“This is what it’s like to live”

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Unlike most Mondays, today I went to my SoHo coworking space. I was thinking about doing it anyway since I realized I had one March credit I had to use (I get four credits per month; it’s use-it-or-lose-it), and I want to use whatever perks I can get value out of from work as much as possible. But when a Brooklyn friend said she was taking Monday off and suggested we have lunch together, I decided it would be a good idea to meet semi-half way and meet up in Chinatown. We met up at one of my favorite Malaysian spots, Kopitiam, which she’d never been to before but loved (it’s an easy place to love; I have not brought a single person here who did not like it). Since my work schedule was relatively light, we enjoyed char kway teow, pandan chicken, fried duck tongues, Malaysian style French toast, lychee bandung, and iced Milo over two hours worth of chatter.

I told Chris what we ate, and in his usual snark, he made comments about what a busy work day I had and, “That sounds like a very luxurious Monday lunch!” If there is one thing I can never complain about with my current job, it’s the level of ownership I have over my schedule, as well as the flexibility I have to work wherever I want. I’ve had three managers now over the last almost five years, and every single one of them has agreed on the philosophy of: just get your work done, and no one will bother you about when/whether you are online.

It made me think about my neighbor I saw yesterday, who works as a doctor and is originally from Turkey. Her husband is French from France, and they both sound like they have very intense jobs. After their toddler goes to sleep at night, they both have to be back on their computers doing work and emails. She lamented how grueling it is, especially when she has to prepare all of her son’s school meals. It gets really tiring since she’s in the office five days a week, and her husband is in the office at least three days a week. So when she’s doing food prep for the week on Sunday, it’s almost like battling for time because it’s either she makes food OR she spends time with her son. He’s only engaged in the cooking if they’re making cookies, she said with a smile. The few weeks they go back to France or Amsterdam or somewhere where they have family, her parents will come up from Turkey and siblings will come from other European countries, and they will spend quality time together, 100 percent away from work. The kids will play and have fun together, and they will actually relax. She mentioned how it felt like, “All we seem to do here in America as foreigners is work, work, work. It’s so expensive here, so we don’t have a choice but to work around the clock. And so it almost feels like the only time we really get to enjoy life is when we take these trips together and spend quality time as a (wider) family. These are the times when it’s like a reminder to us: this is what it’s like to really live.”

Sometimes, I wonder if the last 17 years of working has really brought me any actual meaning into my life. I haven’t worked to increase equality in the world. I don’t save lives. I’m not researching cures for cancer or Alzheimer’s. I’m not trying to eradicate fake news and educate the masses. I basically have worked for a bunch of for-profit companies where at the end of the day, I’ve worked hard (well, most of the time) to make rich, mostly White people even richer. But then I realize… I have it really, really good. I met my life partner, husband, and father to my Kaia Pookie through work. I’ve met so many good friends and genuinely good hearted people across all the companies I’ve worked at. And I’ve also had a level of work flexibility that most people I know completely envy and wish they had. Life, I suppose, is all about give and take.

Building play date with a new friend and neighbor

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Just over a month ago, we were in our building pool with Kaia when we met another neighbor, a woman with her toddler aged son, who is about 4-5 months younger than Kaia. We made some small talk, and she suggested that we do a play date since we’re right in the same building. I left my name and number with the lifeguard (since she didn’t have her phone with her), and we went on our way. I didn’t think much of it, but as usual, hoped for the best.

I’ve tried to arrange play dates/meetups with several parents and their children who are near in age to Kaia. For the most part, it has not worked out. One dad, who was very kind and who I liked — he actually was proactive and texted me for a play date. But we quickly realized that his son was pretty aggressive and did NOT like Kaia. So, that fizzled out really quickly. Everyone else has always said they’d reach out for a play date… it’s never happened. It’s always been me, texting to ask, and then getting rejected. What is also common is that we’ll happen to pass by each other somewhere in the building, and they’ll make some empty comment like, “let’s do a play date when you’re free!” And then never, ever follow up on it. Then, you add the fact that most parents at Kaia’s school rarely want to interact with me in the corridor (one dad was shocked I remembered his name. He still can never remember my name), and they’re oftentimes just glued to their phones until the doors open for drop-off or pick-up. Becoming a parent in New York City has certainly NOT opened the doors to new-friends-making, unfortunately. This is especially annoying to think about when I hear about my friends in Long Island or San Francisco, and they say they hang out regularly with the parents of their kids’ friends, even when the kids aren’t there! I can’t help but be a bit envious and wonder why it doesn’t seem as easy for me here.

