Prospect: A Year in the Park

Crowd sauce

The opening weekend of "Smorgasburg" in Prospect Park lived up to its New York Times' description as "the Woodstock of eating" if by "Woodstock" you mean "muddy mob scene." As we ascended Breeze Hill, we passed about 70 people waiting on line for some kind of cult French fries. "There's no French fry in the world worth waiting for," groused one passer-by, in a minority opinion.

The "Raindrop Cake" was one of this season's novelties. I have no idea what it is, but it's "Instagram-ready." 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My only purchase was a nice little cherry pie from Noble Pies of Warwick, N.Y. and a smooth, intense iced coffee from "Ministry of Kaapi," made from beans from southern India in a novel little filter system.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The lines were so long at almost every stand that you couldn't tell who was waiting for a ramen-burger versus a "calamari cone." 

 

Prickly-pear lemonade was a gorgeous color, but we ditched the whole thing and got some pleasant, if less exotic, fare--and a seat, with little waiting--at the park's own nearby Bluestone Café.

 

 

Nearby, ice skaters sailed around the Lakeside rink in the spring sunshine. Other activities underway: hula-hooping; hip-hop/capoeira fusion dancing; drumming; skateboarding; paddleboating; pot-smoking; and somewhere, to judge from the smell of charcoal starter, some early-season grilling. 

And just hanging out on the shore, far from the madding crowd.

Pining away

A bitter cold Epiphany morning, after the first snowfall of 2017. We saw a few "bro" types walking around Brooklyn in shorts and flip-flops, but this bro, one of the two "Horse Tamers" at the Park Circle, has them beat for under-dressed macho.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A nearby lion sheds snowy tears.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But we're not here to admire the statuary; we're here for "tree-cycling." It's the circle of life: The (only slightly crispy) tree stuffed in our trunk was dragged home from the Greenmarket, at Prospect Park's other end, just a week before Christmas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It always saddens me to see them, stripped of their finery and fed into the chipper, as the glorious, resinous smell of Christmas fills the air one last time.

Some bags of mulch, a consolation prize.

 

 

 

 

 

 

And so all the Christmas festivity wraps up, just as winter's journey really begins its slog. Time for the Wise Men to go back home by a different route and remember what they saw beneath the star.

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Distracted but never forgotten

Shaking off the torpor of this endless winter, I tagged along with Kevin Walsh yesterday on his 77th "Forgotten New York" walking tour; when Kevin does my park, I've got to be there to kibbitz and learn something new. We began at Grand Army Plaza, where the cherry blossoms frame the Quadriga if you look just right. I thought "Quadriga" meant something about the shape of the monument; Kevin said it's the type of chariot. That's why he wrote the book.

We emerged from the Meadowport Arch to the vast expanse of the Long Meadow--the longest unbroken greensward in New York City, which I had not known. (Kevin, however, learned from me that the official shepherd of the meadow's Victorian-era flock of sheep was criticized in the New York Times for drunkenness.)

Kevin's tours are full of fascinating facts; I get distracted easily, though, by the movie montages that swirl past:

Some "Inside Llewyn Davis" by the meadow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A bit of "Gleaming the Cube" near the Marylanders' monument.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And in the Nethermead, a Waldorf school outing "Far from the Madding Crowd."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We visited the Third Street panthers...but I was drawn in by the heartbreaking memorial to this youngster killed by a car.

 

Further down Prospect Park West, at the Ninth Street entrance, we admired Lafayette, but I was intrigued by the fine polish on his sword, courtesy of untold numbers of fingertips.

 

We marveled at the Camperdown Elm...while I was thrilled to capture a Common Yellowthroat among its contorted branches.

 

Through the fence, we peered into the hidden Quaker Cemetery, where Montgomery Clift is buried...and I puzzled over some ambitious stick structures just outside its confines. (No one seemed to be in residence, neither earthwork artist nor homeless person nor beaver.)

 

Many thanks to our intrepid tour guide, who generously shares his encyclopedic knowledge of New York's mysteries with his fortunate Forgotten Fans. 

Supermoon over 'Tropfest'

I'd never heard of "Tropfest," a festival of short films that began years ago in Australia, but tonight it came to the Nethermead under a gorgeous moonrise.

