A Taste of New York
At the corner Bedford and Manhattan avenues, I was interviewing with a chef about potential employment. The soon-to-open deli is near complete, but there is still work to be done. Zach, co-owner with his brother, face buried in his ever-glowing screen, shouts back to the kitchen.
“Hey, Ashley,” he says. “Do you need that big of a freezer?”
The chef, slightly perturbed by the interruption — not so much because the importance of our conversation outweighed the needs of the deli’s owner, but more so by the fact that I was likely the only person other than Zach she had spoken to in days — hesitated slightly.
“Uhhh…”
“Well,” Zach echoed off his computer, “it’s just that the bigger one won’t get here until Thursday and it’s just not a good day to receive something like that.”
Sensing the gravity of Zach’s concern, Ashley moved toward the literal hole in the wall that is the office.
“Well, as long as it can fit two cases of fries…”
I took this to indicate our interview had ended. As I started making my way toward the front, Zach, a clean-cut 30-something, save for the two-day stubble (less fashion statement, more representation of the demanding hours of opening a business) popped his head up.
“Hey. We love your energy,” he said. “Looking over your resume, I was wondering if you’d be interested in working the counter at all, as well?”
I told him I’d love to, as I enjoy nothing more than working with the public. A touch of stress left his face, as he scratched two things from his long to-do list with one stroke. Then, in a snap, his expression changed to pure elation.
“Ooohhh…” he said, as his eyes lit up like a six-year-old. “You should send him to Peter Pan!”
Ashley’s shoulders slumped and her head fell back, not under the burden of an unwanted task, but as if she’s melting from the memories of donuts past.
“Oh, yeah,” she exclaimed. “You HAVE to go there. You HAVE to get the sour cream old fashioned. Take a newspaper, sit at the counter, and just hang out.”
They armed me with the day’s Gray Lady and sent me on my way.
“Sour cream old fashioned!” Ashley shouted as I headed down the block.
Stepping through the doors of Peter Pan Donut and Pastry Shop is like stepping through a time warp. The girls behind the counter are decked in aqua and pink uniforms which well could have been the actual outfits worn by the original employees in the ’50s. The matriarch of the shop, Donna, greets regulars with the gusto of your favorite aunt.
“Back again,” she says to a man who can’t help but chuckle. “You’re gonna gain a hundred pounds if you keep coming here twice a day!”
The beaming man places his order as he is greeted by two more employees.
I take a seat at the counter near an older gentleman and unfurl my paper. One of the bakers, his Kristaps Porzingis shirsey easily visible under his white work shirt, leans on the counter and engages the man.
“So, A-Rod’s gonna retire?”
“I don’t know,” the old man replies, jackhammering his finger into his copy of the New York Post. “Says here there’s no final date.”
I dip a chunk of my donut into my coffee. The old fashioned absorbs coffee into every crevasse. The pair is perfection. The sweet, cakey donut mutes the creamy bitterness of the coffee just enough. The tang of the sour cream sneaks through as I read about the blame being passed around Michigan pertaining to the leaded water in Flint. The conversation to my right shifts to more pressing matters.
“You hear Rueben Randle signed with the Eagles,” the baker asks, referencing the former New York Giant defecting to their division rival. “He didn’t do much here, but he made some plays.”
“Yeah,” the old man replies. “He never really caught on, but he’d flash talent. They did resign Victor Cruz, though,” he said, referring the a fellow wide receiver. “One-year deal.”
“Why,” I chime in, seeing my opportunity to move from observer to participant. “So he can sit out with another knee injury or foot injury?”
The old man nods in agreement as we both return to our respective papers.
Soon, an elderly couple walks in and pulls up between their friend and me. Near everyone in the establishment, patrons and employees, greet them by name. The small talk becomes more personal as the old friends catch up. About 10 minutes later, another woman joins the crew at the end of the counter. Big, round sunglasses and a stylish head wrap, she looks like a former starlet clinging to fading glamour.
“Cookie,” our matriarch shouts. “How are you, dear?”
I feel as if I’ve crashed a family reunion. Inside jokes spark laughter, gossip is dished, and sass and wit are bountiful. Chatter about recent meals rekindle memories of restaurants which are no longer. There’s talk about what everyone can or cannot eat without discomfort, how cooking techniques learned in their youth are now featured at the city’s trendiest eateries, and what dishes cause division in the household.
“I love lamb, but my husband hates it,” Cookie says. “Well, you can go out to eat then,” hands flailing, as she shoos away no one
“Hey,” I interject. “Next time you make lamb, I’ll gladly come by.”
Ever the flirt, Cookie shoots me a sly smile and wink before shifting her attention back to her friends.
Slowly, the group dissipates, leaving myself and the old man. I pack up my things, thank the staff, and head on my way. As I strolled through Greenpoint, I understood the elation of Zach and Ashley. While the donut was phenomenal (and the coffee relatively shitty), it was about the experience. In a changing Brooklyn filled with hip cafes rife with soy half-caf au laits, MacBook Airs, and tattooed baristas, Peter Pan offered a glimpse into what New York was. And, in a lot of ways, a glimpse into what New York always will be.
