Matchbooks

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Like so many people nowadays, I can’t help but collect them. They serve as portable, functional, charming reminders of (mostly) meals past. Also, you really never know when you’re going to need fire.

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The Raleigh Hotel, Miami | Like many self-respecting (and ice-fearing) New Yorkers, we flee to warm Miami most winters; this is our favorite Art Deco hotel on Collins. On our last trip we spent our final night here. It was January (as it always is), and we hid in our room from a storm most of the night, drinking a champagne-like beverage and ordering room service. Finally, around midnight, the rain subsided and we ventured down to the hotel’s magical pool. Not a soul was there, and we swam alone for what seemed like hours in the moonlight.

Balthazar, New York | I’ve ended up here on New Year’s Day several years in a row. It was here on January 1, 2010 that I broke my decade-long no-hamburger streak and never looked back.

L’Express, Montréal | Sometimes one longs for Paris but, given the various constraints of modern life, must content himself with French Canada. Montréal is my Paris when Paris can’t be, and L’Express is my French[-Canadian] bistro.

Lupa, New York | Of all the Batali/Bastianich creations littered across lower Manhattan, this is by far my favorite. I’ve enjoyed a late Sunday lunch of bucatini all’amatriciana here more times than I can count, but my dearest memory is of one such lunch in 2008 with my friend, Jen - who had recently relocated to the East Coast for medical school - in which the waiter, a fellow California native, spent more than his fair share of time and energy chatting us up and noting the style with which we ordered, only to conspicuously omit the bottle of wine we had so stylishly ordered from the bill.

Pastis, New York | There was a period during the fall of 2009 when, for one reason or another, I often found myself in the Meatpacking District on weeknights, bizarre as it sounds. My beloved Florent (see below) having closed a year earlier, the logical late evening choice in the vicinity at that time was Pastis. I always ordered a croque-madame and it always felt fairly decadent to be eating it there, in Meatpacking, on a Monday night.

Michael’s, Miami | After two months of dating, my dear Alik and I embarked on our first vacation together. It was January, and the temperature in Miami was approximately 40 degrees warmer than in New York. We stayed in an extremely cheap hotel in South Beach, got caught in a harrowing tropical storm while driving through the Everglades on our way out to the Keys, and ate a fantastic dinner at Michael’s.

Jeffrey’s Grocery, New York | I don’t believe I actually ate here, though I ventured far enough inside to collect a matchbook. I suppose I ended up here due to its close proximity to my favorite stationary shop, Greenwich Letterpress.

Navy Beach, Montauk | We go out to Montauk at least once each summer, and a couple of years ago we also spent a weekend there just after the summer season had ended. We ate lobster rolls at Navy Beach for Alik’s birthday and sipped dark+stormies over a game of Scrabble at a refreshingly desolate Surf Lodge afterwards.

Mozza, Los Angeles | A Mario Batali osteria in LA seems like an oxymoron, but it’s true: Mozza is Lupa, California-style.

The Modern, New York | Nearly a year before I joined MoMA as an employee, Alik and I went on a pretty perfect date there. We saw Beetlejuice, which was screening as part of the Tim Burton retrospective, then ate a late dinner at The Modern. I wore a grey dress and green heels. We had met exactly twenty days earlier. Parting ways at the 51st Street 6 train station, we finally admitted that we loved each other.

Florent, formerly of New York | I don’t believe I need to say much more on the subject of Florent.

Jeannin, Albert. L’éléphant d’Afrique: Zoologie - Histoire - Folklore - Chasse - Protection. Paris: Payot, 1947.

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I have always been fond of the African elephant - as a child I collected elephant figurines (inspired by my grandmother) and regularly spent hours poring over books on them, painstakingly studying their images and producing endless colored pencil drawings. Even today, if given a writing utensil, I can replicate the subtle bump just above the African elephant’s trunk, the tilt of his soulfully lashed eye, the inside curve of his ear without so much as glancing at a photograph for reference. So, when I spied this treasure in the window of Librairie Lhermitte there was no question that my book collection was expanding decisively to encompass the natural world.

This book includes many lovely illustrations, but the text is truly special.

