Christmas in New York (1st in a series)

December 16, Saturday
My eyeglasses are fogging up from the steam rising from my scarf-covered nose and mouth. I can barely see but the occasional sightlessness doesn’t detract from the pulsating frenzy that is New York City.

I was last here too long ago - in 1999 - and the city that greets me is a landscape simultaneously familiar and foreign. My Bin, Boo and I, are all so excited. Our hotel is around the corner from Grand Central Terminal dwarfed as it is by the Chrysler building. During our time here, whenever I’d feel lost, if I could see the Chrysler building, then I knew I was on the right track.

Busy street in Midtown leading to Bryant Park.

Outside Bryant Park. The holiday market is ongoing and you can see the custom-designed glass kiosks.



Ok, our first meal in New York, Boo’s choice. So taken was she with Pokeworks on her trip to Seattle earlier in the year that she insists we have it too. The shop is small so we end up eating at outdoor tables in Bryant Park. The tuna and salmon are beyond compare – cool and slippery, they slide in the mouth like edible marbles leaving umami trails of soy and salt.

Walking around and getting acquainted with our neighborhood, we whip open one of the doors of Grand Central Terminal and see this:

The Main Concourse, even in its dizzying delirium, is resplendent: the vaulted ceilings, the American flag, the gleaming Christmas wreaths, and of course, that iconic clock that serves as everyone’s meeting point. During our stay in New York, we find ourselves spending a lot of time here at Grand Central, intimately getting to know its restaurants, stores, and markets.

December 17, Sunday

Jet lag takes hold and so we wake up early – and ravenous!

         The beaux-arts façade of Grand Central Terminal. It’s haunting in the early morning light.

We’re strolling through the East Village - “Look Mom, it’s NYU!” Squeals Boo, snapping photos frenetically; she’s taking even more photos than I am on this trip. As my Bin and I watch her prance about, my heart does a quick skip; wherever she goes to university, my little girl will be in college in two years already. I suddenly feel even colder and so I tighten my coat closer to me and grip my Bin’s hand even harder.

Our first proper – that is, sit-down meal in New York is at The Smith. Serving New American food, it’s known for it’s “gooey-est mac and cheese”, which we have.

In addition, here’s what else we revel in at our welcome to NYC feast: a burger (mercilessly juicy) and a short rib hash. One of the few times I’ve had the pleasure of eating grits, these were mixed with cheddar and jalapeño and laced with a basil pistou. Shreds of short rib lie in wait beneath, and a generous spoonful of each element submits a silky-smooth sensuality that stokes the appetite.

Though we didn’t order it, our server brings us the vanilla bean french toast. “I just had to give it to you,” she says excitedly. “It’s one of our most popular items.” And no doubt it is. Toasted brioche crunches in complaint before submitting to the sticky smother of the maple syrup lashed with maple butter and caramelized bananas. It’s a dish so good that those who love breakfast will love everyone in sight after eating this.

Will walk for sweets

I’m underwhelmed by Milk Bar. Having been a huge fan of their cookbook and their out-of-the-box creativity, it’s anticlimactic to see that there is no pastry display and that all items are either pre-wrapped in plastic or packaged and ready to go. I’m sure there must be a reason for this but it’s hugely disappointing for dessert diehards like myself. I want to try their renowned Birthday Cake but it has to be pre-ordered. Whole. Eh.

Our Milk Bar haul: crack pie, corn cookie, birthday truffle balls, cereal milk. We’re delighted with everything, Boo especially likes the cereal milk, which tastes exactly like you think it would. The crack pie is moreish, as they say, but I can’t shake how “packaged” the other products taste.

One thing that doesn’t disappoint however, is the cereal milk soft serve. Creamy and dreamily rich, it’s how cereal milk tastes when it changes to cool custard.

One of the cool murals in the East Village.

DŌ Cookie Dough Confections is, to my mind, my dirty dessert fantasy come true. To eat cookie dough and have it offered up in scintillating flavors (confetti! fluffernutter!) and in various receptacles (cones! cups! smooshed between two cookies!); my heart is aflutter.

The buzz is real: this place is slammed but I, together with my fellow cookie dough addicts, wait in line. I get a small cup with a scoop each of the straight up cookie dough and the confetti. Meandering through the thick crowd, I do away with the spoon and hack away with my mouth.

It tastes like cookie dough, really really REALLY good cookie dough without that floury aftertaste or grit from the white sugar. DŌ uses heat-treated flour and pasteurized eggs, allaying any fears of food-borne diseases. Note to self: make myself some safe to eat cookie dough when I get back to Manila.

Later, walking off the treats I’ve eaten, I see:

Washington Square Park is the de facto town square of Greenwich Village. A bustling quadrangle, I’m transfixed by the Washington Square Arch, although I’m confused as to why there’s a cage underneath it.

Tomorrow: doughnuts!