These small pieces are fragments—moments tied to place, memory, and chance encounters, often anchored by a meal, a drink, or a passing ritual. Some are drawn from childhood, others from later years, but all linger for the same reason: they capture something that resists explanation, yet remains unmistakably real.
Chinatown, Then and Now
Exploring Chinatown the other day—on what would have been my late father’s birthday—brought back a flood of memories.
For as long as I can remember, he took us there for the Lunar New Year. We would have lunch in one of the many small, unassuming eateries, and he would quietly pay the waiter for a window seat. From there, we had a perfect view of the dragon dance—colorful figures, pounding drums, and firecrackers echoing through the streets.
One day in particular stays with me. After a heavy meal, we decided to walk it off by crossing the Brooklyn Bridge and back again—the only time I ever did that with him. I still regret that I can’t find the photos.
After he passed, I inherited a cast-iron teapot I had bought him in Chinatown. Every time I drink oolong, it brings back a small, funny moment: I had picked up some loose tea from a market, but the directions were in Chinese, and we didn’t know how to prepare it. So he ordered Chinese food, and when the delivery driver arrived, we invited him in and asked him to show us how to make it. He did, and we shared a proper cup of tea together before he returned to work.
Chinatown, like much of New York City, has changed. But not entirely. Some of the small shops and old trading companies remain—quiet reminders of what once was.
Summers at Coney Island
Growing up in Brooklyn, summer meant family trips to Coney Island. We would walk the boardwalk, enjoying the ocean breeze beneath the iconic Parachute Jump, play games, and ride the attractions—especially the world-famous Cyclone, built in 1927. Some days we went to the aquarium or the sideshow, but we always stopped at Nathan’s for hot dogs.
Every time it was our turn to order, my uncle would ask the guy at the counter if he had frog legs. When the answer was yes, he’d say, “Then hop over there and get me some hot dogs.” It made me laugh every time. Even now, I can’t walk past Nathan’s without thinking of my uncle and those family trips.
My First Beer at McSorley’s
When I turned twenty-one, my father took me to McSorley’s Old Ale House—the oldest Irish saloon in New York City—for my first legal beer.
We drove in from Brooklyn and found a spot right out front in under fifteen minutes—something unthinkable today with the traffic. There was no line, no crowd, nothing like the tourists I see today stretched down the block.
Inside, with sawdust on the floor, I took a seat at a communal table while my father ordered. He came back with four mugs of ale—two for each of us, the way they serve it—and a pair of liverwurst and onion sandwiches on rye with mustard.
We drank, ate, and talked. He told me stories—how women were once barred from entering, along with other bits of the place’s lore. After a while, we finished up and left.
We were home almost as quickly as we had arrived. I never went back, but I don’t need to. I was there once, with my dad.
I met Colette at Bleecker Bob’s while thumbing through the flip bins on the center island. Already holding a few albums, she asked—in a soft French accent—who I was looking for. I said, “The new New Order.” She smiled and glanced at the records in her hand. “This?”—holding up Technique. We started talking, and I asked if she wanted to grab a coffee around the corner at Caffè Reggio.
Seated at a small table near the antique espresso machine, we talked about music, movies, her impressions of America, and the usual things that pass for plans at that age. She was from Toulouse, studying film. After a while, she asked if I wanted to go back to her dorm to listen to the record, and I walked her to her residence hall.
Her room was tidy, aside from the bed. The walls were covered with movie posters—A Clockwork Orange, Suburbia, and L'Homme qui aimait les femmes. We listened to the record twice before her roommate came home. “Love Less” became ours. We kissed goodnight.
After that, we saw each other regularly—shows, movies, museums. For nearly two years, we were rarely apart. On Halloween, she humored me, dressing as Red Sonja one year and Vampirella the next. She wore both well.
When she graduated, she moved back home, and I never saw her again. She left me the album. I don’t have it anymore, but I still think of her whenever I hear it.
One Drop of Wine
A few years ago, I had dinner with some colleagues at a Lebanese restaurant—good food, wine, and belly dancing. We ordered a couple of bottles to go with the meal. A Turkish friend of a friend who joined us made a show of dipping his finger into his glass, flicking a drop aside, and saying, “That’s the one drop of wine I cannot have.”
It caught me off guard. In Islam, wine is considered strictly haram—unlawful—so the gesture seemed contradictory.
Later, I learned that the custom is sometimes associated with the Bektashi, a Sufi order known for its unorthodox practices. It is said to come from a story in which the leader of the sect, in the presence of the Ottoman Sultan, cited the injunction against consuming “one drop” of alcohol—then flicked a drop from his goblet before drinking.
Whether apocryphal or not, the gesture stayed with me—half ritual, half defiance, and entirely memorable.
~ By Giovanni di Napoli, May 3rd, Feast of the Finding of the Holy Cross by St. Helena
