Sometimes it arrives when I pull up next to another cab driver fighting fatigue and braving the traffic:

Other times it’s Mike Katz, my weekend dispatcher – who speaks Spanish with a Brooklyn accent and always asks me “How’s the blog?” – who inspires me to keep going.

Every once in a while, the NYPD make me giggle, especially when they’re trying to look fierce and aren’t in a position to pull me over:

Often times just seeing New York be itself is enough to remind me why I’m lucky to be doing this job:

Of course I’d go nowhere without vendors like Sam Kandil, a former mechanical engineer from Egypt who sells hand-rolled bagels from a cart on the corner of 53rd and 7th Ave and throws a muffin in the bag when I’m not looking:



And there are few things as soul-soothing as having the perfect song come on the radio when you’re driving back to the garage after 12 hours on the road:

And when someone initiates a chain of calls from the back seat of my cab, I feel no shame about listening to their side of the conversation. I may be invisible to some of my passengers, but they’re never invisible to me.

Within five minutes of picking up the fare on the corner of 42nd and 2nd Ave. who was en route to JFK, I learned he was a lawyer who’d just finalized a major corporate merger, that he’d quit his job that day and was very pleased with himself about it, and that he’d budgeted an hour and twenty minutes to get to the airport.

He finished his first call and said, “How are you?” in a relaxed tone that I thought was meant for me.

“Oh, I’m doing OK…” I met his eyes in the rear view mirror only to discover that he was on his phone again. I clapped my hand over my mouth and focused on the traffic.

We were coasting down the Long Island Expressway at 10 miles an hour, and I was trying not to think about the possibility that my passenger might not make his flight.

“I’m in a little bit of traffic,” he said to he person on the other end of the line.

I thought about the Van Wyck Expressway that lay before us, and thought: you’re about to be in a lot of traffic.

He seemed fairly relaxed about the journey, though, so I decided to take a cue from him and breathe.

Things changed after he finished his third call. We’d merged onto the Van Wyck. It was 4pm. We were moving at an average speed of 5 miles per hour and coming to a complete stop about every 30 seconds.

“I’m starting to freak out a little bit,” he said to me, “Are we going to get there by 4:30?”

“Yes,” I said. I sensed his growing nervousness, but I couldn’t reassure him completely.

Just as I started praying – please, God, let me get him there by 4:30, please, God, let him make this flight - he started with the profanity:

“S**t! I can’t miss this f***ing flight! This sucks!”

He tossed his brief case to the side and leaned forward.

“Can’t you go another way?”

“At this time of day, the surface streets aren’t going to be any faster,” I said. At least that’s what my instructors at taxi school told me, I thought. The truth was, I didn’t know how to get there any other way, and I didn’t want to risk getting off the expressway and getting lost. Would a GPS have helped? I didn’t know.

We inched forward. I rode the rear ends of the cars in front of me, changing lanes, chasing every inch of forward momentum I could find. I looked at the odometer and counted the tenths of miles. We had 2 miles to go before Linden Blvd., where the congestion was supposed to clear.

As each minute passed, I listened to my passenger grow more agitated. His cell phone was long gone. He was totally focused on the journey. I knew he was thinking we weren’t going to make it, and I threw that thought back at him. For once, I was grateful for the plexiglass partition that separated us.

By this point, I’d been on the road for 12 hours, I’d taken a fare to La Guardia and had him stiff me (his ‘only’ credit card was declined), I’d moved 23 other passengers from “A” to “B”, and I’d relieved myself in my cab (see previous post). I didn’t have the energy to get caught up in this guy’s freak out. I’m over it, I thought. We’ll get there…Please?

“(%&$*%(&!!!&#*(&!!” he said.

We made it to Linden Blvd. at 4:21, where we increased our speed to 25 miles an hour. Two minutes later, the road opened up, and I channeled the spirit of my lead-footed mother. I accelerated, I swerved, I passed every car in my path, and all I could think was: Bat. Out. Of. Hell.

“Good,” my passenger said, “Yes.”

At 4.29pm, I parked the Crown Victoria in front of the American Airlines departures terminal. My passenger threw a wad of cash at me and flew out of the cab without waiting for his receipt. The moment he slammed the door, tears welled up and streaked down. I wasn’t actually crying. My eyes were just manifesting my relief.

It was almost 5:30 by the time I got back to the garage to return my cab for the guys driving the night shift. Despite arriving almost an hour late, they showed mercy and didn’t charge me the $105 for an extra shift. Yay, Team. I promised them I’d learned my lesson: never take a fare to JFK after 3pm and expect to make it back by 4:30.

