Brooklyn in Love Page 7
“Go off the pill for starters,” the doctor advised. “It will take a couple cycles to begin ovulating again. Then we can take it from there. There’s no need to decide now what you want to do. Give it some thought.”
Indeed, she had given me plenty to think about. More important, she had given me hope. The doctor had been, if not optimistic, at least reassuring. It really seemed like getting pregnant as a forty-year-old was a possibility. Yet I left the office with an unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach: I still had to tell Andrew that I wanted to go off the pill.
• • •
I wasted no time. That Saturday night, Andrew and I decided to stay in rather than duke it out at a hot new restaurant where we’d inevitably be relegated to the bar for forty minutes past our reservation time by a control-happy hostess, all the while being jostled by a fleet of irritated servers who couldn’t get through with their plates of sea urchin and offal for the mildly drunk and rowdy diners screaming across their tables while also drowning in rock music. I guess you could say I was finding the city’s restaurant scene less charming than I used to. Andrew cooked instead.
We sat bohemian style on the floor at his coffee table, bread crumbs and wine rings littering the surface. Ryan Adams, Wilco, and Lucinda Williams shuffled through the speakers. Andrew had made one of his few but impressive signature dishes: tomato soup that’s so laden with peasant bread that it probably has more carbs than Sicilian pizza.
“So, you know how we’ve talked about kids and agreed that maybe someday it would be nice to have them?” I asked, dropping this out-of-the-blue question as nonchalantly as possible.
Andrew smiled and rolled with it. “Yeah.”
“And you know how I just turned forty?” I soldiered on.
Still smiling, Andrew responded, “Yeah.”
“Well.” I paused, nervous that my going to the clinic without his knowledge might sound like I was plotting to go off and have a brood of kids regardless of whether he was on board. Andrew was the priority here, but I had felt responsible to know the current state of my childbearing capabilities before raising the topic. “Well,” I started again, “I got a referral to a fertility specialist from my ob-gyn, and I went.” Andrew’s eyebrows shot up, but he continued eating his soup without any other signs of alarm. “Basically—and I just went for information, I didn’t get any tests or anything,” I told him. “But she said the first and most obvious step, if I do—if we do want to get pregnant, is to go off the pill.”
Andrew put his spoon down and listened attentively, as I shared all that the doctor had explained to me. “I’m still not even one hundred percent sure—we have so much other stuff going on right now—but I wanted to at least know what our options are,” I explained to him. “Because I feel like even though we haven’t spent a ton of time talking about it, and we’ve both said we’d be okay if we didn’t have kids, I do think we should give it a chance. We should at least try.” He was looking at me with such love. I don’t know why I was so surprised. “Right? Don’t you think we should at least try to get pregnant? I think I should go off the pill.”
There. It was out there. No matter how Andrew responded, no matter what happened from here, I had spoken my mind and put it out in the universe. After forty years, I had acknowledged that I wanted and was ready to have kids. Andrew leaned across the table and kissed me. “Babe, we’re going to have an incredible life no matter what,” he said. “But I agree, let’s go for it. Let’s try to have a baby!”
It was the simplest response to one of the biggest decisions I had made in my life. And with it, I was reminded again that Andrew was the right one for me.
DOABLE DECADENCE
Eleven Madison Park enjoys status as one of only six New York restaurants with three Michelin stars (Per Se, Jean-Georges, Masa, Le Bernadin, and Chef’s Table at Brooklyn Fare are the others). At any of these establishments, you can expect a consistent level of mind-blowing pomp and presentation. When you start exploring one-Michelin-starred restaurants, the list becomes a bit more eclectic—perfect for a celebratory night out.
A “Parisian steakhouse meets classic New York City tavern,” Keith McNally’s Minetta Tavern in the West Village is a gem. Dark and old-timey, filled with history and clamoring with mature hipsters, it fits the bill for a buzzy night out.
