A tree grows in Brooklyn. And that’s the last thing you need
Were a foreigner to step foot into a chassan-kallah apartment in Brooklyn, he’d do a double take. Is he seeing extreme opulence or dire poverty? How can the two possibly coexist?
They could. In Brooklyn, a couple could live in a mouse-infested mousehole on the sixth floor of an apartment building with an elevator that occasionally works, while displaying their Italian silver in Italian furniture in what they call their “dining room.” The hinges on their pantries and closets could be rusty and jammed, but still be filled with every size and shape OXO container and organization bin on the market. Their radiators could hiss out century-old dust along with too much heat while the young lady (or her cleaning lady) fits exquisite linens over down quilts.
The sweet young couple could squeeze around a table that barely has room for their plates while the diamonds on the girl’s throat, ears, finger, and wrist glint. The building’s lobby could be dingy, its walls sporting 85 layers of brown and pink paint, while the UPS guy litters the space with YOOX packages.
Because while Brooklynites were blessed with Immense Feinschmeckerkeit (if not Immense Wealth), inherited from their Hungarian ancestors, they were stricken by the closest of confines.
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