Sharing Food and Life with Strangers
I don’t know how many years in New York it takes to be called a New Yorker, but the stories I’m about to tell you make me believe I’ve found a home in this city. This time of year always reminds me of the year I chose to uproot my life, pack three bags of my warmest clothes, and move cross-country in the dead of winter. If I loved New York in the dark seasons, I’d only grow to love it more.
I celebrated my New York-a-Versary last week. I thought I’d only make it three months, then a year, then two years, and here we are kicking off year seven. By the age of seven, one should be able to tie their own shoes, become more aware of their feelings and sense of self, get better at forming friendships, outgrow fears from younger years and occasionally struggle with basic spelling. I have done and continue to do all of these things.
New York is either the loneliest or the most magical place at Christmas time. For me, it was both. In three stories from my Big Apple Winters, I’ve fallen in love with this city, sitting next to strangers at restaurant bars, sharing food and sharing life.
Rubirosa
I set the bar high for my beginner Manhattan pizza standards and snagged a bar seat at one of the city’s most famed no-frills spots. I was a week into exploring my new home and getting reacquainted with solo dining. The bummer about eating alone is that there’s no one to share your food with. I sat at the bar and challenged myself to put away my phone, to look at anything other than a screen. But staring blankly at liquor bottles makes one look like a crazy person and it’s not polite to people-watch in such close proximity. A man my age sat next to me; he was also a party of one. Most would expect this story to lead to an exchange of phone numbers and that sort of thing but this wasn’t that at all. He ordered the carbonara and I ordered the tie-dyed pesto pizza. We sat quietly side by side, eyeing each other’s food until I went out on a limb to offer him a slice. He accepted and we made a trade, a slice for a side of pasta.
His name was Max, he had the rest of the night off from his serving job and stopped in for dinner while his girlfriend worked the night shift. “What do you want for Christmas?” he asked me. He was actually asking for gift ideas for his girlfriend. He was in luck because gifting just so happens to be my favorite thing in the whole wide world and if I could make six figures buying other people’s Christmas gifts, I’d quit my day job tomorrow. I asked Max twenty-something questions about his lady and we landed on records and concert tickets. The Lumineers—it's almost cliché. Next, Max helped me navigate the nightmare of apartment hunting and taught me how to read between the lines of promising listings. There we were, two strangers sharing food, helping each other however we could. And then we went our separate ways, not asking anything else of each other but just letting a memorable interaction exist for what it is. I’ve never come close to running into Max again, not to my knowledge, but when I hear a Lumineers song, I think of them and genuinely hope they had the best time dancing together to ‘Flowers in Your Hair’, their favorite song.
2nd Ave. Deli
My first apartment in the city was a Gramercy Park sublet. It was lovely enough but my bedroom was a cavernous living room corner separated by a fake wall. I woke up in the dark and came home in the dark. The room never felt like mine. It came furnished and I mostly spent nights watching movies on my laptop, like I was visiting and respectfully keeping quiet. I finally broke down and insisted on buying myself a floor lamp on the coldest of days. I got on Craigslist and found a cute lamp for sale about twelve blocks away so I bundled up to my eyeballs and went out to find some light—literally, not spiritually. I threw my new $20 lamp over my shoulder and braved the wind storm towards the four walls I was desperately trying to make into a home.
Now, take a moment and imagine the stereotypical New York voice we mostly only know from 90’s movies. I heard that voice yelling at me, “What are you doing?? Get inside, you’re gonna freeze to death! And that thing is bigger than you are!” He was referring to the floor lamp I was bound to whack someone with.
On a twelve-degree day, comfort was a Jewish deli. And not just any Jewish deli, the 2nd Ave. Deli. I listened to the man and took a seat at the bar. One of the servers took the lamp out of my hands and set it in a corner, under strict instructions from who I could only assume was the owner. I was served a bowl of matzo ball soup within no more than four minutes of sitting down. They don’t call it Jewish penicillin for nothing, it heals from anything and everything. I took my first bites and felt tears behind my eyes.
It wasn’t the soup; it was the care from a stranger treating me like family that made me emotional. This was possibly my first time admitting to myself that I needed people. It’s easy to remain anonymous in New York City but anyone who believes they can go it alone and never need anyone is dangerously wrong, from my experience. A healing serving of soup and my first ever black and white cookie—I was a kid on a snow day. I was forbidden from paying any sort of bill. A server who looked about sixteen was tasked with walking me home and carrying my lamp for me, I had no say in the matter. I came home, plugged in my new lamp and broke down in tears of gratitude. Whatever warm blanket or hug 2nd Ave. Deli was for me that day, I had no idea how badly I needed it.
Via Carota
In this next story, I’m no longer going out to eat alone. In case you’re new to reading about my life, I’m five months away from being somebody’s wife. David and I planned on dinner at Torrisi, a new favorite, however, after arriving at their door and learning they were closed for a private event, I rode the train for two stops to Via Carota, another sophisticated staple. I frantically text David, “Gonna try Via Carota instead. If I strike out, I can just meet you at home.” And then minutes later, “Hurry! I’m waiting with a drink! I need you to be here but they have plenty of tables now, hurry!” I sat at the bar with a glass of white wine, observing Shiri Appleby with her cute family. (The etiquette for B and C celebrities is to never approach but Google recent photos to confirm.)
With rush hour, it took David a half hour to get to me, but I was able to save an extra seat at the bar. We sat next to two Upper-West-Side-chic women, Patty and Leslie. They’re both therapists— two old friends who have a standing date now that one of them moved outside of the city. They felt like New York in a friendship and looked like they'd spent five lives together already. The way that people see couples and think, “They’re goals" — I had that thought watching them settle into dinner. They were more interested in what we ordered and between David and myself, one of us is bound to strike up friendly conversation.
Patty and Leslie both shrieked with their congratulations the way most do when we mentioned we’re engaged. We traded menu guidance for marriage advice. “Don’t get divorced, just don’t do it. It’s such a headache, just stay together forever.” They both took turns giving one piece of genuine marriage advice and I’ve continued to think about their words. In fact, I believe they'll stick with me for as long as I'll think of this dinner.
Piece of advice #1: If you’re on the fence about having and raising your kids in Manhattan, just do it.
As soon as they said it, I imagined a life as a parent in New York. Expensive and magical with access to anything and everything.
Piece of advice #2: Whatever is important to your person—that book they love, the song they share with you, or the movie they want to watch with you—do it all. Read the book, listen to the song, and watch the movie. It’s all deeply important.
That’s it, those were the top secrets of two of Manhattan’s most elegant marriage counselors. We paid our bill and I left feeling like I wanted to be friends with Patty and Leslie, like they held all the secrets to falling in love and staying in love in New York. Walking out of Via Carota, I also felt a teeny tiny bit more in love with my person, whether we brave urban-jungle parenting or make our way to the burbs. For me, it all comes full circle knowing the person I choose to do life with also strikes up conversations with strangers, sitting at bars, sharing food and life.
Max, the fine folks of 2nd Ave. Deli, Patty and Leslie—this group of perfect strangers taught me the most New York thing about New York is the people we find and eat food next to. Home can be a multi-block radius outside of the four walls you pay rent for. The darkest of months might just need a $20 lamp. And there’s no place like this heartening city, whether you’re a party of one, two, three or more.