While we were in New York for the 5 Boro, we met up with family for brunch. We tried the Grey Dog at first, but decided it was too noisy (ha, ha . . . as if there’s such a thing as “quiet” in a NYC restaurant!).
I’m a sucker for signboards like this one. I wouldn’t know a proper pub if I found one (and I don’t drink beer, either), but something about the (admittedly faux) antiquity of a sign like this calls to my Europhile soul.
The family set off in search of other comestibles, loping, but determined. They’re a causal lot, but they get things done.
Eventually we settled on an unnamed diner a few blocks away. I didn’t take pictures; there was construction all around, and no sign on the building, which looked as if it had been recently sand-blasted.
The diner’s cooks weren’t just slinging hash; two of our party had eggs Benedict, which they pronounced to be just fine. Gotta love New York. The place was, in fact, a lot quieter than the Grey Dog, so that worked out well, too.
It was a beautiful day in Chelsea; no one minded walking.
Then we headed to the Chelsea Flea Market. This institution, a used-goods sales haven, is located on two floors of an ancient, decrepit garage which has apparently been sold. The Chelsea Flea is closing in July, possibly so that it can be turned, once again, into a garage.
It’s an institution in the neighborhood, and makes for fun, if not bargain, hunting. I failed to buy a linen tunic I loved, owning to its missing buttons (about 8 of them, hacked off) and a price that would have been right if it had been new, intact, and offered in a luxury shop.
We each brought a small treasure home: a vintage sewing pattern, a vintage printed monograph on a favorite subject, and a tome on a special interest.
The day involved some velocipede-spotting, including this Brompton, a bright red one with a trunk bag, and its equally burdened cyclist:
A few blocks away, a Strida was locked up. We were hoping that we’d discover that the fenders were wood (bamboo would have been OK!), but realized, up close, that they were a nicely-done take on wood. but not the real thing. They look quite nice with the vanilla color, though.
The first Strida I ever saw was downstairs at the MoMA (Museum of Modern Art) store. It appealed to me tremendously (so quirky and clever!), but I’ve still not ridden one. Gears are too important in my world, and so are long rides.
All in all, a lovely day. And it didn’t snow once.