Weary travellers

When I see red-eyed, grumpy infants being dragged around airports late at night I often think 'what kind of idiot parents plan their travel that way?'.

Well, this weekend we were those idiots. But it wasn't planned that way. We had scheduled our flight back to LA yesterday at 7.30pm, just around Lady P's bedtime. By the time we boarded it was 10pm, and Lady P was past herself. Wired and fractious and really quite shouty. We had been sedating her with the iPad for an hour but there's only so far the Peppa Pig icecream game app will take you. One delayed flight and one late night wouldn't be so bad but it came on top of six days of travel and disruption. So she was already predisposed to be wired and fractious.

I would have felt worse about what we put her through this week, but she had such an absolutely brilliant time that I don't. Let me break it down.

On Tuesday we flew to NYC, where we had dinner with Lady P's godmother, one of our dearest friends. Lady P marveled at the tall buildings and the swarms of yellow taxis, and enjoyed having her godmother read her many bedtime stories.

On Wednesday we took a three hour train ride up to West Hartford, CT, for 24 hours of fun with New England's best family. In a parenting fail typical of the week's events, Lady P's lunch was a Dunkin Donut's ham and cheese muffin eaten on an Amtrak train.

Fortunately, it all got a lot wholesome once we arrived in West Hartford. There was canoeing in the pond in their backyard, a friendly dog, a swing fixed to a tree, and there were home made waffles.

Lady P did not want to leave, but on Thursday we returned to NYC where she was delighted to see her godmother again. And on Friday we flew to Rochester, in upstate NY, for a family wedding. There, Lady P was showered with affection and attention by her grandmother, two doting great aunts, and five cousins who were thrilled to play with her.

On Saturday she was a flower girl at the wedding, at which TLOML was officiating. He was recently ordained a Minister of the Church of the Latter Day Dude, and took his responsibilities very seriously. Lady P was not quite so dutiful, refusing to wear a beautiful floral crown, removing her shoes at the last minute, and insisting she would not carry her posy. The sugar high provided by a sweet (the bribe for putting her shoes back on) saved the day, and the instruction 'run to daddy' made for a very telegenic trot up the aisle. It would have made for a better wedding album shot if she hadn't been chewing a Starburst but she was there, she had her shoes on, and she made it up the aisle: I think we did okay. Afterwards she paddled in her beautiful dress, in the great new American wedding tradition of 'Trash the Dress'.

And on Sunday we reconvened for brunch, debriefs and gossip with the family. All in all it was a wonderful week. I love spending time with TLOML's family, and Lady P had some memorable adventures.

We finally got home at around 2am this morning (5am East Coast time, but hey, who's counting?). Lady P looks a little frazzled today, and I'm sure her sleep patterns will be out of whack for a couple of days. And to keep the peace for all those flights she did spend a lot of time with the iPad. But I think it was all absolutely worth it.

And now we can relax, as Lady P isn't leaving the Hermosa bubble again for the foreseeable future. Me, I'm off to Boise, ID tonight - consumed with envy for Lady P's low mileage week ahead.

Pangs for pork

This Christmas I presented TLOML with a map of our old neighbourhood in New York, embellished with cards from all the restaurants we used to love. I know, I'm sweet, aren't I? Sadly my ability to execute doesn't quite match my creative ambition, so it looks a little, well, home made. But still, the thought was there and we'll hang it with pride.

Making the map, and reviewing it with TLOML gave us both pangs, for all those places we used to know and love. From the cheap thrills of Gotham Pizza to the fine cocktails at Tipsy Parson, we were well served in West Chelsea.

A few places were not in our neighbourhood, but made the edges of the map. What map of our New York experience would be complete without Fedora, the cocktail bar we tore it up in a few times more than I care to (or can clearly) remember? And Porchetta - ah, we loved Porchetta, the little 'standing room only' place in the Lower East that sells roast pork and not a lot else.

Some of those haunts we can recreate or substitute easily. Our local Euphorium bakery has supplanted Joe for a coffee and something sweet. We don't miss Gotham Pizza half as much when we console ourself with E.Mono kebabs.  Pho isn't quite up to the standards of the East Village but fills the gap when sweaty noodley soups are called for. And we've subbed out Iberian delights at El Quinto Pino with a rock solid local curry house.