I have translated a particularly colorful excerpt, in which an elephant encounters a rhinoceros in a 16th century Portuguese royal court:

“ In 1475, Alfonso V, King of Portugal, received from Guinea an elephant which he presented to Louis XI. One of his successors, Emmanuel I, or Manoel, gathered in Lisbon many exotic animals brought to him by Portuguese sailors, who did brilliant business. It was thus in 1517 that he obtained an elephant and a rhinoceros, and a great controversy arose in the Court to determine whether the immediate antagonism of these animals, which was affirmed by ancient writers, was accurate. The king, having at his disposal the elements of the experience, decided to put them to the test. Writes Loisel on this subject:

’… The king ordered a fence to surround the walks of the city and to bring the two animals. Once the rhino had come in, they made him stand behind rugs that were hung from the King’s box to the Queen’s, so that the elephant might not see him when he arrived in the arena. Shortly after, he crossed the barrier with royal guardsmen on each side, who immediately closed the exits. That done, the king ordered that they carry off the tapestry behind which stood the terrible rival colossus. Although he walked as usual, with his iron shackles, the rhino, upon seeing the elephant, made an expressive gesture and approached the Indian who nursed him and held him by a long chain ; he seemed, in a word, said Damien de Goes present at this scene, to ask of his guardian license to go to meet the enemy.

’… As the beast began to drag him, says the old chronicler, the Indian dropped his chain, keeping the end of it in his hand, however. Then he, with a deliberate step, began to move towards the place where the elephant was, tilting his snout towards the earth and blowing through his nostrils so that it blew about the dust and straw of the arena, as if parading himself over the mouth of a whirlwind. At the moment when the rhino started up, the elephant still had his eyes cast towards the opposite side of the arena ; but when he saw him, he spun round upon himself, roaring and waving his trunk as if he wanted to fight. However, when the rhino came near him, obviously wanting to begin the attack and threatening to open his belly, he lost confidence, undoubtedly due to his youth, and feared not being able defend himself against such an enemy, because of his age ; indeed, [his tusks] were no more than three palms [in length]. Then he spun around on himself, moving towards a closed window with iron bars that stood near the door of the arena on the side that faced the houses of the Ribeira, he tossed his head with such impetuosity that he easily twisted the huge bars of the grid that must have been about eight inches square ; it was through this opening that he left, leaving his driver lying on the ground, as he had just thrown himself from the back of the animal, otherwise he would have been crushed … the elephant, once out of the arena, took the road to the barn where his pen was, and no longer taking account of all that appeared before him, horsemen or pedestrians, he passed before everyone, giving such leaps and such roars, one after the other, that one would have thought that there was some battle being fought without order or enemy retreat… As for the rhino, he remained very quiet in the arena, almost implying with his movements to those who were near him, and making it clear by his air of assurance, that he certainly would have had the victory if the elephant had remained.’

It was this same King of Portugal, Manoël I, who sent to Pope Leo X another elephant which was to enrich the collections of the Vatican’s menagerie.”

Here is the passage in its original language:

“En 1475, Alphonse V, roi du Portugal, reçut de Guinée un éléphant dont il fit cadeau à Louis XI. Un de ses successeurs, Emmanuel Ier, ou Manoel, groupa à Lisbonne beaucoup de bêtes exotiques qui lui étaient rapportées par les navigateurs portugais, dont l’activité était brillante. C’est ainsi qu’il obtint en 1517 un éléphant et un rhinocéros et qu’une grande controverse prit naissance à la Cour afin de savoir si l’antagonisme immédiat de ces animaux, qui était affirmé par les auteurs anciens, était exact. Le roi ayant à sa disposition les éléments de l’expérience décida de les mettre à l’épreuve. Voici ce qu’écrit Loisel à ce sujet: 

« … Le roi commanda d’entourer de palissades une des promenades de la ville et d’y amener les deux animaux. Dès que le rhinocéros fut entré, on le fit placer derrière des tapis qui étaient tendus de la loge du Roi à la loge de la Reine, afin que l’éléphant ne le vît pas, lors de son arrivée dans l’arène. Peu d’instants après, celui-ci franchit la barrière ayant de chaque côté des hommes de la garde royale qui fermèrent aussitôt les issues. Cela fait, le roi ordonna que l’on enlevât les tapisseries derrière lesquelles se tenait le terrible rival du colosse. Bien qu’il marchât comme de coutume, avec ses entraves de fer, ce dernier, en voyant l’éléphant, fit un mouvement expressif et se rapprocha de l’Indien qui le soignait et qui le tenait par une longue chaîne ; il sembla, en un mot, dit Damien de Goes présent à cette scène, demander à son gardien licence d’aller au devant de l’ennemi.

