In a recent interview conducted with Amish Chatterjee, a local food truck vendor, I concluded by asking him what his favorite curse word was. While walking home, my mind began wandering back to "Inside the Actor's Studio," a television show on Bravo, hosted by James Lipton. At the end of each segment, Lipton ends with his famous 10 questions, stolen from famous French journalist Bernard Pivot.
I know this has probably been done a million times, but I've never done it so bear with me.
1. What is your favorite word?
Yes.
2. What is your least favorite word?
No.
3. What turns you on?
Anything that has been deep fried.
4. What turns you off?
The inability to laugh.
5. What is your favorite curse word?
Fuck. Or cunt. Both are so versatile!
(Check out what Natalie Portman had to say, it's brilliant!)
6. What sound or noise do you love?
Dog's barking.
7. What sound or noise do you hate?
Silence.
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
Trophy wife.
9. What profession would you not like to attempt?
Anything that would place me a cubicle.
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
Sorry, hell is one floor down.
Now it's your turn to answer....!
Read More!
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Food Truck Q & A
Amish Chatterjee, 38, a native of Calcutta, India who now resides in Bushwick, arrived in New York City 10 years ago, with a duffel bag filled with clothes and his mother’s spatula. His dream: to become a chef. After working as a waiter for four years in a Midtown diner, Chatterjee finally saved enough money to open his restaurant, a food truck located on the corner of 18th Street and Sixth Avenue, where he serves traditional Indian and Bengali cuisine, including his mother’s favorite, kati rolls.
Why New York?
Why not?
But why not London? Sydney? Why here?
My first time seeing a motion picture, I saw Woody Allen’s “Manhattan.” I was 8 years old, and I knew that one day I must be here in New York.
Despite your success, why do you refuse to open a restaurant?
Too expensive. And I like to be alone when I work. No one can bother me.
What inspired you to become a chef?
When I was younger, my mother told me I must go find a job, and so I started working at a small restaurant in the Bidhannagar district of Calcutta. I wanted to work there because the chef would let me eat all day. I was a fat boy back then. I would go into the kitchen and make myself different dishes, throwing different meats and vegetables and sauces together. After three years, the chef brought me into the kitchen and told me to sit down. He looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘You Amish, you must grow up to be a chef.’
Favorite dish?
Aloo Gobi. It’s simple. And I am a simple man.
(For those of you who do not know what Aloo Gobi is, it is a dry dish made with cauliflower and potatoes.)
Happiest day since you arrived in New York?
The 15th of September 2001, because my truck opened in the morning and my daughters Kalpita and Pusti were born that night.
Only four days after 9/11?
Yes. In terms of my business, my cart was on 50th and Sixth Avenue at that time, so it was not so bad. But I had no customers for quite a few days. I would go to work everyday for a week and no one would buy anything.
How is business now?
Booming. I make just as much as my family needs.
(Which he says with a wink)
And how was 9/11 for your family? Must have been traumatic…
The birth of my daughters was just what me and my wife needed. Not traumatic at all. When the city saw so much death, I witnessed birth and life. And overtime, America has witnessed a rebirth. It has life again.
(Which he says as he points to his Obama pin)
Favorite thing about America?
I can curse without my mother hearing me.
Favorite curse word?
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. See, doesn’t it sound nice? Read More!
Why New York?
Why not?
But why not London? Sydney? Why here?
My first time seeing a motion picture, I saw Woody Allen’s “Manhattan.” I was 8 years old, and I knew that one day I must be here in New York.
Despite your success, why do you refuse to open a restaurant?
Too expensive. And I like to be alone when I work. No one can bother me.
What inspired you to become a chef?
When I was younger, my mother told me I must go find a job, and so I started working at a small restaurant in the Bidhannagar district of Calcutta. I wanted to work there because the chef would let me eat all day. I was a fat boy back then. I would go into the kitchen and make myself different dishes, throwing different meats and vegetables and sauces together. After three years, the chef brought me into the kitchen and told me to sit down. He looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘You Amish, you must grow up to be a chef.’
Favorite dish?
Aloo Gobi. It’s simple. And I am a simple man.
(For those of you who do not know what Aloo Gobi is, it is a dry dish made with cauliflower and potatoes.)
Happiest day since you arrived in New York?
The 15th of September 2001, because my truck opened in the morning and my daughters Kalpita and Pusti were born that night.
Only four days after 9/11?