But there's nowhere like Porchetta. Fortunately we have some salt that TLOML bought as a stocking filler last year. So this weekend we rubbed an Ocado pork loin with some of this delicious, fennelly, garlicky, sage-y salt and roasted it to juicy perfection.

It was almost like being back in Manhattan.

Except that we ate it sitting at our dining table - rather than perched on our sofa in a too-small-for-a-dining-table Rabbit Hutch apartment. That did rather ruin the authenticity of our slice of NY, but made for a much nicer meal.

As a result - of both the food, and the memories of life without a dining table - I'd say the pangs for Manhattan have been kept at bay

Date Nights

A couple of weeks ago TLOML and I dined at a fancy London restaurant, courtesy of our favourite New Yorker. As a wedding gift she picked up the tab for a meal for the two of us at Sketch, which is a lovely, artsy fartsy, fancy pants restaurant in Mayfair. TLOML scrubbed up nicely and I smuggled my bump in under a tzjuzzy dress.

 

Sketch was wall to wall fun. We had a a cocktail before dinner (non-alcoholic for me, I was saving that week's booze voucher up for a glass of wine with my meal), in their cool woodland themed bar. Dinner was delicious, fiddly, fancy food, perfectly cooked. (The foie gras burger rapidly made it into my top three burgers of all time.) And the service was impeccable.

The funny thing about it was it gave me a pang for New York. The whole experience - getting dressed up, enjoying attentive service and posh food - it was just so, so, Manhattan.

It made us reflect that, since we returned to London, we don't get out that much. I mean we still eat out - but not often far from home, and rarely upscale. We know our local curry house, neighbourhood Italian, and the handful of nearby excellent gastropubs pretty well, and it's not unheard of for us to grab noodles in the West End, but fancy diners we are not.

All things considered, I rather prefer our comfortable, local, London life. But our posh date night made me resolve to get out and about a bit more.

So last weekend, we went all the way to Camden (2 miles down the road) for Thai food. Okay, it wasn't exactly a posh dinner at a Manhattan hotspot. But I did at least put a bit of lipgloss and heels on for the occasion.

Thanks are due then, to our dear friend, for not only the generous gift, but injecting a little glamour into our date nights for the future.

Dogs of New York

I went for a run on Hampstead Heath on my return from New York on Monday (there's nothing like an overnight flight and United coach catering to leave me longing for fresh air and a bit of breathlessness). And as I ran I saw lots of dogs like this:

Roaming free, off the lead and muddy

They are a stark contrast to the dogs of Manhattan:

Groomed, on the lead, and walked by a professional

It struck me that the ladies of New York are similarly well polished, compared to their scruffy London cousins.

The night before the wedding we went to rehearsal drinks, with a dress code of 'very casual'. In London this would mean jeans and a t-shirt. In New York it means a dress and heels.

A Londoner

Fortunately I knew this having been burnt before (I remember going on a date in New York with TLOML when we lived in Malibu, and I wore my best jeans and luxe jersey tee, and felt like a farmer compared to all the girls in frocks).

Two New Yorkers

Living in New York did raise my game. And I lifted it again this weekend, with a mani-pedi, and a couple of dresses. But I think, like the muddy dogs of Hampstead Heath, the scruffier look of London is my natural millieu. Ah, it's nice to be back in a city where a manicure is considered making an effort, rather than an every day essential.

Just a regular weekend in New York

TLOML returned to New York this weekend, for the wedding of an old college friend to a brilliant girl who happens to be Greek: cue, awesome wedding. A beautiful, if baffling, service and an absolute blast of a party afterwards, with plenty of good dancing - of the Greek and non-Greek varieties.

We were only in town from Friday afternoon till Sunday night but I think it's fair to say we made the most of it, and packed in some quintessential New York experiences.


Within an hour of landing I was enjoying a quality mani-pedi with the much-missed New New Yorker. TLOML was eating a slice of pizza nearby, obvs. Later that day I saw a couple of frazzled Manhattanites get into a chest-shoving 'you talking at me?' 'I had the light, man! I had the light!' fight on 5th Avenue. Coffee and bagels featured, as did several white knuckle yellow cab rides, naturally.