« … Comme la bête commençait à l’entraîner, dit ce vieux chroniqueur, l’Indien lui lâcha la chaine en la gardant toutefois par l’extrémité dans sa main. Lors celui-ci, d’un pas délibéré, commença à s’acheminer vers le lieu où était l’éléphant, levant son grouin incliné vers la terre et soufflant par les narines de telle sorte qu’il faisait voler la poussière et les pailles de l’arène, comme si se fut promené au-dessus de l’enceinte un tourbillon de vent. Au moment où le rhinocéros s’était mis en marche, l’éléphant portait ses regards du côté opposé ; mais dès qu’il l’aperçut, il tourna en rond sur lui-même, poussant des rugissements et agitant sa trompe comme s’il voulait combattre. Toutefois, lorsque le rhinocéros fut arrivé près de lui, voulant évidemment commencer l’attaque et le menaçant de lui ouvrir le ventre, il perdit confiance, sans doute à cause de sa jeunesse, et craignit de ne pouvoir s’aider de ses défenses contre un tel ennemi, en raison de son âge ; en effet, elles n’avaient pas plus de trois palmes. Lors il fit volte sur lui-même s’acheminant vers un fenêtre fermée par des barreaux de fer qui se trouvait près de la porte de l’arène sur le côté qui regardait les maisons de la Ribeira, il y jeta sa tête avec tant d’impétuosité qu’il tordit du coup doux des énormes barreaux de la grille qui pouvait avoir environ huit pouces en carré ; ce fut par cette ouverture qu’il sortit, laissant son cornac étendu à terre, car dans cette occasion celui-ci s’ était jeté à bas du dos de l’animal autrement il eût été écrasé … L’éléphant, une fois sorti de l’arène, prit le chemin de l’étable où était son gîte, et ne tint plus nul compte de tout ce qui se présentait devant lui, hommes de cheval ou gens de pied ; il passait devant tout le monde, donnant de tels bonds et faisant succéder les uns aux autres de tels rugissements qu’on eût cru que c’étaient quelque bataille livrée sans ordre ou quelque déroute de l’ennemi… Quant au rhinocéros, il resta fort tranquille dans l’arène, donnant presque à entendre par ses mouvements à ceux qui étaient près de lui, et faisant comprendre par son air d’assurance, qu’il aurait eu certainement la victoire si l’éléphant fût demeuré. »

Ce fut ce même roi de Portugal, Manoël Ier, qui envoya au pape Léon X un autre éléphant qui devait enrichir les collections de la ménagerie du Vatican.”

- pp. 121-123

In honor of Bastille Day, I am revisiting a map of the 3rd Arrondissement that I picked up at Les Puces in Paris around this time last summer. It hangs on my living room wall, and whenever I look at it I am reminded of wine-and-charcuterie-filled evenings at L’Art Brut on Rue Quincampoix, shopping at Manoush on Rue Vieille du Temple, and wandering the galleries (and studying in the lounges) at the Centre Pompidou; reveling in the giddy lateness of the summer sunsets and the sublime spirit of Paris after nightfall, when a precious silence envelopes the city and light from the streetlamps falls upon the smooth cobblestones and pools there like teardrops.

Un Sedicesimo, no. 06 Steven Heller e Louise Fili, settembre - ottobre 2008, Edizioni Corraini.

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“Although scripts were not the first metal or wood types, by the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries they came into their own as bridge between formality and informality — they were a typographic means of seduction.”

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I’ve probably always appreciated an elegant typeface on some level or another, but I’ve really been obsessed with them in recent weeks. Working on an earlier post reminded me of one of my first true loves of the typographic variety: Un Sedicesimo 06, an issue devoted solely to classic European scripts.

I first discovered this issue several years ago on a friend’s now-defunct blog, was immediately enamored of the nostalgia-inducing Italian scripts, then promptly forgot it. Last week, contemplating another Italian bibliographic obsession that had previously eluded me, I finally recalled Un Sedicesimo 06. Painfully fond memories of luxurious, bubbly script and cream-filled Napoletano pastries flooded back to me like the Mediterranean tide itself. I did a bit of research and found that this issue was still available for purchase through the publisher in Mantova. Few postal events excite me more than receiving mail from Italy.

Consider me seduced.

Rare Book School

Yesterday I received this sweet promotional poster in the mail from Rare Book School.

Rare Book School is like summer day camp for librarians. I was fortunate enough to attend a course on illuminated manuscripts at the Morgan Library & Museum in 2010, apparently the last year that course was offered. We focused on medieval books of hours, and had the unique opportunity to view the Hours of Catherine of Cleves up close in the Morgan’s beautiful conservation center. The Thaw Conservation Center is composed of several labs so sophisticated that they include skylights with remote-controlled blinds. The center is built discreetly on the top floor of the Morgan townhouse such that it cannot be seen from the street, in order to preserve the historical integrity of the building. I feel especially lucky to have seen it from the inside!