I decided to celebrate at a Mexican-Chinese restaurant near Queensboro Plaza, where I should have ordered stir fry instead of soft tacos. I forgave the flour tortillas (which the cook put through a press right before serving), but I couldn’t get past the iceberg lettuce, the brown-green guacamole or the institutional cheese. The black beans weren’t bad, though…Oh, who was I kidding? They were bad $2 tacos from a hole-in-the-wall not even worth naming, a period at the end of a shift that had had enough exclamation points.

But during my last shift, I learned two lessons that were particularly memorable: (Note: If you don’t care for graphic descriptions, you might want to stop reading now.)

1. Never, ever, order an iced coffee while driving
2. Never, ever pick up anyone going to JFK after 3pm and expect to be able to return your cab to the garage on time.

Why you should never order an iced coffee while driving

As every New York cabbie with a kidney problem knows, going to the bathroom is a special challenge in Gotham.

Between parking restrictions, civilians who park at taxi stands who do not receive parking tickets, and the knowledge that every minute that we’re not searching for or transporting fares is money lost, relief can be complicated.

A bladder of steel is a handy attribute for a taxi driver. Unfortunately, mine is – and has always been – made of cheesecloth. I don’t exaggerate when I say that this seriously infringes on my ability to make money as a cabbie.

I don’t know if it was the heat or the fact that I was running on 3 hours of sleep, but during my last shift, I convinced myself that my over-enthusiastic bladder could handle an iced coffee. My logic: it was hot – I would sweat it out. And I was exhausted – even if I had to stop for more bathroom breaks, the caffeine would quicken my pace, and I’d make more money in the end.

Wrong and wrong.

Even when I limit myself to 16 ounces of water over the course of a 10-12 hour shift, I still have to take 5-7 bathroom breaks. So I shouldn’t have been surprised that within half an hour of downing the iced coffee, I had to go back to Port Authority twice to use the bathroom.

20 minutes later, in the middle of a traffic jam on 45th St., I felt my bladder growing insistent again. Oh, come on!

I tried to ignore it for a couple of avenues, but I knew I couldn’t pick up a passenger in my condition. “No Parking” signs lined the sidewalk as far as my eyes could see. And somehow I’d ended up behind a mail truck, so I had no idea how far the jam extended.

When the mail truck stopped and turned on its hazard lights, I knew I was in trouble. I knew that if I turned on my own hazard lights and dashed into the sandwich shop to my left, I’d come out with a $115 parking ticket on my windshield.

I took one look at the empty iced coffee cup. I took another look at the cars lined up on my right to make sure they weren’t big rigs or SUV drivers who could see what I was about to do.

I put the taxi in Park. I slid the driver’s seat back as far as it would go. I turned on my hazard lights. I grabbed my 5 borough street atlas and laid it across my lap. I rested my purse next to my right thigh (and was never more grateful for its girth). I pulled my pants down and rearranged the atlas. I lifted my lower body, situated the coffee cup under me and gingerly let go. And let go and let go. Tears of humiliation and relief rolled down my cheeks when I finished.

My pants were still down when a woman in a brown shawl approached my window with a hopeful look on her face. I waved her away and shook my head, “No, no, no!” She raised her eyebrows and walked away, bewildered at the vehemence of my refusal.

The hurt on her face was still fresh in my mind when I picked up my next fare.

“JFK,” he said, swinging a laptop bag and a briefcase in after him.

It was 3:11pm. I could only imagine the state of the Long Island Expressway and the bumper to bumper on the Van Wyck.

“Just one second,” I said, sprinting to a trash can on the sidewalk. There was no way the iced coffee cup was going to the airport with us.

To be continued…

Wilfredo repairing my busted brake light. Thanks to him, I now know to check the Daily News on Fridays to get updates on weekend street closures.

I wasn’t sure why the cop started flashing his lights at me when I turned left onto 72nd St. from Park Avenue, but I decided to let the hyperventilating bride-to-be in the passenger seat (“We’re getting PULLED over?!”) do the talking when he sauntered up to my window.

“Did you know one of your brake lights is out?” he said.

I turned to the bride.

“I’m getting married today!” she wailed, “I’m late! I was supposed to be there at 8:30! Please don’t do this now!”

The officer took one look at the shellacked curls, the diamond tiara, the impeccable make-up and the mania in her eyes and smirked.

