Tonight I walked past Fitzgerald’s, this humble Irish pub on 3rd Avenue, on the way back from my friend’s place in Murray Hill. I went to that bar three years ago in December after a spontaneous decision to drive overnight to the East Coast from Chicago. I still remember it vividly, the drive up I-95 at 5am in a blizzard into Brooklyn. We stayed a few days and saw the city, went to a show at the Blender Theater (now the Gramercy Theatre) and spent the rest of the night at Fitzgerald’s. There were at least twenty of us, playing songs on the jukebox and singing belligerently until 4 or 5am. That was my first year in Chicago and the 2nd time I’d been to New York City. And now, three years later to walk past it and live 4 blocks from it, is a trip: from the vivid memory of when these streets were unfamiliar and the prospect of living in a place like this was almost asinine, to a reality. It’s a reminder of how great it is to be there. It goes so fast that I forget how insane it is that I’m here, waking up in Manhattan and walking towards the Empire State Building, or down 22nd Street to the school I’ve been dreaming of going to since I was 17. It’s such a strange thing to walk past. I felt like I was out of my body, watching my 20 year old self through the window, in a black scarf. Watching something that then felt so far away, become a reality, my reality, my daily life.
I also realized how much I’m in my element, more than ever before. It's only on par with how I felt at 18, when I was driving across the country in a beat-up Camry for shows with the best people I’d ever met. We became close because we loved and believed in the same thing, and that’s what’s happening all over again. I feel so lucky to have adapted to everything so quickly, became readily close with these people I’ve known for less than 3 months. Every day is the same corporal, energetic feeling I remember from those shows -- the feeling of cold steel bars under our hands and the pressure of the crowds behind us. It’s the same as the sound of knives sharpening on steels, pans sizzling, the sweat on my hairline, a sharp knife slicing into an onion or a tender steak.
We’re focusing on regional French cuisine in class right now, and today was Alsace, a Northeastern region heavily influenced by Germany and Austria. We made 2 different tarts, a tarte flambé (almost like a pizza) of cottage cheese, sautéed bacon, and caramelized onions, and a tarte aux pommes de terre, flaky pastry dough with potatoes, bacon, hardboiled eggs, and creme fraiche. It’s the first time we’ve done doughs and I was so in my element, even just the feeling of the butter incorporating in my hands with the flour, the silkiness of the yeast as it surrounds the gluten as I’m kneading and rolling. There’s not a day I don’t want to be in that kitchen. In all 4 years of college I never felt close to this, never so comfortable and energized and inspired. Never so in love with the people around me (with the exception of my best friends of course). Never so excited to be exactly where I am. Every damn day.