Parts of the Nethermead are still recovering from Googa-Mooga-induced wounds. Mercifully, this was a less hyped and frantically overcrowded event than Googa, and had more compelling content than flights of bacon (although a line of food trucks served up trendy chow; I idiotically waited for 45 minutes for a burger with, yes, bacon).

 

 

 

 

 

 

There were bands and DJs from 3 p.m. on and a great big screen, although naturally many folks found their smaller ones more compelling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Liev Schrieber (whom I've seen only as the angry older brother in "Defiance") was a gracious and engaging host. He and his gal Naomi Watts were mobbed by pro/am camera-wielders. Malcolm Gladwell and Leonard Lopate were present as judges.

 

We could stay for only the first half of the program, enjoyed all the films we saw, but loved a super-brief, spooky one called "Capture" about an encounter with a strange camera on the Brooklyn Bridge. (Each film had to include some manner of "bridge" motif.)  It did not capture one of the top prizes, however.

 

 

 

This dog captured a chunk of food right out of the hands of an unsuspecting group of picnickers who had been heedlessly chatting in Chinese. He managed to swallow it before his owner, a beleaguered dad with an infant and preschooler in tow, could pry it out of his mouth. I love it when a dog wins once in a while.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As we left, the supermoon competed with the jumbo screen, the food trucks were still dishing out $7 hot dogs, and a happy crowd was sprawled on the grass savoring the second night of summer.

 

And flights of bacon sing thee to thy rest

Once was enough for me after last year's "Great Googa-Mooga," but Spouse was keen to go, since we had scored two of the coveted free tickets as members of the Prospect Park Alliance. And I was lured by the well-publicized "flights of bacon" in the foodie festival's central "Hamageddon" area, devoted to all things trendy and porcine.

 

 

 

Under a light rain, mostly young folks streamed onto the Nethermead, unrecognizable under its carapace of booths, stages, Port-o-Sans, fencing, and security apparatus. The mighty metal pig was back, although not a functional cooking device this year (the smoke was for show). Crowds were lighter than last year thanks to the weather--plenty, but not a crushing mob. Tent space and seating were scarce; some took shelter under the snout of the Pork Idol.

















I headed straight for the Flights of Bacon. They consisted of 7 li'l pieces from various Exquisitely Artisanal Purveyors, the sort of folks who probably grow and hew their own apple trees for smoking wood and make their own brine from reclaimed Coney Island waves. The price? $12.

 

That put me to flight.

 

 

 

 

 

However, those who did indulge attracted bacon groupies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For a mere $10 I got a tasty little pulled-pork sandwich on a bun, but it was no better than supermarket Lloyd's. Spouse got 2 petite Dumont Burgers, which looked like hockey pucks but were super-rare and exquisite; under field conditions, one could almost convince oneself they were worth $5 each.

Here were two alliances I didn't want to try.

Everybody says they're great, but I'm not tempted...at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And here we see some sort of tipping point, Brooklyn-wise. Into self-parody, or beyond it?

(The dark-grey knobs are presumably the snails. "Snail and Rabbit" are two words that should only go together in a children's book about two little friends who learn that varying speeds of locomotion needn't preclude a lovely friendship.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And speaking of self-parody, these two guys from Central Casting actually seem to be excited about their only-sort-of-ironic Googa-Mooga Trading Cards. Perhaps they were saying, "I'll trade you a Daniel Boulud for a Dale Talde!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

We left after licking out a tiny $5 cup of Blue Marble ice cream; the rain and beer were producing a damp, subdued Woodstock vibe among the celebrants, who had begun to huddle under blankets with their maple cotton candy and grilled oysters. My highlight was meeting some easygoing non-Brooklynites: Charlie Smith (right), the sculptor who fabricated the Mighty Metal Pig (and various things for Burning Man and the like), and his girlfriend Sweet Stuff and his buddy Hot Stuff (or so their labels said). They're from Atlanta and seemed to be enjoying the show; for the maker of an idol to Ironic Decadence, Charlie was a nice, down-to-earth guy.

