The Modern Restaurant at MoMA: What to Know Before You Go

For my birthday this year, my husband surprised me with an epic New York date: We visited Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) and then dined at The Modern, a two-Michelin-starred contemporary American restaurant.

The restaurant is housed within the museum, overlooking a sculpture garden, and surrounded by the lively Bar Room and the outdoor Terrace—both of which share a separate menu. (Tip: For a super snazzy event, The Modern offers the Kitchen Table, a front-row seat in the restaurant’s kitchen for up to four guests “with an enhanced tasting menu by Executive Chef Tom Allan.”) We dined in the Modern’s main atrium, our chairs turned slightly toward the garden view.

Our review? Worth it—for people who love food, enjoy a long dining experience, and like an attentive server. I will note that this restaurant had a slightly more casual feel that some of the other fine dining experiences we’ve tried over the last few years. For the most part, I enjoyed that distinction. The servers weren’t stuffy in the slightest, and I loved chatting between courses. It was perhaps the bathroom that was the strangest part. I couldn’t quite get the door to lock or find the trash can. But I’m not a restaurant critic, and I don’t really care if your bathroom is chaotic as long as I get a killer cocktail.

If you’re interested in dining at The Modern, or just want to see some fun photos, keep on scrolling. I’ve also sprinkled in some tips for getting the most out of your meal.

Visiting The Modern in August 2023

Reservations

The Modern restaurant accepts reservations up to 28 days in advance. The website turns over at noon (East Coast Time), and available spots fill up quickly. For example, on September 9th, the farthest you can book in advance is October 7th starting at 12:00 pm ET.

Payment and Tipping

The Modern runs like a typical restaurant, with the check dropped at the end of the meal sans tip. The one exception is if you’re dining at the Kitchen Table, the exclusive behind-the-scenes space with an enhanced menu. To book this option, you’ll be asked to pre-pay for your meal. This is currently listed at $325 per person.

The current prices for The Modern’s main dining room are $250 per person for the tasting menu (six main courses, two desserts, and a surprise or two) and $195 for the wine pairing. We opted for cocktails over wine, which cost $20 each. There is also a prix fixe option during lunch for $150 per person.

We enjoyed a $100 discount via the inKind app, a platform that allows you to acquire bonuses for dining at select restaurants in the United States. The best part was that the Modern didn’t make the discount awkward. It was very simple to use the app, and our server was happy to assist if we had any questions. Here’s more information about the inKind app (and a bonus!).

Dress Code

Jackets are not required, but most men were wearing one. Business causal seemed to be the norm. A formal dress code isn’t currently listed on their website or in the reservation confirmation.

Food & Drinks

There were a few stand out dishes—one of which is the chef’s famous “Eggs on Eggs on Eggs.” It’s composed of an egg yolk, sturgeon caviar, and egg sauce presented in an egg-shaped dish with a crispy bread slice for dipping. This was phenomenal, and probably the part of the meal I remember most. Other favorites were the sweet corn and peekytoe crab and the roasted lobster with lemon grass and summer squash. Ryan doesn’t always prefer lobster to other meats, but this was perfectly cooked and sitting in a delicious froth. The duck was also both crispy and tender. Every time I eat at a fancy pants place (not often), I forget that well-cooked duck is pretty magical. Ryan could have gone for a scoop or two more of few of things; I was in a comfortably full place.

The chef’s signature dish: “Eggs on Eggs on Eggs”

I didn’t think I’d care much about the sorbet, partially because I usually lose steam by the dessert, but the summer melon and verbena course was so refreshing. I had no idea was verbena was—if you’re in the same boat, it’s a flowering plants in the genus Verbenaceae, comprised of 150 different species. The sorbet had a light, lemony taste that paired well with the richer melon flavor.

We sampled four cocktails. Of the two I tried, the Paper Plane was very tasty, but I have a friend who makes them to perfection and he’s spoiled me on ordering them in restaurants. The Martini from their Classic menu was my favorite. It was mixed with “Brooklyn Gins, Vodka, Dry & Blanc Vermouths, Pear Eau de Vie,” and garnished with an apple that tasted both sweet and salty. I still think about that garnish, and I wish I’d had two!

I didn’t leave a single drop of this broth! There’s a lobster hiding under the summer squash.

