?" and the old waitresses give them all the same slow, soft smile regardless. All come and go in this spot with pretenses dropped, and the Greeks just keep on doing business. And as well they should, I thought to myself, as I hopped from my beat stool and dropped six bucks on the counter for a big veggie omelette with home fries and a delicious mug of tea, and the cashier grabbed it and rung it up on the ancient register with a real bell and a lever to open the cash drawer.
I hope they can keep on forever. They're a real piece of history, sittin' on a hill in Harlem.
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