“OK. OK, go ahead,” he said.

I put the cab in drive and sped (ahem, headed) toward Central Park.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I don’t feel well,” the bride fanned herself, “I think I’m going to faint. Oh, my God.”

“Did you eat?” I asked her. I turned on the AC full blast, “Do you need a barf bag?”

“Yes,” she told me, “No.”

“Good girl,” I said, “Now take a deep breath.”

“I can’t!”

“Yes, you can.”

We’d been having this battle from the moment I picked up her and her dress (in a box, to be put on just before the ceremony) at the Waldorf-Astoria.

“No, I can’t!”

“Yes, you can. Come on. In through your nose,” I inhaled, “And out through your mouth.”

She took a shaky breath in.

“Good girl. Keep it up.”

When we got to the corner of 72nd and 5th, she started hyperventilating again, “Go in!”

“What?” I said, “This is the park drive. It’s for pedestrians. No cars. I can’t go in.”

“I have a permit! Go in! Go to the Boat House! I have a permit!”

I had five seconds to decide which would be worse: the wrath of the bride or the wrath of the NYPD. I went in.

“Do you know where the Boat House is?” the bride said.

“Not exactly – ”

“Just keep going! Go! Go! Go! I’m late! Run over whoever you have to! Just go! I’ll tell you where to go. I’m so late! Oh, my God – ”

We came to a fork in the road, and she didn’t know which way to go. I veered to the right as mystified cyclists and roller bladers and runners shook their heads at the presence of my cab in their Sunday space. I was too terrified of my passenger – and too consumed with the idea that I should have veered left – to absorb their indignation.

“Keep breathing,” I said, as much to her as to myself.

We swerved around pedestrians and glided down the tree-lined road.

“There it is!” the bride said, shaking a finger in front of my nose, “Pull over! Run over whoever you have to! Go!”

Dodging pedestrians who aimed outraged stares at me, I drove over a low curb and pulled up next to a tree.

“Go further. Go up to the door!” the bride said.

As this would have involved mowing down a waiter and a few bushes, I finally told her “no.”

“This is as far as I can take you.”

She wrestled herself out of the passenger seat and bumped her head on a tree branch. The shellacked curls didn’t move.

“Thank you!” she said, smoothing her hair.

“Break a leg!” I said.

A runner approached the cab: “You know you’re not supposed to be in here,” he said icily.

“I know. She forced me to drive her. What could I do?”

“You better put your hazard lights on and drive as slowly as you can. I don’t know what the cops are going to do to you.”

And that’s when I realized that the bride had made off with her alleged permit. Before I could catch her, she disappeared into the Boat House. How was I going to make it out of the park without her as my alibi?

I turned on my flashers and inched away from the Boat House lawn. Now, without my hysterical passenger, I could feel the disbelief in the stares of every man, woman and child I passed. Where was the end of the path? I wanted to reach it, but I dreaded what I might find once I got there. Please don’t let there be any cops, please…

There wasn’t one cop when I pulled up to the park drive entrance. There was an NYPD armada of five squad cars, three vans, and at least fifty uniformed officers assembled in anticipation of the Israel Day parade on Fifth Avenue.

Obviously, a Jason Bourne car chase was out of the question. I parked the cab behind the line of squad cars, scanned the group of officers and approached the fattest one. Why him? Maybe subconsciously I was thinking he couldn’t catch me if I ran away.

“Officer, I’m really sorry. I know I’m not supposed to be here, but a bride forced me to come into the park.”

“She forced you?”

“She needed to get to the Boat House. She was late. For – for her wedding.”

He let go a disgusted sigh, “All right. Get outa here.”

“Are you sure?” I said.

“What do you mean ‘am I sure’?! What are you gonna do? Leave the cab there all day? Get outa here!”

I sprinted back to the taxi before he could reconsider, fired up the engine and zoomed out of the park, taking the incredulous looks of his fellow cops with me as I drove away.

The bride was my first passenger on Sunday.

Between her $2 tip, the Israel Day parade, the Murray Hill Festival, the Hell’s Kitchen Flea Market, the Amsterdam Ave. festival and some other fair on Broadway that prompted street closures starting at 58th St, two passengers who appeared to be involved in some drug-related hanky-panky (“Are you a cop?”), a Korean student whose English was so bad he started to cry (any driver would’ve turned off the meter for this man-child), and the trip back to the garage to have Wilfredo fix my brake light, I was having a horribly slow money-making day.

You again?