Service

We really enjoyed our server, Steve. He was both very knowledgeable and personable. At some tasting menus, the waiter doesn’t have a spot of personality, or you’re seeing new faces throughout the evening and don’t have the opportunity to connect.

A happy birthday message from “The Modern Team”

Museum

This date night was made all the more fun with a trip to the MoMA prior to dinner, which I hadn’t visited since their renovation. The museum reopened in October 2019 with a new collection space, but the world shut down soon after due to the pandemic. The museum is currently open until 7 pm on Saturday and 5:30 pm the rest of the week. We arrived about an hour and a half before our 6 pm dinner. This gave us time to see the Georgia O’Keeffe exhibition and much of the 5th floor. There’s a connecting hallway between the Modern and the MoMA on the first floor.

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Visiting New York?

Attractions within walking distance include Rockefeller Center/Top of the Rock, The American Girl Place, Radio City, The Plaza Hotel, and Central Park. Times Square is about a 12-minute walk south.

Here’s a few things to consider packing for your trip:

• Paper MTA map – Yes, Google Maps is great. But it’s not reliable underground. Either take a picture of the subway map and keep it handy on your phone, or get a cheap paper map.

• Portable charger – My phone always runs out of juice when I travel. Here’s the portal charger I use for my iPhone (cables included).

• Comfortable shoes – And don’t wear flip flops. There is a high probability someone will unknowingly step on the back of your sandal, break it, and leave you shoeless in Times Square.

• Outlet converter – If you’re traveling from another country, don’t forget to get a travel adaptor. You can find a “universal” one for about $25—I’ve been using this outlet converter for about 10 years.

• Layers – New York can occasionally get all four seasons in one day. Be sure to pack accordingly, and consider water-resistant shoes if lots of rain is in the forecast.  

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“The main facts in human life are five: birth, food, sleep, love, and death.”

— E.M. Forster

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The Rat on My Foot

I was walking with my friend Jackie toward the Bryant Park subway station. It was a hot July night. We’d just seen a Britney Spears-based Broadway show and then dashed across a steamy Times Square, pumping with tourists, sounds, and smells.

“There’s still something magical about Manhattan,” I told her while we descended the subway stairs. As I spoke the words—stars in my eyes, hope in my heart—a hefty, gray rat ran across my open-toed shoes.

“AHHHHHHH!” I screamed and we both took off running down the rest of the steps.

Three boys wearing polos and backpacks laughed at us as we scrambled onto the platform, Britney Spears bracelets blinking on our wrists like we’d come from a rave. They asked about our flashing bands, and we explained the premise of the show. I thought they’d continue to laugh at us, but instead they wanted to know if we’d seen the latest news: Britney Spears had been slapped! Or had she slapped herself? Either way, it was on camera, and they had opinions.

As we continued walking down the platform, I thought about what I’d been trying to say before a rat had rudely walked across my toes.

I’ve lived here a long time.
I don’t really like Times Square.
And I loathe rats.  

But there is something magical about Manhattan on a summer night. There’s simmering electricity in the air, a holdover from a hot afternoon. And it feels like there’s a certain freedom to this season. Summer makes people say, “yes.” Summer makes people do things they normally would not. I don’t know if it’s the late setting sun, the break from the heat, or something cosmic that no one understands.

I’ve always felt magic weaving through a warm evening. Maybe that enchanted feeling is just unabashed spontaneity—what will happen next? Whatever it is, the sensation is nearly tangible when you’re walking the streets of New York City.

I hope you feel it—I hope it overwhelms you.
I hope you say, “yes” into the air.   

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“I began to like New York, the racy, adventurous feel of it at night, and the satisfaction that the constant flicker of men and women and machines gives to the restless eye. I liked to walk up Fifth Avenue and pick out romantic women from the crowd and imagine that in a few minutes I was going to enter their lives, and no one would ever know or disapprove.”

— The Great Gatsby

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"These Hints Would Have Been Forgotten"

PART ONE

It was January 2020.

The winter had been kind to us in New York City. I almost missed the snow—but then I reminded myself that it would come. Whether it would be next week or sometime in March, New York would see another snow. She always does.

We were leaving a friend’s apartment in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn and dispersing for the night. The streets were lined with four- and five-story brick walk-ups from the early 1900s. There’s a decorative trim on the top of these buildings that mark them as being from a different, more fanciful era. Then, a little further down the road, we ran into the classic Brooklyn brownstones, with their steep staircases and massive wooden doors.

