Mmmm Rohrs' Teas and Coffees

Did you know that the New York Stock Exchange was born in the back of a coffee house? This was because coffee used to be one of the most heavily traded commodities in the world. Apparently, The Bank of New York and the first established insurance agency also started within the walls of java joints. I mean, I know from my own experience that coffee has a way of fueling productivity, but I didn’t know any of these tasty facts until I talked to Donald Wright, owner of M. Rohrs’ House of Fine Teas and Coffees.

This quaint shop, located on 86th street between 1st and 2nd Avenues, is an Upper East Side throwback. The space certainly reflects the owner’s enthusiasm for history. It’s packed with old photographs, old signage, and even some old subway doors. It’s the kind of mishmash you might find in your grandmother’s basement, or in an antique store, and it’s all arranged tastefully. I have spent many hours here honing my craft and soaking up this eclectic atmosphere. A skylight sheds sun on a big green plant in the middle of the store, while fish bustle around energetically in a bubbling aquarium nearby. (Are they also drinking the stuff?)

Wright has owned M. Rohrs since 1995, but the shop has been in operation in the Yorkville area for over 100 years, when a woman named Mary Rohrs sold coffee and teas by the cup and by the pound. Wright, who is also in the insurance business, stumbled upon Rohrs when he was researching the best coffee he could find in the area. He was interested in opening an interactive, cultural place where he could “bring worlds, ideas, and people together”. It so happened that the former owner of M. Rohrs was looking to retire. It was a perfect fit. In fact, until about four years ago, Wright himself ran his insurance business in the shop. Clients would have coffee up front and meet with him in back.

Wright is proud that this isn’t a formica-counter “hi, get your money and get out” kind of place. He regularly receives lots of appreciation from the community and is happy to have fostered an old-fashioned tradition. “There are a lot of things in here. Something might touch one person and others might gloss right over it.” One of the things I appreciate is the classic soundtrack, often featuring Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, and Nina Simone.

While listening to the tunes and collecting my thoughts, I’ve analyzed pretty much every nook and cranny of this comfortable space. What I didn’t notice until recently was the impressive mission statement, framed by the front door. It states: Our mission is to create an interactive, intergenerational coffee and tea house/café leading to an environment where people of all walks of life, of all ages can come together under the same roof. To enjoy a relaxed atmosphere; to begin to communicate with each other on all levels; as well as expanding individuals’ hearts and minds. Once this process begins, most will begin to see the parallels that make us not separate and alone but together and the same internally in the world. Each individual mutually helping make us one and the same, highlighting the unseen links that connect us all as one community. It sounds like coffee Shangri-La, and it is.

At M. Rohrs, they put together all kinds of gift baskets. They offer over 80 varieties of coffee and over 90 varieties of tea, many of which are contained in old-time tins behind the counter. What also makes Rohrs heavenly are all the cookies and treats displayed on every square millimeter of counter space, like an old candy shop. I have dipped my hand into glass jars of rugelach, brownie “poppers”, and madeleines. At the encouragement of a friend I brought here last summer, I discovered something called Mexican Wedding Cookies and my waistline hasn’t been the same since. Besides, I’ve never turned my back on a good almond croissant and I wouldn’t dare do so here.

They also serve lots of freshly-made sandwiches and salads. The java is excellent, but in the summer, I opt for ridiculously refreshing iced Moroccan Mint tea, green tea sweetened with honey and the perfect touch of mint.

The customers here run the gamut: mommies meet up with other mommies, friends catch up, and some contentedly sip coffee in solitude. Then there’s the industrious set: hunched over textbooks, playing the keys of laptops or meeting up with colleagues to talk business. I often find that I can get more accomplished here than in my apartment. It’s like an office, yet cozy. I’m not sure I’ll start up a new stock exchange or anything (though maybe we could use one!) but I may pack up a pesky project I’ve been avoiding and head on over…taxes. See you there – I’ll be the one buried under a disorganized pile of receipts, some of them from Rohrs itself…

Gobo To Go

I am not a vegetarian. But I’m not exactly a rip-roaring, fang-baring, pig-on-a-spit, Brazilian-barbeque carnivore either. Let’s just say I occasionally eat meat, with some reservation, and I have no problem whatsoever with meatless meals. I enjoy vegetarian restaurants because I like vegetables and accoutrements such as couscous and that quirky little super-grain known as quinoa.

So when my fiancé recently suggested we pick up some food from Gobo, his favorite vegetarian place on the Upper East Side, I was game. He’s not a vegetarian, but his sister is; she visits Gobo whenever she’s in town from Ohio. (In fact she likes it so much that he refrains from mentioning it when he goes there because he doesn’t want make her jealous.)

