My friend and accompanist Bonnie was at Penn Station
to meet me, but somehow we came in on a commuter gate,
so it was a major hike to get to the Amtrak tracks, by
which time she had nearly given up on me and had gotten
a falafel sandwich at the nearest noshery. She'd just
finished it when I arrived, starving, but rather than
further delaying us by seeking food, I led us to the
subway and the Hilton Gareden Inn Financial Center, a
quite nice hotel where they gave me a roomy I think
they call it junior suite.

We dropped our traps and took what must be one of the
finest free attractions in the country, the Staten Island
Ferry, which gives you a wonderful view of the Statue of
Liberty on the one side and Governor's Island on the other
during the 20-minute cruise. You disembark with everyone
else and discover that at least half the passengers turn
around and head back to Manhattan. During this procedure
I imagined Bonnie had gone to the restroom, so I waited
outside only to find that who I imagined had been she was
not, plus the ferry had gone. I asked a transit cop if
they'd seen someone by that description, but no. Tourists,
are you, he said. So I was thankful to have given her a
room key, took the next boarding, and caught up with her
at the hotel.

Which is a block away from the Fraunces Tavern, a favorite
haunt of George Washington (and the site of his farewell
dinner for his staff after the Revolutionary War) and,
according to some sources, the oldest building in New York
and the first restaurant in the United States. What lured
us, though, was the dollar oysters at happy hour.

These were, unlike a lot of happy hour oysters, of good
size, pretty fresh, recently opened, and though probably
from the Gulf, briny and tasty. We split a dozen and half
and probably should have gotten two. But she wanted greens,
and I was intrigued by the charcuterie plate, which
featured Fermin products (this Spanish powerhouse
represented exclusively by Jose Andres, whose offerings I
generally enjoy a lot). You get to choose five out of maybe
a dozen cheese and sausage offerings.

Mahon is a hardish Spanish cheese partway in character
between Cheddar and Parmesan. I liked it pretty well, as
the hard cow's milk cheeses do appeal (they don't like
me so much, though).

A Ported Irish Cheddar was neither very Ported nor very
Cheddary, one step above cheese in a jar - a disappointment.

Morcilla came as a couple little broiled skewers, fatty
and bloody, just my sort of thing. Sweet spices reminded me
that the Portuguese have a blood sausage that they serve for
dessert, which one might not be so enthusiastic about unless
one grew up with it; but this would likely appeal to those
with an open mind.

I am still not so sure about why jamon Iberico is esteemed
above other hams - sure, it's balanced, not too salty, with a
nutty note to the fat from the pigs' feed (and on the couple
occasions I've had the top of the line Iberico de bellota,
it's different, maybe more delicate, but I'd not say better),
but is it twice as wonderful as Italian or even Canadian
prosciutto? Nah.

Salchichon Fermin, supposedly a secret reciped specialty,
very rare, tasted like a rich, full-flavored chorizo but
had a texture I didn't care for.

Marcona almonds were in fact better than the oily ones you
get from Trader Joe's; Pink Lady apple slices were excellent,
the way Granny Smiths should have been decades ago but seldom
were; fig jam rounded things out and were an interesting
accompaniment. A spray of very sweet grapes and picos - short
crunchy breadsticks that were surprisingly moreish (I suspect
a substantial dose of fat in the dough) finished the platter.

Bonnie also got a salad. Bad choice; it was big and fresh and
with assorted fresh greens, some of them good. She also got
roaring sick afterward.

My friend Jim was having a piece put on at the Abrons Arts
Center as part of the Electroacoutstic Music Festival, so we
took the bus uptown and strolled over through the Lower East
Side, one of the less promising neighborhoods in town (though
perfectly safe, I presume). We enjoyed (and endured) a lengthy
concert of music some of which intrigued and puzzled us and
some of which just was puzzling, involving real instruments
and voices electronically altered so sometimes we were
listening to familiar sounds, and sometimes to tonal, spatial,
pitch, and perhaps other distortions, and sometimes to several
of these at once. I got a headache, and the afterparty with
beer at the Eastwood bar on lower Broadway was especially
welcome. We had a good visit with Jim, who turns out to be
kind of the gray eminence of the art form, and with Kilian
Schwoon, a promising young musician who teaches at some
university in Germany. A bunch of pilsners went down easily,
and a cab back to the hotel was welcome, perhaps necessary.
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