JAMES STEVENSON There aren’t too many appealing places to go in Manhattan at four in the morning. The streets are desolate; the few cars that are moving seem secretive, bent on melancholy errands; pedestrians are rare and nervous-looking. Dawn is a long way off. We were driving around the city at that hour last week, stopping at stoplights that didn’t matter, listening to country-and-western on the radio, and rummaging through the familiar trash barrel of our minds, plucking at ratty memories, poking at old wounds inflicted and received, sorting out yearnings, examining the imminence of doom—the usual dog’s breakfast of rumination. It was, in addition, damn cold: you could feel each and every bone in your fingers. We drove through places that we used to like. Washington Market, years ago, would be just ending its day around this hour, still smelling great, with bits of celery and lettuce on the wet cobblestones. (Kaput.) A sign on the World Trade Center (which did the old market in) was lit, proclaiming the view from the 107th floor.
What do You think about Secret Ingredients (2008)?