Yes. In terms of my business, my cart was on 50th and Sixth Avenue at that time, so it was not so bad. But I had no customers for quite a few days. I would go to work everyday for a week and no one would buy anything.
How is business now?
Booming. I make just as much as my family needs.
(Which he says with a wink)
And how was 9/11 for your family? Must have been traumatic…
The birth of my daughters was just what me and my wife needed. Not traumatic at all. When the city saw so much death, I witnessed birth and life. And overtime, America has witnessed a rebirth. It has life again.
(Which he says as he points to his Obama pin)
Favorite thing about America?
I can curse without my mother hearing me.
Favorite curse word?
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. See, doesn’t it sound nice? Read More!
Friday, April 24, 2009
Getting Published!
Hey y'all,
Just wanted to let you know that an article that I posted on my blog is getting published!
It's all about the Chelsea Market and it's appearing in the Chelsea-Clinton News!
AHHH! Read More!
Just wanted to let you know that an article that I posted on my blog is getting published!
It's all about the Chelsea Market and it's appearing in the Chelsea-Clinton News!
AHHH! Read More!
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Just Stop
Scaffolding never made me stop.
It only made me run in fact, generally for cover during New York's rainy days. But earlier this afternoon, on my way home from work, I decided to stop. I was on my way to my favorite Chelsea dive, The King's Head Bar on West 23rd Street and 10th Avenue. Along the way, I found myself slowing down just one block away, on West 23rd Street between 9th and 10th avenues. And there it was. Something that made me stop.
Outside of the London Terrace Gardens apartment complex is a different type of scaffolding. A pleasant type, that makes you enjoy and realize the beauty of renovation and restoration. Instead of the typical white banner plastered with posters about magazine or unknown musicians, the scaffolding around this building was different. It was art.
One panel in particular caught my attention. It was a profile of a woman done completely in black and white, which was very reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's. Initially I thought that she was smoking from a long cigarette holder, but in actuality she was blowing smoke from the palm of her hand. And within the smoke were large ants, crawling about. Strange, I know. But captivating.
Never had their been a single piece of scaffolding that made me stop and realize that art is everywhere, constantly surrounding me, and in a neighborhood where art reigns supreme, the scaffolding bridges the gap between the art world and the real world.
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Oh snap, who beat The New York Times? I did! Below is the link to an article that appeared in the Times on March 27, 2009.
Converting Chelsea Scaffolds Into Art Read More!
It only made me run in fact, generally for cover during New York's rainy days. But earlier this afternoon, on my way home from work, I decided to stop. I was on my way to my favorite Chelsea dive, The King's Head Bar on West 23rd Street and 10th Avenue. Along the way, I found myself slowing down just one block away, on West 23rd Street between 9th and 10th avenues. And there it was. Something that made me stop.
Outside of the London Terrace Gardens apartment complex is a different type of scaffolding. A pleasant type, that makes you enjoy and realize the beauty of renovation and restoration. Instead of the typical white banner plastered with posters about magazine or unknown musicians, the scaffolding around this building was different. It was art.
One panel in particular caught my attention. It was a profile of a woman done completely in black and white, which was very reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's. Initially I thought that she was smoking from a long cigarette holder, but in actuality she was blowing smoke from the palm of her hand. And within the smoke were large ants, crawling about. Strange, I know. But captivating.
Never had their been a single piece of scaffolding that made me stop and realize that art is everywhere, constantly surrounding me, and in a neighborhood where art reigns supreme, the scaffolding bridges the gap between the art world and the real world.–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Oh snap, who beat The New York Times? I did! Below is the link to an article that appeared in the Times on March 27, 2009.
Converting Chelsea Scaffolds Into Art Read More!
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Alone?
It’s Wednesday evening. My apartment is eerily quiet tonight, since my one roommate is studying for an Orgo final at the library, while the other one is seeing “God of Carnage” uptown. And me? I’m curled up on the couch, watching Family Guy, with my best friend: Bombay Sapphire with tonic, and a splash of lime.
With each sip, I kept thinking of my father. It’s almost been two years since I last saw him. Two years since I last heard his voice. He died on the final night of my freshman year of college. Right after he and my mom settled in for the night, he had a massive heart attack. Just a few minutes after midnight, my father was pronounced dead.
Around 2:00 a.m., the R.A. on duty pounded on my door. I was fast asleep, having nightmares about my French final scheduled for later that day. I opened the door, and there she stood with a man from N.Y.U. Public Safety.
"Beau," she said. "You need to give your mom a call."
