Dispatches from the Creation Wars

I went to the ground transportation desk to arrange for a shuttle to the hotel. No problem, sir, it will be here within 20 minutes. 30 minutes go by and no shuttle is to be seen. 45 minutes go by and the person at the desk calls to find out what's going on. The driver told him that he had come inside and called for me but I did not answer. "He's lying," the clerk tells me. "I've been here the whole time and no one has called your name."

Finally a shuttle arrives just over an hour after I'd called for one but it's slightly overbooked. A shiftless gaggle of exhausted humans being -- me included -- were shoved into this van like a slave ship. The driver then set off for the isle of Manhattan carrying on a very loud conversation over his Nextel direct the entire time. After he dropped 6 others off at their hotels, he dropped me off at mine.

Or so I thought. In fact, he had dropped me off at the wrong hotel. You see, there are 3 Four Points Sheratons in Manhattan, and despite the fact that I had specifically told them that I was going to the one by Times Square, they dropped me off at the one on 25th street. So I then had to continue this Bataan death march via taxi to get to my real hotel.

It was then that I checked my messages to find out that the friend that I thought was coming up from Boston was not going to make it because he had to take one of his students to the hospital. Alas, I soldiered on, deciding to go do some exploring and find some eclectic little neighborhood joint at which to have a good meal.

I walked down 40th street to 9th avenue and looked. The choices abounded. There was a pizza place on the corner selling slices for $1 each, plus fried chicken, red beans and rice and other delicacies. Interesting, but I wanted to sit down and have a meal, preferably with a glass of wine. Kitty corner from the pizzeria was a fish market and across from that was a Turkish restaurant promising only the best halal food. God I love this city.

I walked south and within only a few paces I found a place that sounded perfect. It was a little Italian trattoria, the name of which I did not bother to memorize, that shared an entrance with a psychic. The psychic also had a table out front promising palm readings for $5, but there no psychic at the psychic table. Presumably he or she would show up moments before a paying customer decides to wander by.

I walked in to this trattoria and recognized it as one of dozens like it in New York. It was small -- barely 12 feet with only ten tables. I was greeted by a very gregarious Italian man with a booming voice who stopped singing long enough to shake my hand and welcome me and show me to my seat. His accent was thick, considerably thicker than that of the waitress, no doubt his daughter.

It was the sort of little family run restaurant where you expect to see Fredo get whacked. There was no wine list. If you ask for red you get a hearty barolo or chianti, a house wine of fine quality. If you ask for white you get a pinot grigio, equally good. Either way, it will be served in a glass that is full nearly to the brim, not those short pours you'd get at a corporate owned joint.

The first thing they bring to the table is a large green bottle of Italian spring water, followed by a basket of bread with a crust so thick and hearty that you practically need an axe to cut it. There's a bottle of good olive oil on the table as well as a bottle of aged balsamic should you decide the bread needs a bit of moisture.

The daughter/waitress being busy with a picture perfect family at a nearby table, the father stops flirting with three beautiful blond American girls slightly younger than his daughter just long enough to rattle off a list of specials to me fast enough that the only one I caught was one that sounded quite good - homemade green fettucine with seafood.

I ordered that special and he suggested an appetizer, some shrimp with garlic, perhaps? Sounds delightful, thanks. The shrimp were delicious and swimming in a pool of olive oil, garlic and enough red pepper flakes to make the devil blush. With the help of that good thick bread, I managed to keep my tongue from catching fire.

The entree arrived and it was not at all what I expected. I expected clams, shrimp, perhaps a little crab meat, served with a white sauce. Instead I got what was essentially a cioppino served over pasta, with clams and mussels in the shell, covered in a thin red sauce of tomatoes, garlic and fish stock that was incredibly rich and flavorful. Oh, and a lovely butterflied langostine still in the shell on top.

It was exquisite. The sauce was absolutely divine and the littleneck clams were as good as I have ever had. The pasta was cooked perfectly. It was a perfect dish, exactly what one would expect from one of these little places. Now if only I could figure out why they had a DVD of Englebert Humperdink playing on a flatscreen TV without any sound...