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conuly
Taken from here.
On a recent Sunday afternoon my husband, our 14-year-old daughter, 11-year-old son and I ventured to Chinatown for an early dinner. Even though our children are growing up in Manhattan, they rarely get to Chinatown, and the excursion felt like a treat.
After a long, cold walk down Mott Street from the subway, we chose a restaurant and walked downstairs to an empty dining room. We were seated and handed menus with a selection of extremely basic, rather boring Chinese dishes made with standard ingredients. My husband's face fell.
He commented under his breath: "Did we have to come to Chinatown to eat this? There's nothing interesting on this menu!"
When the young waitress approached, I gingerly asked, "Do you have any specials, or anything other than what's on this menu?"
An older Chinese man rushed to our table and said, "Oh, would you like a different menu?" and handed around a multipage, elaborate one with dishes made with things like duck tongue, frog's legs, whole crab and scallops in the shell.
The four of us beamed.
The waiter then said, "We thought you were American!" to which I said, "No, we're not tourists, we're New Yorkers!"
It was a fabulous meal.
I admit it, I read the cheesy section of the newspaper. Sorry, duckies!
Across the street from where I live on Third Avenue several old buildings remain, the kind I recall from the days of the El.
Rooftop activity usually consists of a sunbather on a warm summer day, an occasional fireman surveying a problem, or pigeons who make their home there. So it was with some surprise last fall when I heard the sound of a trumpet coming from somewhere nearby and glanced out to see on the rooftop directly across from me a young man struggling to play a scale.
My initial response was that the occupants of his building probably had told him to take his "music" to the roof. And then I covered my ears hoping that the playing would end soon.
No such luck.
Each day he appeared midmorning to play for a bit. Gradually, the sounds became recognizable tunes. Since then, he has improved impressively. One day, he appeared with a young woman and played for her.
"How lovely," I thought," how sweet and romantic." Clearly his confidence was growing.
On a recent fiercely chilly day with a heavy rain, I was certain he would not appear. As I sat at my desk, I assumed the howling wind would be the only live music I'd hear that day.
At the usual hour, however, the young man appeared, huddled in a heavy parka and gloves. He tried a few notes but the weather overpowered him. On another recent bitterly cold day, I was certain he would never show. But thus far, he has appeared daily, if only briefly.
Will he make it to Carnegie Hall? Probably not, but his playing continues to improve, and this appreciative listener no longer covers her ears but silently applauds his now-recognizable music and his unwavering perseverance.
Aw.
On a recent Sunday afternoon my husband, our 14-year-old daughter, 11-year-old son and I ventured to Chinatown for an early dinner. Even though our children are growing up in Manhattan, they rarely get to Chinatown, and the excursion felt like a treat.
After a long, cold walk down Mott Street from the subway, we chose a restaurant and walked downstairs to an empty dining room. We were seated and handed menus with a selection of extremely basic, rather boring Chinese dishes made with standard ingredients. My husband's face fell.
He commented under his breath: "Did we have to come to Chinatown to eat this? There's nothing interesting on this menu!"
When the young waitress approached, I gingerly asked, "Do you have any specials, or anything other than what's on this menu?"
An older Chinese man rushed to our table and said, "Oh, would you like a different menu?" and handed around a multipage, elaborate one with dishes made with things like duck tongue, frog's legs, whole crab and scallops in the shell.
The four of us beamed.
The waiter then said, "We thought you were American!" to which I said, "No, we're not tourists, we're New Yorkers!"
It was a fabulous meal.
I admit it, I read the cheesy section of the newspaper. Sorry, duckies!
Across the street from where I live on Third Avenue several old buildings remain, the kind I recall from the days of the El.
Rooftop activity usually consists of a sunbather on a warm summer day, an occasional fireman surveying a problem, or pigeons who make their home there. So it was with some surprise last fall when I heard the sound of a trumpet coming from somewhere nearby and glanced out to see on the rooftop directly across from me a young man struggling to play a scale.
My initial response was that the occupants of his building probably had told him to take his "music" to the roof. And then I covered my ears hoping that the playing would end soon.
No such luck.
Each day he appeared midmorning to play for a bit. Gradually, the sounds became recognizable tunes. Since then, he has improved impressively. One day, he appeared with a young woman and played for her.
"How lovely," I thought," how sweet and romantic." Clearly his confidence was growing.
On a recent fiercely chilly day with a heavy rain, I was certain he would not appear. As I sat at my desk, I assumed the howling wind would be the only live music I'd hear that day.
At the usual hour, however, the young man appeared, huddled in a heavy parka and gloves. He tried a few notes but the weather overpowered him. On another recent bitterly cold day, I was certain he would never show. But thus far, he has appeared daily, if only briefly.
Will he make it to Carnegie Hall? Probably not, but his playing continues to improve, and this appreciative listener no longer covers her ears but silently applauds his now-recognizable music and his unwavering perseverance.
Aw.