Well, the neighbor did message me! We ended up having a brief play date (derailed, as per usual, by a nap that went awry) today in the play room and lounge rooms. And we had a pretty nice conversation that was a little bit about everything: New York, how we met our spouses, cultural nuances, parents, parenting styles, cooking, toddler recipes and habits, travel, work, kids, our road to kids (IVF for both, and she’s even a fertility doctor, aka a reproductive endocrinologist!). She was also just very polite and thanked me at the end for always pronouncing her name correctly (she is Turkish from Turkey). She seemed to enjoy our time together and suggested we meet up again once they are back from some spring break travels. We’ve already organized our next play date once they are back. And she suggested that once the roof deck opens up that we all meet up with our spouses for food and drinks on a warm day.

It’s funny being in my late 30s now and seeing how I jive with other “potential” friends. It’s almost like dating, but for friends. You never know if you are going to get along with someone and “click,” and even if you think you both do, they could have a totally different opinion and either never want to see you again or just do the dick thing of simply ghosting you.

So, if I get lucky, maybe I will finally have a real building friend after living in this building for almost eight years now!

A non-rushed meal after your friends come 45 minutes late to the restaurant

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A few days ago, I complained about rushed meals and service at restaurants since the pandemic. For the most part, that always seems to happen to me when I’m with a (female) friend somewhere in Manhattan. It’s usually a semi-trendy or relatively new restaurant. There’s rarely a wait, but the restaurant feels a need to kick us out at the 9-minute mark for a party of 2. When I told Chris this, he said he never felt that pressure while we’d be out together; and yes, he’s actually right. When we’ve gone out on the weekends, mostly Saturdays, with Kaia, this has never, even once, happened to us. We’ve never gotten told when seated that we only had x amount of time. We’ve never been rushed to leave when we finish our meal and get the bill. It seems to happen when it’s just a friend and me. Does this mean that women friends are getting targeted to get out of restaurants? Or was this just a Manhattan trendy restaurant thing?

Well, today I got worried because I made a 1pm reservation at a Georgian restaurant in Brooklyn Heights to meet with two of our friends. They ended up running very late because my friend confused the booking time for later. So they showed up 45 minutes after my reservation time. We were, understandably, annoyed, but what I was actually concerned about, other than Kaia being able to sit in a high chair for that long, was whether the restaurant would get mad at us and rush our meal.

It never happened. The service was gracious. In that time, our server finished his shift and our table went to another server. That server ended up being very friendly and accommodating, and he never once told us we had x amount of time left or had to leave after a certain time. I was pleasantly surprised and felt pretty relieved in the end. I’ve come to the conclusion that the rushed restaurant situation happens when a) it’s in Manhattan), b) it’s at a semi new or trendy restaurant, and c) when it’s just a girlfriend and me. Of course, it’s annoying, but nothing can really be done about it.

Crispy bottomed guo tie / potstickers in New York City

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When I first moved to New York City almost 17 years ago, my cousin had already pre-discovered a high quality, local dumpling shop for me in my then new neighborhood of Elmhurst, Queens. It was called Lao Bei Fang and was on a side street along the main Broadway drag of Elmhurst, in an area that you could easily consider like a mini Chinatown. Back then in 2008, the owner hand-pulled almost all the noodles that were sold; he also hand rolled all the dumpling skins while his wife and helper filled them with meat and vegetable fillings. When I’d go during off times, I could get lucky and enjoy my hand pulled noodles or crispy bottomed potstickers while listening to him sing random Chinese operatic songs. The fried dumplings, aka potstickers, aka guo tie, were always perfect: they were crispy bottomed, perfectly steamed, and had juicy, rich fillings, stuffed to the brim. And I still cannot believe how cheap they were: back then, you could get four fat, stuffed, juicy dumplings for just $1! Eventually, they raised the price by a quarter, then two quarters. I’m not sure what they are charging now.

Since then, they’ve gained notoriety throughout New York City. Even tourists go there now. They had to keep up with demand and their growing business, so they started hiring more staff and grew out of their hole-in-the-wall on Whitney Avenue and moved into a much larger, more spacious restaurant along the main Broadway strip. And that, sadly, is when the quality notably declined. Once, I went and got fried dumplings that barely had a crispy bottom and were borderline cold. The noodles were irregular and almost gummy. The owner was nowhere to be seen. My favorite dumpling/hand pulled noodle place had changed forever.