If I wanted to break even, there was no time for restaurant reconnaissance, but I couldn’t make it through the rest of the shift without eating something that wasn’t McDonald’s.

Finally, I stopped by Pick-a-Pita, wolfed down just-fried falafel with roasted eggplant and heavenly hummus and wondered whether the bride had made it through the ceremony without fainting.

Running on falafel, I took my last fare of the day from Penn Station to the Upper West Side.

Fighting traffic to the West Side Highway, I got stuck behind an NYPD squad car. One of its brake lights was out.

The bride had definitely survived, I decided. I just hope her husband is a laid-back guy.

Waiting for passengers at the Port Authority bus terminal. My cab's at the front of the line.

It may have only lasted 20 seconds, but the rendezvous with the lady taxi driver on E.16th St and Union Square West on Sunday was enough to make me feel as if I actually belonged among the ranks of New York cabbies.

We were both stuck in the traffic jam caused by road construction on Broadway and E. 14th St when she reached out her driver’s side window and asked me to let her merge.

I motioned for her to go right ahead (It’s rare for any driver in NYC to ask permission to do anything, so if and when this happens I’m happy to oblige). When we saw each other’s ponytails, we both did a double take.

Female cabbies make up 1% of all taxi drivers in New York – of the 48,000+ licensed cabbies in the city, there are about 500 women – so I can count the times I’ve seen another woman behind the wheel on one hand. Whenever it happens, it’s a happy surprise.

But there was something else going on with this lady cabbie on Union Square East. She waved at me and smiled as she turned onto E. 16th St., thanking me again for letting her pass. I looked back at her with what I hoped was the same expression of recognition and you-go-girl solidarity.

Image courtesy goodiesfirst.typepad.com

The rest of the shift was less of a struggle. Especially after I fueled up on fast food at Woorijip, a Koreatown fixture on W. 32nd St. that is now one of my favorite pit stops.

Not only is it a two minute walk from a little-known taxi stand on 32nd and Madison where I can almost always find parking, Woorijip is cheap, their food is fresh, and no matter how insanely crowded it is (which is most of the time), the cashiers rip through the line with an efficiency that puts Starbucks to shame.

What $6.36 gets you at Woorijip.

Unfortunately, my minuscule bladder means I have to steer clear of all the amazing-sounding cold teas while I’m on duty – they have at least 20 brands that would be wonderful to try if you know you’re going to have easy access to a bathroom.

Between the drunk Australian who’d been my first passenger, the Oprah Winfrey walk that blocked 57th Street, a lady from Philly who asked me straight away what I was doing driving a cab, and the man I picked up on 42nd St. who didn’t want to get out of my taxi to face the wild spring winds, I was starving.

I stuffed a styrofoam container with a fish cutlet (crispy outside, moist inside), egg-battered tofu (tender and mild), a scallion and zucchini cake (tasty but undercooked), buckwheat noodles with pickled ginger (tasty but overcooked), sautéed spinach with sesame seeds (refreshing and delicious, but I’m a sucker for anything with sesame), and stir-fried broccoli with imitation crab (good but so garlicky that my cab stank for the rest of the shift) and brought it to the cashier for weighing. Grand total: $6.36.

Lady Cab Driver on Union Square East, if you’re reading this, I hope you have a chance to try Woorijip (Maybe you already have?). And I hope we can share the road again someday.

Woorijip
12 West 32nd Street – Midtown West
Tel. (212) 244-1115
Open: Mon-Thu, Sun 24 hours; Fri-Sat 6 am-2 am
Credit cards accepted
Map it

Despite the fact that they could barely lift their arms to flag me down – I only stopped when I saw the imploring looks in their eyes – the nonne wanted to go to Madison Ave. and 60th “the fastest way possible.”

I watched them stoop and slide into my back seat and wondered how could they could possibly be in a hurry when they could scarcely move. Wouldn’t your pace automatically slacken if your body forced you to slow down?

Apparently not. I did my best to time the green lights along Central Park West, but once we were on the 79th St. transverse, I heard their conversation shift from their grandkids to the idiocy of my driving.

They were speaking Italian. They didn’t know I understood their complaints: Why had I chosen 79th St.? Why I couldn’t go faster? Why had they gotten in a cab with a woman at the wheel?

Then they started counting the streets as we drove past: “Settantacinque…settantaquattro…settantatre…”

I was trying to find some Italian to calm them down when they asked me – in English – where we were. I couldn’t resist: “La sessantasette,” I said.

