Although my dad and I have some things in common, it’s hard to find something that we both like to do. While my mom and my sister were in Spain, my dad called me up and asked me if I was free for the weekend. Donny and I had planned to visit the Red Hook Ball Field vendors, so I invited my dad along. I think he had a good time, and he kindly wrote up what he thought of the experience.
“A trip to Red Hook (RH) is not for the faint of heart. You have to be willing to go to the other side of the elevated portion of Belt Parkway, circumvent the Gowanus Canal, and not fall off into Lower New York Bay. When my Grandmother lived there a half century ago, my father only took us there when he had access to a vehicle; a quick getaway being deemed essential.
Times change. Instead of a Jewish-Italian Ghetto, RH is now a Central American Ghetto. Instead of softball being played on the local fields, the game now is soccer. Instead of a kosher dog (truly I don’t remember that far back, but with a blog there is a certain literary license). We never went to the RH public pool, we went to one closer by our house.
photo by my dad
Now RH is a little bit of Central America (CA) in NY. Men (no women seen) in fantastic physical shape played endless hours of soccer against other CA rivals. Recent rains had caused flooding and the locals had tipped boards into the usually dry creek beds to allow access to the field so they could root for their team. When finished they came down to the trucks.
As did many yuppies on their runs, single mothers with their children on their bikes, and us old foodies seeking refuge from the sterilized commercial versions of standard CA food. Even something as prosaic as a beef or chicken taco becomes highly palatable and filling from these trucks. Something as boring as corn on the cob is transformed with cheese, butter and chili into a fun treat, while the fresh squeezed (or last night squeezed) fruit juices become ambrosia.
All in all, worth the trip.”