Bay Ridge, Brooklyn

The kid’s rapping to music from his dad’s cell phone speakers. To the tinny report of beats and melody, the kid delivers resounding rhymes. He sits on a subway car bench. His diminutive legs don’t even come close to touching the floor, so they dangle, swinging back and forth to his voice’s rhythm. His dad and mom, and a sister who’s smiling, all move their heads and shoulders to the lead of this little emcee.
At the 95 Street stop I exit the station. The first thing I see is a landmark visible from most streets and corners of Bay Ridge: The majestic Verrazano Narrows Bridge looms above, a blue-steel harbinger of this southern end of Brooklyn.

I’ve got a friend who lives in Bay Ridge. I stop by his house, and he says he’ll join me, but only after a hefty portion of chips and salsa (this is Costco-size stuff, keep in mind).
We’re walking down Fort Hamilton Parkway when a Ferrari zooms by. I associate Ferraris with the more obviously affluent sections of the city (if any sections at all), and Bay Ridge isn’t in this group. My friend says he’s not surprised, there’s a “culture of expensive automobiles” in these parts.
Again the Verrazano commands the area, presiding authoritatively over the neighborhood. We pass the functioning Fort Hamilton of the US Army, situated at the base of the bridge where it begins to slope upward on its path into Staten Island.
We wander north on Third Avenue—into the 80s, the 70s, the 60s. Two incorrigible tikes on trikes nearly collide with us before they veer expertly around and down a side street. Many shops have signs in Arabic. Many bodegas and restaurants advertise a healthy stock of Middle-Eastern food.
Soon we come back south.

Hungry, we stroll into King Falafel on Third Avenue. We both order the falafel pita sandwich. Not only is it delicious, but we especially like the flat—rather than round—falafel. A man walks in and talks a minute with a cook behind the counter. We figure he’s a familiar patron because he’s invited to sit in the empty, unlit back seating area. As he sits, the lights turn on. He’s offered a grape leaf free of charge as he looks at the menu. Some admirable hospitality at King Falafel.

Then we’re back at my friend’s place. His second-storey apartment has a terrace, and we lounge outside playing old American spirituals and folk songs and some blues, too. A little kid in a blue shirt looks up longingly from the street. When I see him he jumps and darts away. A few minutes later, he’s back. I look down at him. Maybe he enjoys the music. When he sees me looking, again he nervously scuttles away. He returns three or four times. Picking on the guitar, I look down toward him each time. And each time he hurries away.

Midwood, Brooklyn

The car's parked beside the “Yeshiva of Flatbush” on Avenue J. If my friend and I were looking for that yeshiva, then we’d be finished with our trip. But we’re not looking for any of the numerous yeshivas of Midwood; we’re on a victual pilgrimage to Di Fara Pizza, lauded by many as the pinnacle of Big Apple pizza. And remember, New York’s a city where every pizza joint advertises, “best pizza in NYC.”
We stroll over to Di Fara on E15 and Avenue J.