For me, there is no finer place to walk.

Through unemployment, through drunken laughter, through tears, through screams of Broadway musicals—I’ve lived 10 years of life with the streets of New York and her boroughs as my background. Some of these very blog posts came from notes on my phone, as I was hopping from one avenue to the next, brimming with energy and the need to control restless thoughts. Strolling through cities both excites my mind and gives me a sense of peace. It’s the only way I can fully commit to doing two things at once: walking and talking, walking and listening, or walking and recording what I see.  

I don’t know what that says about my personality, but it pleases me immensely to succeed in multitasking.

The walk in Cobble Hill that night was really no walk at all. We were simply lallygagging to the top of the street to catch a cab. Someone mentioned the Coronavirus in passing. At the time, it was a distant concern—a “flu-like” virus that jumped from an animal in Wuhan, China to a human sometime before the Christmas holidays. The reports sounded troubling and mysterious, but I remembered SARS. That illness had arrived a short time after 9-11 and was disastrous in certain countries. Still... from my middle school memories? Only a handful of Americans had contracted the virus. With that in mind, containment of the new Coronavirus seemed highly plausible.

Someone brought up a podcast on the topic; someone else mentioned an article from The New York Times about the conditions in China. Then Ubers were called, and the conversation ended. As we hugged our friends and slid into the backseat of a cab, my husband said, “What if this is like in the movies? What if this is like when they flashback to a time before ‘the virus?’ And we’re all…”

Laughing.
Going to work.
Hugging each other.

It’s Day 17 of self-quarantine.
I think about the moment a lot.

But on the ride home that night, I remember thinking about the weather: When was it finally going to snow?

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Part Two: Brooklyn During a Pandemic

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“If the event had not come to pass, these hints would have been forgotten, as thousands and millions of suggestions and supposition are now forgotten that were current at the period, but have been shown by time to be unfounded and so have been consigned to oblivion.”

— Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace

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Random snapshots from January, 2020

THIS IS PART one OF A BLOG POST ON COVID-19 IN NYC. FOR PART two, CLICK HERE.

Mysterious Apartment Noise: SOLVED

“Do you hear that?”
My husband and I are standing in the living room of our new apartment. A very strange dragging noise is coming from the roof.
“Yeah…” he says, looking up and then at me. “I’ve heard it a few times.”
“Do you think it’s a person?” I ask.
“No.”
“Do you think it’s a person dragging another person?”
He gives me a look that suggests my imagination must be put in check.   

Last fall, Ryan and I were informed that our building was being torn down and that we’d need to find a new apartment by January 1st. (A word to the wise: as you can imagine, the holiday season is a very cold, busy, and overall disagreeable time to move in New York City.)

So we alerted our community to the impending disaster, searched on every apartment-hunting website available, and landed in a one-bedroom on the cusp of Gowanus and Park Slope about a week later. It “took a village” but we’ve happily settled into our new home.

Except for the occasional mouse.
And the dragging sounds across the roof.   

The plant’s name is Reginald the Resilient, but you can call him Reggie.

Now, I’ve met several mice during my New York experience. I despise that they perpetually raise little families in my often unused stove—and I despise killing them with traps that instantly squish their insides into a maroon sadness that has me mumbling “out, damned spot” as I Swiffer their leftovers into the garbage.

(Editor’s Note: The cleaning of the traps is now Ryan’s job. A round of applause for him, please.)

In short, mice are a vice that I know much about. But the dragging? This has me concerned.

***
I am alone one Saturday morning when the footsteps and dragging sounds loudly begin in the front of the apartment. We live in a Brooklyn row house built in the 1890s. Like most city streets in our neighborhood, our roof is connected with everyone else’s roofs on the block. Though rare, this means it is possible a good number of strangers could be walking around up there.

This thought pops into my head as the footsteps approach me.  
Step, draag.
Step, draaaag.

The mysterious sounds move from the living room, to the dining room, and finally to my bedroom where I sit staring at the ceiling.  

Tap, tap, jingle, scraaaatch.

 I open my mouth in horror as the mysterious presence claws at my light fixture from somewhere above the ceiling.

“Stop that!” I say to the unknown.
I grab a hanger and tap back on the ceiling.
Bam, bam, bam.
“Stop that! Don’t touch!”

The mysterious scratcher remained silent.