On Saturday we had a lovely brunch with more much-missed New York friends, at an old Chelsea hang out of ours. We walked on the High Line and mooched around the West Village. I bought Nars and Bobbi Brown bargains at Sephora. We caught up with our favourite New Yorker over rose and oysters in Tribeca. All in all, I'd say we covered all the required NY bases.

Oh, and we saw a goat wandering along 23rd Street. That's right, a goat. Sauntering past Duane Reade as if it was the most natural place in the world to be. What's funniest about that is that no-one else was paying it a blind bit of notice.

Only in New York, I guess.

It hasn't been completely unbearable

As we make our goodbyes, our New York friends have been asking us if we've enjoyed our time here. With puppy dog sad eyes, they say things like 'we get the impression you might not really love New York'. And then we feel bad.

Because we're always harping on about how great Malibu was, and how excited we are about settling in London. Poor New York seems to be no more than an inconvenient stepping stone. And we moan about our rent and the size of the apartment and the smart Manhattanites nod sagely as if to say 'if you're still moaning about that, you haven't really 'got it' yet...'

So allow me to set the record straight. New York, we like you. We like you a lot.

We like your excellent coffee shops and bars. We love our neighbourhood, the High Line, and all our favourite local restaurants. TLOML really likes all the good pizza slice places. I really like running along the Hudson riverside. We love Tribeca, especially when combined with afternoon drinking. We like always being able to pay with a card in a cab, and I like those little TV screens in the cabs too (TLOML not so much...). We like a lot of buildings, especially in Chelsea. So many that the phrase 'I like that building' is spoken almost as often as 'Want to grab a slice?'

We like this building

We like walking everywhere. Especially walking home from dinner in the West Village, feeling smug about our neighbourhood. And wandering down Fifth or Madison late at night after an Upper East Side dinner, and looking in all the shop windows. TLOML likes the quality of the steak houses. We both love the bagel options near us. And the diversity of people who live here (especially after LA, where the population of blondes-chasing-dreams is just a little too dominant). We like those bright blue clear skies you get so many of (though we don't love the sweltering humidity or icy cold that accompanies them so often).

And most of all, we like the people. Specifically, those dear New Yorker friends who we have loved being able to hang out with so much in the past 10 months. Now it's back to email and Facebook contact, at least for most of the time. We will miss them more than anything, I think.

Just because we didn't buy the t-shirt, or sign up for a condo... we really, truly, do like New York.

Did my t-shirt send the wrong message?

Glad I cleared that up.

Tipping etiquette

The worst thing about tipping in the US is actually not the amount of money it costs. It's the pretense that it's discretionary, and all the confusion that spawns.

Everyone knows it's a crime against society not to tip a decent amount. And yet clear guidance about what that decent amount is, is hard to come by. If you pay by card in a New York taxi, you are offered the choice between adding 20%, 25% or 30% tip. But New Yorkers usually skip that screen and manually enter what they want to tip. 10% rounded up is the norm, although one New Yorker I know routinely tips a single dollar whatever the fare.

We broke this news to the New New Yorkers recently. They were annoyed to discover they had been overtipping for months. But delighted to think of all the money they'd save not hitting that '20% tip' button.

Taxis, now that I think about it, are pretty cheap. Most services garner a 20% tip. But again, it's not very clear. I usually tip five bucks on a $25 pedicure. But I heard of a friend of a friend who tips $25. Maybe she's getting her mani/ pedi somewhere rather fancier than me.

The 20% rule is fairly safe in restaurants. But not, confusingly, in bars. Then it's a dollar a drink in a dive bar, and anything above that in a fancy bar. Minefield. Especially after you've had a few drinks. As a result of the ensuing confusion I have tipped anywhere from 5% to 50% of my bar tab in the last two years. It's safer if TLOML is left in charge of these transactions (I know, quite the 'little woman' aren't I?).


Personally, I like the approach which prevails in most British restaurants, where a standard 12.5% service charge is calculated for you, but clearly marked as 'discretionary'. Last night we saw an interesting new take on this, at  Jules. It's a scruffy little bistro with great live jazz, in the East Village, run by the same experts in European-style afternoon drinking who run Cafe Noir.

TLOML and our clever finance-minded friend made the necessary calculations to split the bill by an odd number and allow for a couple of non-drinkers. Then added 20% tip, as you do.

