Brooklyn in Love Page 14
Located inside the posh Carlyle Hotel on the Upper East Side, Bemelmans is named in honor of the iconic illustrator Ludwig Bemelmans, whom we would eventually associate with the classic Madeline children’s book series. In 1947, he was commissioned by the bar to paint murals depicting the four seasons in Central Park. In exchange, he received two rooms at the hotel for a year and a half for he and his family. The cheeky murals—mustachioed balloon vendors; ice-skating elephants; rabbits on their hind legs, coolly leaning against trees—are now legendary, covering every inch: on the walls, behind the bar, along the columns, even the petite lampshades on each cocktail table and the larger shade on the Steinway grand, where a piano man croons classics like “Fly Me to the Moon” and “What a Wonderful World” every night of the week, are covered with the whimsical art.
I first went to this art deco bar with my dad when he was visiting shortly after I moved to the city. We sat in the warmly lit room on a cold autumn afternoon, “dining” on the mixed nuts, thick parmesan chips, and regular potato chips that filled a trio of silver dishes on the table and which were, more than once, discreetly replenished by one of the gentleman servers. We sipped cocktails slowly, people watching from a prime table along the wall, to delay returning to the bitter outdoors—and just to prolong the wonderful experience of being transported to a time when simple pleasures and manners mattered. As bar manager Javier Martinez says, Bemelmans “is like traveling in time. Guests still want to experience the New York that everyone fell in love with decades ago.”
Somewhere along the line, the luxe bar had become the place for me and Andrew to go whenever we wanted something just a little out of the ordinary. It didn’t have to be a birthday or anniversary; it could just be the craving for something exceptional, to feel like we were in a Woody Allen movie for the night. The lighting is sublime. There are corners for canoodling. There’s a hushed merriment beneath the fourteen-karat-gold-covered ceiling. “It’s the essence of New York,” as Javier says.
It can be especially tough to get a table in the winter months, when guests are inclined to linger as my dad and I had. Everyone loves Bemelmans. There are rotund old men with shiny domes and bifocals, dandy Europeans in jackets and velvet slippers, and gaggles of uptown ladies sporting head-to-toe Vuitton or Hermés along with their taut arms, leathery tans, and faces full of injectables. You’ll see ascots and furs, emeralds and walking sticks. “It’s like a theater in a way,” Javier says of the scene. People near and far—a mix of hotel guests and residents, business tycoons and socialites, neighborhood locals and interlopers like me and Andrew—simply adore being there.
Besides the atmosphere and cocktails, what makes Bemelmans magical are the employees, who have been there for years—or more often, decades. The loyalty bar was set pretty high by the previous head bartender, Tommy Rowles, who retired in 2012 after fifty-three years with Bemelmans. Today there’s Luis Serrano who has worked the bar for twenty-three years, Rashid Abdul who’s been there for nine, and the only female bartender, Lori Bodinizzo, who has been there a mere four years. The same goes for the waiters. The servers I’ve most often had are Roger, a portly man from the Bahamas who’s coming up on a quarter century of serving cocktails with a gracious smile, and Mario, who’s been there for thirty-six years. Every time you go, you can expect to see the same friendly faces—it’s like nowhere else in the city.
You can get everything from a mocktail of pineapple juice, ginger beer, and muddled mint, to a $345 taste of 1930 Château de Laubade Armagnac, but ultimately the classics are king. “Guests come for the same martini their aunt had when they were kids,” explains Javier. I’m a bit of a wimp when it comes to martinis and their nearly straight pours of gin or vodka. My cocktail of choice used to be a sidecar, a sweet-sour mixture of cognac, Cointreau, and lemon juice served up with a sugared rim. I loved the grit of the sugar granules sliding through my teeth as the smooth, sweet liquid flowed down my throat. But in the years since I had met Andrew, I had firmly switched over to rye manhattans. (Sidecars are fabulous in the moment, I learned, not so much the next day.)
