Bicycling across the Brooklyn Bridge

image of B and I on Brooklyn BridgeCrossing the Brooklyn Bridge was one of the items on our Tourist To-Do List, but how to do it was up for grabs until the day we showed up at the South Street Seaport for a tour and spied Blazing Saddles, a vendor that rented bicycles by the hour. Each came equipped with a map that was marked up for a tour of the area, including a trip across the Brooklyn Bridge. Could it sound more perfect? I think not!

So on Friday morning, after stopping by the ticket booth on Fulton Street to see if there were any half-price tickets to the Broadway smash hit Book of Mormon and walking away sadly disappointed again, we headed down to the pier to rent bikes, or rather, a bike: they had a tandem Schwinn that looked to us like it might be a lot of fun. We’d never ridden a tandem together before, but how hard could it be, right? The guy renting the bikes showed us how it worked, took an impression of our credit card, strapped helmets on our heads and sent us on our way. Easy-peasy.

I’ve no doubt that, if we’d had a few days instead of two hours to practice riding a tandem together, we might’ve gotten good enough at it that we would’ve had the time to look around and enjoy ourselves, but here’s the thing: There were an awful lot of people on the bike path — walkers, skaters, bikers, people standing on their hands. On my own bike I would’ve felt confident enough to take a look around while easily threading my way between them, but that tandem steered like a cow. A twenty-foot-long cow.

Each time I lined up the bike to thread our way through a gap in the crowd, another pedestrian would wander into our way, or another bicyclist would whoosh past us and cut me off, or My Darling B would lean to one side to get a glimpse of something my head was blocking her view of. Any one of a dozen changes like this would require me to make a new adjustment to our trajectory, and very often all those things would happen simultaneously. I felt as though, if I took my attention off the people around us for even a second, I would probably hit every single one of them!

So the only time when I could look around and see any of the sights was when we stopped. That ended up happening more often than not, as it turned out. Like the time we had to stop so I could grab a stick off the ground and use it as a lever to get the chain around the gearwheel. It had jumped off when I shifted into the lowest gear. Luckily we were on a side street where there wasn’t a lot of traffic, and not a hundred yards further on, up the rather steep approach to the Manhattan Bridge, where suddenly losing the ability to crank the bike forward would have been about as bad as it could be. If you’re going to rent a bike from a vendor, by the way, take it for a spin. Ride it like you’re trying to break it. You don’t want to be a mile away from the vendor and find out that the shifter is crap or the tires are under-inflated. Voice of experience talking here.

As we rode away from the pier and under the Brooklyn Bridge, we were supposed to turn left and follow a side street to the on-ramp. We tried several times to do that but couldn’t find how to thread our way through the construction that was taking place along the road beside the bike path. Concrete barriers had been set up and, although there was one gap in them, it didn’t appear to line up with the street we were meant to take. The bike path continued along the East River toward the Manhattan Bridge, however, so we decided to do our trip ass-backwards and cross into Brooklyn on the Manhattan Bridge first, get a good look at the Brooklyn Bridge that way and maybe get the hang of riding together on the tandem.

Riding along the bike trail built our confidence a bit as there were only a few people walking or riding along it. Then we had to turn off the bike trail, ride through the neighborhood at the base of the bridge and thread our way up the entrance onto the walkway along the side of the bridge. I don’t even remember how we did that. It’s all sort of a blur of weaving through traffic while trying not to run any red lights. Other than that, I’m afraid I have to admit I suffered a sort of sensory overload and couldn’t even move my lips to answer B when she repeatedly asked me where I was going and what I was doing. Somehow, though, we ended up circling around a ramp up to the bridge and setting off across it.

We ended up on the upriver side of the bridge. Maybe there was a way to get to the walkway on the downriver side, which would’ve given us a great view of the Brooklyn Bridge, as I’d hoped, instead of the slightly less picturesque views of the electric power substations and abandoned docks of Brooklyn. Oh, well. At least there weren’t too many people on the walkway, although it would’ve been nice to have that low gear on the climb up to the middle of the bridge. We were able to pass the lady in the pink jogging outfit when we first got on the bridge but quickly got so tired and sweaty that she easily passed us halfway up the climb and we didn’t catch her again until we were coasting down the other side.