Before I even reached my cell phone, I knew. But I kept going, and dialed. My mom answered the phone. Her voice had always been so strong and fearless. Tonight it was different. It sounded empty. Alone.
"Sweetie, I need to tell you something," she said; she was crying. My heart started beating faster. I began shaking. "Your dad, he passed away tonight."
And that was when my world fell apart.
Bombay Sapphire had been his favorite drink for years, and even after he finally stopped drinking when my older brother was born, he always kept a bottle prominently displayed in our liquor cabinet, despite the fact that he never actually offered it to anyone. To this day, it remains unopened.
"It's the best," he told me once. "Just look at it."
He always loved the bottle, the light blue sparkling gem with a portrait of Queen Victoria displayed prominently in the center of the white label. Even now, I can see a bottle sparkling on my kitchen counter top.
The first bottle of liquor that I ever bought – legally that is – was a bottle of Bombay. I had just turned 21 years old, and I found myself wandering around Warehouse Wines & Liquor on Broadway near N.Y.U. For some reason, I was very stressed. I had no idea what I would choose for my very first legal purchase. Then I saw it. It was beautiful. The sun was coming in through the window, and it truly looked like a sapphire, perched atop the gin shelf. It was expensive, but I bought it.
A month later, the same bottle is still in my kitchen. There is still more than half a bottle since I save it for lonely nights, when I need a friend to cheer me up. Tonight is one of those nights. Despite the fact that my apartment is silent, besides the voices coming from the television, I know that my father is here with me tonight. And with my final sip, I suddenly don’t feel so alone anymore. Read More!
With each sip, I kept thinking of my father. It’s almost been two years since I last saw him. Two years since I last heard his voice. He died on the final night of my freshman year of college. Right after he and my mom settled in for the night, he had a massive heart attack. Just a few minutes after midnight, my father was pronounced dead.
Around 2:00 a.m., the R.A. on duty pounded on my door. I was fast asleep, having nightmares about my French final scheduled for later that day. I opened the door, and there she stood with a man from N.Y.U. Public Safety.
"Beau," she said. "You need to give your mom a call."
Before I even reached my cell phone, I knew. But I kept going, and dialed. My mom answered the phone. Her voice had always been so strong and fearless. Tonight it was different. It sounded empty. Alone.
"Sweetie, I need to tell you something," she said; she was crying. My heart started beating faster. I began shaking. "Your dad, he passed away tonight."
And that was when my world fell apart.
Bombay Sapphire had been his favorite drink for years, and even after he finally stopped drinking when my older brother was born, he always kept a bottle prominently displayed in our liquor cabinet, despite the fact that he never actually offered it to anyone. To this day, it remains unopened.
"It's the best," he told me once. "Just look at it."
He always loved the bottle, the light blue sparkling gem with a portrait of Queen Victoria displayed prominently in the center of the white label. Even now, I can see a bottle sparkling on my kitchen counter top.
The first bottle of liquor that I ever bought – legally that is – was a bottle of Bombay. I had just turned 21 years old, and I found myself wandering around Warehouse Wines & Liquor on Broadway near N.Y.U. For some reason, I was very stressed. I had no idea what I would choose for my very first legal purchase. Then I saw it. It was beautiful. The sun was coming in through the window, and it truly looked like a sapphire, perched atop the gin shelf. It was expensive, but I bought it.
A month later, the same bottle is still in my kitchen. There is still more than half a bottle since I save it for lonely nights, when I need a friend to cheer me up. Tonight is one of those nights. Despite the fact that my apartment is silent, besides the voices coming from the television, I know that my father is here with me tonight. And with my final sip, I suddenly don’t feel so alone anymore. Read More!
End of an Era
Can you believe it!?! The iconic New York magazine sign on Madison Avenue and 49th Street is in the midst of being removed, in order to make way for the Burberry logo.
In October, the online fashion blog Racked reported that the British luxury label had signed a lease at 444 Madison Ave., which will included retail space, in addition to a significant amount of office space within the building, thus giving Burberry precedent over New York magazine.
Once the transition is complete, the Burberry sign will be placed above another sign, which will display both the time and the temperature.
“Being able to have a building that’s going to say ‘Burberry’ in lights is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” said Eugenia Ulasewicz, the president of Burberry North America. “Remember, Thomas Burberry founded gabardine fabric, and outerwear is a cornerstone of our brand, so to have it say ‘Burberry’ and, by the way, here’s the temperature — that’s very unique.”
To me, that says trashy.
