Breakfast at Barney's

Thursday, January 5, 2023

1:13 p.m.

Upper West Side, Manhattan, New York City

It isn't often I eat out. In many places, it just isn't worth it to me. I can overcook chicken at home, and so can anyone else.

But what is really worth it? Objects of pleasure? Feelings of comfort? Goals aligned and dreams fulfilled?

All of the above are on the table in this case.

I came to New York City for the first time in early 2023. I was on a mission, an important mission—but aren't we all? Mine didn't feature museums curating the past, monuments dedicated to economic might, or waxing poetic about Broadway's art deco facades. No, I wanted to see if New York City was like what I had seen on the Internet or the movies I grew up with.

Are there really passersby shouting "Fahgettaboutit?" Are there youths running amok underground? Where are the dirty water hot dogs? Is Bruce Willis still chasing down terrorists in a taxicabs? I've seen it all before through varying degrees of silver screen, but I had to find out if it was really happening without the separation connectedness gives us from life, the universe, and everything.

Over the course of three days, I fulfilled many, many fantasies. I was in and out of Katz Deli in less than 10 minutes, went thrifting with Williamsburg's animated cliches, and ate late-night Halal perched on top of a trash can. I jaywalked in front of cops, sat next to a man on the subway doing the crossword as I was, and then bolted with the rest of the Blue Line car when a fentanyl-fueled bystander began boxing the air. There were so many others in the 32 miles I walked from borough to borough while breaking in a pair of brand-new Doc Martens, with the pinnacle on plates at breakfast at Barney's.

Some know that this was Anthony Bourdain's smorgasbord of choice from Season 1, Episode 19, of "A Cook's Tour," but only after "a good day at the track," as he said. It's Barney Greengrass at 541 Amsterdam Avenue, home of the sturgeon king, and more salty, smoky, and savory goodness than you can shake a rolled-up New York Times at. Three eggs scrambled with onions and nova salmon, the sturgeon platter with a bagel and a hunk of cream cheese, and the supporting accoutrements, as well as coffee "reg-la," the colloquialism of coffee with milk and sugar.

With the tip, the spread was $75. Before that, the morning's issue of the Times plus a pack of Marlboro Reds cost me $20. Bourdain puffed Lights, but the sentiment remains: you need to bet big to have enough coin to cash for cured meats. And I did, sort of. I bet myself that I wouldn't come here and settle for the same traps as foreign tourists, the Times Square gubbins; the overdone and cliche...despite the fact that I copped a pastrami on rye at Katz when I got off the train. At least I didn't waste time standing in line and worrying about where Meg Ryan was sitting. I had another three miles to walk before I could inhale it.

Regardless, Katz had nothing on the King. But the real gem of a juxtaposition was reading about how fucked this country is said to be by the Times while chowing down on nearly a day's worth of pay. Ironic, right? Inflation notwithstanding, if I worked anywhere near the Upper West Side, I would have this at least twice a month. Lord knows I could never afford to live here. But a taste from time to time gives you the sense that you've made it here. Not in the city, but in life.

Here I am. With a compass measuring curiosity and ignorance, here I am sitting in a place I saw on the Internet. And I got here all by myself.

Like Tony once said, "the secret to a lot of really good, classic Jewish cuisine is properly caramelized onions." But I contest that it's the ingredient to much more. After all, it began to take the taste of the past out of my mouth. Failures, sorrows, bruises, scars; they all have their own flavor.

I remember my first professional bout at writing, eating Ketchup sandwiches like an idiot. Calculating which bill I wasn't paying that given month. Thrifting for birthdays. Which friend I was dropping because they were too expensive to hang out with. Waking up on the sidewalk and wondering where my shorts are.

But the past doesn't matter right now; the joke isn't on me. Not on a Thursday morning sitting here eating smoked fish like a patrician, having time to read the arts section of the Times, enjoying a coffee I didn't have to press myself, and tearing the plastic off a fresh box of premium cigarettes I didn't have to roll myself. No coupons or special deals here—the feeling of satisfaction full price brings sometimes.