Ryan and I had thought maybe we were hearing mice in the ceiling—or perhaps a troop of fat squirrels? But after several weekends of this nonsense, I didn’t believe my own theories. This was no small critter.

***

My eyes blink open at 5 am. I’m thirsty, so I creep out of bed and tiptoe to the kitchen sink.

As I pour a glass of water, I look out the window into the blackness of the night. Nearly every light is off as I scan the row of dark apartments and…

“AHH!”

I quietly scream as a pair of eyes blink at me. I drop the glass of water, cover up my bare chest with my arms, and take a step back.

I can’t believe it:
There is a person on my fire escape!
And they are LOOKING in my window!
AND I’M NAKED.  

But then… I am also a curious creature. So, I step forward, hold my breath, and peer out the window once again.

There, blinking its eyes and moving its weird little fingers, is a fat, fluffy raccoon.

“Oh my gosh!” I whisper-yell at him, pointing my finger in scorn. “You’re what’s been on my roof. Stop playing with light fixtures!”

I swear on my life, that raccoon then smiled at me. And I couldn’t get over his hands: They were placed near his mouth where he was tapping his fingers together, like he was pondering the ending of a classic piece of literature. Or, like he was plotting my demise?

Alas, after about 20 seconds the raccoon grew tired of me. I laughed as his bushy butt pranced up the fire escape’s narrow stairs to his “loft.”

The next day I told Ryan about my encounter and decided to name the critter Kiku, after my favorite take-out sushi place. Upon meeting my upstairs neighbor, I also found the dragging to be more endearing—in fact, Kiku hasn’t played with light fixtures in weeks!

My only concern? I did hear on the local news that a feisty raccoon was captured and euthanized in my neighborhood a couple of days ago. The drama occurred only a few blocks from where I live.

I don’t think it was old Kiku—Brooklyn has its fair share of raccoons. But, now, I sit here in this apartment and wait for his scratches.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

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Apartment Tour

Here’s a quick look at the new apartment, per my mother’s request. We’re not done—but it's definitely beginning to feel like home.

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What Are Some Ugly Truths About Living In New York City?

Note: I was originally asked this question by someone on Quora, a Q&A website.  

You get a bit jaded.

I think the same rings true for people living in other big cities, but it’s certainly a trend in New York.

When I first moved here, I would answer questions asked by strangers on the sidewalk, talk to people on the subway, give out money to the homeless, and even be excited by the street performers!

Now, if I see one more freaking mariachi band board the N train, or experience another “showtime showtime” dance performance, etc., I feel like my brain might explode. (Note: I still love the guy with the saxophone in Grand Central.)

I wear headphones more frequently. I watch when people are walking close behind me on the street. I carry mace. If someone approaches me, my first reaction is often, “don’t engage!”

I’ve been sexually assaulted on a walk home, and grabbed by strangers on the subway. I’ve been deceived, hurt, and scared while wondering the streets of this city over the last eight years. I’ve also met incredible people in the back of a cab, and chatted with a stranger at a bar until two in the morning.

So there is a constant inner battle: be the polite and whimsical me, or be the fierce and independent me who has learned to have a good scowl when needed.

But I think the ugly truth is…
All of the above doesn’t change my love for New York City in the slightest.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Park Slope, Brooklyn

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Tips for Traveling to New York

• When I travel, I love getting a Lonely Planet guide book. The New York edition has information about the top spots to visit, places to eat in each neighborhood, and have opening/closing times for big attractions. It’s helpful, especially if you don’t have internet!

• Consider getting a SIM card if you’re traveling from another country. I always prefer having Google Maps at my finger tips. Note: Read all of the fine print to make sure your phone is compatible.

• See the view from the Empire State Building, visit NBC Studios, and watch a Broadway show. But make sure you get out of midtown and experience Lower Manhattan—or the boroughs!

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Eleven Madison Park: What to Know Before You Go

Editor’s Note: This post was written pre-pandemic! In 2021, Eleven Madison Park announced it would reopen with a meatless menu. The tasting menu will cost $335 (including tip). There will be more courses—probably 12 vs. the eight to 10 prior to the pandemic. Please note the review below is from 2019.

I have a pretty average palate.

But I enjoy almost every type of meal, from caviar to Taco Bell. The only food that makes me really angry is unripe (and always prevalent) honeydew and cantaloupe—these should never be the main ingredients in a “fruit salad.” My husband, on the other hand, is more of a foodie and can appreciate the skill that goes into making a great dish or cocktail.

