Initiation
Best diary:
It was the early 2000s. I had opposed the invitations of my friends to join them in a night of dancing on one of those only in-after-york, late-night parties held in the kind of dark, busy clubs that had stopped in quiet streets along the Hudson River.
Intense, sweat soaked, group experiences like that didn’t appeal to me.
At one point I admitted and spent six hours a night of dancing as hard as I could. It was magic. I had found my trunk.
While the early spring morning about Manhattan Brak, seven of us left the club together, Zoeten, Sweaty, exciting and exhausted and then settled in a nearby restaurant for breakfast.
I felt that I was initiated, left in the heavy rites of a secret brotherhood. I was now one of those guys.
A global waitress came to the table and came from the group.
“Oh, puppy!” she said. “Puppy! What happened to you? Have you got off the porch and do you play with the big dogs?”
I nodded.
“Don’t say a word,” she said. “I know exactly what you need.”
She took the other six orders and went to the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later and brought me a hill with scrambled eggs, different strips of bacon, a roasted bagel and a large glass of cranberry juice.
It was the best breakfast of my life.
– Gary Clinton
Tiramisu
Best diary:
He pushed the oval bowl to us, a perfectly clean column with cream that waited on the edge of the board, an arrow made from Ladyfingers and Mascarpone immediately pointed to our hearts.
Assumed, we looked at him and then at the face of the bartender who evolved from confusion to worship.
“Here,” said the stranger with whom I had been a shoulder to shoulder when we ate an Italian supper on a Saturday night in Carroll Gardens. He gestured to his plate Tiramisu (well, our record from Tiramisu). “You try it.”
Only a few minutes earlier I had gestured with my eyes to the plate while I longed for my friend in my breath.
We two had shared a regrettable, long -lasting look: we should have had a dessert. Now we were offered the last bite of someone else’s.
I was almost afraid of asking the bartender for a spoon. Was this kind of parts allowed?
Before I could think too hard, shiny silver spoons rested on the counter and then stroked in our hands, and then zinc in the custard with the grace of an Olympic diver, and then satisfactorily, in our open mouth.
It turned out to be the father of the owner every morning and made the tiramisu by hand.
– Jordana Hope Bornstein
Isn’t it delicious?
Best diary:
Marilyn, you’re dead, but I live
Stand on a metro schedule
Your metro roster
On the southwestern corner
From 52nd and Lexington
There are no signs
No indication of commemoration
Drop, drop, drop, raindrops
Zoom, zoom, crowds and crowds
New York’s in Motion
While I am soaked, memories
The poems you used to write
I loved the one over the bridges
I read it at performances
It always gets a big response
Marilyn, you’re dead, but I live
Release
So you can remember it
You don’t go alone
– Danny Klecko
Sunshine
Best diary:
It was spring 1975. I was 23 and had been to New York for less than six months. I worked as a secretary at Artkraft Strauss and “The Sunshine Boys” filmed around the corner.
During a lunch hour, Walter Matthau appeared in a poor overcoat. I gathered all my courage and asked him for a signature.
Almost smiling he asked my name.
I panicked. Do I have to ask for two signatures? Would that be too much? I decided not to risk it.
“Oh, it’s not for me,” I said. “It’s for my mother, Ruth.”
He gave his best frown and scrambled a line and stamped away.
My mother still had that signature when she died 13 years ago. I have it now.
– Amanda Sherwin
Tumbling
Best diary:
My husband and I were in New York to see ‘good night and good luck’ and I was ready for the occasion: clothing, hair, makeup, jewelry, a beautiful but impractic white jacket and a rarely worn pair of kitten heels.
As we walked to the theater, the promise of spring was in the air and I felt cheerful. I was sliding along. The next thing I knew, I tumbled in Slow Motion on the dirty paving at Broadway and 44th Street.
My coat and my ego were a bit affected when my husband hurried to help me. To my surprise, two young men also stopped to help.
While I turned around to thank them, one of them smiled.
“Hon,” he said, “it was definitely worth it! Those shoes are fantastic.”
– Suzanne Schneck
Read All recent entries and ours Submission guidelines. Reach us via e -mail diary@nytimes.com or follow @Nytmetro On Twitter.
Illustrations by Agnes Lee
Do you have a story about a memorable experience in which a restaurant in New York City was involved? Submit it below or share it in the comments. While you are there, participate in the conversation.
- Advertisement -
