Small things about New York are beginning begin to irk me. Mostly noise, which seems More. But it may be me. I might be less? Less dewy-eyed? More choppers flying low, round and round; more construction; more traffic. My cries are peevish.
The old complaint, too, that what makes, and more often made, New York, New York...is being pushed out of existence by Big and Bland and sometimes Bling. The NYTimes article about Florent having to close confirms this again.
I have not eaten there enough: the last time was in a rainstorm, when we were planting a garden some blocks away, on Jane Street. We were wet through and through and straggled through its doors steaming, to eat hot buttered, garlicky snails with a glass of red wine. American diner meets bistro. It was there before anything or anyone else. Before the clubs. Before, long before, Pastis. Before the boutiques. It made the Meatpacking District safe with frisson. Hookers and galleristas and trannies and thin lonely men and...us.
We are losing contrast. We are losing iconic. We are being Disneyed and NYU-d into the torpor of uniformity. Soon we will become intolerent in a way only New Yorkers could recognize. There is a forced tolerance here because the Other is constantly in your face and to react to it would bring self-implosion. Live and let live makes you survive longer. On the subway, the street, every culture and stratum are encountered. Every illness, mental and physical, cultural and social, rides beside you. Every success, every wipe-out. The homeless mouthing drunk and the Rolexed yuppie rode to Park Slope on the F train last Friday, each ignoring the other, thighs and shoulders touching.
One day there will be no other. It will all be Us. And we will start to become prejudiced and unused to contradiction. We will stare at and deride the stranger, who will have become obvious. For now we are almost still all within the real of individual aliens. But we are homogenizing...
A place like Florent deserves, in a scary way, scary because of the threat it implies, a plaque on the door and protection. A historical and living reminder of how life could be lived. Of how it was. Of how a personality can colour a neighbourhood.
It's not good.