Rebelle, located on the Bowery, reminds me a lot of the current restaurants being born in Paris. Slick, modern, slightly austere, and as inventive with its menu as it is progressive with its wine program, it’s a sophisticated standout that somehow still feels undiscovered.
With its smart interior design and offbeat vibe, the Musket Room really feels like it could be in New Zealand—where the Nolita restaurant’s chef and co-owner hails from. It’s cozy and casual despite its elegant plating of the Kiwi-influenced menu.
A Korean-Italian mash-up, Piora is a small, dignified, unexpected delight in the West Village. Its pristine dining room and back garden make it the perfect setting for a special night.
CHAPTER 5
The Perfect Home (Fries)
So the race began. Not the baby-making race, though we were devoted to that mission too, but the great hunt for a Brooklyn apartment.
“Check all the boxes off your wish list! This lofty and light two bedroom, two bath boasts hardwood floors, seamless flow, and a generous private—all caps,” Andrew noted, “outdoor space.” He was reading the New York Times real estate listings aloud, having fun with the broker lingo, which had become all too familiar to us. When we agreed several months earlier to put off our apartment search until we felt more ready to live together, we had no idea we’d be pushing ourselves into one of the tightest housing markets in history. Since the start of the New Year, prices were going up weekly, and we had already been outbid three times in six weeks. As the media and real estate brokers now loved to say, “Brooklyn is the new New York.”
The borough’s booming popularity combined with record low mortgage rates and inventory, a hangover effect from the 2008 financial crash when all new construction halted, meant slim pickings. Every Sunday morning, we woke up and culled a list of the day’s most-promising open houses from the real estate listings. Whereas we could once find four, five, sometimes six apartments to look at in a day, now we were lucky to see three. Even if we had doubts, we went to look at a place in person. It wasn’t that desperation was setting in—or come to think of it, yes, it was—but we were also starting to second-guess ourselves. Maybe we could learn to love loft living. Maybe all subterranean apartments weren’t dark and depressing. The hunt was becoming a test of patience and endurance. Andrew went on, “Pet friendly, elevator building, on-premise fitness center…”
“How big is it?” I asked, running through my mental checklist of must-haves. So many of these two-bedroom listings were bogus, with the second bedroom barely large enough to fit a crib or dresser, much less both. Last weekend, we had actually seen a place in Park Slope—the epicenter of trendy parenting, which made me not want to live there if only I could afford to be so picky—where the baby’s bedroom was the parent’s walk-in closet. Despite the increasing odds of finding an affordable two-bedroom apartment, we couldn’t let our enthusiasm wane. I was officially off the pill so an actual second bedroom for our as-of-yet conceived baby was a must. We needed a fight song to psyche us up—like “Eye of the Tiger.” Dant! Dant-dant-dant! Dant-dant-daaaaaaant!
As we sat on Andrew’s mid-century couch developing the day’s open-house itinerary, I found myself also creating a mental inventory of his belongings. Not only was I nervous about living with someone again—it had been a decade since I had accommodated anyone else’s rhythms and routines—but I was starting to freak out about consolidating our furniture and deciding whose coffee table, duvet cover, and kitchen knives would get the boot. I’m a sentimentalist; I don’t readily part with things. But I knew it was time to practice my partnership skills.
“Let’s see…975 square-feet,” he said, glancing up at me through his glasses, looking like Mark Ruffalo, the perfect blend of sweet and sexy.
“Hmmm, below the thousand-square-foot threshold. Does it say anything about closet space?” Another apartment must-have for any New Yorker: deep closets to stash such essentials as off-season clothing, old tax files, and the collection of chocolate and macaron boxes one accrues in life.
“It doesn’t say. But there’s a tax abatement. That’s good—the maintenance is low.”
“Let me see the layout,” I said, angling his iPhone so I could scope the closet situation and see this “seamless flow” the listing promised.
“Meh. Not awesome, but we should probably check it out,” I concluded, putting my head on his shoulder.