Due to new zoning codes, illuminated signs are no longer allowed on new skyscrapers in this part of the city; the new sign atop 444 Madison Ave. however was however grandfathered in due to the building's age. Let's just pray that this will not start a trend with other luxury labels. I cannot even imagine what New York would be like if Juicy Couture situated themselves atop the MetLife building. Read More!
In October, the online fashion blog Racked reported that the British luxury label had signed a lease at 444 Madison Ave., which will included retail space, in addition to a significant amount of office space within the building, thus giving Burberry precedent over New York magazine.
Once the transition is complete, the Burberry sign will be placed above another sign, which will display both the time and the temperature.
“Being able to have a building that’s going to say ‘Burberry’ in lights is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” said Eugenia Ulasewicz, the president of Burberry North America. “Remember, Thomas Burberry founded gabardine fabric, and outerwear is a cornerstone of our brand, so to have it say ‘Burberry’ and, by the way, here’s the temperature — that’s very unique.”To me, that says trashy.
Due to new zoning codes, illuminated signs are no longer allowed on new skyscrapers in this part of the city; the new sign atop 444 Madison Ave. however was however grandfathered in due to the building's age. Let's just pray that this will not start a trend with other luxury labels. I cannot even imagine what New York would be like if Juicy Couture situated themselves atop the MetLife building. Read More!
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Hot Child in the City (cliché, I know)
When I landed on the tarmac at John F. Kennedy International Airport on Dec. 19, 2008 after having spent 4 months living in Prague, I had become accustomed to male – and specifically homosexual – prostitution. It was normal, nothing shocking at all.
I still remember the first time that I ever met a prostitute. After downing half a bottle of vodka, I left my apartment with my roommate and a friend, and we headed to Escape, what we assumed was simply a gay club. Wrong! As soon as we arrived, we learned that it was what the Czechs called a gay rent bar (a place where men go if they are specifically looking to find a prostitute). And on that night I met my first prostitute. He looked no different that any other student at N.Y.U. in Prague. He was 19 years old and a high school drop out, who made almost $300 per encounter.
After that, I began to see prostitutes more and more often. By simply walking down a certain street, I would have to struggle to avoid eye contact in order to prevent a hoard of teenage boys from running towards me, offering everything from oral sex to their virginity. On one occasion, I was actually mistaken for a prostitute and offered $400, because the man thought that I seemed purer than the rest. At that moment, I lost interest in Prague.
But upon my return to New York, I thought that was all behind me. That is until I downed yet another bottle of vodka – I should seriously consider switching to gin or rum – and headed off to a notorious, local gay bar (if you're really curious and want to know which one, send me an e-mail).
After getting my groove on to a handful of classics – Britney, Madonna, etc. – I wandered away from the dance floor and over to the bar. Standing there, looking right at me, was a god: a 6-foot-5-inch god. Persian. Wavy, brown hair. Blue eyes. Fantastic body. He ordered me a drink – Vodka again, ugh – and we talked for the next hour, about politics, restaurants, the Yankees, even the latest Kelly Clarkson song. Anything and everything.
When I finally got up the nerve to ask him if he was – and let's pray that my mother won't be reading this – interested in, uh, joining me for the remainder of the evening at my apartment, he moved closer, and whispered something in my ear.
"I'd love to," he said. "For $200."
I pulled away with a confused look on my face.
"Are you a..."
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I am."
I politely declined, and instead of admitting my disappointment, I simply blamed the economy and N.Y.U.'s hefty bill. He smiled, and was kind enough to buy me another drink (Rum! Praise the Lord!). And that was when I heard his story. He was 28 years old, a graduate of the University of Chicago and Columbia Business School, and a former employee of Lehman Brothers. After months of being unemployed, he wanted to return to his financial stability and used the only asset he had left: his body. After a few more drinks, I left the bar (with a dinner date I might add – bad choice?) and I went home to go to bed.
I was restless for nearly two hours however. In the wake of the economic recession, had prostitution crossed the Atlantic? I sat there wondering about prostitution in New York. This may sound naive, but while I was living in Prague, I had this image that New York was above Prague, and far too cosmopolitan for prostitution. I eventually decide to wake up my roommate and tell him my story. He chuckled.
"Haven't you ever looked at Craigslist? Loads of 'escorts' advertise on there all the time," he said. "And check out Rentboy too."
I spent the next hour realizing that prostitution had been surrounding me for longer than I had cared to imagine. In the deep corners of my mind I am sure that I knew that petty prostitution existed, but it was not until I had my first, one-on-one experience with a prostitute in America that I realized that it was indeed everywhere.
