Picturesque

Central Park and The Cruller

SCHEDULE:
6:30am | Central Park Tennis // $Free
8:15am | Daily Provisions

Walking into Central Park around sunrise, which we do often on our way to the tennis center, never disappoints. It’s spectacular, a fantasy world of nature and recreation, with the light at that hour making it feel extra movie set-like. You might barely see a pedestrian out on the street but once inside the park’s walls, it’s bustling. Dogs are going wild off-leash and it’s challenging to even get across the park drive without being run over by the very intense early AM joggers and bikers.

Entering at West 93rd we’re usually jogging as well, or even sprinting as Paul was earlier this week, to the steps at the back of the Tennis House where players lineup hoping to get a 6:30am first court of the day. It’s not as glamorous as the overnight queue at Wimbledon but dicey nonetheless…these Upper West Siders (UWS) are serious about their tennis. Some regulars start lining up as early as 5:30am and have for decades.

Why? There are many things on the UWS which require being a nudge, or pushy, or maybe acting like a lunatic to get them—most famously a parking spot or lox at Zabars—and a tennis court in Central Park can be no different. Two believable stories tennis regulars love to tell, which sound like scenes from a Woody Allen film, exemplify the UWS life. The courts have become increasingly overrun for decades, according to the first tale, because in the 1970’s all the therapists on the UWS began telling patients that tennis would help with their neuroses and anxiety issues. And years ago, in the second story, a man had a heart attack while playing…after the ambulance took him away, an argument broke out over who would get the remainder of his hour on the court.

Many other stories abound at the tennis center, including weddings, ashes being sprinkled, pros who learned to play there, how Billie Jean King was once a regular and only played on court 13 (the best court, all the way at the northern end with its own bench in the shade, which we’ve yet to play on), and more. All this reflects what a strong, endearing generational community of the tennis obsessed the Central Park courts have spawned. They are in fact the oldest courts in the city and largest city tennis facility (only the National Tennis Center in Flushing has more courts). It began on the lawn in the 1880’s with chalk for lines and over a few decades became the 30 tennis courts that exist today. For those of you counting, that’s 140 plus years of tennis in this same spot in Central Park.

The courts themselves are some of the best maintained in the city. For that you can thank Vicky who is out there in the dark most mornings rolling, sweeping, and tending to the courts by herself. You’ll hear her cheerful voice too if you call the tennis center, or over the PA if you have too many balls on court (6 is the max). She might check your permit and clay court shoes as you enter and I’ve seen her behind the concession counter or in the pro shop as well. She’s everywhere, chatting breezily with all the regulars relaxing on the columned portico of the landmarked Tennis House. For awhile I was convinced she must have a twin. Vicky recently also gave me a masterclass in maintaining my own har-tru green clay court. “Magnesium, magnesium, magnesium at night David! Like me, the court can’t sleep without it,” she explained.

Paul and I have played in Central Park twice in the last couple of weeks. The first time was a super soft court, right after it rained, with balls nearing the end of their life. Perfect conditions for my patient, controlled, plodding game and kryptonite for Paul’s blitzing, first-strike, redline shotmaking. Predictably I dominated while Paul swung harder and wilder, eventually tossing a few racquets and expletives in disgust. When we returned this week it was dry, blisteringly hot, and our fresh balls had some zip. Paul’s game plus his Southern Italian and Lebanese gene pool fared marginally better in the heat. I wilted though, playing on my heels for most of the hour and a half, even choking a huge lead in one early game of 11s. In our final game of 21s, among the longest and most grueling of this storied rivalry, I served and rushed the net desperately at game point hoping to avoid a rally, only to get passed easily by a classic crushed Tedesco inside-in cross court forehand. Sweat squirted from Paul’s eye as he attempted his signature winner wink and I smiled and applauded, relieved it was over.

When Daily Provisions opened on Amsterdam and 78th Street in October of 2019, we were pretty damn excited. Not just because Danny Meyer has a tendency to elevate the simple staples into something special but because the venue’s star is a donut and lord knows only Homer Simpson enjoys a donut more than us. This now omnipresent cafe concept is testament to his Midas touch and just for the record, we both went to Trinity College in Hartford, go Bants.

Dave and I endured the hipster lines at the original blue shoebox location next to Meyer’s Union Square Cafe in Gramercy, just to experience the mighty crust and floaty texture of the now infamous cruller. This circular centerpiece is often available in three flavors: Cinnamon, Maple and a seasonal selection, which on this day was Blueberry Buttermilk. So when we’re on the Upper Best, DP is in heavy rotation post play. This location is thankfully larger than the original, comfortably seating 36 from 6 to 9 p.m. daily.

Believe me when I say, this is not your Dunkin’ cruller, which btw, I grew up on and still love. Provisions’ version is more delicate flower via French pastry training and will never feature any Affleck in an Ad. Of course they do offer other solid baked goods, including a Molasses Spice Cookie and an Everything Croissant filled with cream cheese but I’ve never seen anyone eat them.

We let our crullers imagine they weren’t on the chopping block in their wax bags while we inhaled our drippy fried egg, cheese and avocado sandos, smothered in house Wake-Up Sauce. The egg sits snug between the poppy bun and runs just enough to drag your last bite through. Granted I don’t remember eating the sandwich, as my brain was focused on the crullers; D divided each into fours, half of which were summarily submerged into our iced coffee drinks before indulging. Even better…

SCORELINE:
11s: Paul 2, Dave 1
21s: Dave 1, Paul 1

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