The Eating Adventures of a Checker Cabbie
I’ve begun a twice weekly column in www.Gothamist.com as their outer borough food writer. Take a look at the very first post ever today at:
http://www.gothamist.com/archives/2006/05/31/new_park_pizzer.php
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for a laugh or to book an eating tour.
I lucked out and caught a fare to JFK Airport early in my shift yesterday. Some cabbies hate going to JFK because it can take forever to get there and even longer waiting in line for a fare back. But I am always psyched.
After dropping off a fare at JFK, cabbies usually pull into the Central Taxi Hold. The massive lot is designed for us to pull up at the end of the last of about 50 lines with around 20 cabs in each. The result, on a busy day like yesterday, is a sight that is something almost biblical to behold:
Since gasoline has become a commodity akin to the spice (read that in a breathy whisper) in Dune or gasoline in Mad Max: Road Warrior, I was glad to give my engine a rest yesterday. Once parked, I ventured into the cafeteria for my 6 p.m. breakfast of champions.
Nothing looked particularly good, so I asked a portly cabbie nearby if the chicken he was eating was tasty. “It’s just plain chicken and rice,” he told me. Sometimes they’ll have some good biryani or Haitian potato soup, but yesterday they just had plain chicken and rice:
The guy I asked about his chicken turned out to be quite friendly. His name was Dejonge, and he’d had his hack license for 28 years since he arrived from Guyana. He told me he used to drive the cab only rarely because he’d made a career as an orderly at Mt. Sinai Medical Center on Madison Avenue and 101st Street. But they’d recently fired him because his salary “had gotten too high.” So here he was, eating chicken with me at JFK because he was the only Guyanese there and I was the only Jew. We made an odd pair in a place where people break off into ethnic groups like it’s 1991 in the Balkans.
The Russians always stand outside – no matter what the weather – and play backgammon over a metal trash can. The Nigerians usually stand around inside and argue loudly about politics in Africa and life in New York and occasionally American Idol. And the Haitians are always inside playing rowdy games of dominos and shouting their French over the Nigerians’ English. It is all very intimidating:
When I walked outside into the bright late evening sunshine, I saw a few Indians in the adjoining lot beginning a friendly game of cricket. I’ve never played cricket, and I don’t know the rules, but, as a fan(atic) of the game of baseball, I am fascinated by the sport.
On past visits to the Central Taxi Hold, I’d witnessed epic matches in that adjoining lot between well-organized Pakistani and Indian squads who had come with everything short of uniforms. So when I saw that they could use an extra player, I was quick to offer my services as an old NYU Fightin’ Violet (NO, I’m not ashamed of that name) outfielder.
I asked the Indian cabbie in the suit and tie who seemed to be the one in charge how to play. He told me, “You just play.” I did, and I had a blast. I played a little in what would be known in baseball as right field, and then mostly in what would be known in baseball as left field. I was feeling pretty good running around chasing down batted balls, especially because I was officially at work. It sure beat sitting on my butt feeling my body waste away beneath me.
But then it was time for me to bat. I’d never held a cricket bat before, so the whole experience was very exciting for me. I know they don’t call it a “pitch” in cricket, but everyone was speaking in Hindi so I didn’t pick up any of the lingo I would have if my first game had been with Englishmen. Anyway, the first pitch I saw bounced high and nearly caught me in the throat as I swung wildly. I guess it was the cricket equivalent of chin music. They saw I was not good, and I was thrown a slow easy one. This, I’m sure, was the cricket equivalent of a meatball, but I whiffed terribly anyway.
It was embarrassing, but not nearly as embarrassing as my first collegiate baseball at bat (That day, I thought the first pitch was going right for my ear so I jerked backwards and fell down, only to realize it was a curveball when the umpire called it a strike as I sat in the dirt; the second pitch actually was thrown right at my ear but I swung anyway and nearly got decapitated; the third pitch was nowhere near the strike zone but I took a mighty hack because I knew I was no match for a real college pitcher by that point, and I wanted to go down swinging rather than looking). I failed to protect my wickets, but the Indian cabbies were nice about it and told me “not bad.” It was bad though.
The game quickly evolved into a real hard-nosed match, and I was glad to be a part of it. Once the Sikh guy showed up, people really began playing for keeps, and he was a legitimate power hitter. We actually drew a small audience of people walking their dogs on the road behind us and cabbies on the other side of the fence in front of us:
I managed not to embarass myself too much more and was enjoying myself immensely when the game degenerated into a Hindi shouting match over something I couldn’t begin to understand. I thought we were supposed to “just play.”
I actually hoped that the line of cabs would move slowly so I could play longer, but just as the arguement ended, my line began to move and I had to run off. I don’t think they believed I was a real cabbie until I proved it to them by actually jumping into a my yellow taxi as they watched. At JFK’s Central Taxi Hold, there aren’t many Jewish kids playing cricket. But I shouldn’t pretend I’m some kind of pioneer. There aren’t many Guyanese orderlies eating chicken and rice there either.
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for a chortle or book an eating tour
If you want to go to the Central Taxi Hold, drive into JFK Airport and then out on the JFK Expressway. Look for the small sign saying “Cenral Taxi Hold” at the bottom of a list of other things. Park in one of the “15 Minute” spots just as you enter the lot (they are generally used by Muslims while they pray). Let me know if the Haitians let you play dominos with them.
(This is how you’re supposed to protect your wickets)