“Parla italiano!” They looked at one another, embarrassed, paling when they realized that I’d absorbed their insults, “You speak Italian?”

“Un poquino,” I said. They were mortified. A few blocks later, they asked me to drop them off.

Rabid commuters honked while I waited for them to coax their tired joints out of my cab. Once they were on the sidewalk, I sped away. They looked like two sweet little old ladies – but they were as stressed out as the next New Yorker.

Over and over again – every shift it seems like – I’m reminded how misguided my snap judgments can be. If nothing else, driving a cab teaches you to let people show you who they are instead of making assumptions based on their surfaces.

I know that the idea of not judging a book by its cover isn’t new, but we do it all the time. From the minute you start hacking in New York, I think you realize what a foolish practice this is.

After the nonne, I’d had my fill of fares in a hurry for one day. I turned on my off-duty light and sifted through the restaurant recommendations passengers had given me during the shift.

I must have been wearing my hunger on my sleeve that day, because I got three food suggestions from three separate fares: steamed mussels and herb French fries at Elysian Cafe in Hoboken, Cobb salad at Malibu Diner in Chelsea and lamb sausage with yogurt sauce from Dogmatic in Union Square.

When I remembered how my lady passenger had raved about the lamb sausage, I beelined it to Dogmatic, chewed out the driver of the Mercedes that was parked at the taxi stand on E. 17th St., marched in and ordered the meal deal: one sausage, one side and one house-made ginger soda for $10.89.

Ginger soda, lamb sausage on a baguette and truffled mac & cheese from Dogmatic.

I’m a huge fan of no-hormone, no-nitrate, no-antibiotic sausage – which is all that Dogmatic sells – but when their lamb sausage collided with memories of Adana kebab from Uskudar and merguez from Kabab Cafe, I was disappointed.

The texture was mealy, and I couldn’t taste much beyond red pepper. The dense baguette they serve it in was good, although the bread was so hot it soaked up most of the mint yogurt sauce.

Still, I’d like to try their other sausages – beef, pork, chicken and turkey – and see how they combine with the other toppings (cheddar jalapeño, horseradish mustard, truffle gruyere, chimichurri, and sun-dried tomato feta).

I was a lot happier with the truffle gruyere macaroni and cheese I’d ordered as a side. Even if they’d overcooked the pasta shells, nothing could ruin the gloriously stinky perfume of black truffle that had soaked into every noodle. For $3, this was a near-perfect mini pie tin of decadence that I’d definitely go back for.

I tried two flavors of Dogmatic’s soda, but both ginger and lemon-lime were too sweet for me. I was hoping for more purity of flavor from a drink made in house. If you’re going to make a trip here, don’t go out of your way to order these beverages unless you’re heavily into sugar.

I made sure to save the truffled mac & cheese for my last bite, which reminded me of Italy, which made me think of the impatient nonne, which made me wonder why the ladies were in such a hurry.

I’ll never know what was at Madison Ave. and 60th, but every time I pass that intersection, I’ll probably flash back to those grandmas – and I’ll remember to give my passengers a chance to surprise me.

Dogmatic Gourmet Sausage System‎
26 East 17th Street between Union Square West & 5th Ave.
(212) 414-0600‎
Sausages: $4.50; Sides: $3; Sodas: $2.50
Credit cards accepted
Open: M-F, 11am-8pm
eatdogmatic.com
Map it

If you served gelato this good, you'd smile like that, too.

I don’t know if it was the holiday or the promise of sun and seventy degree temperatures, but when I was driving across the Queensboro Bridge on Easter Sunday, I noticed that the pit in my stomach – something I’d grown accustomed to contending with at the start of every shift – was gone.

Even when I got lost after I dropped off my first fare in the Bronx and almost crossed the George Washington Bridge into Jersey, I felt strangely calm. Apparently my teachers at taxi school were right: after a couple of months behind the wheel, the paralyzing anxiety starts to recede.

Anxiety was still nowhere to be found when I picked up my second fare: a father in a fancy suit taking his Easter dressed daughter to church on Madison Ave. Her eyes widened when she saw me behind the wheel.

Her dad asked me what taxi garage I drove for. Then he told me about a college buddy of his whose father – who had come to the U.S. after fleeing pogroms in Russia – had put him through school driving a cab.

His buddy now owns 900 taxi medallions (not bad considering that each medallion is worth something in the neighborhood of $500,000) and heads the largest fleet of hybrid taxis in New York.

