Phantoms and the magic of US Open Tennis

Since last week, Carl has been holed up in Queens at U.S. Open Tennis. At this time of year, he's like a cowboy who's finally found his horse after a long absence. I hope that there's no symbolic subtext to that statement, but he does literally gallop to the Open via the No. 7 train. Once again, Carl is a phantom. He slips out of the house during the coolest part of the early morning, and returns late at night, after the sun's intense heat has subsided. Naturally, little one, Big Daughter and I -along with many others- traveled out to Flushing Meadows in search of both Carl and tennis. Due to him, we are under the spell of Tennis with Carl. Nine years ago, I had never watched a tennis match. Big Daughter was also unaware, due to her annual summer trip to Serbia. She too is entranced, and remembers meeting top-ranked Jelena Jankovic (a Serbian player) while we vacationed, several years ago in South Beach. I'm stymied by my recollection of charging around the Open with a six month old. How I did that, I have no idea. For me, the advent of the Open heralds the end of summer -and is about time passing. Invariably, the breeze blowing around the grounds has a touch of coolness. It hints -ever so slightly - of fall and winter coats and seasons changing. At the same time, I liken being a spectator at the matches to being at the beach, with the court as ocean. This year, a general malaise permeated my usual adventurous tendencies and I was woefully uninspired about food field trips. Hence my local explorations around 111th street. A few years ago, I dragged Carl to an amazing Mexican restaurant at 89th and Broadway, in the shadow of the elevated tracks. We were the only "gringos" there and I was thrilled when they brought over plates of sliced radish, along with slices of lemon for the Coronas, as we waited for our tacos. In other years, we've stopped in Jackson Heights for Indian buffet, at Delhi Palace, 74th street and Roosevelt, just past the Jackson Diner. It's been incarnated multiple times, but the food is solid North Indian and fresh. Between matches, we've also walked over to the Lemon Ice King in Corona and Empanada del Parque at 108th street. Not only are the empanadas amazing, there's a great picture of Jackie Onassis on the wall. Over the years Carl and I arrived at two primary understandings. Namely, that I can eat between matches, and it's not a bad thing to sit in Court side seats. We are not the bourgeoisie, though we breathe the rarefied air of those with money to spend. Yes, it does feel different to sit in an B Loge or Court side and I like it. People watching the fans -not just the tennis players -is always fun. All kind of hats are utilized by a large percentage of both male and female tennis watchers. So is preppy clothing, i.e. a lot of conservative-looking men wear pants and shorts in faded pastel colors, mostly pale orange. Fashion at the U.S. Open is another topic entirely and encompasses a complete mix of styles -the fanny pack to the Birkin bag -and everything in between. Shallow as it may be, I do think carefully about my own outfits -downtown with some sophistication and maximum coolness -since it's so hot in the direct sun. But back to food. This year we skipped our usual field trip to Flushing ( places like SpicynTasty and funky little bakeries with great fried bread and dumplings). I was content to concentrate on eating at a few of the myriad Ecuadorean restaurants. A family favorite was the Queens Coffee shop, located at the corner of 111th, adjacent to the subway stairs on Broadway. After several pre-tennis meals there, I became intimately acquainted with Humitos (a very satisfying tamale with a sweet filling of cheese and corn), a soupy beef stew with lots of potatoes, sides of sweet plantains and a typical Ecuadorean-style green salad with ceviche-like topping of tomatoes, onions and cilantro. Being so hyped about his favorite event, Carl would deny hunger, and then finish my beef stew and all the rice. One day, I tried a blackberry shake with milk, and was instantly refreshed. Another day, I wandered over to a local bakery, just one block up Broadway. I snooped around a bit, and then bought a cheese-filled empanada and several crispy pretzel-like cookies. The empanada was steaming hot and mostly cheese with the lightest outside casing. The cookies were similar to Taralluci, the Italian cookies made with olive oil and fennel (that we recently ate at One Dominick at 6th Avenue/Dominick street on the edge of Soho. Similarly, these cookies weren't sweet, and were satisfyingly crunchy. Little one tends to stick with her favorite, sunny-side eggs. Big Daughter opted for the Spanish Omelet with sweet plantains (and then said it was a bit too rich). If I'm lucky enough to watch tennis with Carl, I can usually finagle a foray to one "fancy" restaurant at the U.S. Open. This year, I was interested in trying the Wine Bar, an open air Italian cafe. It debuted with great fanfare by the giant Scoreboard located near the East gate. The owners are a well-regarded chef and his wife, who own an Italian restaurant, Spiagga in Chicago. After sitting court side, and watching James Blake and Venus Williams quickly dispatch their opponents, we wanted something light to eat. There were just two open seats, placing our backs in the path of the afternoon sun. I ordered two salads, one with mozzarella and tomatoes, and the other with shaved artichokes and hearts of palms. Several patrons were drinking a glass of Rose, so I ordered one and promptly added ice cubes. Patrons could watch the staff preparing food in the center of the cafe. There was an anti-climatic, European feel to the place, which contrasted with the revved up, carnival-like atmosphere of the main food courts and the crowds. Carl was pleasantly surprised by the quality and taste of the food and we both took a sip of the Rose. After a few sips, we felt the combination of the sun and the Rose, the Open was working its magic.