Turkish Grill

When I was a kid one of my favorite movies was Mermaids, because I loved the fact that Cher's character only cooked appetizer food. I thought this was a brilliant idea, as I loved appetizers and often could care less about the main course.

Well now that I am an adult I realize that perhaps dip and starters don't always constitute a meal, however, I do resurrect and revel in my childhood fantasy every time I go to Turkish Grill on 42nd street and Queens Boulevard.

Off in a table in the corner, Paul and I stared at the amazing starters and while as vegetarians the lamb and meat entrees were overlooked, unlike many omnivorous restaurants there was plenty else for us to eat aside from garnish. We ordered hummus, babaganoush, stuffed grape leaves, ezme salad, and sigara boregi (aka cheese cigars.)

The tables were fairly close together so we attempted to do what we always do when out, eavesdrop on others. However, the majority of people who were there were actually Turkish so our surveillance was limited.

On this latest trip they were out of the ezme salad, but the rest of the dishes were delicious. and accompanied by fantastic Turkish bread assuring we ate every last scrap. Service can vary from overattentive to having to flag down your check. despite this everyone is always polite and friendly and make you feel comfortable being there even though it can feel as if you are eating in a foreign country.

So bravo Turkish Grill for not only making wonderful food, but for showing Queens that appetizers can most certainly make a meal!

A Pulse Without a Brain

My journeys to the 33rd street YMCA ended abruptly when I moved to 47th street as those extra few blocks to walk there majorly tipped the scales in the "go to the gym or not go to the gym" debate in favor of the latter. I mean really, who wants to exercise just to get to the gym?

So a little less than a year ago Paul and I joined Pulse Fitness on 48th street near the corner of 39th avenue. After an awkward sign up exchange where the man with no neck and the worlds smallest tank top told us they were having a limited time sale, but wouldn't tell us when it ended, we ultimately signed up.

On most days the gym is great. It is affordable, fairly kid free, equipment is new and plentiful, and despite the number of people who neglect to wipe the machines down after using them it is a great place to work out.

There are, however, drawbacks to Pulse:
1. Meathead Mondays. Every Monday night at around 9 PM or shortly thereafter a group of men and women who have to walk through the door sideways just to allow their shoulders to fit through, descend upon the gym. They cluster over a group of machines, and proceed to chat. Yes, chat. Occasionally one of them will lift up something, though usually it is a glass of smoothie, to their mouth. I have yet to figure out how they all got so buff doing so little, but all I know is that their presence usually cuts my workout short as I am too intimidated to ask them to stop lounging on the leg machine so that I can lift an embarrassingly small amount of weight.

2. Temperature Torture. Memorial Day weekend could not have come too soon this year, as this was the official "turn on the air conditioner" day at Pulse. Mind you we had several hot days prior to Memorial day. Days in which the gym was 85 degrees indoors, yet they refused to turn it on before the calendar struck the holiday weekend.

Now despite having the poster-child for global warming of winters thus far Pulse insists on putting the heat up to about 80 and placing every major piece of cardio equipment precisely in front of a heating vent. So by the time the treadmill hits 15 minutes, you feel like you have been in a microwave and should "stand, cover, and stir"

3. Overzealous Cleaning-man. As I mentioned, people are less than diligent about wiping down the machines when done. This has, in turn, caused the cleaning man to be overzealous in cleaning the machines, in that he can often be seen cleaning the machine that you are currently on. On many occasions I find myself near death running on the treadmill, counting the minutes or mileage until I can let myself stop. Then I realize that my lungs are not aching due to exertion, but due to the fact that the cleaning man is standing on the other side of my treadmill mopping the base with his bucket of pine scented bleach. He then proceeds to meticulous clean the one next to mine parking the bucket of dirty potent water and cleaning fluid just so that it can waft up my nose and make me nauseous.

4. Music Malcontent. Umm cha, umm cha, umm cha, umm cha. You know when that Hummer with tinted windows drives by with its stereo so loud that all you hear is a reverberating windows and feel the ground shaking? Imagine a bunch of treadmills and bikes in there instead of seats, and you'll have some idea of the soundtrack to Pulse!

Alas, Pulse fitness is worth the effort and money if you want to rid yourself of your inner or outer couch potato. Just bear in mind that you probably want to avoid Mondays, wear ultralight clothing, and perhaps bring a chemical gas mask along with your iPod.