Times Square in noontime sun.

After that, pretty much everyone who got in my cab was in a wonderful mood (New Yorkers embrace beautiful weather as ferociously as they go after everything else), and I met my favorite passengers of the day toward the end of the shift, when a not quite 2-year old stuck her curly head through the window in the plexiglass partition and said, “We’re going to my cousin’s house!”

“You are?” I said, “Where does you cousin live?”

“Connecticut!”

They asked me to take them as far as Grand Central. The 2-year old’s sister – who wore purple pants, a purple shirt and purple fingernail polish – was around 6. She asked me my name and told me hers was Alice.

“See?” one of her dads said, “Women can do anything. And sometimes they can do it better.”

9/11 memorial on Greenwich Ave.

I smiled into the rear view mirror.

When we passed 10th St., Alice said, “That’s where my great grandma lives. Guess how old my great grandma is?”

“How old?”

“99!”

“99! How did she live so long? What’s her secret?” I asked her.

“God takes good care of her,” Alice said.

“She doesn’t even believe in God,” one of her Dads said.

“But she’s a good person,” the other Dad said.

“She must eat a lot of yogurt,” I said.

“I eat yogurt sometimes,” Alice said, “But I don’t love it.”

“What do you love?” I asked her.

She thought for a minute, “Soup dumplings.”

Not just any soup dumplings, her fathers told me. She loves the soup dumplings from Grand Sichuan at 9th Ave and 24th. I wrote it down.

“Can you drive us to Connecticut?” Alice asked.

I wished I could have. I promised her I’d try her soup dumplings and she blew me kisses goodbye. Her sister Penny followed suit.

I could have picked up more fares after that, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to end the shift on a high note, the way I used to leave the milongas in Buenos Aires after an especially beautiful tango, the way I like to save the best thing on the plate for my last bite…before ice cream.

I knew I’d get to Alice’s dumplings eventually, but I’d had ice cream on the brain for several hours by then, and I knew exactly where I wanted to get it: Grom.

Gelato at Grom is expensive – $5.25 for a small cup – but the owners are from Turin, and they make it the Italian way (importing hazelnuts from Piedmont, lemons from Sorrento and mountain water from Lurisia for sorbets). Their Bolivian cacao sorbet is the stuff of fantasy – it’s the only ice cream I’ve ever tasted that gives me the same high as a chocolate bar.

L'Arte del Gelato: 7th Ave South and Bleeker.

After circling the neighborhood four times, I finally found a parking space on Bleeker, but I was a ten minute walk from Grom and a two minute walk from L’Arte del Gelato, an ice cream parlor I’d heard good things about but had yet to try.

I beat back my desire for Bolivian cacao, walked into L’Arte and ordered Sicilian cassata (a flavor I rarely see that I thought would be made with ricotta, nuts and dried fruit) and caffe.

I was a little disappointed with the cassata, which tasted more like fresh milk than anything else, but the coffee gelato was unbelievable. Refreshing and strong and not too sweet, it quenched my thirst and satisfied my sweet tooth at the same time.

When I finished it, I didn’t even need a drink of water (I think this may be one of the indicators of truly great ice cream). Did Alice know about this place? If our ride from Washington Square to Grand Central offered any clues, I guessed that she did.

Grom Gelato
233 Bleecker Street (at Carmine) – (212) 206-1738‎ – West Village – Map it
and
2165 Broadway (near 77th) – (212) 362-1837‎ – Upper West Side – Map it

L’Arte Del Gelato‎
75 7th Avenue South (at Bleeker) – (212) 924-0803‎ – West Village – Map it
lartedelgelato.com

Yesterday, when I was taking my 8am bathroom and coffee break at Grand Central station, I parked at the taxi stand on Lex and 43rd. Just as I was pulling out, an NYPD officer marched over and started writing me a ticket.

“This is a taxi stand!” I told her, “What’s the problem?”

My cab under what I thought was a taxi stand sign. Squad cars behind me.

“Not from 7 to 1 it’s not,” she said, “Read the sign. Read the whole sign. From 7 to 1 there’s no standing [parking] anytime. Other times, it’s a taxi stand.”

“Oh, come on! You’re kidding me!”

She kept punching the numbers on her handheld computer.

“What am I supposed to do? Your colleagues took up all the spots under the taxi stand sign back there!”

Please, pretty please, could you guys park somewhere else?

I pointed to the area down the block where two NYPD squad cars were parked under a taxi stand sign with no other provisions.