At first sight, it's a $805 restaurant bill

 Just before we were about to hand over our cash, we spotted a line on the bill for a mysterious item called 'Autograt'. It was tucked away under tax. On further investigation, it transpires this is a standard 20% gratuity they add to the bill for tables greater than 6. Since the definition of gratuity implies it is freely given, we thought it was a bit cheeky to add it on. But what really bugged us was the unclear presentation.

Nothing says 'discretionary tip' quite like the word 'AUTOGRAT', eh?

A well-intended attempt to clear up the service confusion, or just a sneaky way to inflate the bill? I like Jules, so I'm inclined to give them the benefit of the doubt. But judging by the reactions of our dining companions, I can't see this 'hidden tip' approach going down very well in New York. These Manhattanites won't be hoodwinked into paying any pre-determined charge.

I honestly think they prefer the confusion - for in confusion, there is freedom of choice.

Craig's List Crazies

TLOML and I have entered the twilight world of Craig's List. No, not the swingers section. The section for people who are leaving town and want to make a few dollars selling the stuff which isn't worth packing.

We did this once before, when we left Malibu for New York. Maybe I'm looking back with rose-tinted glasses (as I often do) on our Malibu experience, but I don't remember there being nearly so many crazies out there in SoCal.

The Big Apple is a different story. Well over half the New Yorkers who respond to Craig's List have abandoned the use of sentences all together. If they're really advanced they string a couple of text symbols together, to make a phrase like 'U still wan2 sell?'. One word emails like 'interested', 'yes', or '$50' (in response to an ad for something we've listed at $100) clutter my inbox. At first I'd reply in sentences, in an attempt to educate these chumps. But they didn't play the game, and kept coming back with their strangely abrupt emails.

My new rule is not to respond at all to people who don't write in sentences. They don't deserve it and I don't need the money that badly. Their loss is Goodwill's gain.

Of the New York Craig's Listers who can write in sentences, half of them are basically idiots with no spatial reasoning or common sense. (And this is coming from someone who has pretty limited spatial reasoning.) But what kind of fool thinks they can get a 2.5' x 2' x 5' chest of drawers in the back seat of a NY cab? Or that they can take a desk home on the subway?

I would love to meet the NY cab driver who'll pick you up on the street with this item

The desk guy was actually my favourite loonie. He was without a doubt the flakiest person I have ever met. After a barrage of flakey emails he finally showed up to buy the desk he had told us was 'just what I'm looking for'. He admired it, opened and shut the drawers, and stroked the veneer.

Then he stepped back and said. 'The thing is, I haven't really thought this through. Like I don't know if it will actually fit. I guess I should measure the space I have for it.'

We concurred. He went on to say, 'I could just take it. It'd probably be fine. Only, I was thinking I could take it on the subway but I guess that would be kinda awkward.'

It would be. The nearest subway is a fifteen minute walk away. The desk does not have castors.

Again, we concurred. TLOML pointed out the U-haul over the road. 'Oh, do you think they have someone who will drive for me?' said the muppet.

Hmmm. Last we checked U-haul don't offer a chauffeur service, no. At this point, TLOML was at his wits end, but I was starting to warm to this poor, hapless boy.

The hapless one admitted, 'You know, I guess I didn't really prepare for any of this. [exaggerated sigh]'. And we showed him the door.

Fortunately for every 3 crazies, muppets and flakes, there is 1 solid person who shows up with the cash and transportation. Some of them have nice stories or a firm handshake or both. They restore our faith. And they fill up our little Craig's List bounty envelope. Hopefully it will stand us a good NY strip steak before we leave.

What are you getting your dog for Valentine's Day?

I saw this sign outside a petshop today. FYI this is one of two petshops on this block, and one of about a hundred within a five block radius.


Only in New York, I think, would this not be considered weird. Possibly only in Chelsea, dog poo capital of Manhattan.

Trust me, they are not kidding. These pet crazy luvvies really do think you should treat your dog to a shampoo on Valentine's Day. Just so it knows you care. As if following it around picking up (if we're lucky) its poo or dressing it in one of those ridiculous-but-cute little designer jackets isn't a powerful enough indication of your affection.

Going on the list of things we will not miss about NY? Chelsea dog poo. But I will miss the snigger-inducing pet shops, and the pampered pooches in their snazzy outfits.