Queens is the Word, is the Place, is the Motion

From the New York Times today, an article on how Queens can overcome its stigma as a place in which no tourist would ever set foot:

Promote the international angle to lend a sense of solidarity to visitors. When it comes to ethnic diversity, Queens is hands down best in show. You can buy saris on Roosevelt Avenue in Jackson Heights, blini in Rego Park and empanadas in Corona. Any tourist interested in Asian cuisine should check out Flushing, home to more Chinese than you’ll find in Manhattan’s Chinatown.

All Americans, including city residents themselves, should consider a visit to Queens nothing less than a patriotic duty. More than reflecting America’s past, Queens is a civics lesson in multiculturalism, a one-of-a-kind preview of our country’s future.

You can come, but you can only stay if you promise not to wreck things. We like Queens just the way it is, thank you very much. (I'm looking at you, Williamsburg.)

A Christmas Story that Starts at The South Pole

I'm gonna take you way back to Christmas 2002. The wars were just beginning. The internet busters were still high tailin' it out of here and the hero's wives were buying their first mansions out on the Sound. It was tough for some, tougher for others, I fell into the latter category and Christmas was approaching fast.
I love to say how much I don't like the commercialization of Christmas. To an extent it's true. The debt people accept, the large ticket items people get children who really don't need to be brought up that way, etc.

But, the truth is, I like getting things for folks. So being that my wallet was as light as it's ever been that year, things weren't looking good for my kith and kin come the 25th. That sucked. I was sucking up unemployment after the collapse of my industry on Sept. 12 of the previous year. I was trying to make anything work. One thing was that was working was 'The Pig'.

'The Pig' is better known as ebay. Though, "The Pig" is more apt. It's where we dump our crap to feed our crap-eating animals. Or, some sort of metaphor like that.

I was buying and selling on ebay to make ends meet. It wasn't easy. I had little capital and even less credit to work with and had to work hard to make a small profit. These were tough times. Rent was due just a few short days after Christmas when I was making my Sunnyside Rounds.

The Sunnyside Rounds included only three places, two thrift stores - one on the boulevard and one on Greenpoint; and the South Pole. The South Pole is a surplus store of the non-dollar variety. Everything is inexpensive, most of it's cheap, and some of it is priced far, far, far below open-market value.

I was wandering around, at the end of my rounds, when I spotted the pyramid that would pay for it all. If you're reading this, you remember 'My So-Called Life', a television series starring Claire Danes. It was pretty popular, and it had been canceled and then packaged as a DVD series. And, on the shelf at the register at the South Pole was a stack of twelve of them. I quickly went to the bank, emptied out my account, sure that someone was going to beat me to it.

I bought them all at 10.00 each and sold them for just over 60.00 - the lowest 'Buy It Now' price then seen on ebay for a NIB product. When I sold them all, I drove out to the South Pole in Jamaica and bought 15 more - this time negotiating a discount for the tax, as I was not so much in a hurry. NO one in Queens, especially not in Jamaica, is going to stop to think about the value of reselling a canceled series about the ennui-inducing life of a white, middle-class girl from the 'burbs. I had no competition.

I sold the units at will for days, netted close to a grand and gave two units away as gifts. One to Claire Deveron, in fact. Paid my half of the rent and still had some dough for a night out.

Merry Christmas from The South Pole. Check it out. You never know what you will find there that might make you rich.

Sunnyside Gardens Farm

When rumors of an "Amish market-style store" coming to Sunnyside broke over a year ago at the dog park, we stalked the storefront on Skillman Avenue between 46th and 47th like Manhattanites stalk a new velvet rope club. Would they have gourmet cheeses? What about olives? Fresh breads?

Faster than the A-team could put a plan together, Sunnyside Gardens Farm opened, selling an array of cheeses, pastas, veggies, breads, deli items, and hummus. Seeing as Paul and I consume hummus like those in a coma consume fluids, this was a big selling point.

I'll admit that I pilgrimage to Sunnyside Gardens Farm nearly every other day to restock the hummus supply and partake in the well stocked olive bar. While yes, the produce can be hit or miss, and we did recently see the olives being "shined up" by an employee spraying PAM on them, the fact that we can buy interesting products only a block from home without being hit in the ankles by people attempting to cram carriages down tiny aisles it is a huge plus.