“Do you think I’m going to give a ticket to myself? You’ll have to talk to them about that.”

She stuck a $115 ticket under my windshield wiper. She wouldn’t even hand it to me.

I suppressed a strong urge to slide tackle her. Then I got out of the cab and started snapping pictures to support my appeal of the ticket. I doubt they’ll make a difference. A few weeks ago, I got another parking ticket in the same situation, and the judge wouldn’t accept my reasoning about the unfairness of the NYPD taking up all the taxi stand spots.

I never intended to have a chip on my shoulder about the NYPD, but as a taxi driver it’s hard not to.

What happened to me at Grand Central felt like a trap, a set-up to stick it to cabbies who have to go to the bathroom. It’s cruel, it’s unjust and it’s just plain dirty to park in one of the few spots where we’re allowed to park and then give us tickets when we make so little money in the first place.

I slapped the steering wheel and let the profanity fly. Then Johnny Cash came into my head:

“Drive on, don’t mean nothin’, drive on…” (a song about a much more serious injustice, but the words were comforting anyway. Watch him perform it.)

I drove on, buoyed by Mr. Cash, found my next fare outside Grand Central, and landed on the Upper East Side.

The sun was out as I cruised down 2nd Avenue, and that’s when I spotted two round-faced ladies pulling chicken tamales from a steamer on the corner of E. 97th St.

A handmade tamale, Guerrero (Mexico) style.

I bought two – one mild and one spicy, $2 apiece – and parked next to a Park Avenue fire hydrant (legal for cabbies as long as we stay in our cars and are ready to move if need be) to eat them.

Their steam warmed my face as I unfolded the banana leaves. I wanted them to be amazing. I wanted them to make up for the parking ticket.

With a silky, lard-laden more flour than corn masa, they almost did.

The masa was good, but I wanted more meat and less dough. I liked the subtle seasoning in the mild one, but the hot one had the aftertaste of old spices.

Are these tamales worth a special trip? No, and they definitely can’t top the $2 tamal oaxaqueño at El Aguila in Harlem (137 E. 116th St). But if I’m anywhere near the corner of E. 97th and 2nd Ave and suffering from hunger pangs, I’ll stop – and I might still have Johnny Cash in my head.

The Tamale Ladies from Guerrero
E. 97th St. & 2nd Ave.
7 days a week from 8-3pm (give or take an hour)

Image courtesy baldpunk.com

Grandma and grandpa had just taken their visiting from California grandkids to the circus. Now it was time for lunch in Chinatown. They wanted to go to the corner of Canal and Mott – and did I know of any good Chinese restaurants around there?

Photo by Harris Graber

We inched along 34th St. as I racked my brain, “Actually, there’s wonderful dim-sum at Ping’s on Mott St. I just went there with some friends a couple of weeks ago. I could take you there.”

Grandma thought that sounded great. Except we weren’t moving.

I started to sweat and stopped trying to meet their eyes in the rear view mirror. Was there a faster way than the West Side Highway to get downtown? If there was, I didn’t know about it.

Grandpa started grumbling in a Johnny Cash baritone. Bella’s brother kept telling her to look out the window (“Bella, it’s the river! Bella a taxi!”).

Meanwhile, Bella squealed with delight and sang “We’re here!” every time I hit the brakes. I thought this was a little unusual. Why wasn’t she whining (like I would’ve been)? Wouldn’t most hungry 3-year olds keep asking “Are we there yet?”

Not Bella. Not even when we sat still for ten minutes at the intersection of Canal and Greenwich St. (Why oh why didn’t I pull off Canal when I had the chance? I felt terrible. Grandpa was ready to walk, and I could understand why.)

Image courtesy streetsblog.org

Even grandma was wondering why the signals weren’t synchronized. And Bella? “We’re here!”

Her brother, who was probably around 6, laughed and said, “At least we’re moving.” Who were these kids?

Grandpa and Grandma were too desperate to get out of the taxi to have me drive them down Mott St. to Ping’s, so I just dropped them off at the corner, wondering whether I could have somehow turned that 46-minute saga into the 15-minute ride it should have been.

As Bella crawled out, she turned to me and said, “I love you.” And that’s when I noticed she had Down’s Syndrome.

She blew me a kiss and I blew her one back, fighting back tears. She didn’t care about the traffic or her hunger or her grumbling grandpa. She just wanted me to know that everything was OK, that she knew my intentions were good and that I was doing the best I could. I hope they took her to Ping’s.