Grisly Gristedes

New York is home to some fantastic grocery stores, delis and gourmet shops.  You can probably buy whatever you want from anywhere in the world, at any time, somewhere in Manhattan.

But life isn't all Korea Town kim chi dashes, artisan bread purchases from Chelsea Market, or browsing the range at the venerable Murray's Cheese. Sometimes you just need to grab some muesli for breakfast the next day. Or an onion for that sauce. Some last minute lemons, a tin of soup, some so-called 'English' muffins. The basics, you know?

At times like that, TLOML and I go to Gristedes. We go there because it is only a block away. We certainly are not enticed in by the window display:

That packet of crisps has been there since we moved here in April.

I particularly love this display of washing liquid.

Eat your heart out Bergdorf Goodman!

I wonder if the 'neuro' marketing people intended for the red and orange bottles to languish in the footlights like this...

It isn't for the value either. Gristedes combines the prices of Whole Paycheque Foods with the ambience of Penn Station at night. I've seen actual proper furry mould on tomatoes in their veg aisle. And for a couple of weeks back in December it smelt like a rat or perhaps staff member had died and was rotting behind one of the display fridges. The staff, by the way, are pleasant enough but always look kinda grubby. Oh, and the odds of seeing a crazy person shouting to themselves in there are pretty high too.

And yet... and yet it is so close to home. I seem to be in there a couple of times a week, on a lazy week. To be honest, when TLOML is out of town and I'm mainly eating cauliflower and carrots and other substances banned from his presence, I'm in Gristedes quite often. One of the few New York retail experiences I will not miss.

The New Restaurant Confessions

I finally worked out where all our money went. And found a use for the spices we will not get through in the next couple of weeks.

I was musing over how much we eat out in New York. It seemed like a lot, so I decided to make a list, looking back over our Open Table reservations history and flicking through Zagats to jog my memory.  As a result of this scientific research I can shamefacedly confirm that we've eaten at over 65 different delis, diners and restaurants. Over 60 if you don't count pizza slice shops.

Gosh. We've only been here since April - that's one or two new places every week. Can it really be true? And if so how on earth did we manage to eat anywhere more than once, let alone dine repeatedly at Tipsy Parson and El Quinto Pino.

The cliches are true, people really do eat out here as a matter of course. It's incredibly rare to go over to a friend's house to eat. In fact, we haven't had dinner at a friend's even once, and nor have we cooked for others at our place. The closest we've come has been some hastily produced cheese biscuits to eat with drinks at our place, before going out to eat at... Tipsy Parson or El Quinto Pino or some other neighbourhood favourite.

In London I used to cook dinner for friends, and eat at their places, once a week or so. And even in Malibu, many traffic-choked miles away from the throbbing pulse of LA's social scene, we managed to pull off 'eating at home with friends' fairly frequently.

I've asked our few friends in New York about this phenomenom. They reassure me it isn't that no-one likes us. It's that no-one cooks. And as for the absence of invitations we have issued - it isn't that we don't like our friends. It's that we don't have room for a dining table.

We did once get invited to dinner at the New New Yorkers' place. But that's different. They're British. And they live in Brooklyn with room for a dining table and a normal sized kitchen. It's like a foreign land on that side of the water. Happily, London is just as foreign. And since in our absence half our London friends have had babies, I think we're going to return to a social scene that is, even more than ever, about cosying in for a nice home cooked meal in someone's actual home. I can't wait.

Oh, and the use I found for those spices? I decided to make a map of everywhere we've eaten. Using coriander seeds (for BBQ places and ramen shops), peppercorns (for midrange resturants), and cardoman pods (for fancy pants special occasion places).

It's a lot less impressive than I expected. Which is a shame as it took ages. Don't look too closely, by the way: it's not perfect. I thought of half a dozen more places after I took the photo and tidied it away. I also can't guarantee that none of the seeds or pods didn't roll about a bit.

Still, you get the general gist. And it makes me realise what big gaps there are in our culinary map. We've hardly eaten on 'Restaurant Row' (the 40s on 9th Ave) at all! And we've given the culinary hotspots of the Lower East Side and Soho short shrift too.

We've got twelve more nights to eat out in New York and I'm wondering if we can do something about it...

Fashion mystery solved

I finally understand why even stylish people wear those long coats that look like sleeping bags.

