It’s something that comes to mind often during outings for the 52 Meals Project: the whole capital-lettered thing of the Dining Experience. Some places, maybe they’re not all that special but the diner imbues them with his own magic: the combination of a certain time and certain company with a certain frame of mind.
That birthday dinner with Iggy comes to mind. Or that West Village bar, the one I went to with Katie, Andie and Jimi in the blustery winter many moons ago, that one with the white Christmas lights and the worn wood booths and the Russian boxing matches on the TV over the bar. Where was that place? (No, really: Where the fuck was it? I want to go back and confirm whether it’s as great as I remember.)
Other establishments actively strive to create magic, to buttress your own or to do the heavy lifting, should your imagination be in a weakened or absent state. But careful: too much magic-mongering on the business end and, hey presto, you’ve got a theme restaurant. (e.g. any dining establishment within a block radius of Times Square.)
It’s a difficult balance, a confluence of factors, as they say.
Friend of a Farmer excels at this balancing act, though. And we almost didn’t go. The diner across the street had perfectly serviceable brunch, the menfolk grumbled. (They’d been up late, watching a documentary on ants.) But Megan convinced Vincent and I to slog through the first snow of the season to Gramercy Park.
We ate upstairs, up the wood staircase, banister entwined with strands of pine and white Christmas lights; an antique cabinet on the landing held gourds, tin soldiers and Mason jars of dry beans. The second floor was a cozy, clapboard-clad cocoon. Santas and ceramic roosters perched on the mantelshelf above a crackling fire. Yellowed wallpaper of wildflowers enveloped the room. Large, condensation-fogged windows overlooked the flurries on Irving Place, where I kept expecting to see a hansom cab ramble by. A giant Christmas tree huddled in our corner, heavy with lights and ornaments, while lantern style lamps hung from the bare-raftered ceiling.
Practically like my own Grandma’s farmhouse in the wilds of Ohio, or a slightly more idyllic version of it, although Grandma would start at the prices here, and if memory serves, she never hung a hand-calligraphed paper sign on her Christmas tree that read, “Please Do Not Touch Tree.”1
What sealed the deal was this possibly Grandma-aged lady wearing the ultimate Grandma-type sweater. She sat across from us at a table where she silently read part of the Sunday Times while her husband read another chunk; after a time, they wordlessly swapped sections.
Yes, those are squirrels. I was so excited to document this wardrobe splendor that I almost knocked over my orange juice. Which reminds me: the food fit flush with the experience. My omelet, bulging with cheddar and mushrooms, was served in a frying pan, nestled up to some nicely spiced potatoes. Tracy, our waitress, had on one of those knit caps that cool yet down-to-earth girls always seem to be wearing, and said things in earnest like “You got it!”, “Holler if you need me!” and “Thanks a bunch!” Also, I think I may have heard her address a diner as “Darlin’.” Almost too much.
You know, I run on at times. Megan, on the other hand, summed the Dining Experience in one well-turned sentence: “I feel like I’m being hugged by this entire restaurant.”
Good call, Megs.
P.S. How about that? I’ve now eaten a meal at 52 different establishments in New York City this year and I have nearly a month left. It’s strangely anticlimactic for me, especially recalling the unfulfilled struggles of the 52 Meals Project’s first two years. I’m going to keep counting and reviewing past 52 for any additional new meals I eat in 2007.
1 Although she did hide a pickle ornament in it. [back]
Friend of a Farmer
- 77 Irving Place (between East 18th and 19th Streets)
- (212) 477-2188
- Meal 52 of 52: country omelet ($12.95), large orange juice ($4) and a mug of coffee ($2.25; free refills).