UPDATE: RAIN AND WRATH

Sunday's dismal rain has prompted the cancellation of Day Two of the GGM. Meanwhile, the ongoing, acrimonious blogosphere debate over the "pimping out" of the park to the GGM promoters--including accusations of de-facto racial exclusivity and the discomfiture of green herons--has cropped up in the New York Times here. I can't vouch for the numbers being thrown around (the park's alleged $75,000 take from the event is decried as paltry), but the broader debate over the use of parks is heating up.

Ball of confusion

A forest of pale and youthful legs on the march, heading for Day 1 of "The Great GoogaMooga."

The hidden heart of Prospect Park, fenced off and submerged under a sea of the hip and hungry.

Messaging on a melon, part of a wall of fruit near the "UrBarn," an installation (visible in the background) by Pratt students and others to promote farm-to-table-ish, sustainability-ish things.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was, however, mostly about the beer. A line of apocalypse-refugee proportions snaked away from a stand distributing some sort of proof that you were old enough to drink. At my age, I think my face should be my passport.

 

The "line talkers" held a variety of perky signs intended to mollify the line waiters. With music within earshot most of the time, the crowd seemed fairly mellow about it all. Spouse waited almost an hour for fried chicken, but enjoyed "Holy Ghost" during the wait.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On a perfect spring day, the sun's intensity put shady spots at a premium.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was what restaurant critics often call "an attractive young crowd." Many seemed to know one other or to have descended in groups. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the "Hamageddon" section, a heavy metal band tore it up while a whole pig rotated on a spit inside this gigantic porcine idol. You have to give the founders of this feast credit for thinking big.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was fairly painless to score a "Dirty Duck Dog" with lemon-scented sauerkraut from the Craft stand, and a plate of three "fried cheesecake bombs" from a Prospect Heights restaurant called Robert. (Dog, delicious; cheesecake fryballs, kind of like fried ice cream, weirdly compelling.) At all the concessions, the workers were cranking the gourmet chow out frantically; doing this again all day tomorrow would kill me.

By 4 p.m., lots of places were running out of their esoteric specialties. Apparently, this also happened to the folks who forked over $250 for "Extra Mooga" tickets in an ultra-exclusive enclave of foodiness. Our endurance event, at least, was free (well, $12 for two duck dogs and $6 for three cheesecake balls). Altogether, Spouse and I concluded that restaurants had much to recommend them...and that we were probably about 20 years too old to truly appreciate the event. 

 

 

 

Girding for Googa

My hip and happenin' Spouse! Through his alertness and vigor, we have secured 2 tickets to The Great Googa-Mooga Festival, a free-but-sold-out extravaganza of food and live music in Prospect Park this weekend. The line-up of chefs definitely overshadows the musical acts (including Hall & Oates, the underwhelming* headliners).

The entire affair is starting to scare me, based on its wild hype (including this reverently snarky account in the New York Times calling it part of a "gastronomic summer of love"). It sounds as if Williamsburg will uproot, like Howl's Moving Castle, overshadow the Long Meadow, and touch down. In one particularly disturbing development, we have been alerted that "Line Talkers" in purple, Barclay's-Arena-sponsored T-shirts, will be on hand to tell us about menu choices up ahead. Are those like Navajo code-talkers, only for banh mi and panini? Dear Lord, what kind of apocalyptic lines are they expecting for foie-gras donuts and duck rolls?

 

 

 

According to the event's organizers (the merry pranksters at right), "Approximately 75 food vendors, 35 brewers, 30 winemakers and 20 live music performances will be on hand to help us relish some of life’s greatest pleasures—gathering with friends and neighbors to eat, drink, talk, laugh, dance, linger and just . . . be together." Personally, I can't wait to see the prices for all these artisanal noms and craft microbeers.  

A MICRO-RANT: If I am shelling out $20 for an al-fresco lobster roll with organic endangered wildflower sprouts and a touch of lavender foam, I want to eat it at a nice table with a clean bathroom nearby, one with running water and, preferably, a set of previous users smaller and less...free-spirited...than the population of Burning Man. The whole groundlings thing, with mobbed Port-O-San visit followed by lots of hand sanitizer, just doesn't jive with the exquisite haute-cuisine picnic angle for me.

