Now Arriving at Grand Central Station

By Cole Manley

The train ride from Westport, Connecticut to Grand Central in New York was only an hour or so, but I was always impatient. The grimy Metro North screeched its way south at a pedestrian pace, and, as we got closer to midtown Manhattan, my anticipation only built. Our proximity to New York was one of the main reasons my dad wanted to move to Westport in the first place.

When my dad was a kid growing up in upstate New York, New York City was the Emerald City in the Wizard of Oz. New York was an escape from his daily mail route in Little Falls, from his job at the A and P grocery store. It was where my dad dreamed of living once he got out of Little Falls. My dad’s father never showed much interest in being a father. He was, as my dad sometimes recalled, a rather cold and distant man. He never showed much love towards my father, never showed much emotion at all. He worked on the Union Pacific railroad, and, when he wasn’t working, he was usually drinking.

But the one thing my father and his father bonded over was a trip to see a Yankees game, when my dad was 13 or 14. This would have been the early 1950s, the heyday of the Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford Yankees. It was the only time they went to New York together as a father and a son, but it left a lasting impression on my dad.

Five decades later, my dad would make a point of taking me to New York at least once or twice a month. We would go for Yankees games and sit high up in the mezzanine. There were certain traditions that developed. First, after we claimed our seats, we would go searching for helmet cup soft serve ice cream--the kind that came in giant plastic Yankee helmets. I would get a chocolate-vanilla mix with sprinkles, my dad all chocolate. It was a race to consume the ice cream as quickly as possible, because, in the summer heat in New York, its shelf life was about 3 minutes. We had no problems finishing them.

Other trips to New York revolved around walking tours of the city’s radical history. My dad was obsessed with walking tours. My mom and I would humor his interest, and, to be fair, they were often quite interesting. But my 10 year old patience usually faded after the first hour of walking through Greenwich Village, learning about the Marxist writers living there in the interwar period. Another tour I remember being horrified as our guide spoke about the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire, a tragedy that claimed the lives of more than 100 immigrant workers, many newly arrived to the United States.

I was always more fascinated by Grand Central Station, and by the Two Boots pizza that beckoned in its basement cafeteria. As soon as we disembarked the Metro North, I would speed walk off the platform towards the cavernous grand hall of the Station. My dad would hold my hand and point up towards the starry night ceiling--all blue and gold with the constellations of the sky painted on the ceiling. It was achingly beautiful. In the center, my dad would always point out the gold glittering clock that featured in Hollywood movies, the meeting point for so many New Yorkers arriving at the station. One massive marble staircase up there was Michael Jordan’s restaurant and bar. One night, eating our hamburgers, we saw the GOAT himself, Michael Jordan, walking through his restaurant.

After taking in the scale of the hall, I usually cajoled my parents into descending one floor to Two Boots. My dad and I would each get one slice of their cheese pizza, a New York style pizza with a spicy tomato sauce. Sadly, the Two Boots in Grand Central is gone, but, when I lived in New York two years ago, I made a point of visiting their other locations around the city whenever I needed a dose of nostalgia and cheesy goodness.

New York is best seen on foot, so, after finishing our slices, we would amble over to Central Park. There, near the entrance to the park and the finish line of the New York Marathon, we would stop by the Plaza Hotel for a post-pizza drink. When I was a bit older, no one gave me a hard time for not being 21, so my parents and I would head to the hotel bar. My dad was a man who never strayed from what he liked. In New York, at the Plaza’s bar, it was a Black Russian, “light on the kahlua.”

The entire process of ordering a Black Russian is a part of family lore. My dad had exacting specifications for what constituted the exact ratio of vodka to kahlua that he found acceptable. Too much Kahlua, and not enough Vodka? A mortal mistake. My dad sent it back and made sure it met his standards. Pity the poor bartenders and waiters that confused the order and gave him a White Russian, adding cream to the order. Whenever that happened, which was fairly common, my dad would start shaking his head at the waiter when they brought over the drink. Back to the bar for take 2. I was always a bit embarrassed when this happened, and usually mortified for the bartender. But, as the years passed, I came to find the whole episode hilarious. Sometimes I secretly wished for them to mix up my dad’s order just so I could see his reaction.

The Plaza did not make such rookie mistakes. My dad sipped on his Black Russians (did he enjoy them because they reminded him of the Russian Revolution? Perhaps), while I had my Shirley Temple with extra cherries. My mom bucked the cocktails for a glass of cabernet or merlot.

When my dad and I were drinking our cocktails in the Plaza Hotel, it felt like we had been transported to post-war America, with Cary Grant at the table next to us, and Paul Newman nearby. The glamor of that bar, the sumptuous mahogany wood, the gold metal accents by the bar, the sparkling mirrors that reflected the warm lamp light. The whole experience symbolized some kind of American dream, the dreams of my father, perhaps, when he was a kid coming to the big city from upstate. We took our time in the Plaza Hotel. This was no Two Boots. And then my dad signaled that it was time to go, and he strolled--a bit unsteadily--out of the Plaza and towards the Park.

When I think about New York, I think about Yankees helmet cups and Plaza Black Russians. My dad’s love for New York was inherited. When I lived in New York as a student at Columbia, I would often pause during long runs through Central Park and slow down near the Plaza Hotel. I would nod at the horse-drawn carriages and ascend the marble steps of the hotel. One time, in my sweat-soaked running clothes, I pretended that I was staying at the hotel, and I casually bounded up the steps just so I could walk by the bar and retrace my childhood memories. I would imagine that my dad was with me, and that he was ordering his Black Russian. In these dreams, my mom and my dad and I were always so relaxed and at ease. The waiter would bring out the Black Russian, with the correct proportions of vodka and kahlua, and we would sip our drinks.