After we reached Brooklyn – chaos! We had only the dimmest notion about how to get to the Brooklyn Bridge. The map they’d given us was little help; not all the streets were labeled, and they’d intended for us to go from the Brooklyn Bridge to the Manhattan Bridge, not the other way around, so we had to find our own way through the back streets. Again, it’s a blur to me now, although I do remember that the traffic wasn’t too bad and that, once we’d made our way through the business district to a park at the base of the bridge, we were able to go slow and look around. Didn’t help, though. We looked at every map we had but couldn’t figure out how to bicycle up to the entrance to the bridge. Eventually we found a pedestrian stairway and carried the bike up. Several other bicyclists were doing it, and we were at our wit’s end, so B grabbed the back end of the bike and I grabbed the front and up we went.

When I thought of biking across the Brooklyn Bridge, I had a picture in my mind of a wide lane that we would easily go sailing along, without a care in the world, looking this way, looking that at the sights of the New York skyline. In actual fact, there’s a photo on the vendor’s web site showing two people doing exactly that. BUT: Bicyclists share a boardwalk with pedestrians that runs down the middle of the bridge above the traffic lanes and appears to be about ten or twelve feet wide. There’s a white line painted down the middle of the boardwalk, and on one side of the line there’s the classic stick figure of a walking man to indicate the pedestrian lane, while on the other side of the line there’s a stick figure on a bike to indicate the bike lane.

The pedestrians pay no attention whatever to the line. They only shy away from the bike lane when bikers whizzing by nearly run them down. And the New Yorkers making their way on bike across the bridge, as they probably do every day of the week, were flying fearlessly through the crowds of people, and around the dorky old slowpoke tourists like us, as effortlessly as you would sidestep a telephone pole. I don’t know how, but they did.

As for us, I don’t know how we crossed the bridge without hitting someone. It was difficult enough to pick our way through the people on the uphill side where there was a little room for error, but on the downhill side it was terrifying – or, as My Darling B put it, “exhilarating!” The bridge was in the middle of a multi-billion dollar refurbishment, so the walkway on the downhill side was a gauntlet of steel shutters that narrowed the walkway even more. B started yelling “On Your Right!” when a woman stopped, looked up to admire the view and began to step back into the bike lane in front of us. I had already put all our momentum behind zigging out of the way of another biker and really thought she was going down under the wheels of our bike until B yelled and the woman jumped out of the way.

When we finally got to the Manhattan side I pulled off into a park to regain some sense of composure and powow with B to plan for the next stage of our ride. We had been thinking about riding back down the East River bike path to Battery Park and, if we felt we could keep going, north along the Hudson River to visit the parks there, then double back to the pier to turn in our bike. B was still up for it, so off we went.

We had to ride past the South Street Seaport, which is where tourists buses stop and throngs of tourists off-load, gathering in the bike lane before marching off, in the bike lane, to whatever sights they’ve stopped to see along the river front. We had to dismount in order to cross through the streams of people, but once we were through we got back on the bike and shaved past them by yelling “On Your Right!” over and over while picking up speed. It worked on the Brooklyn Bridge, and it worked there, too. They jumped out of our way like scared mice.

Just past the pier there was a lot of construction that narrowed the bike lane to about three feet, and it was choked with pedestrians. No amount of yelling would make them jump out of our way – there was no place for them to jump to. We had to get off the bike again and walk it between the orange plastic fences, excusing ourselves as we poked each passing tourist with the handlebars. After walking maybe 50 yards there was room to one side to pull off the path. The construction and the narrowed path went on as far as we could see, so I proposed to B that we turn around while we were still close enough to the rental place and return the bikes now. That way we would have the rest of the afternoon to walk wherever we wanted without having to drag a tandem bicycle with us wherever we went. She agreed, and back we went.

To wrap up: A fun tour, an exhilarating ride across the Brooklyn Bridge, but riding a bike to Battery Park is not the way to go while all that construction is going on, and make sure your bike works before you leave.