So for his birthday, I saved up some money and made a reservation at three-Michelin-starred restaurant Eleven Madison Park in New York City. It was voted the No. 1 Restaurant in the World in 2017 and was recently featured on Netflix series, “7 Days Out.” They’ve also printed several cookbooks,  recently renovated their kitchen, and have a team of “Dreamweavers”—people who overhear your conversations and try to surprise you with a small personalized gift.

Our review? Worth it—for people who love food, enjoy a long dining experience, and cherish excellent service. I appreciated every minute of sitting in this historic Art Deco building, sipping on cocktails, talking with staff, and spending time with my favorite foodie. I was positioned in the exact middle of the restaurant, facing the rest of the dining room. Waiters whooshed by with colorful plates. A champagne and wine cart clinked over to a nearby table. The Maître D' sat a family of six to my right, and a strange choreography of the server leading and the patron following bled into a memorable performance.  

Note: It’s damn expensive to eat here, so if tasting menus aren’t your thing, check out the bar—or visit one of NYC’s many other amazing restaurants. I invested in a meal at Eleven Madison Park because I was seeking a birthday experience for a food-loving guy. (And it’s actually not the most expensive chef’s menu in this crazy city we call home; currently that odd superlative goes to Per Se or Masa).

If you’re interested in dining at Eleven Madison Park, or just want to see some fun photos, keep on scrolling to see how the whole experience works. I’ve also sprinkled in some tips for getting the most out of your meal.

Reservations

Online reservations open on the 1st of every month at 9 am EST for the following month. This means all of February’s reservations become available on January 1. They tend to book up quite quickly.

Payment

When you make a reservation, you also pre-pay for your dinner. I actually loved this because when we got the bill after our meal, I only had to pay for the cocktails we’d enjoyed that evening. And because I’d already been paying off my credit card, it made the experience seem less costly.

Tipping

You cannot tip. Don’t even try—they will not accept your cash! Gratuity is built into the pre-paid bill. And even if you order drinks the night of, the same rules apply. There will be no line on your check for tipping.  

Phones

The restaurant gives you the option of putting your phone in a box at the beginning of the meal so you can be in the moment. I obviously did not partake (I needed a photo of my duck!), but my husband went phone-free. However, if you do a kitchen tour—more on that below—they will retrieve your phone for you. Had I’d known this, I may have relinquished my mobile. Maybe.

Time

We were at Eleven Madison Park for approximately four hours. Most patrons on Yelp said their experience lasted between three and four hours for the chef’s tasting menu. They will also bring out a bottle of brandy with the bill. You’re encouraged to enjoy as much of it as you would like—this probably added 20 extra minutes onto our meal. I wasn’t ready to go!

Dress Code

There is no dress code; you won’t be turned away for wearing a tee shirt. But the majority of people in the restaurant will be in business attire. The night we visited, most men had on jackets.

Kitchen Tour

A few days before your reservation, one of the Maître D’s will email you and see if you have any questions, special requests, etc. I explained we were celebrating my husband’s birthday and asked if they still offered behind-the-scenes tours of their kitchen. She said that the staff would try to meet the request—and they did! Based on our experience and on a few other blogs I read prior to booking, it seems that if you ask several days in advance, there’s a good chance you’ll receive a tour.

Kitchen Tour (cont.)

If you tour the kitchen, they will have some little treat waiting for you in the back. When we visited, they were testing a few spices with fizzy apple-based drinks. We played a game: could we match the right spice to the three sample shots? (I would just like to say, I won—my average palate and I were elated!)

Food

Some of the courses will have two options—I highly recommend you and your partner order different dishes so you can sample the full menu. Our favorite dishes were the duck, the halibut, the mushroom presentation, and the cheese course. Our full menu on the night of January 10th was as follows:

1. Dosa with black truffle and parmesan, potato salad with black truffle and black truffle tea (which was actually some sort of amazing broth)

2. Caviar and soufflé with clam, leek, and potato

3. Foie gras seared with beet and horseradish OR scallop cured with kohlrabi (similar to cabbage), sea urchin, and apple

4. Halibut roasted with black shallot and shiitake mushroom OR lobster, butter-poached with a celery root and apple tart

5. Golden oyster mushroom roasted with pine and coriander—wheeled to the table on a carving cart, like a steak

6. Duck, honey and lavender glazed with Napa cabbage and pear OR a steak of some sort. We both went with their signature duck dish.

