Original Article: http://dartreview.com/archives/2006/02/10/a_williamsburg_cookbook_soviet_gumbo.php
Friday, February 10, 2006
As it was best said by Jay-Z, this is the ‘school of hard knocks,’ battle bots, rattail haircuts, Atari bars, revivalist spelling bees, lycra laced jeans for all, and Hassidic Jews. That’s right; I’m talking about Williamsburg, Brooklyn, son. After a month in this strange land I have yet to crack the mystery (and misery) surrounding Williamsburg’s appeal. But even so, I settle back here with a Sparks under my cunningly arranged chicken wire canopy, absorbing the heroin den aesthetic as I prepare to tell you about what the ‘life’ is all about.
I first witnessed the ‘life’ on the eve of my arrival. The scene was set with a gumbo party in honor of the New Year and my arrival in the Burg. The party’s elements were mixed much like the fine Louisiana soup, and, like the gumbo, the night was spicy to my taste, and riddled with far too many mushrooms. It was the typical mixture of hippies with nerd rims and nostalgic wannabe rockers in leather with Addams Family pallor and stubble and the vein wounds to prove it. I had heard that the makers of Vice were Libertarian leaning at the least, so I was hopeful that some of those in attendance might be like minded as well—or at the least apathetic. Our game of Apples to Apples illustrated that this was not the case. This little word association game showed me that neither backhanded digs at Communist Russia, nor inadequate hatred for Tony Blair were appreciated in this neighborhood. The only thing that really mattered to these people was the taper and spandex content of my jean.
As my jetlagged and battle-wearied soul witnessed the impromptu, spastic dance party in the living room and the mood altered spin-the-bottle session at the foot of the couch, I wondered what it might be like if I could rise from my chair and dance among them (or flee). Perhaps even put their slippery alligator boots to shame as they worked diligently for the better part of an hour to perfect a particularly ‘difficult’ dance step on my newly varnished concrete floor with superhuman concentration.
But I would have subjected myself to hours or even weeks of grueling dance-offs if I could have only avoided the scene that unfolded following my first day of work. During that fateful gumbo party the seeds of disaster were sown: my roommate gave a pack of NYU film students the run of our apartment for the creation of their ‘short film.’ Wholly unconcerned at the time, I discussed the production with one of the ‘student filmmakers.’ It was to be about a man who is ‘living the lifestyle’—whatever that meant. In time, I would learn that this was code for coke, ‘hos, and drum kits. In garbled tones he continued, mumbling about the difficulty of locating willing strippers to grace the production, since so few of them wished to appear on film. At last, our conversation reached its intended peak: he asked me what I was doing on Thursday, since ‘they might need me to fill in.’ I gave my regrets, telling him that I was to start work and was so sorry to miss out, though I’m sure S&M gear is always enticing.
Unfortunately, I did not ‘miss out’ after all. As I rolled into the apartment after a long day on the other side of the water, I was fully prepared to make dinner and settle in with the TV for the night. Swinging open the door, I spotted a half-nude, greased up African American gent with a mohawk exiting my bathroom. Finally, gathering courage, I stepped further into the room, noticing a searing conglomeration of fishnets, pasties, and leather panties. I blushed, averted my eyes and plowed past the entry to the living room where I was met with metal camera tracks, absent furniture, and a full film crew.
As the only resident on site, I felt it my duty to maintain order. But as quiet was called on the set (or my living room, if you will), I gave up the good fight and retired to my bedroom, sitting in utter darkness with my faithful “Disney Rarities” DVD as the ‘lifestyle’ raged on outside my door. Even here, I was not impervious to their call. A heated, if ridiculous, argument sprouted over the whereabouts of the drugs and paraphernalia needed for the scene. In raised tones the director inquired, “Where is the cocaine?!” Shaking the mental image, I tried to re-invest myself in the Paul Bunyan cartoon I had been watching.
After the pizza boxes had been cleared from the kitchen, and the bathroom thoroughly disinfected—even the shower, I’m not the sort to take any chances—I hung up my mops and scrub brushes and settled into bed with skin crawling and heart all aflutter. It’s oft said that you aren’t a “true” resident of Williamsburg until you hang out with (or at least clean up after) a stripper. I considered this my entrée into the wide world of “cred” and discounted cover charges.