The Curse of Bleecker Street

Frau Bleecker!Beware the Curse of Bleecker Street! This is an age-old New York City curse that will strike while you’re trying to find a place along Bleecker, or if you have to cross Bleecker, or even while you’re walking down a street that sounds like “Bleecker.” You will be mysteriously overcome by a desire to walk blocks, or even miles away from your intended destination if you’re not paying attention. Don’t be fooled! We were, and here are but a few of our tales:

Although B was not feeling entirely well Wednesday night, she was very hungry after a day of tramping all over New York and wanted to find a nice place to eat a really good meal, so after going back to the hotel to clean up we did a little Googling on the internet for Italian restaurants in the neighborhood and decided that Bianca’s on Bleecker Street sounded like just the kind of place we’d like to go. We knew from our walk that morning that we could find Bleecker by getting off the train at the Christopher Street station, and we figured that finding number 5, the address of Bianca’s, would be a matter of simply walking down the street a few blocks. And in theory, that would’ve worked. In theory.

We had no trouble finding Bleecker after getting off the train and weren’t fazed much by discovering that the addresses we were seeing were in the mid-200s because they can change very suddenly. We had seen them go from 200 to 100 to single digits in just a couple of blocks on other streets. Unluckily, that didn’t happen on Bleecker Street. We walked three or four blocks and the numbers were still in the 200s. We walked another three or four blocks and although the numbers dropped below 200, they stubbornly stayed in the high 100s no matter how much further we trudged.

Finally I stopped under a light to show B the map and plead with her to go somewhere else, anywhere else, rather than keep plodding on. It would have been no more than another six or eight blocks but I really didn’t have a special need to eat at that particular restaurant any longer. I was able to convince her to turn back and we caught a train back to Christopher Street where we utterly failed to find a nice quiet Italian place and had to settle for an Olive Garden knockoff that served pesto so full of stems I wouldn’t have fed it to rabbits. At least they poured a generous glass of wine.

The next afternoon we were trying to find the Bridge Cafe for lunch. B had read all kinds of good things about the Bridge Cafe and really wanted to try it. Although we found it with little trouble, there was a handwritten sign on the door that said they were closed for lunch due to a freak electrical fire, and once again we were left searching for a place to eat.

Looking at the map, we noticed that we seemed to be not very far at all from the far end of Bleecker Street where the Italian restaurant we’d been searching for the night before was supposed to be. It was five or six blocks away but we thought a nice quiet place where we could sit for a while would be worth the walk. When we got to Bleecker and started up the street we saw right away that the addresses were very wrong, and when I checked the map I found that we were on Beekman Street, not Bleecker.

So we found the nearest subway station and took a train to Bleecker Street station, which was supposed to be just a couple blocks away from Bianca’s. Working our way down the street, our anticipation grew as we passed restaurant after restaurant where people were sitting at the tables, enjoying glasses of wine, the aromas of so many delicious meals drifting into the streets. Finally we reached the end of Bleecker and No 5, the address of Bianca’s and it was closed! For no reason that they cared to explain, it was the only restaurant on the street that was not serving lunch that day.

We were so completely deflated that for ten or fifteen minutes we couldn’t decide what to do. When we could, we got on a train and went back to Chelsea to look for an Italian restaurant across the street from a Cuban place where we’d eaten dinner a couple nights before. It was closed, too. No surprise there.

So, to summarize, the three Italian places we were looking for were closed, while every other restaurant in NYC was open for late lunch. In the end we decided to just bend to the will of fate and went back to the Cuban place, which was not only open 24/7, it was also serving mojitos. Yum.

Our final encounter with the curse of Bleecker Street came when we were on our way to Murry’s Cheese Shop. It’s kind of a big deal, especially to foodies like My Darling B who adore cheese in a way that makes people like me feel as if we should just pretend we don’t know what’s going on.