The next morning I headed off to brunch with several fellow "Chelsea Boys." It was eerily similar to a "Sex and the City" moment. We were all at Cafeteria, sitting around sipping mimosas and talking about life. When I brought up my night, I was surprised by the responses that my story received. My friends were not concerned with the fact that a smart, intelligent young man was selling his body so that he could simply get by. They were in fact more concerned with whether or not I would attempt to sleep with him after our date. It was in that moment that I finally realized Chelsea's biggest flaw.
For them, living in Chelsea is about the excitement and the glamor, the cheap thrills. If only they could finally take a step back, and see all of the flaws of the community that they have come to cherish and love so dearly.
(And for your information, the answer is no, I did not.) Read More!
I still remember the first time that I ever met a prostitute. After downing half a bottle of vodka, I left my apartment with my roommate and a friend, and we headed to Escape, what we assumed was simply a gay club. Wrong! As soon as we arrived, we learned that it was what the Czechs called a gay rent bar (a place where men go if they are specifically looking to find a prostitute). And on that night I met my first prostitute. He looked no different that any other student at N.Y.U. in Prague. He was 19 years old and a high school drop out, who made almost $300 per encounter.
After that, I began to see prostitutes more and more often. By simply walking down a certain street, I would have to struggle to avoid eye contact in order to prevent a hoard of teenage boys from running towards me, offering everything from oral sex to their virginity. On one occasion, I was actually mistaken for a prostitute and offered $400, because the man thought that I seemed purer than the rest. At that moment, I lost interest in Prague.
But upon my return to New York, I thought that was all behind me. That is until I downed yet another bottle of vodka – I should seriously consider switching to gin or rum – and headed off to a notorious, local gay bar (if you're really curious and want to know which one, send me an e-mail).
After getting my groove on to a handful of classics – Britney, Madonna, etc. – I wandered away from the dance floor and over to the bar. Standing there, looking right at me, was a god: a 6-foot-5-inch god. Persian. Wavy, brown hair. Blue eyes. Fantastic body. He ordered me a drink – Vodka again, ugh – and we talked for the next hour, about politics, restaurants, the Yankees, even the latest Kelly Clarkson song. Anything and everything.
When I finally got up the nerve to ask him if he was – and let's pray that my mother won't be reading this – interested in, uh, joining me for the remainder of the evening at my apartment, he moved closer, and whispered something in my ear.
"I'd love to," he said. "For $200."
I pulled away with a confused look on my face.
"Are you a..."
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I am."
I politely declined, and instead of admitting my disappointment, I simply blamed the economy and N.Y.U.'s hefty bill. He smiled, and was kind enough to buy me another drink (Rum! Praise the Lord!). And that was when I heard his story. He was 28 years old, a graduate of the University of Chicago and Columbia Business School, and a former employee of Lehman Brothers. After months of being unemployed, he wanted to return to his financial stability and used the only asset he had left: his body. After a few more drinks, I left the bar (with a dinner date I might add – bad choice?) and I went home to go to bed.
I was restless for nearly two hours however. In the wake of the economic recession, had prostitution crossed the Atlantic? I sat there wondering about prostitution in New York. This may sound naive, but while I was living in Prague, I had this image that New York was above Prague, and far too cosmopolitan for prostitution. I eventually decide to wake up my roommate and tell him my story. He chuckled.
"Haven't you ever looked at Craigslist? Loads of 'escorts' advertise on there all the time," he said. "And check out Rentboy too."
I spent the next hour realizing that prostitution had been surrounding me for longer than I had cared to imagine. In the deep corners of my mind I am sure that I knew that petty prostitution existed, but it was not until I had my first, one-on-one experience with a prostitute in America that I realized that it was indeed everywhere.
The next morning I headed off to brunch with several fellow "Chelsea Boys." It was eerily similar to a "Sex and the City" moment. We were all at Cafeteria, sitting around sipping mimosas and talking about life. When I brought up my night, I was surprised by the responses that my story received. My friends were not concerned with the fact that a smart, intelligent young man was selling his body so that he could simply get by. They were in fact more concerned with whether or not I would attempt to sleep with him after our date. It was in that moment that I finally realized Chelsea's biggest flaw.
For them, living in Chelsea is about the excitement and the glamor, the cheap thrills. If only they could finally take a step back, and see all of the flaws of the community that they have come to cherish and love so dearly.
(And for your information, the answer is no, I did not.) Read More!
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