The manhattan’s roots are said to go back to 1874, when it was concocted at a banquet at New York City’s Manhattan Club for presidential nominee Samuel J. Tilden. Nearly a century and a half later, the cocktail is thriving, with scores of bars putting their own twists on the classic—adding absinthe, apricot brandy, maple syrup, and the like. At Bemelmans, it’s simple and pure, made with Carpano “Antica Formula” sweet vermouth, a dash of Angostura bitters, brandied cherries, and the whiskey or rye of your choice. It’s exquisitely harmonious: heady, smoky, with a fiery bite that becomes ever so sweet in the aftertaste. You might want to complain about its $27 price tag, but it’s about twice the size at Bemelmans as any other bar, and nowhere else serves it with such panache.
I remember one time when Andrew and I sat next to another couple along a banquette. They were playful and affectionate with one another, leaning over the table in intimate, nonstop conversation. He had his hand on hers, and occasionally they would smooch across the table. The thing is, they were both easily in their seventies. And they were still so chic, so cool, and so clearly madly in love, I simply couldn’t take my eyes off them.
“That’s what I want,” I whispered to Andrew, holding his gaze while nodding my head toward the couple as subtly as possible. “When I’m that old, I want to be out and about, having a great time at Bemelmans. I want to still be in love and be affectionate—and be able to handle these cocktails!”
Andrew took my hand and kissed it before entwining his fingers with mine. “Me too.” He smiled at me.
I gazed at our neighbors again and then across at Andrew while picking up my manhattan to enjoy the last sip of biting brown liquor and the last brandied cherry at the bottom.
Thinking about this interlude now, it just felt wrong that we couldn’t go to Bemelmans and sip manhattans to say farewell to our days of freedom.
• • •
For all I had achieved, for all the happiness and gratitude I felt in life, I still found myself contemplating the definition of success. I had always equated it with external recognition: the ad career, moving abroad, publishing articles and books. I just assumed these achievements would keep coming and I would relish their victory along the way. But I now found myself on a new path, one that was more inwardly focused. With getting married and preparing to have a baby, I was more consciously “inside” my life and relationship, rather than out in the world, proving my salt.
I still wasn’t freelancing or writing as much, as they required energy I was short on. I didn’t go out or see friends as often as I used to or party late into the night. There were so many used-to’s and old habits; it made me sad on one hand—but it was also a bit of a relief.
When I lived alone, I devoted so much time to writing, whether it was researching and pitching a new story, blogging, or actually working on an assigned piece. I rarely let myself have a weeknight or weekend day off without some bit of writing and would get noticeably agitated if too many social obligations got in the way. But along with saying c’est la vie about my changing body, I was embracing my newer ways and habits. Instead of whooping it up in Manhattan, I loved being home, cooking, puttering, hanging out with “my boys”—Andrew and Milo—waiting for our baby girl to arrive. It was time to be more inwardly directed, to have a smaller world and deeper focus, and to not feel the constant pressure of deadlines and goals. I would always write, I reasoned, just as I’d always cherish the memories of my times in the city with AJ and wax nostalgic about them. But by letting go of what once was, I realized I could move on. I was ready for act two. It would be a whole new adventure and, with a little luck, just as exciting as the one before it.
• • •
“Are you happy about this?” Andrew asked. “Are you bummed? Are you ready?” His firing of questions was almost a joke between us at this point, the eve of giving birth. We ta
lked often about what we were most nervous and excited about and, yes, what we were going to miss. But there were no easy answers. Most first-time parents will tell you: you’re never truly ready. As happy as you are, as much as your heart and soul are in it, your experience of adulthood is going to change forever.
After twenty years of being independent, it wasn’t going to be about me or my life anymore. It wasn’t even going to be so much about Andrew, the man it took me years to find. It would be about sustaining this baby’s life: going through the motions of feeding, bathing, and comforting her for the first few months until she was big enough to start engaging, then walking and talking, then becoming independent herself. There was no way of knowing what parenthood would be like or what surprises lay ahead. But I was definitely happy, not bummed, and I was about to find out if I was ready.