Blake Lively: officially stylish

I guess I never lived anywhere cold enough to see the benefit before. But at -10c in Manhattan I'm starting to get it.

The sleeping bag coat. Not chic.

I had dinner at Puttanesca with my favourite New Yorker yesterday. The restaurant is a brisk half hour walk up Ninth Avenue and I thought the walk would keep me warm - plus I had my special cold weather clothes on.

The 'cropped' sleeping bag look

What a fool! My coat is too too short. Between the top of my furry snowboats and the bottom of my sleeping bag I lost all feeling. Even my heaviest, cosiest jeans couldn't keep that bitter NY chill out.

I should have known it was too cold to be outside. Earlier in the day I went for a run and lost all feeling in my fingers, so I tucked them inside my hoodie and walked for a while. While I was walking I lost all feeling on my behind, which gave me the odd sensation of walking down the Hudson riverside with a bare bottom. It was so convincing that I had to look down to check the seat of my leggings hadn't fallen out.

Brrr. There's only one thing for it. And it's not to go out and buy a floor length sleeping bag coat (despite Blake Lively's shining example).

Our puppy

Allow me to introduce our puppy. The puppy is a cheapo velour throw thing we bought for emergency crashing-on-the-sofa guests. It is called the puppy because when it gets all crumpled and heaped up and warm on top of you it feels sort of, well, like a puppy. (Guess who's never had a puppy).

Till the weather gets above freezing, I'm staying in snuggled under the puppy. I admit it, I'm too soft for this town. Take me back to the temperate climate of London!

Hogs, heifers and much hilarity

I recently had the surprising pleasure of drinking at Hogs and Heifers Saloon.

Surprising because I have passed the doorway a hundred times and never felt the slightest inclination to go in. It's a bar in the Meatpacking District with an entrance that is completely obscured by Fire Department, NYPD and Harley Davidson stickers. As a Manhattan sipping champagne socialist (I never mix the two, mind you), I just didn't think it was my kind of bar.

Not terribly appealing, is it?

But when TLOML lines up an afternoon of burgers and divebars - all in the name of entertaining some highly sophisticated West Coasters - who am I to refuse? So, surprise! I entered the forbidding doors of Hogs and Heifers.

Surprise #2! I actually had a brilliant time. It could be the best dive bar in all of Manhattan.

Hogs and Heifers was concieved about twenty years ago as a good honest watering hole for hard working, hard drinking men. Over the years they became famous for their abrasive lady bartenders, who basically call the shots. If so inclined, they'll dance on the bar. But most of the time from what I saw they limit themselves to turning down the jukebox to yell insults at their customers.

(The jukebox, by the way, is pure magic: mainly country and western, with some classic rock and, joy! The Travelling Wilburys. Good times.)

Oh, and if the mood takes them, lady drinkers may also dance on the bar. If they do, they must leave their bra behind, on the wall of grubby old bras.

One of the lady bar tenders and that wall of bras

Sound familiar? Perhaps you're thinking of the critically panned box office hit Coyote Ugly. (I haven't seen it but 22% on Rotten Tomatoes is all I need to know.)

You'd be right. There's some controversy about whether this bar, or the Coyote Ugly Saloon were the true insipiration for the film. Both proudly stake the claim. From what I've seen online Coyote Ugly Saloon looks rather too clean and manufactured and the girls are way too fit. Hogs and Heifers is genuinely filthy and their bartenders sport little beer bellies as part of their signature look.


If you read the reviews online, you'll see phrases like 'disgusting, trashy bartenders', 'it just feels diiirrrrtttty and not in a good way', 'the bartender was unspeakably rude' and 'Can you please get your dirty shoes off the bar where you serve me?

It's true, the bartender is very rude.  But funny. The girl serving the afternoon we were in there was an absolute blast. I particularly enjoyed it when she yelled to a couple of Euro-looking tourists, 'Get your hand off your crotch and buy an effin' drink' as they stood in the doorway looking frightened. And 'Hey, brawny guy called, he wants his shirt back', to TLOML in his hipster plaid shirt. Ask for a water, and she'll flip you the bird (then serve the offending drink, to be fair). It's a refreshingly sincere approach to customer service.