Anyway, it was a weeknight. We’d both been working too hard, running around like chickens with our heads cut off (woops, sorry vegetarians, bad analogy), and we didn’t feel like cooking. We didn’t feel like being “out” either. It was one of those winter nights when you just want to put on your PJs and your coziest socks in order to unceremoniously chow down. Take-out is a beautiful thing. In cases like these, I believe that the couch makes the perfect seat, your knees are an ideal table and a blanket is as lovely a tablecloth as any.

So we looked up Gobo’s menu online, dialed their number, and pulled up out front, at 3rd and 81st about 10 minutes later. I sat in our getaway car while he ducked into the purple pick-up entrance right on 81st. We could have had the food delivered, but it’s slightly easier to justify not cooking these days if at least you sidestep the gratuity. (I tend to over-tip, which is one part generosity and two parts poor math.)

The problem with acquiring dinner in this fashion is that you have to demonstrate some patience, (maybe not as much as cooking, but…). Though it was packed up tight, the food on my lap smelled delicious. I was ravenous. Would it be so bad to tear into that bag with my bare hands and go at that food as if I was some kind of rabid hyena? Yes.

Somehow, I managed to control myself, get out of the car, down the street then climb the stairs pretending that I was not salivating the volume equivalent to an ocean. My fiancé, far more civilized than I, took the time to arrange the eco-friendly boxes of food in an artistic formation. He even got out utensils and plates, all of which seemed extraneous to me at this point.

Finally, dinner. To start, we ordered Scallion Pancakes with Homemade Mango Salsa. These were perfectly crisp and packed with onions. We also got an order of the Pan Seared Spinach Dumplings, which were plump purses of goodness. There are lots of things that intrigue on this menu. Most, but not all of the selections at Gobo seem to skew Asian. The menu is broken up into quick bites, small plates, sandwiches, noodles, large plates, and salads and soups. They have another location down in the West Village.

I like what it says on the Gobo website: that the “spirited vegetarian dining awakens the five senses for each guest. Rooted in Zen compassion, Gobo is founded on the belief that delicious food and beverages using non-meat ingredients will nourish both your body and your mind.” It sounds like the dinner version of Yoga class. I inhaled deeply and dug into my entrée.

I ordered the (not-so-Asian) Butternut Squash Risotto with Toasted Almonds. Made with brown rice (of course) and large chunks of squash, this was exactly as delicious as I anticipated. It was buttery and bursting with almonds. My fiancé ordered the Sizzling Soy Cutlet Platter with Black Pepper Sauce. When he offered me some, I scrunched up my nose. “No thanks.” I don’t love meat but I don’t go for faux meat, either. I have tasted a few bites of that wheat-based seitan product before and found it strange. I can dabble in some strait-up tofu, but it seems that some of those meatless creations are for the real purists. Of course, he eventually convinced me to give it a try, and it was actually quite tasty. In fact, that black pepper sauce on the “cutlet” and accompanying vegetables was succulent and prompted me to reach across the couch for seconds.

Leftovers the next night were just as satisfying, and stretching this take-out over two dinners diminished the spending guilt considerably. Though I haven’t dined in at Gobo yet, the atmosphere looks to be very serene and appropriately Zen. And I always find that healthy vibe to be contagious. When I go, I intend to try one of their organic smoothies, a fresh squeezed juice, or…okay, you twisted my arm, perhaps a glass of organic wine. See you there. I’ll be the one tucking myself in cozily under the tablecloth…

UES Garbage Pickin'

It happened on a Friday night, a few weeks ago. I had a lot on my mind and approximately 15,000 things to do. I was getting home late from work and hadn’t yet packed a thing for a flight out of Laguardia early the next morning. I was making a mental checklist of all I needed to remember, when suddenly I stopped in my tracks. In front of me was the most beautiful piece of garbage I’d ever seen.

Basically, it was the desk of my dreams – someone had put it out on the street for the next day’s collection. Right here on the Upper East Side, this piece of abandoned furniture beckoned to me, it glowed with possibility. I’m pretty sure I heard angels sing.

It was long and lean, white-ish, and had eight drawers just begging to be filled with my sundry office supplies. My current desk was adequate yet drawer-less. I calculated that, strangely enough, I hadn’t had a desk with drawers since we sold off my girlhood furniture at age 14. I ran my hand across the top surface, which measured approximately a mile. Oh, the masterpieces I could write on this thing.

