Today, I watch little ones who pass by and realize how much this mature city takes away from youth and innocence. Parents always grasp the hands of their child and practically drag them through the crowds on the way to school. You watch children yawn on the subway as they commute, like I did as a high schooler, to their "elite" preschool across town. At Lincoln Center, plenty of little girls in puffy dresses and little boys in bow ties run around, most far too little to understand the culture and art their parents have paid for them to experience. My own mother even tried to take me to the Museum of Modern Art when I was three years old hoping to enrich my life with the avant-garde. She realized the futility in her actions when she was stumped on how to explain why a roll of toilet paper was considered artwork. Even the numerous child-friendly museums which are meant to provide a fun educational experience for young ones lacks the heartiness and rough-and-tumble of what we’d consider a “normal” childhood.
Growing up in the concrete jungle is quite a unique experience. Unlike kids who spend their childhoods engulfed in the security of small, friendly suburban towns where they can frolic in their backyard or ride their tricycles down the street, New York City youngsters are introduced to a world that isn’t exactly family-friendly. Living in Queens, I was far more fortunate than many children living smack in the middle of Manhattan. I grew up in a house with a small backyard, which provided me a safe haven for imagination and free play. Yet, still I never got to experience the staples of childhood that I saw in the movies or read about in my chapter books. I could not walk home by myself from school, run down the street to buy a treat from the ice cream truck, color pictures on the sidewalk in front of my house, or bike down the street. Between the strangers who lurked on the street and the numerous cars buzzing by, it was just too dangerous.
Today, I watch little ones who pass by and realize how much this mature city takes away from youth and innocence. Parents always grasp the hands of their child and practically drag them through the crowds on the way to school. You watch children yawn on the subway as they commute, like I did as a high schooler, to their "elite" preschool across town. At Lincoln Center, plenty of little girls in puffy dresses and little boys in bow ties run around, most far too little to understand the culture and art their parents have paid for them to experience. My own mother even tried to take me to the Museum of Modern Art when I was three years old hoping to enrich my life with the avant-garde. She realized the futility in her actions when she was stumped on how to explain why a roll of toilet paper was considered artwork. Even the numerous child-friendly museums which are meant to provide a fun educational experience for young ones lacks the heartiness and rough-and-tumble of what we’d consider a “normal” childhood.
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This was originally supposed to be a review of the new Broadway revival of Barlett Sher’s The King and I. However, I realized soon after watching the show that there was very little to fault creatively or production-wise: Kelli O’Hara did not disappoint (then again, I always knew she was an incredible singer having listened to South Pacific and The Light at the Piazza on Spotify numerous times), Ken Watanabe was charismatic, the choreography was intriguing, the kids were cute, and the Tony Award winning Ruthie Ann Miles was not there (because what is an Aglaia Broadway experience without someone important being absent).
Nonetheless, the show just did not sit right with me. There was a lingering feeling that something…just something was off. It was late in the second act when I finally realized right in the middle of the iconic and beloved number “Shall We Dance.” The scene, which was my favorite in the entire musical as a child, suddenly soured when the image of Anna Leonowens dancing with the barefoot king of Siam reminded me of another poignant image from the St. Louis World Fair. Recently, eating out has been quite challenging for my family and me. We do try to find some local restaurants in Queens, but our search has been rather unsuccessful. These days, if we are looking for good food, we wound up visiting little hole-in-the-wall, shack-like ethnic restaurants where the wait staff barely speaks English and there are no tables to sit at. We were about to give up on fine dining when we encountered Casa del Chef, a new American restaurant nestled on a tangential street in Woodside. This unique restaurant brings a trendy farm to table dining experience right into Queens for a reasonable price. A bit pricey compared to my other favorite local establishments, the food, all fresh and locally grown, is worth the few extra dollars. This restaurant is rather small with an unassuming awning. The décor is homelike and comforting, despite the exotic Latin music playing in the dining room, with pale green walls and wooden accent pieces. Casa del Chef is a family-run business with the head chef and owner, Alfonso Zhicay, working in the kitchen and his daughter working the tables. Zhicay’s story is admirable and represents the golden age American dream that he is currently attempting to pursue. An immigrant and a school employee by day, Zhicay opens his restaurant for dinner service, where he pursues his passion for cooking. |
About this BlogA collection of random musings from the mind of a native New Yorker. Be sure to find everything from personal narratives, reviews, lists, and rants. SubscribeCategories
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