The quickest way to get to Murray’s from our hotel was to take the A, C or E train to Washington Square, walk down to Cornelia Street and hang a right when we got to Bleecker Street. Since going to Bleecker Street had screwed up every other plan we’d made so far, I took extra care to research the hell out of our trip before we left by Googling Murray’s, making notes in our guide book and drawing arrows on the maps to indicate which corners we had to watch for and which way to turn.

Everything seemed to go smoothly. We easily caught a train right away after we got to the station, found Cornelia Street with no effort at all and made our way down it to Bleecker. Our friend Troy at the Chelsea Pines had told us that Cornelia Street was a great place to get a bite to eat, what with all the different restaurants along it but, although we saw three or four bars, most of the shops along the street appeared to be selling sex toys. “I hope Troy wasn’t trying to pull our legs,” B said.

The street also seemed to be a lot longer than the map indicated it would be, and by the time we got to Bleecker we found out why: We’d been walking along 4th Street the whole time and were four blocks north of where we should’ve come out! I grabbed B’s hand and we doubled back to 6th Ave to find out how that had happened.

At the top of 4th Street we found the street sign that pointed down the street and clearly read “Cornelia” but the sign pole was bent at a weird angle and the signs hung slightly skewed from the direction of the streets. It looked as if someone had backed into it with a car and twisted it around so that the sign that read “Cornelia” was pointed down 6th Street. That was about the craziest example of the curse of Bleecker Street that we saw while we were there.


We’re back from New York. It may take a while for My Darling B to adjust. “It’s so quiet here! No car horns, no rumbling as the trains go by, and there’s nobody walking down the street!”

First thing she asked for when we got back was coffee. No matter where we went in New York City, we got really crappy coffee that tasted like cardboard.

It was much the same story with beer. We stopped in just one bar that served decent beer. Everywhere else, the beer was bland and ordinary. You’d think that, in one of the biggest cities in the world, we would’ve been able to get a decent cup of coffee and a decent mug of beer, but no. We had to come back to Madison, Wisconsin, to get both.

Even so, we had a great time and we miss it already.

Abingdon Square

image of Abingdon Square in NYCIf you’re a pigeon in the Chelsea area of New York City (because so many pigeons read this blog, right?), don’t trust the guy with a box who throws bread crumbs to you in Abingdon Square!

While I was sitting on a park bench with My Darling B Wednesday morning, a man passed by us carrying a cardboard box and several plastic bags. He went round the corner to sit at an empty bench not twenty feet from us, set the cardboard box beside him on the bench and began digging around in one of the plastic bags.

“There aren’t any signs in this park asking people not to feed the pigeons,” B remarked, referring to a sign we saw in Central Park the day before, a sign that virtually everyone there was ignoring.

Just as she finished saying that, the man stood up from his bench and began scattering bread crumbs on the ground around his feet. Pigeons flew from as far as a block away to gather in a busy, fluttering knot around him, pecking at the crumbs. While we watched him feed the birds he looked over at us, smiled, and pointed down at them while he said something, but we couldn’t make out his words over the noise of so many beating wings and busily pecking beaks.

Eventually, he took a seat on the bench as he continued to scatter crumbs across the ground around him. Then he paused, I presumed because he’d thrown out so many crumbs that the pigeons were crawling over each other trying to pick it all up, but no: He suddenly lunged forward, reaching into the teeming throng with his hands. The whole mass of them to exploded into flight all at once. When the air cleared, the guy was standing with his hands straight out in front of him, holding a pigeon which he quickly shoved through the flaps of the cardboard box beside him.

Smiling at us again to take his leave, he packed up his things, grabbed the box and sauntered off. Looked like someone had a dinner of squab planned for that night.


<img src="" align="left" width="300" B jumped a subway turnstile yesterday! Can you get a more authentic New York experience than that? And it only happened because we weren’t paying attention.

We had to catch the train at the Christopher Street station and went down the wrong set of stairs, ending up on the platform for the train that was headed uptown instead of downtown, so we had to leave the platform, climb up the stairs, cross the street and go back down the other set of stairs to the platform where the downtown train would meet us, if our Metro cards had let us in when we got there. They didn’t. Apparently, if you swipe your card at any given station, it won’t work there again, at least not for while. We don’t know how long, exactly, because there was no attendant to ask, and no matter how thoroughly we searched the station, we couldn’t find a helpful sign or informational poster to tell us.

