Blog note: In this blog's previous incarnation, Thursdays were the home of 'Lil Places I Love, small peeks inside some of my favorite cafes and bookstores and cinemas and whatever else around this city and around the world. Today, I'm taking it far back to the beginning of high school, to Cafe Max -- one of the first places that helped me believe I was more than just a tourist in New York, that I had claim to this city, too, despite making my home in suburbia.
I spent the summer of 2003 at Dickinson College, taking part in a CTY program on Law and Politics in United States History. Much as I loved the class, the best part of those three weeks were the friends I made. We banded together to draft an ill-advised petition when our TA was dismissed from the program for marijuana possession. We trekked through fields and parking lots on a quest for a movie theater showing no less cinematic greatness than Legally Blonde 2: Red, White and Blonde. (How do you feel about that Oscar, Reese Witherspoon?) We talked life.
So when I began JTS's Prozdor program in Manhattan the fall of my freshman year, it was a source of tremendous comfort to be starting out with CTY crony Sarah Schoenberg in tow. Though we've mostly fallen out of touch as of late, she was my confidante and one of my closest friends for a good six months or so. On those lazy Sunday mornings -- as a whole Hebrew school filed out to the Secret Garden Cafe (and its resplendent spinach-and-mushroom quiche is the subject of another post) -- we explored. We walked down to Columbia and popped into the university bookstore. We traveled a few blocks over to the river, snuck up stairs to the roof of JTS. We were little rebels. And then we found Cafe Max.
When you think of intellectuals sipping on cappuccinos, reading Kafka on languid afternoons, you think of Cafe Max. When you think of pretty, witty foreign baristas, you just know they're working at Cafe Max. When you have a good think about Joni Mitchell's "dark cafe days," she'll lead you to Cafe Max.
The cafe is a sort of protective oasis from the hustle and stress of city life. With little to no regular tables and chairs, Cafe Max forces you to sit down and relax, take a half-hour to sink yourself into a faded, plush sofa and disappear. The paintings on the wall drip with whimsy -- a canvas print of "La Donna Piu Grande Nel Mondo" (The Biggest Woman in the World" and a leprechaun painted onto a map of Italy. The food, too, is delicious -- try the bruschetta crostini or the panini parma. But most of all, Cafe Max works for no bigger reason than its general vibe. For a year, Sarah and I found our way for weekly therapy sessions. It remains a special place for me.
Just a note: as I searched online to confirm the address (1262 Amsterdam Ave, btw), I realized that the blogosphere generally refers to my Cafe Max as Max Cafe. Ah well. It will always be Cafe Max for me.
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