TLOML playing air guitar in his brawny shirt, with bras in the background. Picture is fuzzed to protect the innocent (also 'cos if I used flash the bartender would shout at me)

I'm not sure it'd be as much fun on a Saturday night, when it's probably packed with a shouty B&T crowd. But on a chilly, quiet Wednesday afternoon, it's perfect. Aside from the bewildered toursts, who routinely turned on their heels and left, our drinking companions were 3 or 4 shifty looking men drinking solo, a couple of leathery faced old birds, and a couple who looked like they were skiving off work. I especially liked this pair when she got on the bar and danced - and yes, her bra was removed from under her clothes, by the dextrous bartender - with gay abandon in her dowdy office attire. Yeah! That's the Hogs and Heifers way!

So if I tire of fancy cocktail bars, and crave a mid afternoon drink with a bunch of blue collar dudes, and the fun of watching tourists be insulted and drunk Jersey girls take their bras off, I know just where I'll head.

Happy Holidays - what I learned

The holidays are officially over. What was left of the gingerbread house has been thrown out. Courtesy of the good staff of Rabbit Hutch Towers our Christmas tree has been removed to be turned into mulch for New York City parks. And our humble collection of Christmas decorations have been boxed up ready for the move.

'Goodbye baubles. See you in London, December 2012!'

I thought I'd take a moment to reflect on our first New York Christmas. Here's what I learned:

1a. There's never a good time to see the windows on Fifth Avenue.
I'd heard a lot of good things about the windows at Bergdorf Goodman, but was deterred by the crowds. We eventually decided to saunter by after dinner uptown, a little after 10pm on December 30th. A few days after Christmas and the night before New Year's Eve - one might expect the city to be a little quiet, subdued maybe.

How silly of us. It's the city that never sleeps! Or even takes a halfday! Even at that hour there were probably a dozen people clustered around each window. And dozens of handbag sellers and crazy people banging drums, cluttering up the sidewalk.

1b. It's still worth it.

The Bergdorf Goodman windows are absolutely stunning. In fact they sent me breathless for a moment. Till I was jostled. It's hard to see the details here, but if you want a closer look check out the Trailing Spouse's report.Trendland's photos are pretty good too.

My advice? Avoid weekends, avoid the day time, but whenever you go, expect a small crowd.
2. Gingerbread houses last a surprisingly long time.
After the unseemly haste in which I baked and assembled the gingerbread house, I expected it to be unpalatably dry within a couple of days. Au contraire. I took my last bite yesterday, almost a fortnight after it was baked and a week since it was decorated. Crunchy and delicious! Good to know.

3. Calm down. It's only New Year's Eve.
Don't panic! Unless your favourite bar is actually in Times Square - which would be weird - there's a good chance you'll be able to walk in and get a drink on New Year's Eve. I booked a table at Prune a couple of weeks in advance, and when our plans changed at the last minute, called the ever-popular Cafe Cluny the day before New Year's to book a late table for New Year's Eve. Plans changed again, and we ended up having dinner at Porter House and being back in Chelsea at around 11pm.

What are the chances of being able to walk into your favourite bar an hour before midnight on New Year's Eve? Slim, we thought, and we were approached Tipsy Parson fully expecting to fall back on Plan B (a scotch back at the Hutch). We needn't have worried: there were a couple of empty seats at the bar and our favourite waiter greeted us like long lost friends. Well, it has been a couple of weeks...

I told a New York friend about this experience and she laughed and said 'Of course, this is New York, it's like New Year's Eve every day!'

4. There's no need to stockpile.
On a similar theme, there's no need to worry if you haven't stocked up on groceries. In England I always made sure I had bread and milk in the flat over Christmas and the New Year, because nowhere's really open on New Year's Day. You wouldn't want to run out of teabags on Boxing Day now, would you?

TLOML woke up with a rotten cold on New Year's Day, and urgently needed his special medicinal Korean soup. But we were out of kimchi, that essential, lifegiving ingredient. We wandered up to 30th Street and Sixth, and had our pick of all the Korean groceries we could possibly need. They sell teabags and milk there too.

Maybe none of this is news to you. But as someone who has formerly only Christmassed (is that a word? Let's make it so) in Redcar and Palm Beach, I was pleasantly surprised by my discoveries. Just as I'm planning my exit from New York, I'm really starting to see why people like it here so much.

Busy busy?

People think of New York as a place where every one is always a hurry.

