And were sandwiches eaten on my trip to New
York? Why yes, yes they were. Of course, nobody goes to New York just for
the sandwiches, but given the general ubiquity of the form, it’d be strange if
you didn’t occasionally find yourself eating one. I always feel a bit of a tool taking
pictures of my meals (though lord knows nobody else ever seems to have any such
inhibitions) but when the sandwich is as beautifully lit as this one, it’s hard
to resist.
That is, in fact, a fairly humble grilled
ham and cheese, eaten in the Café on One, in the American Museum of Natural
History. And yes, those are a couple of
raw baby carrots rising up from the salad.
And now that I think about it, I reckon that raw carrots are probably my
favorite vegetable in the whole world. Especially
when, like these, they have vinaigrette on them.
Another picturesque sandwich was the one above, eaten at
Bread Alone in Rhinebeck. It’s ham and
cheese again, actually ham & brie, and it came with
sliced apple and whole grain mustard, and the bread was cranberry almond
ciabatta, which frankly I thought was going too far. The bread was so heavy and plentiful that it
was in some in some danger of overwhelming the contents of the sandwich. It also tasted like desert. But this is the great thing about the
sandwich; if you think you’ve got too much bread, you just leave some of
it. Still I was very glad a had a glass
of Hurricane Kitty to wash it down. It's a local brew, made in Kingston, New York.
But the most
extraordinary sandwich I had in New York was at the Grand Central Oyster Bar. Now, again, nobody goes to the Oyster Bar for
the sandwiches. And like everybody else
I was there for the Montauk points, the Yakutats, the Fanny Bays, and the Naked
Cowboys, among others. But when you see
a bouillabaisse sandwich (yes really) calling to you from the menu, you have to
answer the call.
As far as I can
see, they must have a pot of bouillabaisse simmering gently in the kitchen, and
when somebody orders the sandwich they just slap a ladle (or perhaps a slatted
spoon) full onto a roll. It was strange
and strangely wonderful. A soup sandwich. And again you could argue there was too much
bread but you actually needed a fair lump of the stuff to soak up the liquid.
It’s a funny
old place, is the Grand Central Oyster Bar – it’s on all the tourist routes yet
it’s not in the least bit tourist-friendly.
There are surly, harassed, servers, a great amount of noise, you probably
have to sit shoulder to shoulder with strangers at one of the long,
free-standing “bars.” The place is confusing
and chaotic, and it’s not cheap. You see
tourists wandering in, looking around, failing to find a friendly welcoming
face, or even a way of understanding what’s going on, and then they wander out
again. Of course, once you get the hang
of it, this is the very reason why you love it.
It’s serious and uncompromising, not for wimps: very, very New
York. Also, since it’s
built in a vault I always get the feeling that even if a nuclear bomb went off
at street level you’d be pretty safe down there in the restaurant, at least
until the oysters and the Pinot Grigio ran out.
The place also
has some very cool toilets (above). This
is the waiting area, a vestibule actually within the toilet, a place where a
man might sit for whatever reason, though if you try (like I did) to take a
photograph, you do get some very funny looks.
But what the hell, this is New York: I’ll do what I like.
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