New York Times: Crooked Tree Creperie

Bryan and I were trying to kill time until 10:00 pm Thursday night. Really, we were trying to kill time until midnight, when we were going to go see the Fulton Fish Market, which is in operation between Midnight and 8:00 am. Later, we would find out that it doesn't really get into swing at midnight, and really 1:00 am is too early to go see the Market. Really, if you want to go see the market, maybe you should just set your alarm for 3:00 am or something, and don't try to approach it from the evening end. But we didn't know that yet.

We'd picked up tickets to see the movie "Clay Pigeons." It had seemed like a good movie to go see, though it wasn't, really. It seemed likely to be a good movie because it had Janeane Garofalo, but as we would discover, she didn't have a whole lot of screen-time in this movie. But we didn't know that yet: the movie didn't start until 10:00, and it was just 9:00 and so we were just kicking around the East Village, looking for a place to loiter.

I'd thought we'd be able to spend time seeing the 18 Mighty Mountain Warriors, who happened to be in town doing some shows. We'd actually made it to the theater where they were to perform, had actually gone up to the box office. Bryan had asked how much tickets were. The clerk said that tickets were $30, but that since tonight (their second night of shows) would also have opening night festivities, tickets would be $50. I like the 18 Mighty Moutain Warriors, but I generally go see them for $10-$20. I mean, c'mon. I'd sent Bryan mind-control rays: Step Away From the Window. He hadn't needed them, he was on the ball, said, "Uhm, we've got to talk about this." And we'd decided on the movie.

I grabbed this image from ackland.org.

Before that, we'd been in Williamsburg, had looked at the Orthodox Jewish Men scurrying around, amusing in the same way that penguins are amusing. So formal, so identical, so flurried. At that time, I hadn't thought we'd have any trouble filling up the hours. Everything was alien and strange. As we climbed up the steps of the Marcy elevated train station, I'd seen through the window of someone's apartment--the room had been dark, except for one white blob. I had squinted, had discerned a huge albino snake in the light of a terrarium. Before that, Bryan had taken me to the midtown gallery of the ICP, where they had a Vik Muniz, both of us laughing our asses off at photographs of Medusa rendered in a plate of spaghetti, an image of a strobe-captured milk drop rendered in chocolate. New York was a vale of entertainment, non-stop. Wasn't it?

But, really, at 9:15 pm that night, I really didn't have any idea how we were going to fill up the time until 10:00 pm. All the cafes looked awful or just plain full. So when Bryan pointed out the Crooked Tree Creperie, I didn't veto the idea. I thought I hated crepes; I knew I'd never had one I liked.

The Crooked Tree had the first crepes I liked--the best crepes I'd ever had. The crepes themselves were very thin, not overwhelming the fillings with heaviness. Now don't get me wrong. I like pancakes. Before heading out on this trip, I'd gone to Kate's on Haight, and had a short stack of pancakes with berries, bananas, and lemon curd. Oh, that was one of the finest meals of my life. Just recently, I had a little mail exchange with a webmaster who I realized was in the Madison, WI area, and he mentioned that he was hungry, and I was overwhelmed with memories of the pancakes at Mickies Dairy Bar. Pancakes have got their merits. It's just that if I'm settling down to something heavy like nutella and banana, the last thing I want is something heavy and eggy around it. Up until this point, the crepes I'd encountered had been heavy and eggy. But at the crooked tree, the crepes were skinny and delightful. And the people were kind of interesting, too.

When we entered, there were two men behind the counter and four customers sitting at the counter. We sat down, warming up, looking at the menu. We figured out what we wanted as the other customers got up and left. One lady in the crowd called out a compliment--"Thank you! C'est magnifique!" Her French sounded really good. Later, Bryan, in his socially adept, extroverted way, was talking to the crepe-maker. Bryan pointed out that this creperie had cause for pride: it was getting compliments in French. "Oh, her? That's my mom."

Mom had breezed in with her friends. She came by often. She'd rearranged the stools so that all of her friends could sit at the counter--the other counter behind us with all the newspapers wasn't meant for newspapers: normally, there were stools there, too. Even in her absence, Mom's influence remained.

One of the men behind the counter (not the crepe-maker, but the sandwich-maker), stepped outside for a cigarette. When he was done, he walked back inside, and headed through the waist-high gate that led behind the counter. He let out a startled gasp of breath. "What?" the crepe-maker asked. "I almost forgot," the sandwich-maker replied, pointing down. Behind the gate, there was a hole in the floor, leading down to the basement, artifact of some previous renovation.

The crepe-maker sighed. "You know, Mom? She went running up to the gate, she wanted to use the restroom, and just at the last second she stops, hand right there, she asks me, okay if go back here? Two more steps and she's in the hole."

"Come to our place, get some food, get a broken back." "We gotta get that fixed."

The sandwich-maker guy tried to make a crepe. He put some batter on the pan, and ran the crepe-flattener implement over it--but he ended up with a hole. "And that's why I make the sandwiches," he said, ruefully sprinkling some sugar on his food-item-topologically-unlike-a-crepe.

I didn't mind. My crepe was great.

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