At that point, I wasn’t sure what my reliable hand-pulled noodle/dumpling spot would be. I’ve found a few places in Manhattan Chinatown and Brooklyn Chinatown that do reliable steamed/boiled dumplings and hand pulled noodles. But I have yet to find a really good crispy bottomed guo tie/dumpling spot. There’s a divey spot under the Manhattan Bridge called Fu Zhou Wei Zhong Wei Jia Xiang Feng Wei, and that’s it. There are so many dumpling spots in New York City, almost too many to keep track of, but not all of them are going to have the same crisp and glory that Lao Bei Fang once had for me.

“Daddy is SO mad at you!”

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My mom called the other day to tell me that while she and my dad enjoy the videos I send of Kaia, my dad was apparently very mad at me regarding one specific video.

“Your Daddy is SO mad at you!” my mom exclaimed on the phone the other day. “What in the world are you doing giving Kaia a knife to use? She could seriously hurt herself!”

My mom was referring to the video I took of Kaia on Sunday while we were cooking together. I had laid out king oyster mushrooms on my cutting board and was getting ready to cut them. She saw that I was about to start cutting and got really excited, so she dragged out her stepping stool so that she could “help” me. I relented, and I took out her plastic toddler training knives (key word is PLASTIC) and let her cut some of them. She loves being mummy’s little kitchen helper. Yes, she does slow me down a lot, and yes, she doesn’t cut the way I’d like her to cut, but I love watching her focus, and I love seeing her face when she does a decent cut. She has to learn at some point, so I think this is a good time when she actually does want to help and shows interest. She was enjoying being my kitchen helper, constantly looking back up at me for my approval and response, and continued cutting. It’s hard to say “no” to such eager eyes.

I told my mom that they were both being ridiculous, that the knife was meant to be a toddler training knife and was made of plastic. So no matter what Kaia did, there was zero chance she could get hurt.

“It doesn’t matter!” my mom insisted. “She could still hurt herself!”

You could hear the logic in that response. Of course it doesn’t matter… because she doesn’t realize that she’s being called out for being wrong in her assumption, and she’s never wrong in her head, even in senseless moments like this. I told Chris this anecdote, to which he replied, “I’m not going to take advice from someone who has a dead kid and who only has a 50% success rate at raising kids.”

Post-pandemic time limits at restaurant tables are NOT hospitable

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In a post-pandemic Manhattan, one of the many things that has been frustrating to me while eating out, other than the massively inflated costs and expectations of extremely high tips (I have, on more than a handful of occasions, been handed or flipped a suggested tip screen where the default tip is 30 percent), has been the time limits set on tables. When you make a reservation at a restaurant that is a notch above no-frills, whether it’s on Open Table, Resy, or over the phone, you are immediately prompted with a message stating that you will agree to abide by the time limits set on tables. This is usually different depending on the size of the party, but for a party of two, it’s almost always 90 minutes; for a party of four, it’s somewhere between 2-2.5 hours. This is particularly frustrating when you already know, going into this, that you are going to be paying a lot for your meal, and that the expectations for tipping have increased. And it’s a real whammy when you check in at the host stand, and they remind you and your party on the way to your table that there’s a X-minute time limit on your table, and they ask that you respect that. When I go out to eat, I want to enjoy the company of the people I am with, AND enjoy the food and drink. I don’t want to feel rushed to order right away, to stuff the food down my throat, and to barely say hi to my friend before looking at the menu and ordering. It’s completely ridiculous and an unrealistic expectation that restaurants have of their patrons. I understand this if the restaurant has stacked reservations, is in high demand, and people are waiting. But when restaurants are not at capacity and are even nearly empty, it makes zero sense and only makes the restaurant look stupid and stingy with their space.

Tonight, I met up with a friend for dinner at La Dong, a relatively new and modern Vietnamese restaurant in Flatiron that ended up costing over $55/person after tax and tip. So in other words, this was not a budget meal. As soon as we sat down, the server handed us our menus and at the same time reminded us that we had to leave in 90 minutes. It was such a warm welcome — to say hi and in the same breath, tell your guests to get the fuck out in the next hour and a half! And then, with a smile once again, when the server came back and asked if we were ready to order, we told her we were not and would need a few additional minutes. She smiled sanguinely and said, “Of course! Please take your time!” That response was completely disingenuous; given she already told us about our 90-minute time limit, we obviously could NOT take our time and had to get a move on with ordering everything.

As soon as we ordered our two starters, shock of shock: the food came out within minutes. Another reminder to eat quickly. And when the two mains came out, they were swift and took away our starter plates. Even as we were catching up, I could feel the staff’s eyes on us, wondering how long it would take us to eat and if they’d need to remind us again that we had to leave by 7pm, as we were seated at 5:30 on the dot.