When you’re watching your fifth straight hour of House Hunters on HGTV or drooling over a stack of ELLE Decors, the concept of “real estate porn” is all kinds of sexy. So much square footage to fantasize about, so many charming details to moan about, nothing but glossy Technicolor possibility. But when you’re actually in the market to buy something, and you are bound by a timeline and a budget, and the pickings are slim, practicality, not porn, is on your mind. The initial high I got from these open-house marathons was long gone and at the end of Sunday afternoons, I now felt physically and emotionally wasted.
“That’s about it, babe.” Andrew snapped his phone off, leaning over to put his arm around me and peer at the pad where I had written down four prospects and organized our route according to the addresses and times of the open houses. The fun part of this weekly plotting was deciding which neighborhood bakery we’d try or what new restaurant we could brunch at given our particular circuit. In DUMBO, we’d trek through the cobblestone streets to reach Vinegar Hill House and their plate-sized sourdough pancake. Park Slope always warranted a visit to Blue Sky Bakery, where there was always something warm from the oven off their rotating menu of deliciously off-kilter flavors like banana-chocolate bran, apple walnut pumpkin, and triple berry—if you got there early enough. And even though we weren’t looking to move to Red Hook, so remote and removed as it was from any public transportation, we were persuaded to visit more than one open house in the vicinity just to brunch at HOME/MADE, a tiny bohemian joint that had the best scrambles and home fries in the city, served with fat slabs of Balthazar walnut bread, buttered and grilled to perfection.
• • •
The backdrop of hardscrabble Red Hook couldn’t be more appropriate for the tale of HOME/MADE and the two women who have battled against fires and hurricanes, disputed leases and anemic foot traffic, to keep the restaurant alive. Their story began in the wake of 9/11, when Monica Byrne, a born-and-raised New Yorker, returned from San Francisco, where she had been running a restaurant in Ghirardelli Square. After the World Trade Center tragedy, she felt compelled to be back home, but she had no job. While looking for a new gig, the owner of a bar in Red Hook, located on a protrusion off the southern tip of Brooklyn that has a history pockmarked with poverty and crime, asked if she’d be interested in running the kitchen. She was.
While working there, Monica fell in love with the neighborhood and its gritty, artistic sensibility. She kept daydreaming about opening her own small wine bar where she could import a California vibe to accompany a simple, seasonal cuisine and give the locals an upscale alternative to the plethora of neighborhood dive bars. “I wanted a nice, clean space where you could come by yourself and not have to worry about being hit on,” she explained. And so Tini was born: a wee spot for wine and cheese that was like being in someone’s small but chic living room. Monica opened it with her partner Leisah Swenson, but it was short-lived, partly because the neighborhood wasn’t ready for something so “fancy” and partly because they had lease issues that forced them out of the space. Fortunately, another spot down Van Brunt, the main drag of Red Hook, was available, and the women decided to hit the restart button, moving and expanding their business.
HOME/MADE, Monica and Leisah’s new restaurant, opened in the spring of 2009 and yet, despite the stellar cooking, the business was constantly tried. “It’s Red Hook; there are not a lot of walk-ins,” Monica explained of the short-lived artisanal soup-and-salad lunch service. Then they had a fire, which set them back financially, forcing them to reevaluate hours and offerings. And then the sucker punch came in October of 2012 by the name of Hurricane Sandy. A historic storm, Sandy put the entire neighborhood under water. Despite pledges, government assistance never came through, and the massive flooding sustained by the neighborhood’s small businesses took its toll, including HOME/MADE. Monica and Leisah couldn’t afford the operating costs, staffing, and supplies afterward, so they terminated dinner service and doubled downed on their catering business and their most popular service: brunch. “It’s the one thing people come all over for,” Monica says.
Andrew and I had our first HOME/MADE brunch with AJ, Mitchell, Ben, and Merrill, sitting in the pebbled backyard on wooden benches made wavy by years of being outside. Forever a sweet freak, I ordered the french toast, an enormous square of brioche smothered under a compote of fruit that was utterly divine. But it was Andrew’s scramble that made us devoted repeat visitors to HOME/MADE.
