Meat on Bread: Hotdogs, NYC
A unifying centre of community: nourishment, comfort, identity; it’s simplistic yet profound. We call it ‘meat on bread’.
Dappled light on Strawberry Fields. A busker plays a laid-back rendition of Help!, a small crowd rapt. A child hops up and down on the Imagine mosaic, his mother smiling, leaning to one side, camera in hand. You’ve just taken a boat out on the lake, you with your beloved. You worked up a sweat. And an appetite.
Central Park is not what you were expecting. Far from the flat green plains of the London parks you know; an altogether more luxuriant affair. Paths wend between trees tall enough to mask the monolithic concrete all around, birds chirp and flutter. There are hills, valleys, there are vistas. But of course this incredible city would offer this.
You leave the busker as he takes a dive into All You Need is Love. Now the Upper West Side, crossing Central Park West to West 72nd. Thrown in mere moments from the disconnected greenery, you’re back on grid, though the effect is no less staggering. You wonder if the awe could ever truly wear off.
Westwards, and past the true Lennon landmark: the Dakota Hotel. The architecture’s impressive, the history more so. Not just Lennon, but Judy Garland, Leonard Bernstein, Boris Karloff. Wikipedia tells you this. What’s of even greater interest is the list of those refused accommodation. Gene Simmons, Billy Joel, Madonna, Cher. ‘I wonder why,’ you muse to your beloved. ‘And what’s even so special about this place?’ Other than Lennon, obviously.
You continue to walk west, in search of answers. One block, then another. The hunger overwhelms. Sixty minutes of rowing, six hours since breakfast. A full city traversed by foot in between. The sweat runs free from your cap, free from your brow. The sun bakes the back of your neck. A darkness rises, a darkness despite the sun, the fog of an empty belly. It’s too much. Is this city too much? And then you see it. Just before West 72nd meets Broadway. Gray’s Papaya.
You’ve heard of this place — it was on the list — and you step inside. Three men in action behind the counter, stooped separately over grills, fryers, hotplates, somehow unaffected by the heat. They work with a synchronicity that borders musicality. Grilled meat meets your nostrils, a tingle too from the condiments waiting just out of sight. You order.
Two for you — ’kraut, onions, relish, ketchup, mustard. One for your beloved, the same; extra cheese. A papaya drink. You’ll share. It’s ready in seconds and it costs less than your morning coffee. Together you spy the narrow yellow perch by the window, and you sit. And you eat.
The experience is primal. A joy washes over. The colour returns to your cheeks; your brow unfurrows. Tension you didn’t know you carried is lifted free. This is uncomplicated food, for an uncomplicated self. The salt and fat of the sausage harmonises the tang of the ’kraut and relish. A subtle heat from the mustard plays with the sweetness of the ketchup. The bun more than just a vessel, a soft and warm embrace to remind you of yourself. To bring you back. And then the drink. Here Comes the Sun. Your body sings its gratitude to the cooling sweet liquid. The darkness lifts.
And the world will be as one. ⚭
Dan Johnson