I am not new to garbage pickin’. Some of my most valued treasures have been acquired in this manner: a love seat from the 50’s, a Jetson-esque orange chair, and a funky, discarded kitchen cabinet that has long served as my (not-so-functional) desk storage. If you've never claimed anything off the street as your own and you're reading this with a bit of disgust, I assure that everything (other than say mattresses and couches) can be cleaned thoroughly. Besides, I guarantee that that this form of recession-era "shopping" will give you a satisfying rush. You know what they say about one man’s trash…

I find that, like so many things in life, the best garbage pickin’ happens when you least expect it. Maybe there are some true aficionados out there who troll around on Friday nights from city block to city block in order to score the perfect pickin’s but I think it’s a matter of just going about your life, keeping your eyes open, then being decisive. It’s like apartment hunting: if you don’t act quickly, someone else will definitely snap up the one you’re pretty sure you want.

This time, however, I hesitated. I could tell this was narrow enough for my space but was it too long? Was it too low to the ground to be ergonomic? Was it too yellowed? Had a dog relieved himself on it yet? In fact, upon closer inspection, I discovered that this glorious piece was not a desk at all but actually a vanity. The compartment in the middle flipped up to reveal an undersurface that used to house a mirror and a bunch of secret compartments, one of which, sure enough, contained an old tube of lipstick. There was also a great pair of 1970’s sunglasses in one of the drawers.

The main question was: how was I going to get this up to my 5th floor walk-up? I’m no carpenter, but it seemed like it would detach into three pieces. I immediately dialed my fiancé and told him that I’d stumbled upon a dreamy piece of garbage. “Really?” he replied, amused and possibly a little afraid. I proceeded to describe its attributes with an excitement that, he would later recount, rendered me pretty much unintelligible.

I knew I needed some brawn. The problem was that my brawn was in a gnarly line at a Fed Ex. He told me he’d be over as soon as possible. In the meantime, I decided to stand sentry, to guard my new/old desk/vanity so that no one else could even think about claiming it.

I admit that as we waited, and waited…and waited for that Fed Ex line to dissipate, doubt set in. The desk gradually began to seem fairly beat-up and far too big. Mainly, getting it upstairs started to seem like way too much of a hassle amid everything we had to do that night. I do love free stuff, but also fundamentally believe that “less is more” and it would be easier to just walk away. Besides, despite all the soldier-like marching I was doing back in forth in front of it, I was getting cold. I decided it was all just a little much. Wistfully, I headed upstairs, rustled up some dinner, and dug out my suitcase.

When my fiancé finally arrived an hour later, he was also excited. “That desk is great,” he said, and suggested we go back down to investigate further. I was surprised that it was still there. We proceeded to examine it from every angle, and carried one of the drawers into my foyer to see what the color looked like in normal light. It was somewhat discolored, but it did seem like a lot of that would scrub away and what didn’t would add charm.

“Do you think it will be comfortable for you?” he asked. I pretended to sit and type at my laptop, perching on thin air, almost falling in the process. “Let’s go get your desk chair,” he said. Of course. I nodded my head and took off while he stood sentry. I bounded up the stairs with renewed energy, pleased to know such a genius and vowing to grab my camera for documentation purposes. Back on the sidewalk, I couldn’t stop laughing. I sidled up to the desk and once again pretended to type, this time with good posture, full of intention. That’s the first time I ever pretend-typed at a desk on the sidewalk.

“Perfect,” I said. We then dismantled it and determined that it wouldn’t be too hard to carry upstairs. First, we made sure to take in my desk chair, so that no one dared to claim that as her own. Then we took out the drawers. Granted, this 3-piece desk/vanity wasn’t too heavy, but traipsing it up five floors wasn’t exactly a stroll in the park, either; I find that even small objects, like pencils or even feathers, can seem heavy when you have to climb beyond that third floor.

It was by then 10:30 pm. Because we still had to pack and address those 14,999 other pre-trip tasks, we couldn’t do much else with the desk besides pile it up on top of itself and take turns modeling those crazy sunglasses.

In the last few weeks, I have engaged in four rounds of vigorous scrubbing. I used those Magic Eraser sponges that are so aptly named. If you haven’t tried these yet, I highly recommend. They are a product of that trusty, bald-headed Mr. Clean. I got mine in the cleaning section of Rainbow Hardware and Pharmacy, downstairs, on First between 75th and 76th. Thanks to these sponges, my desk/vanity brightened up considerably. I have been busy filling up every drawer and every nook and cranny with my beloved office supplies. And, of course, I am happily typing on it, at this very moment. It feels like the dawn of a new era. I suspect that many masterpieces will be composed in this exact spot in the months, years, and maybe even decades to come.

That following Friday, I put my other desk (which I've been writing at for the last 22 years) out for collection. Guess what? It vanished within the hour. Right now, perhaps someone else nearby is also typing a blog about the great new desk she found on the sidewalk...