So we did what any reasonable people would do in our situation: We uselessly swiped our Metro cards a couple dozen times each, getting the same stupid error message over and over again, until finally I caved and bought a couple of one-way tickets from the machine, handed one to B, swiped mine in the turnstile and stepped through. Once on the platform I turned to say something to B, only to discover she wasn’t there. Given our luck up to that point, I can hardly say I was surprised. Turned out she was still back on the other side of the turnstile, swiping her card.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” I said.

“It says, ‘See attendant,'” she told me, reading the error message.

There was, as I have already noted, no attendant at the station, so I told her, “Screw it! Jump the turnstile!”

That didn’t go over very well with her. “There are cameras everywhere!” she protested. “I’ll get in trouble!”

“How will you get in trouble?” I asked. “We paid for the ticket. Jump the damned thing.”

She wasn’t quite up to jumping it – we’re not twenty years old any more – so she ducked under the bar and joined me on the platform, nervously glancing over her shoulder at every person who walked past us. When we got off at the next station she was sure there would be a transit cop waiting for her, which would have been the perfect ending to this story, but there wasn’t. She got away scott-free.

Architecture tour

image of sailboat on East River, NYCOn Tuesday, we took a boating tour all the way around the island of Manhattan.

(That’s not the boat we did it in. It’s only a cool-looking boat that got in the snapshot I was taking of the Brooklyn Bridge. I took photos of the boat we went in, but they were really boring, so I used this one instead. Artistic license. Deal with it.)

About a month before we left for New York City, I was paging through The New York Times when I read about a guided tour of New York that focused on the architecture of the buildings making up the skyline. The advantage to doing it in a boat that sailed up the East River and down the Hudson was that you could see the skyline at a distance and gain an appreciation of how architecture tried, or sometimes failed, to design buildings that compliment their surroundings.

The boat we rode in was a replica of the kind of passenger boats that used to ferry people back and forth across the rivers around New York a hundred years ago. To catch it, we had to walk from our hotel in the heart of Chelsea to the piers along the shore of the Hudson. Most of the piers along this stretch of the river were demolished years ago, and the few that were still standing appeared to be derelict, except for Chelsea Piers. The piers used to be where the luxury liners of the White Star Line and Cunard Line docked in the 20s and 30s. Four of the piers have been rebuilt into a sort of community center where you can play golf, drop off your kids for gym class, stop by for a beer at the Chelsea Brewing Company, or catch a boat to sail around the island.

Our guide, an architect named John from the American Institute of Architects, sort of rocked my world when he referred to New York City as an archipelago city. I’ve known for years that Manhattan’s an island, but somehow it escaped me that, of the other four boroughs that make up the city of New York, only the Bronx is on the mainland. Brooklyn and Queens are on Long Island, and Staten Island is, duh, an island.

We sailed south from Chelsea Piers on the Hudson River into New York Harbor, far enough to take us past Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. I hate to have to say something as cliched as this, but the statue looks so small! I’m surprised more than ten people can get into it at a time. And John pointed out an interesting fact about the pedestal the statue’s mounted on: it’s modeled after a fortress. America’s shining beacon of freedom is penned up within the stone walls of a reinforced battlement. The ironies of our country’s metaphors never cease to amaze.

The tour continued up the East River from the harbor. It was just about this time that it started to rain, but luckily the boat we were on was boxed in on all sides by plexiglass. We spent about three hours sailing all the way up the East River past Harlem and back down the Hudson, following the sites as we went. An interesting part of the tour (interesting to a nerd like me) was looking at all the different kinds of bridges we sailed under as we went. And the Palisades along the New Jersey shore looked strangely primeval after being surrounded by skyscrapers for the better part of two hours.

