As I took my seat at an open table to partake in my weekly Sunday brunch ritual, the latest issue of The New Yorker stared at me – more like winked at me. It sat there on the light tan, wooden table that has been very kind and conducive to my past food photos, acting as a sort of canvas or frame for my subjects. But today, the table framed a thought that I had, an epiphany, if you will, that I never thought something as simple as brunch would spark to mind.
Ever since I moved into my apartment in the West Village, The Elk has been my kitchen and my office. Some might see it as that cute little coffee shop and restaurant on Charles Street, but to me, The Elk is a deliciously charming comfort zone that I’ve childishly claimed. And while I make a visit to my sanctuary of almond milk, avocado toast, and egg-white omelets every day, this particular Sunday was different. Mixed in amongst an arrangement of flowers, a jumbled assortment of colors and textures, those three words jolted me a bit: “The New Yorker.” How could the name of a magazine challenge my mind so intensely? And more importantly, how could a state, a city, or a place, define someone? The New Yorker, whether it be the little boy on the cover or the sharp business woman sitting on the table to my right, is defined by New York City. He or she is not merely a participant, visitor, or resident of this place – but a product of it.
And that’s when I had this sudden realization – mid-bite, mid-sip: I am from California. And as hard as I try and as much as I think I am a New Yorker, or at least a West Villager, I am an Angeleno at heart. As much as I love quaint coffee shops and seasonal changes – palm trees, the beach, the sun, and everything “California” run through my blood. I’ve always thought of “the New Yorker” as a role that I adopt, that all people initially foreign to this place take on. LA is home, and ultimately, LA is on the other side of the country from where I am right now, seemingly in a world of its own. But what does “home” mean? Is it where you’re from, or where you live, or just where you feel most comfortable? Can one have more than one of these things called “home”? And I don’t mean more than one house; I mean more than one home.
Each day, whether for my morning latte or weekend brunch, I walk down Washington Street and up Charles Street to the Elk. I pet the canine members of the community as they restlessly sit outside on the sidewalk. I greet whomever the barista is behind the counter, welcoming me with a smile and a friendly “hello,” and of course, Claire, the owner and heart of the Elk, (and its root, if you like a good pun). I actively participate in this life and have made it my home. I’ve gotten to know the people, the scenery, the smells, the tastes, the sights, and the moods that pulse through the veins of this neck of the woods.
I have made this city and this place my home. I guess “home” isn’t necessarily where you come from; that’s your origin. Home is what you make it and where you build it. I guess being a “New Yorker” is more of a state of mind that you cultivate rather than a form of identification based solely on geography. I may not have been born here or into this community from the get-go, but I’ve joined it and have become a part of it over time. And I’ve learned that, sometimes, for starters, to make that happen, all it takes is an initiative, an openness to change, a warm “hello” and a large cup of coffee (with almond milk, of course).
The Elk – 128 Charles St, New York, NY 10014