As a little lady I also appreciate the fact that everything I want doesn't involve me having to scale racks like they were Everest or stalking a tall man at the end of the aisle in hopes that he will take pity on me and reach the rice wedged on the 7 foot high shelf.

The Turkish owner has become a neighborhood staple, waving to Paul yelling "Hello my friend" everytime he sees him down the block. I said to Paul, "what are you running for mayor? Is he your constituent?" But that is just how genuinely nice he is, and he and the equally friendly staff make you want to spend your money on Turkish bread and gourmet chocolate just to help them succeed.

So if you haven't already definitely check out the Sunnyside Gardens Farm market, just keep your hands off the roasted pine nut hummus, that's mine!
(Photo credit: Paul Grove)

Home Sweet Rite Aid

When I was a child one of my favorite books was "From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler," about a girl who runs away and spends the night in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I used to fantasize about what different places that seemed mundane by day would be like in an overnight adventure. To this day I still contemplate what it would be like to be locked in a store overnight, although my adult version is more along the lines of "where would I want to be if I were stuck in a national disaster," and have figured out that if there was one place it would have to be the Rite Aid on 45th street and 43rd Avenue right here in Sunnyside, New York.

Housed in a majestic old building with art deco details on the facade, it looks more appropriate for a bank or city landmark. For a while I lived on 45th street and would pilgrimage to Rite Aid at least once a day for everything from hand lotion to light bulbs.

When you think about it the store is really a self contained biosphere. If you are hungry, visit the aisle farthest from the door where you can whip yourself up a meal alla "Top Chef" style. Nachos, cereal, canned veggies, and sauce with ice cream and candy for dessert. Thirsty? No problem, all the beverages you could possibly want both alcoholic and non. Once you are done with your feast fit for a king, clean up is a snap with an aisle full of cleaning products and you can even remove the ice cream stain from your shirt.

Bored? Pop in a DVD, albeit one no one ever else would buy, from the racks displayed in the front. Either that or sit back and enjoy the soft hits from the 80s playing over the speakers while you read from a large selection of magazines dated three months ago and give yourself a facial, a new hair color, and mini-makeover.

Some sort of minor disaster happening? Head to the home improvement aisle, where if you are like MacGyver you can use an extension cord, motor oil, and duct tape to repair just about anything.

While my fantasy of staying overnight in Rite Aid sounds like Utopia, the reality is I shop there during the day and am in Queens. If I want a pair of stockings, I need to climb over five cartons of Scott toilet paper that no one has unpacked for a week. If I want to buy a carton of milk, I need to sort through twelve to find the one that isn't expired. If I want to buy hair dye, I better open the package in the store to make sure the box isn't empty.

This is all before making it to the check out line, where my fantasy turns from "I wonder where I can sleep" to that of throwing all my purchases on the floor and screaming "are you people asleep?!!" The line is, as a rule, 25 people long because the cashier needs to wait for a manager for something. Usually it relates to an 85 year old woman demanding to see the manager as to why her coupon from Eckerd doesn't work in Rite Aid. The woman in front of me has likely mistaken the store for the Super Stop and Shop as she has an entire basket filled with canned green beans. (Who actually BUYS the dusty canned veggies from Rite Aid?)

Fifteen minutes later after unfortunately mouthing all the words to whatever god awful tune has been playing on the loudspeaker, I am greeted by a cashier who looks like she would rather slit my throat than serve me. A swipe of my credit card and I'm out of there, vowing to never step foot in the store again.

Of course then I get home and realize that the hall light bulb blew out and we're out of toothpaste and the cycle begins again, as I plan out when I can go to Rite Aid tomorrow because they really do have everything.
(photo credit: Paul Grove)

A Friend in Queens is a Friend Indeed

Or two, for that matter. Over coffee at the Grind I had the pleasure of grilling one Lynn Cortlandt to establish that, yes, she has lived in Sunnyside since 1999, and, no, she will not be using this blog as an excuse to publish her lunatick ravings about anything other than Queens. She assures me that her fiance Paul Grove is quite housebroken--though prone to extremes in emergency-planning. We don't know anything about that on our side of Queens Boulevard, oh, no, nobody in our house bought a generator after the blackout. A-herm.

All this to say that Lynn and Paul will be joining Let's Meet Up In Queens to add their opinions, rants, raves, and vegetarian palates to the total Queens Rocks experience. Huzzah!