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Wednesday, June 13, 2007

such great heights

There are few more common refrains in New York City than decrying that a neighborhood isn’t what it used to be–”Those damned hipsters are everywhere!” or “I can’t walk two blocks without being barreled over by a Bugaboo-wielding Type A!” But I can’t help but laugh when I hear something of this sort because if there is one element that quintessentially defines the five boroughs, it’s that they’re always shifting and reorganizing their contents, like a decorator with a short attention span.

If you’re familiar the history of the city, you’ll know that it’s been this way from its inception. You might not have set foot on my block twenty years ago late a night without two canisters of mace, but I hear the new hair salon that just moved in is paying a six-figure monthly rent. And really, I don’t need to tell you about the Lower East Side of old, where minuscule, shambles of tenement apartments that once housed immigrant families of twelve in deplorable conditions are currently the ne plus ultra habitat of a certain set.

Maybe it’s not news to me because my dad grew up off Kingsbridge road in the Bronx, a place we still don’t frequent on foot, and my mom is from Jackson Heights in Queens, once home to a large German-Jewish community and now a NYC mecca of immigrants from Columbia, South Asia and other Latin countries, replete with its own Little India. If you told me it was home to some of the prettiest garden apartments in the city before Saturday, I’d never have believed you and yet there we were, mom, myself and a friend wandering from community garden to garden, in absolute awe of utter peacefulness of these retreats, yet still less than five blocks from each of two of the most useful subways. I’m not even sure that my mother knew it was this sublime, having not been back in 25 (cough, 35!) years.

We snuck into the foyer of the building where she grew up, and marveled at how well-maintained it was, from the high ceilings to fresh gold leafing, and even the radiator (my mother where my mother’s dates would hang out, since they weren’t allowed up in the apartment) exactly as it was. Though her old synagogue has long since closed, the Jewish center than opened to serve the less than 100 families left still had record of her parents membership, including their once-new address in San Diego written in my grandmother’s perfect cursive. I confess that I first turned my nose up at the lack of the type of fancy-pants food stores I’ve grown used to in Chelsea, until I saw the bottomless supply of coveted Indian mangoes and limes, ten for a dollar. Could I be living in the wrong borough?

rice pudding

You simply cannot go to Jackson Heights–I mean, you can’t; I forbid you–without eating at the Jackson Diner, boasting a $10 all-you-can eat buffet of Indian curries, dals and tandoori dishes, flawlessly delicious but humble, like good food should be. Resist the urge to refill your plate; by the time I’d returned to my seat with more aloo gobi, I was too full to eat more than a bite of it, and hung my head in profound American shame, always with the eyes bigger than the stomach, carelessly wasting food because it seems free. Being full, however, in no way give you a pass on the rice pudding with raisins and cashews, perfectly sweet and comforting. You’ll never eat Curry in a Hurry again.

Jackson Diner
37-47 74th StreetJackson Heights, NY 11372 near 37th Road.
718-672-1232

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