Di Fara’s décor, reviewers say, evokes the type of sordid eating establishment that health inspectors either avoid or conveniently forget about. They couldn’t be more drastically mistaken. The décor is perfect. Imagine that a man from southern Italy (in this case Domenico DeMarco) emigrates to the United States, opens a pizza shop, and decades later has not changed the decorations or scrubbed down the wall—purportedly, not once. After visiting Di Fara, it’s obvious that such a man is, by the basic neglect of a conventional commercial aesthetic, a genius. Scattering the walls are outdated photos of the Amalfi Coast and Mount Vesuvius; framed prints of artichokes and other pizza-topping vegetables, subtitled with their scientific Latin names (Cynara scolymus for artichoke); and article after article praising Di Fara. To observe that these walls have taken on a serious dinginess is to observe only half of the atmosphere. Yes, there’s a dinginess that, at this point, would defy any cleaning agent. But the pizzas' smells and tastes brighten up the entire space; they imbue it with lightheartedness, that feeling that “this was worth it.”
A patron must accept that this is no boutique eatery. This is where Domenico DeMarco carefully fashions the tastiest pizza this side of the Mississippi.
If we measure Domenico DeMarco’s success by the taste and notoriety of his pizza, we may have a success to rival Bill Gates. You visit Di Fara Pizza and decide.
I’m loitering by the counter for twenty minutes before Mr. DeMarco notices. He’s preoccupied obsessing over a pie he’s preparing (this is a good thing). He does, however, repeatedly check in with patrons who’ve already ordered. Finally he asks me what I want. I order two slices: One with artichokes, and one with baby eggplant. Twenty more minutes later, the slices are ready. But I’ve actually been fortunate: In order for Mr. DeMarco to prepare a slice, he has to wait for enough people to order enough slices to comprise a whole pie. He makes his pizzas per order, and slices can only come from a complete pie. The wait’s long, but once Mr. DeMarco snips that home-grown basil onto the pizza and that first taste hits the tongue, that long wait is a distant, blurry memory.
Out on the street I take a look around. Di Fara’s neighbors seem unlikely—or, among them, is Di Fara unlikely? There’s Isaac’s Bakery and Kosher Bagel Shop. Men, young adults, and male children wearing yarmulkes; and women, some in tight head-scarves, all shake hands and talk. Some men wrap themselves in woolen prayer shawls. A group of women in traditional Muslim dress passes by among the groups of observant Jews. The encounter is brief, but often what’s simplest and most brief can be most poignant. What I see here looks routine, unremarkable, peaceful. A sense of tension is thankfully absent. There are laughs from somewhere, and a light breeze blows by. Conversations lift energetically and descend in mumbles, as conversations do. Avenue J in Midwood isn’t an ordinary place, considering this intriguing scene, but it feels ordinary and rhythmic. A place where people live, and pass each other on the street, and talk now and then.
My friend directs us to a street (E15 Street) with some quiet row houses and apartment blocs. Kids are playing tag outside. There’s barely a sound, except for the occasional clattering of an elevated subway train.
On one block a used clothing store is having a sale. Multicolored racks of clothes stand outside, lined up on the sidewalk. Women in dark Muslim headdresses meticulously comb through the racks. 

Emerging onto Coney Island Avenue, I see some blocks down what looks like a grand mosque. Two towers—what I guess are minarets—reach above the brick building’s roof. On the way there I tell my friend there’s a chance it’s actually a synagogue designed like a mosque, to achieve a Middle Eastern aura. I’ve seen a Jewish religious and academic building like this in Washington Heights in upper Manhattan.
Once we’re standing across the street from the building’s entrance, we see the huge Star of David dividing the panes of a prominent window.
I say, “That is a synagogue.”

As we pass the Edward R. Murrow High School, I’m struck with the suburban layout of this section of Midwood. Generously proportioned Queen Anne Victorians line the streets; mature elms shade the sidewalk; we pass one or two people.
We find the car and get in, ready to head back up Ocean Avenue.
I struggle to understand which Midwood phenomenon—Di Fara Pizza or the synagogue-mosque or the peaceful mixing of Jews and Muslims—has made the most profound impression on me. That ridiculous artichoke poster, labeled Cynara scolymus, returns to me over and over. Di Fara Pizza. That’s the most extraordinary ingredient at the center of the Midwood patchwork.

Underground, Manhattan

Something happens on the subway tonight while flying through the belly of the steel-and-concrete isle of Manhattan. The cohesiveness of family manifests itself beautifully in a sad—and perhaps degrading—but ultimately uplifting way.

The Q train doors open at Times Square, and a forty-something man and two kids get on. The kids have got glasses: thin plastic oval frames. Looks like they share the same style. The man holds a guitar; the kids each hold double-bongos, a mobile rhythm section.

The man plays a chord, fiddling around.

The taller kid says, loudly, looking around the train, “Hello folks, just trying to make some money for food. We missed dinner at the shelter.”

The man, the father, plays another chord.

“Whatchu boys wanna play this time?” he says.

