Only in New York

             My family and I try to get to New York City every few months to enjoy the changes with each season. We hadn't been there since the spring, so last weekend we made another trek. The one thing that doesn't change? The food, and my love/hate relationship with it. I love it when I’m there and I hate it when I leave.

             I’m not even talking about the plethora of chi chi restaurants owned by TV chefs. I’m talking about the every day food, real food that you can only get in New York. Although this delectable food does eke into bordering Connecticut, I live in the northeastern section, which in this case might as well be Ohio. I know Mayor Bloomberg was trying to pass a law against selling giant sodas, but is there another law I haven’t heard about? The one that says only New Yorkers are allowed to enjoy authentic food while the rest of us are stuck with the generic kind?

            On this trip, we stop for a bite to eat about a half hour outside of the city in Greenwich, CT. We choose Corbo’s, a deli my husband frequents when he consults down there. My husband is originally from Long Island so he knows from delis. The minute he orders, the university professor who’s been living in New England for over 20 years disappears and his Long Island accent and mannerisms emerge. He immediately bonds with the New Yorkers behind the counter.

            We get our sandwiches even before we’re done paying, because that's how these guys roll. Not like Panera, where you might wait ten minutes just for them to throw some lettuce and dressing in a bowl. They don’t take numbers or names. They just point at you and toss you your foil-covered sandwich.

            My husband wasn’t sure I’d want to go there. “The place has no atmosphere,” he said. No atmosphere? It’s got New York deli atmosphere! (Does he forget that I’m a New Yorker, too?) There are a few tables in the front. There’s a rack of potato chips: plain, salt and vinegar, or sour cream and chives. There’s a refrigeration unit that sells bottles of Cokes and Dr. Peppers and cream soda. I neglected to check, but I’d bet they even sell Yoo Hoo.  

            We open the foil to reveal our sandwiches. And this is the thing: They’re on hard rolls. These are rolls that you can only get in New York. They’re the type of rolls I used to put slabs of butter on in my youth and eat for breakfast in my high school cafeteria. Yes, my school cafeteria. You didn’t have to go anyplace fancy to get the best hard rolls on the planet. You could stop at the local mini mart and pick one up buttered or with an egg and cheese in it. But it didn’t matter what was in it or on it, it was all about the roll. Eating that deli sandwich was the ultimate sense memory from my youth.

            It was the most satisfying lunch I’ve had since…well, since the last time we went to New York. I felt I could be fine the rest of the day on simply the memory of it, but then we make our way into the city, park the car, and step out onto the sidewalk. The aromas wafting from the food carts assault us. Intellectually, I know it’s not the cleanest place to get your food from. In the back of my mind, I’m thinking the rats probably exit them every morning before their owners fire them up for another day’s business. Still, it’s difficult to walk past one of those stainless steal carts with the yellow Sabrett’s umbrella and not salivate at the thought of a dirty water dog.

            My son has his eye on a hot pretzel. It would be his first and I debate about not buying it for him, only because it will ruin him from ever being able to eat one elsewhere. No one else can apparently make a proper hot pretzel, not at the mall or at the movies. Yes, they all sit there the same way under the warm lights, presumably hours old. But somehow, the ones in the city aren’t hard and flavorless like all the others. These are soft and chewy and salty, and with a thick line of yellow mustard, they are worth every cockroach-infested nightmare you might have.

            Ditto with the hot nuts. Hungry or not, every visit I find myself in zombie mode heading to a Nuts 4 Nuts cart and taking out a few singles for a waxed bag of warm, sugar-coated peanuts. What other food makes you crunch and hum at the same time as you’re walking down the street?

            It’s all the walking; that’s why we keep eating (or so I tell myself). For blocks and blocks we walk and take in all the sights and sounds that only New York City can provide: the vivid lights of Times Square, the bells of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the crowds in Rockefeller Plaza. The eclectic vibe continues into Central Park and we eventually make our way to the neighborhoods of Greenwich Village.

            Although you can get real New York pizza many places in the city (even a quick slice at Penn Station doesn’t disappoint), we like John’s of Bleeker Street. It’s small with wooden booths etched with years of diners’ graffiti. Like Corbo’s, the talented Italian guys who run it are no nonsense. No reservations, no credit cards, no slices. Order a pie and a pitcher of soda and you’re good. And really, what else do you need? What you get is a foldable, mouthwatering pizza. In my book, if you can’t fold a slice, it’s not real pizza. Don’t give me those blackened brick-oven pizzas. Don’t sell me on stuffed crust or pan pizza. You fold it in half, let some of the oil drip off the end, and then take that first mouthwatering bite that always burns the roof of your mouth because you just can’t wait. That’s pizza that for some reason you can only get in New York.

            True story: My nine-year-old son never liked pizza. He rarely ate it. A few years ago we took him to John’s for the first time. “This doesn’t taste like pizza,” he proclaimed, gobbling it up. Our poor little suburban boy who had only known the likes of Papa Gino’s and birthday party pizzas had gotten a taste of his first real pie. It was a bittersweet day for our family. 
            After stuffing ourselves at the pizzeria, what’s left to do but get a Junior’s cheesecake? I can never quite remember the flavor, because there’s nothing else like it. That first heavenly forkful reminds me of its light yet deep texture, delicate yet robust flavor, and the perfect balance of sweetness and tartness. It’s the epitome of New York cheesecake. In fact, it makes me want to picket The Cheesecake Factory and tell all their customers that what they’re selling might seem good, but it’s not cheesecake. It’s not even in the cheesecake family. It’s some globby composite of sweet upon sweet, which can be interchanged with chocolate or peanut butter or Oreos. That’s not cheesecake. Real cheesecake can stand alone, exposed, without any bells or whistles or even cherries.

            At the end of the day, we make our way to the parking garage, feet sore, bellies stuffed, palates humming with satisfaction. Oh yes, it’s all happiness as the flavors play over again in my mind on the ride home. I go to bed exhausted but fulfilled. But what do I wake up to? The knowledge that we have to drive three hours to get food that tastes like something.

            Like lemmings, we all go to our chain restaurants and fast food joints, thinking we are enjoying these foods because it’s what we’ve become accustomed to. But I know better and believe me, it would be better not to know. I almost wish the toll on the Tappan Zee Bridge was a mind eraser. You pay your $5 and you get your memory erased of all those rich flavors that are still lingering on your taste buds. Then you could happily go back to your white bread life without knowing any better. I could go back to being a Stepford eater.

            “Yes, I’ll have the white chocolate caramel macadamia nut cheesecake, please. It’s delicious.”