7. Leeks with cheddar and parsley and winter squash with brown butter and thyme

8. Harbison in a washed rind cheese fondue with mustard and pear

9. Chocolate mousse and dark chocolate sorbet with chai and gingerbread OR pumpkin cake with butternut squash and sarsaparilla

10. Chocolate-covered pretzel—which actually tasted a lot like chocolate-covered cookie dough ;)

Service

The staff are very warm here; it’s a fine dining restaurant without the stiffness of some other places we’ve eaten. Take the time to hear what they have to say about each dish and ask questions. For us, this rapport was what really made the experience stand out. Also, they were truly listening to us—for dessert, candles were placed on Ryan’s plate. And a T. rex cardboard cutout was served with our chocolate-covered pretzel display because I’d told a member of the staff that I work at the Natural History Museum! All the personal touches are what made our evening so memorable.

My gift from the Dreamweavers!

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“Food is everything we are. It’s an extension of nationalist feeling, ethnic feeling, your personal history, your province, your region, your tribe, your grandma. It’s inseparable from those from the get-go.”

— Anthony Bourdain

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A Midsummer Night's Nostalgia

I am running. 

We’re in a field and the sunlight sprinkles my auburn hair, lighting it on fire. The neighbor’s unkempt flowers are crushed beneath our feet and dust gets kicked up from your bike. We’re about to go—I don’t remember where—but it doesn’t matter because going anywhere is enough and the thought of it all makes me giddy. 

I am climbing. 

Up the electrical box, over the old bowling alley’s wall, and onto the roof where our small view of our small town is all we could know or want. And it’s perfect when it begins to rain. The humid mist makes the empty parking lot look like a scene from a movie. We all scream in delight as water rushes over our dirty feet. But getting off the roof is hard. I fall from the sky to the ground and it hurts. You try to catch me, which is kind. (You always try to catch me.) Maybe we’re not invincible—but then again, that theory still needs testing. 

I am dancing. 

We’re in a backyard somewhere near the beach—the air tastes salty, like the sweat dripping off of all of us. There is music, and laughter, and a late, loud night that leads to a quiet sunrise. You hold my hand for longer than you should, but I don’t mind. We always love the people that will leap with us—to where, it doesn’t matter because, as I’ve already told you, anywhere is enough. 

I am walking. 

I love meandering through the East Village, and you don’t mind because it makes me smile. We get an egg cream from the old bodega on St. Marks and eat oysters for dinner. It’s humid and the apartment doesn’t have AC but you sit with me anyways because it feels nice to be still with somebody. I stare at your eyelashes while you take a nap, and I smile at the little golden strands that catch the light. 

I am crying. 

It’s early in the season but too warm, so my hair is pulled into a ponytail. I walk on 7th Street, unaware of what is lurking. The darkness suddenly grabs at my cotton dress and I scream over and over again. Police lights come twelve minutes later, and then I see the cold face that felt nothing. You comfort me as I sip on a soda at 3 am, and I hold your pinky finger while the detective asks questions about that walk home. It seems we are not invincible, after all. 

I am smiling.

I am walking toward you; you’re the one that I adore. It smells like roses, and there’s a line of mud on the hem of my dress. The air is heavy with Virginia's humidity. My spirit leaves my body for a moment and dances in the summer air, like a lightning bug in June. I am jealous of my own joy; I want to keep the moment in my pocket and pull it out to watch it again, and again, and again. But the sun sets, and we must move forward, forever altered. Where we go, it’s unknown, but going anywhere is enough.

I am summer. 

There’s a shade of pink only New York summers know. The color illuminates the countless brick buildings of our city, turning even a dingy facade into something briefly ethereal. Rose-tinted hues reflect off of thousands of glass windows in a display of blinding brilliance, right at the cusp of darkness. But even the light is not invincible to the night that swallows it. Still, each morning, she persists.

I am old. 

I don’t know if I’m alone—or maybe I’m with you? The end feels very much like the beginning, so I’m told. Ah, but it’s all the little bits in between... the dirty feet, the lightning bugs, the anywhere we went—the anywhere we’re going. 

And that vibrant shade of pink. 