In a slightly discordant note amid all that mellow vibe, for an incredible $250, you can get exclusive "Extra Mooga" tickets, including lectures on "Molecular Mixology" and "Textures of Rhubarb," along with the chance to worship at the shrines of Ruth Reichl, Anthony Bourdain, and other luminaries and, for all I know, personally butcher a heritage pig or a fast-food executive. (No word on whether this ransoms you out of the Port-O-San scene, however.)

But I quibble. Perhaps tomorrow you will see me crowd-surfing with a sprig of cilantro hanging off my lower lip, waving a draft lager brewed from hummingbird tongues and sobering up with some shade-grown, dolphin-safe macchiato. If you failed to score tickets, let's agree on a spot near the fence, and I'll toss you over a $40 sausage or something.

'READY FOR MARTY'?

* Hall & Oates belong to a category of act that we call "Ready for Marty," in reference to Borough President Marty Markowitz's long-running series of free summer concerts featuring well-loved but often fading pop acts. Markowitz, who relishes his role as B-list impresario, once mused aloud before a concert, when a crowd member shouted a suggestion for the line-up (Kenny Loggins, if memory serves): "Yeah...he's about ready for us."

Expotition season

That's Pooh, not Palin. But it is time to refudiate our grievances and head off for summer adventures, like these day campers did last Wednesday. If you are not leaving town for mid-summer, pack a picnic and try a part of Prospect Park you've never explored before.

The park abounds in quirky activities--this weekend alone, there will be flax harvesting at the homestead and, speaking of do-it-yourselfing, "a DIY World's Fair of music and art" at the Bandshell (featuring folks named Cucu Diamantes, Les Nubians, Los Hanky Pankys, and Monsta X).

And of course there will be the Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket every Saturday morning, where the signage is very DIY (and organic).

 

 

If you miss it, did you know there's a small but very serviceable Wednesday Greenmarket at Bartell Pritchard Circle (across from the movie theater)? Stroll on over and play peek-a-boo with the Yukon Golds.

"When you wake up in the morning, Pooh," said Piglet at last, "what's the first thing you say to yourself?"

"What's for breakfast?" said Pooh. "What do you say, Piglet?"

"I say, I wonder what's going to happen exciting today?" said Piglet.

Pooh nodded thoughtfully.

"It's the same thing," he said."

--A.A. Milne, Winnie the Pooh

Panting at the library

A blisteringly hot Saturday morning on the steps of the central Brooklyn Public Library, right across the street from Prospect Park. Next to the Art Deco entrance are carved the words, "Here are enshrined the longings of great hearts." Today, most of us—human and animal—just longed for a cool drink.

Wish granted—by one delightful new feature of the renovated plaza. Babies love it; so do Newfoundlands.

 

For that matter, so do toddlers...

 

...and grown-up ladies. Is this why some people have the curious habit of calling their feet "dogs"?

 

Huge vans surrounded the plaza, bedecked with adorable cat and dog faces; inside them, an ASPCA clinic offered pet microchipping, vaccinating, spay and neuter services, and, most heart-rendingly, adoptions.

 

I always want every single one. But I especially hope that this mellow guy went home with a good family today.

To learn more about the ASPCA's mobile spay/neuter clinics, go here.

Winter? Bring it on

This shot was labeled "Boys Ice Skating, Prospect Park, NY" on the original glass plate negative by photojournalist Jenny Chandler, sometime between 1890 and 1910. I'd never heard of Chandler, a real working photographer back when most ladies pursued it as a genteel hobby; the Henry Ford Museum's archive of her work (left behind in her Washington Ave. townhouse after her untimely death in 1922), includes fascinating shots of the park and other New York City environs.

These Urchins on Ice look like troublemakers to me, laced up to wreak carnage on the park's frozen lake. There's no more lake skating, but the doomed Wollman Rink is open for at least one more season starting this weekend; for hours and more info, go here. My favorite time to skate is very early on weekdays, when the ice is almost empty except for a few fellow oddballs. To meet the 21st-century counterparts of these rascals, however, the weekend is your best bet.

Image: Jenny Chandler, Henry Ford Museum. Creative Commons license:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/thehenryford/ / CC BY-SA 2.0