Not so. A short Sunday afternoon walk through Washington Square Park reveals many many New Yorkers who clearly have way way too much time on their hands

Like these no-hopers.

Thanks, but no thanks.

The dudes who hang out just jamming with their maracas:

And these chumps who get together to show off their silky skills with a hackysack:

 

To the credit of New York, these two weirdos went largely ignored:

Still, a lot of people there with a lot of 'New York minutes' to fill... Actually, it's kind of a nice vibe. Makes a change from the cut and thrust of Rabbit Hutch Towers anyway.

To Russia and back for five bucks

This time last Sunday TLOML and I were in deepest darkest Russia. Or so it seemed.

This was the scene on the street:

(Dear ipad viewers, you can't see this, but it's a man and his mother performing Russian folk music)

The liquor stores were packed with an incredible range of reasonably priced vodkas...

...some obscure Georgian wines...

And of course, brandy in a bottle shaped like a gun.

Forget buying snow clothes in the discount stores on 6th Avenue - these Russians know how to dress when the temperature drops.

There were stands selling caviar in the street. And many strange smoked fish and meats for sale in the grocery stores. We ate blintzes and knishes in a cafe with terrible decor and a filthy toilet. The disgusting, grimy loo and the general low rent vibe were actually a bit depressing - just like, as a child in Thatcher's Britain, I would imagine Soviet Russia to be.

It wasn't all bad though. That smoked sausage TLOML selected made an excellent appetizer. And the next day I used it in a cod-and-chorizo-stew inspired grouper-and-strange-Russian-sausage stew.

This is Little Russia, aka Brighton Beach. It's a quick ramble along the boardwalk from Coney Island, about an hour on the subway, and yet about a million light years away from West Chelsea.

We enjoyed our visit, but won't be hurrying back. Till the next time we are in the market for caviar, furs or vodka, that is.

New York's very own seaside resort

Ever since I saw Annie Hall, where Woody Allen claims to have been brought up under the rollercoaster, I've wanted to visit Coney Island. That's why I put it on that bucket list.

So this weekend TLOML and I took the C and then the F out to the wilds of coastal Brooklyn. It took an awfully long time to get there. We began passing through overground stations with strange names. We were definitely not in Manhattan anymore. The train emptied.

On arrival, the first thing we saw was the legendary Nathan's hot dog place. It cheered TLOML up immediately, and the journey already seemed worthwhile.

Which is a good thing as frankly, it went downhill after that.

Don't get me wrong, I wasn't expecting it to be Vegas - or even Brighton. But I was hoping for an out-of-season, picturesque desolation. Not just actual desolation.

Okay, it's November. But somehow I can't imagine Coney Island being any more cheerful when its packed to the gills with screaming children and red faced sunseekers.

I was a little relieved ChaChas was closed. Grandpa Chacha's home style wine is probably the last thing we needed.

There's something about the backdrop that just, well, it aint' pretty.

The water towers of New York

I am making poor progress on that Bucket List. I still haven't made it to Coney Island. But I am getting a bit more clarity on that water tower question. (The question being 'why are there so many?')

Whenever you look up in Manhattan, as the skyline so often draws you to do, you see a water tower. Often, more than one. They are those dirty looking cylinders, that sit on top of buildings old and new. I first noticed them from our little rabbit hutch, which has what a sage New Yorker told me is 'a classic water tower view'.

The view from Rabbit Hutch Towers - about half a dozen water towers, on a clear day.

Soon I started seeing them everywhere. This is because, in fact, they are everywhere.

A Soho water tower.

A water tower perched up high in Tribeca

A couple tucked away just north of Canal Street.

I like these friendly looking tanks, with their nice little pointy hats. I like the way they appear in every view, strangely anachronistic, yet completely at home in today's city.

Water towers were essential to create enough water pressure for tall buildings. I guess the engineering evolution of high pressure water pumps lagged behind the technology of whole steel-reinforced multistory buildings. That doesn't really explain why there are still so many now, when most of them must be redundant. Apparently they are viewed as so attractive, and such an intrinsic part of the New York city skyline, that many are protected landmarks.

I don't know of any other modern, Western city with so many water towers. In London we pretty much get our water fresh, via some leaky Victorian pipes, from the mains supply. And I would suggest, the London skyline is the poorer for it.