Was the service here awful? No. They tried to be friendly and gentle. I think they are all under pressure to abide by their idiot management’s instructions to enforce the time limits on tables. But it really doesn’t go well when you are in hospitality to make your guests feel that they need to rush through their meal and their socializing. What next: are restaurants going to charge by the half-hour for the table/seating space on top of charging you for food and drink? Or will they want to charge you to use their restrooms? What the hell is next?

What was really awful, which happened a few weeks ago when I had lunch with a friend in SoHo, was when twice, I had my plate taken away while I was literally still eating from it. Both times, I had just lifted chopsticks from the plate to put food in my mouth, and servers/bus boys came to clear my plate. The second time it happened, I glared hard at the server and said I was still eating.

Hospitality at restaurants has declined pretty badly across Manhattan since the pandemic. Hospitality is barely even a word with any meaning here in this borough. How can you be hospitable when welcoming someone into your business when you immediately want to chase them out as soon as you can? It’s almost a rarity now to not feel rushed through a meal in this borough and actually feel… relaxed while dining out. Even when the food and ambiance are good, even when the company is good, it’s impossible to forget that you felt you were rushed through your meal and verbally pushed out the door.

Conversations with mom = empty, nothing exchanges with no substance

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The handful of times I’ve had really interesting, thought-provoking conversations with friends’ parents, Chris’s parents, and even a friend’s grandparents, I have often thought back to the bland, boring conversations I have with my own parents. Sadly, I have become one of those adult children who has parents who barely know her. They don’t understand me or know the “real” me, and I don’t really think they care to really know who I really am. I’ve tried to share and be more open with them, but this has only backfired. So, I’ve stopped doing any substantive sharing. We go about our obligatory relationship where I check in on them, and they check in on me, but we have nothing else that really bonds us other than blood, familial love, and history.

My mom called late last night when I was about to sleep, so I called her back after work today to see how she was doing. The usual inane conversation ensued: she asked whether Chris and my cousin had found new jobs (negative to both, but also, Chris isn’t looking as I’ve said many times before, so why is she still asking this?). She asked if all my closer friends were employed and what jobs they did. I asked her why she felt the need to ask about any of their jobs, as their employment statuses had zero impact on her own life. She responded, “I just want to make sure they all have money to support themselves!” Then, she proceeded to ask about friends who have “only” one child and ask whether another one was on the way (again, not her business). I told her that if any of my friends were pregnant again, I’d eventually learn this, and then she would eventually learn this, but again, it’s none of her business. Her response: “Two is better than one!” She then inquired about another cousin and randomly said, your father thinks he’s arrogant. I plainly said that this cousin absolutely was NOT arrogant, and I had no idea why he’d even think something so stupid. “Well, he could be arrogant because he has a good job!” she said. “What do you know about his job?” I retorted. “You know nothing about his job or company!”

It was just a pointless conversation of meaningless questions that had no answers that she’d deem satisfactory. For my mom, people seem to only be deserving of “status” or “respect” if they are gainfully employed, which is funny to think about since she hasn’t worked since I was in high school. She constantly wants to know what people do for a living, then takes it upon herself to make huge, baseless assumptions about how “good” or “stable” their jobs are and what kind of money they make. It sounds like a pointless, empty exercise, a sign of how superficially she sees the world and judges people in this world.

The truth is that I have no idea what brings “meaning” or “happiness” to my parents’ life. I think about this a lot, especially after every similarly annoying conversation we have like the above. They have empty relationships with the few people they associate with. My mom loves to put on a guise when she’s around her JW friends and acquaintances. She also loves to state that her health is poor when in fact, she’s actually in pretty good shape… but perhaps not in mentally good shape. They only seem to think the world is getting worse and more dangerous and scary. They don’t really do anything that would qualify as a “hobby” to keep their minds and bodies active or occupied. As far as I am concerned, they are an example of how not to be when in my 60s and 70s.

Chocolate smeared everywhere

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On Sunday, I indulged Kaia and made some chocolate banana mini muffins. Chocolate is likely her favorite thing in the entire world now (and can you blame her?), so as soon as she sees or hears about chocolate anything, she wants in on it. I had some very dark chocolate chopped up in a jar that I’ve used here and there for baking, so I decided to throw that into the chocolate banana muffin batter, along with some (sugarless) cocoa powder. The batter was already low sugar (sweetened with just a splash of maple syrup, plus very overripe bananas), but I made it even healthier by replacing the called-for all purpose flour with half whole wheat, half ground oats. I figured some chocolate in there would only do some good.

