On May 6th, 1937, a Lakehurst, New Jersey farmer tended to his seasonal blueberry crop. Standing alone in a field, he found himself dazed and confused. The sky suddenly turned dark filled with plumes of smoke after a gigantic explosion. Mayhem! “Oh my, get out of the way, please! It’s burning and bursting into flames—and it’s falling...” An electrostatic spark called St. Elmo’s fire during a thunderstorm ignited a huge dirigible balloon’s flammable hydrogen supply. The end of the world? Wrong, it’s the cover photo of Led Zeppelin’s first album. The event known as the Hindenburg disaster took the lives of 36 people. Today, travel across the Hudson River to New York City for a present-day strike. Not a chemical blast, social pitter-patter with “lots of people talking” during a Manhattan lunch.
Inside Soho’s Roman and Williams Guild furniture and design store is an industrial-style, meticulously curated open kitchen space designed for elegance and taste called La Mercerie. Satisfying New York’s ritualistic addiction for sophisticated haute French cuisine, one needs to spend a small fortune. Surrounded by vases full of fresh cut, pink cherry blossoms, the dining room is tailored to fit upscale culinary needs. Considering a grandiose Town & Country social scene unfolding out at times; here’s a tart perspective bypassing a standard infatuated food review.
Within a discreet nanosecond of your arrival, both servers and diners are particularly good at reading you. Instantaneously, you’re sized-up, trying to determine your origin and potential wealth while reviewing your outfit. Countless glances, so it’s fun keeping a personal scorecard in check. Nice coat by the way. At times, the routine gets haughty; enough to make a delicious crispy-skinned chicken dish hop right off the plate, headed directly towards the nearest exit.
What was runaway Chicken Little’s discovery outside? You’re smack in the middle of Canal St. where A Tale of Two Cities is having another renaissance moment, if you want to call it that. One would’ve never guessed it. Traffic’s horrible. The 53 Howard St. French hotspot is situated right next to bustling Chinatown, which makes for a strange juxtaposition. Across the street from the building’s southern façade, is a sad fading remnant of the past, the graffiti-tagged, artist’s supply store favorite, shuttered Pearl Paint.
A new kind of street mayhem occurred with recent ICE raids. “Handbags, handbags...” is recited a million times daily. The massive sidewalk presence of loitering aggressive illegal vendors, hustling knock-off luxury goods is unbelievable. The blunt truth is that the visible dysfunction is an ongoing City problem with no clear-cut answers. Notice an overwhelming stench on the east side of the Canal St. Post Office? This spot’s being used as an outdoor public toilet.
Just down the street at 365 Canal St., La Mercerie’s nearby neighbor is an Erewhon cosplay wannabe, the over-priced Happier Grocery. Want to buy an out-of-print Basquiat art show catalogue for $428 dollars then sip a $17.39 coco smoothie? Here’s your spot, complete with livestreaming unknown social media influencers. The place makes me crave nostalgia. Sohozat was great for checking-out the latest issues of Weirdo, the decades ago headshop zine store located around the corner on West Broadway.
On any given day before sunrise, Soho residents hear a series of loud, bomb-like sounds. The jarring wake-up call is a garbage truck making its rounds, hydraulically lifting a dumpster for disposal. The empty container is slammed down hard on cobblestone streets. The echoing sonic boom causes hundreds of disturbed rats to scurry about. It’s a crucial part of waste management. The process clears the way for the neighborhood’s other daily invaders: humans. Throngs of tourists join battalions of hungry drooling, shoppers ready for street takeovers.
At times, an imperious clientele that dines at La Mercerie, festooned in Dior jackets, shimmering diamonds and platinum Rolex watches is a bit much to take. At other times, a not-too pompous crowd fills the French establishment to capacity by noon for weekend lunch. Upon arrival, consumers stash their designer bags full of genuine Louis Vuitton and Gucci items under tables.
The restaurant’s constant flow of frenetic energy borders on Jacques Tati’s comedic absurdity. A tall, blonde model casually pushes around a baby carriage with her dog stuffed inside circles the space’s permitter. The anxious teacup Pomeranian needs to pee. While waiting for a table, eyes are kept peeled, just in case there’s a celebrity sighting. Martha Stewart loves the fare.
It’s all-ages Sunday as affluent-type families are situated out-of-way, at a long table on the far side of the room. Unattended toddlers probably high on sugar, turn into crazed screaming monsters having tantrums. Some parents have a thing about letting badly-behaved small fry run amok. With patience quickly dwindling, I zip-lip on the subject, as an obnoxious new mom within earshot finishes her Negroni. Their catatonic looking family matriarch, a lopsided wheelchair-ridden grandmother is seated front center in the middle of the pandemonium. To no one’s surprise, Dad’s an annoying “Il Duce” loudmouth, barking-out orders as if he’s commandeering a ride on a Disneyland trip. Mercifully, the boisterous party is getting ready to leave.
A four-top is ready. Preppy boyfriends with brunette-banged, cookie-cutter girlfriends are seated. Together, they proceed with the afternoon’s vino selection toasting one another. Low-rung Fortune 500 company workers, or possibly nice companies that pay nice employee salaries kvetch on and on, navel-gazing over minor workweek accomplishments. It’s not a Sephora aisle, while sample fragrances of every popular perfume and cologne fill the air.
Another party of four arrives. The maître d’ confirms their table. The Europeans are led to their seats. Mother and father position themselves directly across from two teenage daughters. Both girls have stylish glazed-donut, nail-art manicures, who quickly start swiping away on phones. The entire family orders the same dish. By the end of their lunch, ravenous, no-manners dad reaches over the length of a table. Standing there, he stabs a fork into a bowl of half-eaten salade verte, finishing off his disenchanted daughter’s salad.
It’s hard to ignore an overheard conversation by a 19-year-old Ivy League freshman noting: “That’s so weird. Incredible. I do agree. I think I prefer the sour ones. Just that they’re meant to be. It’s definitely weird. And definitely a lot more processed. It creeps me out a little bit more. I feel like you’ll probably have to love them more, but not too much, since it’s so cool. I should go there, but I don’t want to go there. Can it be done over the phone? Want a bite of my almond croissant? I’m not really sure, but I’d prefer a meal, but then me bad with my laziness diet. Oh my God, by the way, I’m wearing my fav green Prada sneakers.”
Over time, birds return in spring with new feathers. Elders become retired ostrich acts with fading minds and often forget famous movie star names. Trees continue to drop leaves in the fall. One never fully understands the seasonal ways of nature. I made it to the end of my meal. Despite having to deal with demanding diners, everyone is treated like a privileged guest with exceptional food and service, including a free floor show. Upon leaving the restaurant, the freshman received a text. A series of repeating flickering hearts and love emojis suddenly appeared. “Wait a smidge. I got to make a call.”