THE CITY’S BEST CLASSIC HOTEL BARS
A year after moving there, I had rekindled my love for Brooklyn, enjoying the borough’s smaller-scale bars and restaurants and overall laid-back vibe. But if there is one thing Manhattan has over Brooklyn, it’s historic five-star hotels. And inside these hotels are some of the most divine (and divinely expensive) places to cocktail.
Featuring a Maxfield Parrish mural of Old King Cole, a “merry old soul,” that was originally painted in 1906 and moved to the King Cole Bar inside the St. Regis when the luxe hotel opened in 1932, this Midtown bar is similar to Bemelmans—but different. Higher ceilings, a smaller space, and a more suit-and-tie crowd give it a decidedly stately feel.
Whereas Bemelmans and the King Cole Bar are especially lovely in the fall and winter, when you might want to sit in a dark, posh corner for hours, the Peninsula’s Salon de Ning is perfect in the summertime, or at that first crack of spring. It’s a simple, sophisticated rooftop bar on the twenty-third floor, which feels very far from its Midtown location.
Perched high over Columbus Circle and Central Park, the thirty-fifth floor Lobby Lounge at the Mandarin Oriental is especially magical at dusk. Even if you don’t score one of the tables along the floor-to-ceiling windows, the dramatic views of treetops and skyscrapers can be seen from nearly every seat.
For a different flavor of decadence, head downtown to the bright and poppy Crosby Street Hotel in SoHo. Massive paintings, textured upholstery, and eclectic fixtures abound, along with posh drinks and tea.
PART 3
Then Comes Baby and the $1,000 Carriage
CHAPTER 11
All Hail the Kale Salad
“Hello, miss, your car is here.” It was Wednesday, October 8, 2014. Three years (minus fifteen days) since I had met Andrew, one year since we had moved in together, four months since we’d gotten married, and now there was a car and driver waiting downstairs to take us to the hospital. So we could have a baby. We were having our baby.
It was a glorious day of cerulean-blue skies and starburst-yellow sunshine. Thanks to New York’s Indian summer, I had only had to buy one season of maternity clothes, making the same army jacket I wore that spring still work over my ruched maternity top, so long as I didn’t try zipping it. I couldn’t wait to ditch the little maternity garb I did have. Even though my sartorial future of old-man pajama sets and beater sweats was hardly sexy, I was sick of the same elastic-waist jeans and shapeless dresses I had been cycling through for months.
Outside the town car’s windows, I watched the bodegas, Thai restaurants, and seventies-era dry cleaners of Flatbush Avenue go by. We passed Franny’s and Sharlene’s, the money trap we’d nearly bought two years earlier, then Barclays Center, where I had yet to see a Nets game or big-headliner concert. Then the Brooklyn Academy of Music, the nation’s oldest performing arts center, where Andrew and I had gone to NPR performances, jazz concerts, archival movies, and Q&As with directors that summer in a frantic effort to do everything we could before having a baby. We had practically binged on culture, almost more than restaurants, knowing our imminent opportunities would be few and far between. At least we had managed a few last hurrahs—the Angelika and Arturo’s, one of our favorite Friday night movie-and-pizza combos; dark and tranquil dinners at the Waverly Inn in the West Village and Rucola in Boerum Hill; and weekends away in Boston and the sticks of Pennsylvania. Now, the phone in my lap kept beeping and buzzing, friends and family members texting us good luck and well wishes for Delivery Day. I felt like a soldier going off to battle, with the troops anxiously on standby.
It was a long journey to the hospital on the Upper East Side where, inexplicably, my obstetrician who practiced in Brooklyn Heights, delivered. As we drove uptown, I was heading toward a new future, and outside the windows, the city played like my own mini farewell tour.
The Houston Street exit reminded me of all the taxis that had sped downtown to deliver me at some bar—Barramundi, Pravda, Chloe 81—to meet friends. I gazed at the East River promenade, where Andrew and I had enjoyed watching Chinese fishermen and teenage basketball players on a long Sunday stroll. Past the East Village, and the countless dates, drinks, and nights spent dancing in dark rooms throughout my thirties. Murray Hill, or “Curry Hill,” which brought back all the cheap Indian takeout I had overindulged in while living there when I first moved to the city as a twenty-nine-year-old whippersnapper. Speeding onward through Midtown, I recalled being a kid and tagging along with my dad when he had jobs in the city and the wonder I felt when visiting the World Trade Center and the American Museum of Natural History and shopping at Fiorucci and Rizzoli. This city and me: we ran deep.