A Slice of Brooklyn

image of My Darling B in Brooklyn with PROOF!If you’re ever out this way and you’ve always wanted to do a little sight-seeing in Brooklyn, a good way to do it would be to book a tour with A Slice of Brooklyn. Not only do they make sure you have a lot of fun, they feed you some pretty good pizza, too.

We were about a half-hour early getting to the corner near Union Square where we were supposed to meet the bus on Monday morning, but the storefront across the street had big picture windows filled with crates and bottles of wine, so we wandered over there and looked over the labels, a very agreeable way to pass the time. When it got close to ten-thirty we drifted back across the street where a small crowd was gathering at the corner around a dark-haired young woman who introduced herself later as Paula, our guide.

Paula, it turned out, had a story for everything we saw, a patter that never let up and a delivery that was never boring. After we got on the bus and she did the head count, she explained as we headed toward Brooklyn that we would be crossing the Manhattan Bridge, and if it seemed somehow wrong that we weren’t crossing on the Brooklyn Bridge it was actually very right, because this way we’d get a really great view of the Brooklyn Bridge. She could’ve stopped there and let us think they were doing it all for us, but it turns out there’s a weight restriction on the Brooklyn Bridge, and she got the driver in trouble once for having him cross it. It was a story she couldn’t pass up telling.

Our first stop was the neighborhood under the Manhattan Bridge, called Dumbo by the people who live there – Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. Paula said it used to be old warehouses where artists found cheap loft space and, to keep the hoighty-toity types away, they gave their neighborhood what they thought was a stupid-sounding name. It backfired on them, because apartments there go for millions now that it’s been gentrified. But, there’s a great little park poking out into the East River where you can get an unmissable view of the Manhattan skyline and the Brooklyn Bridge.

Next stop, Grimaldi’s Pizza. We made two stops for pizza on the tour and this was the better of the two; thin-crust margherita pizza and a bottle of root beer to go with it. Paula said it was considered the best place to get coal-fired pizza in all of New York City and that people were often lined up around the block to get in. She had a pretty good story about the original owner selling out to somebody else, then opening a rival pizzeria next door, but I can’t remember it. If you want the details, you’ll have to sign up for the tour and make sure you’re on the bus with Paula.

Then we took a spin through the neighborhoods of Brooklyn. One of the fun things about the tour was the way they played scenes from well-known films like Goodfellas, Saturday Night Fever and Last Exit to Brooklyn as we drove through the city, matching scenes in the movies to landmarks that we were passing at the time. Most were, oddly, movies I’d only ever seen snippets of, never watched from start to finish. It turns out I could make a long To Be Watched list of movies set in Brooklyn.

Coney Island was the final stop before heading back to Manhattan. We didn’t stay long, only ten minutes or so, the only time I was disappointed with the tour.

Grand Central Terminal

image of Grand Central TerminalWe went to Grand Central Station Tuesday night and, while we were there, ate supper at the Oyster Bar. Grand Central Terminal was one of those must-see tourist destinations we had to check off our list and, if I were here with a bunch of train nerds, I probably would’ve wanted to spend more time exploring the tunnels that branch off in all directions from the great hall but, being here as an ordinary tourist with My Darling B, we just went in, gawped up at the ceiling, took a couple of photos and left.

Luckily, Grand Central is not one of those places where they made us take off our shoes and belt and had to consent to a frisking just to get in and see it. This is only me talking but, if I were going to do the trip to New York City all over again, I would argue for not visiting any place like that. Grand Central’s still just a train station with thousands of people parading through it each day, so nobody’s getting frisked to get in, not yet, although there are soldiers with machine guns stationed in the hallways. I thought that was a little much.

Our guidebook says that the Oyster Bar has the best seafood in town. I hate to be a wet blanket, but if this is the best seafood in town, don’t even bother ordering seafood while you’re in New York. The Oyster Bar has seafood, and it’s not bad, but it’s not great. It’s not even pretty good. It’s good, and that’s about all it is. I’ve been served much better seafood in Madison, Wisconsin. No guidebook on earth has any business telling anybody that this is the best seafood in New York City.