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“And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

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The Coats We Wear

I walk through the bone-chilling cold with a gray scarf tied around my neck and two layers of sweaters under a green, puffy coat that comes down nearly to the knees. My feet are wrapped in Merino wool socks, but they never seem to retain the right amount of heat during the morning commute. A faux-fur hood covers my hair, and the only thing truly left to the elements are my madly blinking eyes.

Circa 2014

These eyes have grown accustomed to New York City’s frigid months. But not all winters are created equal: some years it rarely dips below 25F during the day; other seasons the wind chill is documented in Central Park at a numbing -11F.

The last time I remember the weather being so unbearable for long stretches of time was in 2014. I’d just met the boy I was going to marry. We were planning romantic dates throughout the city—walks on the Highline, cocktails at fancy bars, first kisses in smoky, old lounges. The whole bit. But much to my dismay, the temperature hovered around 5 degrees for portions of that January. So I was stuck in my shapeless, fluffy parka. Bits of feathers would fall out of the sleeves if I sat down too quickly.

Like I said, romantic.

This year is proving to be another cold winter. I loosen my scarf as I approach the museum, and swipe a key card. My office is through the chilly Grand Gallery, where a massive canoe and a large amethyst geode greet me every morning. As does a security guard, who over the last few days has given up on decorum and dons full winter gear. “Hello, there,” he says while rubbing together his hands.

I walk up a large set of stairs and turn into one of the cultural halls that focuses on the people of Mexico and Central America. I’m the only person in the gallery, and my heels click loudly on the stone floor.

Throughout the museum, hidden doors and subtle staircases house secret passages to the hundreds of employees working on a spectrum of tasks, from discovering new species, to vacuuming the dust off of specimen. On the staff-only fifth floor, there’s a hallway said to be six city blocks long. It’s filled with artifacts in wooden cabinets, bones in large lockers, classrooms, and laboratories. It makes me think back to every New York institution I’ve visited—where does the MOMA keep their artwork? What hidden room does the MET use to refurbish its collection of Colonial furniture?

There is one downside to working in an architecturally fascinating building from the 1800s: That brisk winter wind loves seeping in through invisible means. I’m lucky to be in a turret office, surrounded by massive windows that fill the room with natural sunlight. Because of this, complaining is not an option (but it should be noted that “drafty” is a common adjective from visitors to my work space).  

I wrap a shawl around my shoulders, and keep the gray scarf on for most of the day as heavy winds beat into my glass tower. Later that afternoon, I glance out the window and see a girl lose her knit cap to the wind as she crosses Columbus.

She looks so cold as she chases after it, hands outstretched and gloveless.  

This visual takes me back to another winter. In 2011, I was working as an unpaid intern at Martha Stewart Living magazine. Her offices were off 11th Avenue, and just about as close as you could get to the Hudson River without jumping in. I remember the icy wind that would smack me in the face as I ran by the just-opened art galleries of Chelsea, and the old warehouses with their mysterious stories. It was my first winter in New York, and I was still learning how to layer. My face was often red for at least 30 minutes after I’d arrived to work, and small blood vessels had popped on my cheeks.

It was a hungry and lonely season. My grad school friends and I were trying to figure out what we wanted to be when we grew up—which, was supposed to be happening soon. We would be magazine writers, and journalists, and book editors… and literary agents? And…

And we did just fine. I’m not sure we actually grew up—but we’re all at least pretending to know what the next season will bring. Ivy is working as a digital editor at everyone’s favorite bridal magazine, and Clare has consistently worked up the ranks of one of the largest publishing companies in the world.

And me? I’ve worked in e-books, magazines, advertising, and now at a museum. My words are still my meal ticket, and there is something humbling about that.

So, I’ll cozy up in my drafty old office, and look out the big windows to the New York City that I adore. I get the honor of waking up every day, and observing people from hundreds of countries exploring our town. They come in droves, seeking the best hotdog, the best cocktail—the “best” and most authentic anything! It’s true that many of them never know which way is uptown or downtown on the subway, and that groups of tourists often cause pileups on the sidewalk—but most arrive with stars in their eyes. I admire this vulnerable traveler.

It reminds me of myself, from a New York past.

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“London is satisfied, Paris is resigned, but New York is always hopeful. Always it believes that something good is about to come off, and it must hurry to meet it.”

— Dorothy Parker

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