Forty minutes later, we pulled up to the hospital’s Fifth Avenue entrance. Andrew grabbed my bag filled with cheap granny underwear and button-up pajamas, the must-have items mom friends and guidebooks had insisted were important. They’d be comfortable enough to wear after my C-section and accessible to a newborn’s nursing needs. More to the point, they could be tossed once they were bloodied. I was lucky enough that I’d never had any kind of surgery, so I didn’t know what to expect, but apparently copious amounts of blood were going to be gushing from me for weeks and I’d never again want to see, much less wear, the soiled clothes.
After checking in at the front desk, Andrew and I were escorted to the recovery room, where we’d wait two hours for our turn in the OR. Two of the three other beds were occupied, one by a woman who was indeed recovering, with a brand-new baby suckling her breast. The other, I learned from eavesdropping—not that there was much choice as our beds were five feet apart, separated by cloth curtains and various beeping machines—was also there for a C-section.
According to the Centers for Disease Control, the number of cesarean sections has skyrocketed in America from 4.5 percent when they first started measuring the statistic in 1965 to 32 percent today—or nearly one in every three. Nearly one in three babies is now delivered by cesarean section. It’s performed more than any other surgery in this country. Like so many other procedures in our healthcare system, it’s indicative of the cost of business taking priority over patients’ care. Doctors make more money for hospitals by doing C-sections, and they can control their own schedules better. I wanted to rebuke my C-section on principle but, as my mom pointed out, this baby had a mind of her own. She was breech—feet first instead of headfirst, as is necessary for a vaginal delivery—so it would be a C-section for me. I got over it pretty quickly. As all my friends pointed out—seven of the eight girlfriends at my baby shower had C-sections, so the real statistic may even be higher than what’s recorded—there are serious benefits to knowing exactly when you’ll be delivering and bringing a newborn home. You get to stay in the hospital longer and a surgical incision in the belly is arguably less traumatic than tearing your cooch from pushing too hard.
As I stripped down and put on the hospital-issued gown made with coarse cotton and socks with little traction treads, Andrew tried to look relaxed on a fold-out chair in our teeny slice of the frenetic room. “Hi, my name is Dr. Lee and I’ll be doing your anesthesia today,” said a tall
Asian guy, probably half my age but with confidence beyond my years, after he ducked into our tented section with a reassuring smile. He explained how my spinal would be administered, asked if I had questions, and then was gone. He was just one of several doctors and nurses who rotated in and out over the next couple hours, prepping me: taking my vitals, asking about my medical history, double- and triple-checking about any known allergies. I was calm throughout it all except when the first IV went in and I nearly passed out, as I’m wont to do.
“Okay,” a nurse said, pulling back the curtain. “Andrew, you’re going to stay here. These are your scrubs and mask. Put them on, and someone will come get you in about fifteen minutes. Amy.” She turned to me. “Are you ready?”
Andrew and I looked at each other with a shared expression: Holy crap!
“All right, babe.” I kissed my husband beneath the florescent lights. “I’ll see you in there.”
The next ninety minutes were an out-of-body experience. After being injected in my spine with a cocktail of drugs to numb my lower body, I was reclined to a horizontal position, crucifix style, my arms stretched out on either side of me. A screen was hung between my chest and the medical SWAT team assembled on the other side to bring this baby girl into the world. Andrew, behind a face mask, hair cap, and full body suit, sat next to me, whispering encouragement, his face soft and vulnerable.
“How are you doing? Do you feel okay?” Every few minutes a head would pop up over the screen to ensure I was still breathing, but not feeling, as they cut through my skin and muscle tissue, tugging and rooting around inside my abdomen. “You’re doing great,” they’d tell me as if I were pushing or somehow contributing to this birth.