Little treasures themselves, sweets and accessories come in the most beautiful boxes - especially the French ones. Tiny boxes are one of my favorite kinds of ephemera, and also one of the most practical, as they double as storage for other tiny pieces of ephemera that would otherwise clutter up my life. In particular I appreciate Fauchon’s anticipation of reuse by producing less ephemeral tin chocolate boxes.

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Hermès | Indian Fantasies scarf : Christmas gift from my kind boss, Hugh

Fauchon | Chocolat : from the Place de la Madeleine flagship store

Tiffany & Co. | Monogrammed moneyclip : anniversary gift to my love, Alik

Ladurée | Macarons, of course : from the Saint-Germain shop

Kate Spade | Neon gumdrop studs : birthday gift from my dear friend, Alli

Memories of Florent

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New York restaurants are as ephemeral as the postcards and matchbooks I collect from them, and Florent was no exception. Anyone who spent time in downtown Manhattan between 1985 and 2008 sorely misses this restaurant. I moved to New York in 2006, lucky to have enjoyed it in its last years -  Restaurant Florent was only a year younger than I was when it perished. Its sad demise in June 2008 marked a shift in the downtown landscape that could no longer be denied, with ever-rising rents constantly threatening the preservation of establishments that had come to define neighborhoods and generations. In that respect, Florent was possibly the most significant downtown landmark of its era. Florent was everything to everyone - a restaurant, yes, but also a place where social history transpired, a place to belong. Its passing was mourned by many: The New York Times and New York Magazine published retrospectives; a documentary, Florent: Queen of the Meat Market, was produced.

I mostly visited Florent at night, its 24-hour schedule conveniently accommodating my nocturnal habits. I usually collected whatever ephemera was available, and I always ordered the mac & cheese with a side of sautéed green beans and a glass of the house rosé. I ordered the same thing a little over a year after Florent closed when I found myself there (hardly by accident) on my first date with the love of my life. We had met a few hours earlier at a Halloween party in Washington Heights, and as the party was dying down around 2:00 a.m. he asked me if I wanted to get something to eat. “I know a 24-hour place downtown!” I said, knowing that the short-lived restaurant that followed Florent at 69 Gansevoort had retained its schedule and much of its menu. The maps and pink glow were gone, but the specter of Florent remained.

As I write this, my eyes are wet with grief and nostalgia. Florent symbolized a moment when the life I had long dreamed of intersected with the life I was actually living. It was the place where I finally became the person I always knew I was. Florent was the first place where I felt like a New Yorker.

Fariello, Franceso. L’architettura delle strade: La strada come opera d’arte. Roma: Società Editrice “La Pace”, 1963.

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“Non esiste una scienza esatta nè una tecnica assoluta per la progettazione stradale; questa attività è piuttosto un’arte, in quanto implica una complessità di problemi e di quesiti di varia indole che devono essere risolti in mutua armonia e con visione eminentemente creativa.”

- “L’ARTE DI ASSIMILARE LA STRADA AL PAESAGGIO”, p. 49

[”No exact science nor absolute technique exists for road design; this activity is rather an art, since it implies a complexity of problems and questions take various forms that must be solved in mutual harmony and eminently creative vision.”

- “THE ART OF ASSIMILATING THE ROAD TO THE LANDSCAPE”]

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I first set eyes on this volume at a used book fair in Bologna, Italy in February 2005. The front cover was torn off and the price was just a bit more than I felt willing to pay for a badly damaged book, but I loved it so much that I returned to the same stand at the book fair to flip through it no less than four times. On my fifth visit I found that it had disappeared from its usual spot on the table and I was, unsurprisingly, heartbroken.

One year later, head still bewitched by black and white visions of undulating coastal roads and elegantly bowed aqueducts, I seized upon my laptop in pursuit of the one that got away. After my initial search returned only one unappealing result, exorbitantly priced at $100, I briefly gave up hope. (I suppose I might have anticipated the challenge of acquiring an out-of-print Italian book from abroad, given the relative difficulty of accomplishing even everyday tasks while actually in Italy.) Still, relishing the hunt, I remained tacitly undeterred by the apparent obscurity of my prize. Several months later I performed the same search on a whim, this time quickly discovering a copy for sale by an English bookseller for $30 on Alibris. She was mine, and a rare book collection was born.

The Librettina Library

li·bret·ti·na

nf

1 : little booklet

2 : a very very small book

Origin

Italian, feminized diminutive of libretto, diminutive of libro (book)

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N.B. The catalog is a work in progress.