Every once in a while at a restaurant, the dish you order looks so good, you don’t even know where to begin tackling it. Such are HOME/MADE’s scrambles. There are four simple options—my favorite is the smoked salmon, goat cheese, and dill—along with the occasional special or seasonal flavor, and they’re served with soft, savory home fries and slabs of grilled walnut bread. Let’s break it down:
The scramble: Monica, who doesn’t even like eggs, created these sublime scrambles with a specific and studied technique. “We whisk the hell out of them,” she says, ticking off her methodology on her fingers. “We use cream, not milk. And we keep turning them and turning them until they’re fluffy and in one piece, not broken into bits of egg.”
The toast: While the rave-worthiness of toast usually boils down to the quality of the bread, HOME/MADE takes it a step further. “The flame char is my happiness,” the chef explains of her preference for grilling bread instead of toasting it, as 99 percent of restaurants do. That it’s walnut bread from Balthazar, one of the city’s best French bakeries, doesn’t hurt.
The home fries, or roasted potatoes as Monica insists on calling them, abiding by chefs’ definitions of home fries (small fried chunks of potatoes) versus hash browns (shredded potatoes fried greasy on the griddle) versus roasted potatoes (roasted in the oven instead of fried on the stove top): “My potatoes I’ve been making for a hundred years,” she says with a smile (really, it’s been about twenty). The recipe came when she was roasting potatoes early on in her career and thought they were too bland. She didn’t want to just keep adding salt so instead she reached for the mustard, which her mom always used on fries. “It just was everything,” she says of the tangy, vinegary flavor the French condiment lent to her spuds. Along with the new potatoes, mustard, and herbs de Provence, she uses whole jacket garlic cloves in the roasting pan. It’s a simple recipe that’s also “a Zen exercise,” as the potatoes have to be continuously turned every fifteen minutes to get them hard and crispy on the outside and soft and billowy on the inside.
They’re perfect. The perfect home fries. Or roasted potatoes…whatever you want to call them. But a couple months into our apartment search, I just wanted to call something home.
• • •
As Andrew and I navigated the open houses in the wintery slush and biting wind, it wasn’t just the elements we were battling. It wasn’t just the tight market. It was all those couples with their skinny jeans, plaid Steven Alan shirts, and determined attitudes descending from Manhattan. They were so annoying. So predictable. They were so…like us.
Here I had been thinking that Andrew and I were unique in our desire to shack up together in Brooklyn. But we were quickly discovering t
hat every other middle-age-ish, professional couple—many already sporting BabyBjörns and UPPAbaby strollers, the de rigueur urban parenting gear—was also searching for a two-bedroom, two-bath apartment in Brooklyn. In fact, we were a dime a dozen. The more we made these open-house circuits, devoting Sundays to the search for a new home, determined to be part of the great Brooklyn migration, the more the self-loathing kicked in.
At first the open houses were like going to a friend’s friend’s singles mixer—the apartment would be filled with people who were vaguely familiar, like you’d probably met before. There was polite camaraderie as we discreetly checked each other out, sizing up the competition and making the most of our shared situation. But then the market heated up so much that lines started forming down the borough’s coveted brownstone stoops just to get into the open houses. Any notion of politesse went out the window as, two by two, we crammed inside the apartments to the point of claustrophobia. Everyone gave each other the stink eye, while stealthily confirming that the kitchen had stainless steel and commercial-grade appliances, and sniffing out bonus amenities like stackable washer-dryers, walk-in pantries, and wine refrigerators. We all stubbornly held our ground, trying in vain to appear nonchalant as we whipped out tape measures to see what size bed could fit in the second bedroom or tried to obstruct every other attendee’s view of the decorative fireplace in the master bedroom—anything to discourage a competing bid, which would wipe out our offer and put us back to square one.