I had one to sample, and I was quite impressed. For something so healthy, it tasted quite indulgent. And Kaia certainly felt the same way. She wolfed down three in one go before I had to cut her off. I packed some for our ride back home from school today. I came prepared with wet wipes in tow. She proceeded to eat all three I packed in a Stasher bag quite gingerly, knowing she had just three and would have none left after she was done. She also proceeded to smear chocolate literally everywhere she could — on her backpack straps, her jacket, the subway seat, and even the subway window. My wipes went to cleaning far more than just her face and hands…

That’s the youthful bliss of being a baby or toddler, though. You are blessed to have zero self awareness of or aversion to mess or dirt, and instead, you fully embrace the moment and “get in there” with whatever delicious food you are presented with. Sometimes, I wish I could eat with that much relish and abandon even now.

Gaeng Jued (“bland curry” soup in Thai) today

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Last year, I wanted to get more into making soups more frequently. They’re nourishing and always satisfying, but I don’t think I got into a decent groove with it until this year. I sourced a place for pork ribs under my nose at the Chinese supermarket I usually go to, and since then, I’ve been looking at more recipes and tinkering with them. The latest soup I made today is Hot Thai Kitchen’s gaeng jued woon sen. In Thai, that literally means “bland curry with glass noodles,” but the only reason it’s called bland is that it’s not spicy at all. It’s meant to be a “wet” component of a Thai meal next to rice and other more spiced / hot dishes. It has a lot in common with Chinese soups I’ve grown up with: it uses pork bones, daikon for sweetness, and has really simple seasonings, such as fish sauce, soy sauce, and white pepper. It’s given more heft with rustic spoon-flicked pork meatballs that are quickly tossed together, different vegetables (I used napa cabbage and “seafood” mushrooms, almost like thicker enoki mushrooms), and even egg (I used egg tofu today). Then, it’s topped with garnishes like cilantro, scallions, and the true flavor bombs: fried crispy garlic chips with its residual garlic oil.

If anyone had this soup and actually thought it was bland, I probably wouldn’t want to associate with them. This is the epitome of Thai home cooking, and in many ways, very similar to comforting, homely Chinese soups I grew up eating, just with a garlicky twist. Variations of this soup will definitely be kept on rotation for us.

The ice cream date that did not go as planned

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Since we have now reached Daylight Savings Time for the year, and as the weather is slowly but surely getting warmer (or so we hope), I thought about how cute it would be if I took Kaia on brief little snack or dessert outings in Chinatown before we head back up to the Upper West Side. It would be a surprise, and given it would include food, she would surely be happy. So when I picked her up from school yesterday, I told her that I was going to give her a surprise. Of course, she lit up right away and got really excited. She eagerly held my hand and walked happily as we crossed Chrystie Street, went across the little park, and popped into an ice cream shop.

I chose Smoove Ice Cream, an Asian-owned ice cream shop with Asian flavors, since it was just over a block away, so it wouldn’t be too far from the train station. I let Kaia look at all the ice cream flavors and let her choose one. Of the ones she pointed at, she decided on lychee rose. We did a split scoop, so the second flavor I chose was black sesame. We got the split scoop in a cup and shared it in the small seating area that Smoove had. She was super happy, sing-songy, speaking all the Chinese I wanted her to speak. Then, when the ice cream was all finished, she got sad and ran up to the counter again with her empty cup. I told her that we were all done and that it was time to go home. She brought her empty cup up to the counter… so she could get MORE ice cream in it. She didn’t understand that this wasn’t like being at school or home — she couldn’t just ask for “more” and get it (without paying for it!).

I told her that we were done eating ice cream, and that it was time to go home. She yelled and said she wanted more and would not stop. So the worker behind the counter felt sympathetic and offered a sample spoon of whatever she wanted. Kaia asked for strawberry, so he gave her a massive sample sized scoop. As we walked out of the shop with it, she nibbled on it bit by bit, but of course, it was melting… and then, like a slow-motion crash, the big blob of pink ice cream slid down, and straight onto the ground. And the biggest melt down ensued. She immediately burst into tears and stomped her feet over and over. She tried to run back to the ice cream shop to ask for more, but I blocked her from walking back. Kaia refused to walk and just kept crying and screaming. I had to carry her into the subway and onto the train. She cried the whole way home until we exited the station.

Well, that was not how I envisioned our impromptu ice cream date going. But alas, things don’t always go as you’d imagine with a toddler, do they?