There’s a ledge in McCarren Park that’s my favorite spot in the entire city. You might have walked past it hundreds of times and never noticed its magic. The black paint is chipped, cement dented, it’s partially blocked by a bike rack, but it’s the perfect depth to sit crosslegged, basking in the sun in the mid-afternoon when the regular benches are soaked in shade thanks to trees and buildings. The world fades away with a physical book in hand, and stomach satiated by the place I’ll describe in a moment. It’s the closest I feel to sitting along the Seine in Paris without a care in the world, wondering what I did to get so lucky.
This ledge came to me by accident, as most great love affairs begin. But as most New York stories start, it began with a bagel. And not just any bagel. Frankel’s Deli is a place of legend, both on Instagram and not. They sell bagels until they’re out — and then close. And somehow, miraculously for me, when I sauntered in post-workout at 1:15pm on an abnormally warm Friday in October, they had one of my beloved cinnamon raisin bagels. One. As I made myself comfortable at a stool along the window ledge, eavesdropping on tales of Hollywood in the ‘90s from an entertainment writer, I overheard the person working behind the register matter-of-factly tell a woman with her toddler strapped to her chest that, no, there were no more bagels. A sign went on the window, and sad newbies sulked out, while seasoned vets came in ordering sandwiches on regular bread.
I unboxed ‘The Mitzner’ with greedy pleasure. Glistening layers of cucumber dill salad speckled with pink ribbons of beet pickled onion sat on top of a pillowy bed of whitefish salad. Sweet and savory, my favorite. As pretty as this bagel was to look at, I certainly didn’t look pretty eating it — a fact exacerbated by sitting in a window seat staring out at the quite busy Manhattan Avenue in the area where Greenpoint and Williamsburg blur together. But who cares when the joy radiating from you outweighs the reality that whitefish salad is trickling down your hand leaving behind stained pages of a hardcover book. A meal forever memorialized, as the next person who picks up this novel will wonder silently why page 15 is speckled.
After finishing a satisfying half of the bagel with the other bagged to go, I made my way to McCarren Park wondering what possessed me to wear a heavy coat on such a day like this one. I found a traditional bench in a sunny corner of the park, avoiding the grassy knolls hiding muddy patches from the days of rain prior. I sat and laid and changed positions so many times as I powered through my 320 page novel, so did my bench mates. A nanny and a toddler in a soiled diaper looking for the nearest bathroom to change. A fellow “reader” pausing to take pictures with her book for social media. A bicyclist with two seemingly opposing calf tattoos of an elephant and sword. As they rotated through, I stayed. Until the sun disappeared and my coat I rebuffed earlier came in handy. But the chill was unpleasant, and so off I went in search of the sun.
And in my quest for warmth, I found my ledge. I finished the other half of my bagel as two little girls ran in circles nearby, their dads sitting a few feet away conversing in Hebrew. Chants of sportsmanship and the thud of pads on pads from a football practice broke any silence that lingered in the air. A stereotypically Brooklyn hipster guy complained about his hemorrhoids. And I stayed, reading until the book hit its climax and your gut instinct that the main character wasn’t who you thought he was became confirmed.
When I finally peeled myself up from my ledge, satisfied beyond my wildest dreams of the day, I knew I’d be back. And I was. Three days later, on a Monday – and while Frankel’s was closed, the ledge was there, waiting. A fresh book, a fresh cup of coffee, and the comforting reality of endless possibilities in this city that I’ve always called home but am continually amazed by.
The Political Foodie 