But, it wasn’t meant to be. I simply wasn’t prepared to become the sort of girl who frequents nudie clubs. The Burg was beginning to exact a more subtle change on my person, though. For convenience’s sake, organic eggs began to replace Target ones in my refrigerator; I began to feel ‘too friendly’ when I smiled at 4 year olds; boots suddenly ‘needed’ to be worn (and in the words of an infamous lyric, ‘we rockin’ stilettos ho’); and, quite possibly worst all, I threw in all my chips for the Mudhoney ‘rock and roll’ haircut. Beyond this, I even found myself wondering how many Sweatin’ to the Oldies sessions it might take to become gaunt enough to wear spandex all the time.
Also demoralizing: I have become suspiciously fond of cats—more specifically one named Soviet. This is a trend that is predominant throughout Williamsburg, with innumerable apartment listings specifying ‘chicks’ or ‘dudes’ and always, ‘one cool cat.’ (The cat in the ads always seems to be just ‘cool’ — the word choice never deviates.) I will refrain from spouting proud cat lady anecdotes, but suffice it to say that she kills with the quick precision of a 22-caliber rifle and I love her for it.
Attempting to avoid the sweaty bodies and pulsing beats of Williamsburg nightlife proved impossible when I was met with a pleading note from my roommate to attend his opening (yes, he’s an artiste by night and a wallpaper designer by day, trés romantique ). This tender missive brought me to the front stoop of Supreme Trading. Mistaking the spot for an auto body shop on the first three passes and the wily smoking throngs out front for a motorcycle gang (no lie), I arrived a ‘bit’ late. When I finally realized my mistake and flashed the bouncer my Minnesota Driver’s License, I discovered that ‘motorcycle gang’ they were not. For starters, not a one of them possessed the leg strength necessary to support a hog. The gangly teetotalers posed with their Sparks cans and puffed away on their cigarettes with the same sense of urgency that an asthmatic takes with his inhaler. The DJs spun indistinguishable beats as the crowd tried to ignore them. But what truly set Supreme Trading apart was its extensive gallery space. As I squeezed past the streamlined bodies, I found myself wondering what the crew of TNC might think of this spectacle. One thing was certain: I wasn’t going to speak of the bawdy, fluorescent mash up I’d encountered in that space at work on Monday. The posterior close-ups in the photography section and Warhol-meets-Stefani-dayglow portraiture were certainly exacerbated by the fact that I had missed the open bar (no thanks to the case of mistaken identity and the motorcycle gang). I considered it lucky that the one wall of adequately executed (read: relatively sane) works came from my roommate.
After that night, I’ve done my best to guard against panic attacks and contracting emphysema amid crunk, but even so, you can’t avoid everything. Certain unspoken rules have become clear to me, the first of which is the simple fact that true Williamsburgers don’t discuss the Burg, nor do they call themselves ‘Burgers.’ I am well aware of my transgression here. The second and arguably most important rule is that you cannot and must not appear to be enjoying yourself—at any cost. Life, after all, is a miserable farce. (The wages of this sin is your credibility.) Even if you are playing Centipede, dancing to Swedish pop, drinking an orange float, or any combination of the three, you must maintain a stoic expression that lets everyone around you know that you are in on the rules. Any outsiders or tourists that may transgress the bounds will get the upraised eyebrow, but never never an amused chuckle.
That is one of the nicer manifestations of the ‘rules’: in the innumerable times my clumsy feet have tripped, never will a Williamsburger laugh at me. They undoubtedly feel the burning urge to let loose, but the long hours they’ve put in to cultivate their ‘cool’ cannot be squandered on the likes of me. A resident of Queens or the Bronx is always ready to break in with a laugh and quip, but not so for the twenty-something Brooklynites I see morning, noon, and night.
In the month and a half that I have remaining here, I can only hope that I too don’t lose the will to make fun of transplanted Midwesterners who always manage to fall down stairs. And continue to pray that I will never inherit another animal named ‘Soviet’ again.