But let me back up a little bit, if I may, and begin at the beginning, because The Oyster Bar’s problems don’t start with their inventory, they start with the service, which is bad in so many ways, the first way being that the host seemed to think it was his job to make us feel that we were about as significant to him as a couple of whiny kids, needing only to be shooed away so we wouldn’t sully the atmosphere for his better guests. As we approached his booth he stepped away to survey the dining room, so we waited a moment for him to return and, when he came back and I asked about a table for two, he pointed over my shoulder across the sandwich counter and gave me these instructions: “Through the doorway marked ‘Saloon.'” Not even a “please.” Just, Go away.

I was confused. I thought we were standing at the dining room and that he, the host, would seat us in the dining room, or at least tell me why he couldn’t serve us. A rude brush-off was not a response I expected, so I asked, rather reasonably, I thought, “Excuse me?”

“You wanted a table for two, right?”

“Yes, that’s right,” I answered.

“Go through the door marked ‘Saloon’ and ask for a table for two,” he said.

From his expression I could see that we were dismissed, so I turned and lead My Darling B across the room to the Saloon because she was hungry and wanted to eat at The Oyster Bar, even though I couldn’t understand for the life of me why she would want to at that point.

The Saloon was a bar with a dining room, and we were met at the door by a sullen teenager dressed in the all-white livery of a bus boy who asked whether we wanted to sit at a table and, when we said we did, waved his hand toward the tables along the wall and told us to sit wherever we wanted. And he threw a couple of menus at us. I can’t remember if he brought us water glasses or if the stink-eyed waiter did, but it doesn’t matter. Whoever it was filled our water glasses only once, and after that pretended we didn’t even have water glasses.

The waiter was the worst piece of work of all the staff. When he came to our table to take our drinks order, I was ready with mine but when he turned to B and she said she was still thinking and would like to order in a few minutes, he rolled his eyes at her and stalked off. When he brought my beer several minutes later, he avoided making any eye contact with B and rushed off before either of us could say anything. Ten minutes later he rushed back to our table and literally positioned himself with his back to B, pointedly addressing me and me alone when he asked if we were ready to order now. “I’ll have the calamari to start and the smoked North Atlantic salmon for my main course, and she would like the, ah, I’m sorry, darling, what did you want?” He was forced to twist his head over his shoulder to take B’s order because he refused to turn to face her.

When one of the kitchen staff brought the calamari about ten minutes later, B still didn’t have a beer and she’d already drunk all her water, but she managed to snag the kitchen runner before he could get away and asked him if he couldn’t check on it, please. He must have caught up with the waiter somewhere behind the scenes because Mister Stink Eye appeared another five minutes later with a foamy glass of beer that he left in a puddle on the table before he ran off. B wrinkled her nose at it when she brought it to her lips, took a tentative sip, thought about it for a second before passing it to me and asked, “Does that taste like a lager to you?” The smell alone told me it was an IPA. B doesn’t drink hoppy beers, so I offered her my Oktoberfest, which she accepted rather than wait another ten minutes for something to drink.

The smoked North Atlantic salmon I had was pretty good, but it was only pretty good, and it was served with a lame garnish of about half a dozen scallions on a limp leaf of lettuce. Maybe I’m asking for too much, but even back in Madison, where seafood has to be flown in from the coast, I expect a plate of smoked salmon that cost me nineteen ninety-five to make me want to get up on my chair and sing.

My Darling B ordered a lobster sandwich. They called it something a little more frou-frou than that, I can’t remember exactly what, but it was shredded lobster in mayo on a really cheap white bread hot dog bun. Looking at it, I could almost picture the plastic ice cream bucket they scooped it out of. B didn’t even want to finish it and offered about a scoop’s worth to me. There’s a good indication of how much she liked it: She ate some and threw the rest to her husband. I finished it off just to see what it was like and, again, it was okay. Not even pretty good, just okay.

Go to Grand Central Terminal, I urge you. Look up at the ceiling and go, “Ahhhh.” Take those photos. But if you’re staying for dinner, get a sandwich in the food court. That’s affordable, and it’s just as tasty as anything they’ve got at the Oyster Bar.