The kids look at each other. The little one makes a suggestion.

The father says, “Na, we played that already. Let’s play something new.”

He begins. The kids start pat-patting on the drums. They all start singing in a brisk harmony. It’s the Beatles, Revolution. The father can carry the tune, but the kids, with their harmonies delivered in two completely different registers (the younger brother’s got a crisp alto) bring the song together. What’s obvious is that people are moved. They try not to look, but can’t help it; they fight to maintain those cold, stony city faces, but the muscles twitch. The emotions struggle to allow the affect of this iconic song, played now on the Q train by a small family troupe that’s down and out.

Jackson Heights, Queens

Riding the elevated subway into Queens provides a rich, quintessential, multi-dimensional New York landscape: Outside, you have a sweeping sea of brick and concrete dominated by Manhattan towers; and inside, the train is full of people of all colors and histories and languages.
Silently—even gravely, I feel—the passengers and I watch Manhattan’s spires fade farther away, taking on a brilliant shade of steely gray-blue. The train rattles over the roofs of Long Island City and Woodside. Queens Boulevard snakes its way between towers of masonry and old factory buildings. Then we’re here: Roosevelt Avenue in Jackson Heights.
From the platform I go down to the street: Roosevelt Ave which runs directly under the elevated number seven MTA line. Above, the train bangs and screeches away. Here on the street is an explosion of weekend afternoon commerce. Fruit and music seem to be the most popular commodities. At the stands people laugh and talk, say hello and goodbye.
A woman approaches me, speaking Spanish (this happens often). “I don’t speak Spanish,” I say, frankly. She hands me a flyer. “It’s Spanish classes,” she says.
Around the corner, somewhere by La Casa de Pollo the smell of vomit and day-old garbage cuts the air. There’s an explanation for this: New York City, and everything we love about it.

I walk north on 81 Street: Four- and eight-story, red-brick apartment buildings with manicured gardens in front line the blocks. At 35 Avenue there’s a street sale on the pavement around the “Community Church founded 1919”. Jewelry, hats, second-hand clothing, shoes, china, records, prayer beads, books, cast-off computer parts.
I wander the blocks, not really knowing where I’m going. Queens with all its numbered “avenues” and “streets” and “roads” and “drives”.
After a period of roaming down pristine blocks of red-brick co-ops, I’m at 75 Street and 37 Avenue. The store signs I see tell me where I am: “Amit Fabric & Saree Palace”, “JMD Palace”, “Afghan Kebab House”, “India Sari Palace”. I flip through the pages of The Sayings of Mohammed at a stand that sells Islamic texts—and this isn’t the only stand. On some blocks three stands of Muslim books sit side-by-side. The book sellers relax in seats by the curb and speak amiably with their competitors to the left or right.
I find a theater with a worn, cracked sign that says “EAGLE”. Bolliwood posters litter the front window and wall. My favorite poster has a particularly exuberant, bearded man in the foreground. A banner above him reads, “Singh is Kinng” (that’s right, two n’s). It’s no doubt a theater that features Bolliwood films. “Call 205-2800” is posted on the side of the building.
For a few minutes I have the arrogant notion that I’ve got the place figured out, then a man stops me and asks if I’m sending money home to my family. He’s carrying a red bag. On a table nearby are many similar red bags filled with something bulky. I tell him no, I’m not sending money home. Did he think I was Indian, working in the States and sending money home to my family?

Then I take a right, and I’m in Indian buffet paradise. One Indian buffet after the other. One advertises all-you-can-eat lunch for $7.95. Most of them are about $11.

It’s evident that most of the Indian, Middle-Asian cultural center is between 37 Avenue and Roosevelt Avenue, because when I cross Roosevelt, I’m back in the rhythm of the Spanish language.

But a serious culinary part of me has an enduring need for Indian tastes. I head into an Indian buffet on Roosevelt. For the ride out of Jackson Heights, I order a cold Lassi--a sweet, milky, yogurt drink from the land of saris and “Singh is Kinng”.