Ping’s
22 Mott Street – Chinatown
Te. (212) 602-9988‎
Open: 7 days, 10:30am-midnight
Credit cards accepted
Note: Ping’s is known for its seafood, although it can be a little pricey. Dim sum here is both delicious and a great deal (Try chive dumplings with shrimp and baby bok choy with fried garlic).

Image courtesy photobucket.com

When a passenger gets into a cab in New York and says “JFK” or “La Guardia,” most cabbies do a little dance on the inside.

In fact, a lot of taxi drivers spend the better part of their shifts waiting in line at the hotels searching for fares to the airport, which usually cover about a third of our daily leasing costs.

But when someone gets in my cab and asks me to take them to the airport, my first reaction is something in the realm of “Oh, barf.”

I’ve had three trips to La Guardia and three to JFK so far. Each one of these journeys has either involved me getting lost (at La Guardia, thanks to what I think is totally ambiguous signage) or having some kind of a snafu with the taxi meter (to JFK, which involves a flat $45 fare that doesn’t want to register sometimes).

Half of my passengers have been patient with my cluelessness. The other half probably wanted to revoke my hack license.

During my last shift, when a mild-mannered blonde got in my cab and told me we were going to La Guardia, I tried to suppress the panic. She was flying Delta.

Terminal D. D is for Delta, D is for Delta, I kept repeating in my head, hoping that the knowledge I’d gleaned from being lost on past trips was finally going to pay off.

When her New Yorker husband plopped down next to her in the back seat, I surrendered to anxious and steered straight into the traffic on Houston St.

The inner monologue continued: Oh, *&$(*%! We’re not moving. Does this street lead to the FDR? Yes, I’m positive it does. D is for Delta. I wonder if there’s traffic on the FDR. I can’t miss the La Guardia ramp from the Long Island Expressway. D is for Delta. Should I get into the left lane?

“How long have you been driving a cab?” the husband asked.

“How long do you think?”

“Not very long,” he said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you smiled when that other cab cut you off,” the wife chimed in.

“What else can I do?” I told them, “You either laugh or go crazy driving in this city.”

“You’re definitely not from New York,” the husband said.

We still weren’t moving. I was starting to sweat. What time is their flight?

Photo courtesy sashyjane.wordpress.com

Of course I wanted something! Every time I’d ever gone into Katz’s, the line at the iconic deli was so long, the crowd so impenetrable, that I walked right back out.

Of course I wanted something. But my stomach was doing airport somersaults, and before I could stop myself, I said, “No, that’s OK. But thanks for offering.”

He asked me again as I whipped the cab into a U-turn. Again I heard myself turning him down. Fool! This is your chance to finally try the most legendary pastrami in the city! To see if the deli is worthy of all the “When Harry Met Sally” hype!

I dropped him off at Katz’s. Drenched in cold sweat, I searched in vain for a place to park as I chatted with the wife, who grew up on a ranch in New Mexico and had spent the last four months struggling to write a book about the inherent hilarity in her relationship with her uber-urban husband (a New York Jew who works in real estate).

We spent ten minutes swapping authors and driving laps around the Lower East Side before we picked up her pastrami, corned beef and matzo ball soup-bearing husband.

Image courtesy ifly.com.

I tried not to get too distracted as I listened to their story of getting lost in a Rio de Janeiro favela in search of a hammock. D is for Delta.

We cleared the Midtown Tunnel and the Long Island Expressway.

Now it only came down to the Grand Central Parkway and Terminal D. Sweat dripped down my triceps. I followed the signs. D is for Delta. I pulled onto the ‘Departures’ ramp. I braked in front of the Delta signs. We made it!

The husband gathered his Katz’s treasure and swiped his credit card and gave me a fat tip. The wife waved goodbye. They were off to Ft. Lauderdale. I basked in relief as they pulled their luggage from the trunk, wishing them a safe trip.

My stomach growled as I merged onto the airport exit, interrupting my fleeting feelings of triumph, reminding me of the sandwich I should have never refused.

When I finally do taste the pastrami at Katz’s, I know I won’t be thinking of Harry and Sally – I’ll be remembering the odd couple I took to La Guardia, who are living out their own 17 years and counting, stranger than fiction love story.

Katz’s Deli
205 East Houston Street – Lower East Side
Tel. (212) 254-2246
Open: Mon-Tue 8am-9:45pm; Wed-Thu,Sun 8am-10:45pm; Fri-Sat 8am-2:45am
Credit cards accepted.