Feeting Frenzy

I am old.

Officially.

How do I know that?

Well let me give you a couple of examples.

A few months ago my kids and I went to Einstein Bagels.

I had a coupon for a free “Chocolate Covered Strawberry Latte.”

I took one sip and threw it in the trash.

Really.

It was too sweet.

TOO SWEET?

When did that happen to me?

Exhibit B.

I won my first fantasy baseball league in 1990 thanks to Doug Drabek and his 22 wins for the Pittsburgh Pirates.

Two weeks ago his 22-year old son, Kyle, made his Major League Debut.

Doug Drabek has a 22-year old son?

Wow, I am old.

Example 3.

One of my best friends in the world is visiting me this weekend in New York with his wife.

We had a blast today, walking the entire city, doing a little window shopping.

It was perfect.

When the day came to an end, we went to go grab a bite to eat in the Little Italy/Chinatown area.

Now back in the day, the first stop after dinner would have been a club.

Or a pub.

Or a karaoke bar.

Um, not anymore.

On our way back from dinner, where oh by the way, we got wasted on diet soda and tap water, we stopped for.......

a Chinese foot massage.

A foot massage!

A FOOT MASSAGE?

Your honor, I rest my case.

I am officially old.

For $30, we each spent the next hour somewhere between heaven and hell.

We were informed that there are 365 pressure points in the human body, “one for every day of the year.”

We were also told that 200 and something are in the feet.

I don’t know the exact number, but I felt them all.

And these were some pros doing the work too.

They didn’t speak much English, but Tony, David and Hansen let their fingers do the talking.

I wonder if those were their real names?

Who cares.

David was a doctor back in China, so he knew what he was doing and the other guys were following his lead.

It took about.... 1-2-3.... three seconds to feel the pain.

I don’t know if you’ve ever had a foot massage before -- and I had not -- but let me tell you, it was awesome.

Did I say awesome, I meant awful.

Did I say awful, I meant incredible.

One second, my body was shaking.  

The next second, I was crying.   

The next second, my friend and I were laughing.

Uncontrollably.

Thanks to the unreal pain we were both feeling... and loving.

Our feet were getting more relief than the Yankees bullpen.

I’ve had many a massage before.   

Good ones, bad ones, hard ones, weak ones.

But a foot massage by someone who could clearly break my foot with one finger.

Never.

At one point, Dr. David was beating on my friend’s foot so hard, it looked more like a sparring session than a massage.

My guy, Hansen, was not nearly as experienced, but he was just as strong.

He kept a close eye on Dr. David to see what move was next.

When I heard my friend in a full giggle-scream mode, I pulled a Meg Ryan and asked for what he was having.

Bad move!

Or good move!

I’m not sure.

The pain he brought on was so excruciating and so fantastic and so painful and so relaxing.  


All at the same time.

I don’t know if I loved it or hated it, but I can’t wait to go back.

Literally around the block, there were hundreds of people at dozens of bars spending way more than $30 to lower their blood pressure.

But there is no way their Red Bull and whatever could match what we were feeling.

For this old man, my drink of choice was a foot rub.

Like any good massage, it came with a happy ending.

And that happy ending was, the ending.

Sixty minutes in, after moving from the feet to the shoulders and arms, the alarm went off and he stopped.

Finally.

I’ve never been so happy.

I think.

It took me about three minutes to wake up from the daze and catch my breath and when I did, I felt like a new person.

Still an old person, but with new circulation.

Mangia Bene

I’m kinda confused.

Recently I’ve heard from several of you that all I’m doing in New York is eating.

I have absolutely NO idea where that comes from.

Well, maybe it was the blog about the street meat...

...or the all-you-can eat ribs...

...or the pretzels...

...or the hot dogs...

...or the pizza.

OH, THE PIZZA!!!!

Ok, I get it, but have you been here?

I don’t think it is humanly possible to make it three or four blocks in Manhattan without having the urge to eat something.

I know that I can’t do it.

But the good news is between all of the walking and the late night rides on the stationary bike, I have somehow avoided becoming the 800 pound gorilla.

At least I have avoided it so far.

Saturday night I returned home around Midnight and immediately changed clothes and rode 14 miles on the bike.

And there’s a good reason for that.

I had just returned from the 84th Annual Feast of San Gennaro in Little Italy.

I had been tipped off by a friend that it was going on and far be it from me to avoid a food festival.

Any food festival.

Especially one in Little Italy.

The 6 train dropped me off a block away from the extravaganza and like Toucan Sam, all I had to do was follow my nose.

When I got to Mulberry Street, the place was exploding with food vendors and thousands of hungry people.

It was a marriage made in, Little Italy.

I walked the street for at least 45 minutes in search of the perfect Sausage and Peppers.

Along the way, I stopped at Cafe Palermo, where I tried “the best cannoli on planet earth.”

Best on earth?   Not sure.   

Best on Mulberry Street?  Perhaps.

I also enjoyed an Italian Ice -- like always, one scoop chocolate, one scoop watermelon.

Then, finally, I landed at Big Vin’s.

It was time for the $8 Italian Sausage and Peppers.

I’m not sure that Big Vin was any different than the dozens of other options, but I just couldn’t take it anymore.

And what a choice it was.

THE best Italian bread I’ve ever had.   

An excellent Hot Italian Sausage with a great mix of onions and peppers.

I spent the next two hours walking around, trying to burn off at least one calorie.

Every step of the way, I couldn’t help but think how much fun this would’ve been with my wife and kids.

Fortunately, I was able to make some friends along the way.

Like Thomas, the maitre d’ at one of the sit-down restaurants along the festival route.

Thomas was from Florence.

As in Florence, Italy.

He stopped me as I walked by and told me I looked Italian.

I told him my mother’s family is from a place called Campobasso, just south of Rome.

So he started speaking to me in Italian.

Uh, bad move.

We spoke for a few minutes... in English.

Thomas told me he came to the states, like many of the residents of Little Italy, “to enjoy life and make money.”

Cool story.

Of course, it would’ve been a better story if his name was Giancarlo or Salvatore or Vincenzo instead of Thomas.

But at least his accent sounded authentic.

I think.

The most incredible part of the night for me was this huge mass of people walking through this tiny street and I saw exactly zero problems.

Everybody seemed to be in a good mood.

Sure there were some voices raised at times, but it was usually a husband and wife deciding between the Sausage and the Pizza and the Braciole.

After all, this is Little Italy.

But pushing or shoving or bumping or fighting or arguing.

I saw nothing.

Not one situation.

Well a lot of people who looked like The Situation or even Snooki, but problems, I saw none.

In fact, at one point I even stopped one of the many NYPD on hand and asked if the festival was always this well behaved.

As a journalist, that’s my job, that’s what I do.

Plus, now I can write off the $8 sausage.

The NYPD Captain told me that the crowd has become easier to deal with in the last few years.

I commended him and his crew and said that in my old hometown it would’ve been way out of control.

“Your old hometown doesn’t have the NYPD,” he said with a straight face.

Nice.

According to sangennaro.org, the Feast of Sen Gennaro is New York City’s longest running and biggest outdoor festival.

There are more than 300 street vendors in addition to 35 of the restaurants that call Little Italy home.

For someone who loves food as much as I do, especially Italian food, it was pretty close to a perfect night.

Well almost perfect.

Between the Sausage and Clams and Zeppole, they had all of the food groups covered.

But when did Fried Oreos become an Italian food?

No thanks.

That must’ve been for the tourists.