Catherine Lacey Takes on Crabs Single-Handedly
Before moving to Mexico City this year, the author Catherine Lacey lived in New York for more than a decade — “in the East Village, Crown Heights, Dumbo, Upper West Side, Downtown Brooklyn, Fort Greene, Bed-Stuy, and Windsor Terrace, in that order more or less.” She wrote her first novel while living in a co-op bed-and-breakfast for artists in Brooklyn and since then has become known for her ambitious, experimental works. Two years after Biography of X , an elaborate biography of a fictional character (complete with fictional data and sources), comes The Möbius Book , a novella on one end and a memoir on the other; like the eponymous strip, it seems to have no definite beginning or ending. Back in the city for her book tour, this week was a bit of a homecoming for Lacey, who packed her schedule with many, many old friends, most of whom she reconnected with over meals. “All I ever want in this life,” she says, “is to have the best people over for dinner and talk.”
,Wednesday, June 11
Wednesday started twice: once when I woke up in Barcelona, again when I arrived in New York later that day. I had a pod of espresso in the hotel room, which always feels sad, but it was necessary since I’d barely slept.
,At the airport, I remembered I had packed a cinnamon pastry from Jansana the day before; Jansana is the very best gluten-free bakery in Barcelona and perhaps the world. Yes, I’m one of these gluten-impaired people. At times it is humiliating, but it’s much easier than it used to be. Europe is, of course, way ahead of us in gluten-free-pastry technologies.
,I was in Spain to do a couple book events before going to New York to do a few more book events, but at home in Mexico City, I have papaya every single morning, and I’m missing it with a profundity that would seem mentally unstable if I described it in full. Eating papaya outside countries where papaya grows usually feels like self-harm. I simply won’t.
,The vegetarian option on the flight was bleak, even a bit medieval. I ate the potatoes and skipped the mysteriously large falafel-like object. I fell into a fugue state, unable to sleep and hungry. Then I found a medjool date in my purse. Why only one medjool date? No almonds? Who packed for this trip? There are things one simply cannot know.
,By the time I landed at JFK and got through Customs, I was more of a moving assemblage of things than a human being. I got a salad at one of the many slop-bowl places somewhere close to Astor Place — doesn’t matter which one — with arugula, kale, tomatoes, chickpeas, tofu, and sweet potatoes. It was the first vegetable and protein I’d had in well over 24 hours. I’ve been pescatarian and/or vegetarian (and, at times, vegan) for almost a quarter-century, and though I’ve tried to eat meat a few times, it always made me feel awful.
,Something extremely weird is happening with me and coffee. A few weeks ago, I noticed that my morning cup of coffee was going cold before I could remember to drink it. But I love coffee; what the hell is happening? Wednesday afternoon, jet-lagged as all hell, I realized I’d been coasting all day, including a flight over the Atlantic, on that one pod coffee at 5 a.m. in Barcelona. Highly suspicious. It was too late for an espresso, so I had an iced almond chai from LifeThyme market .
,In the evening, I went to Pastis with one of my all-time-favorite people, Brenda Cullerton, actress, comedian, woman-about-town. She knows New York better than I’ll ever know anything, so she always chooses the restaurant. Brenda’s outfit was phenomenal: Diane Keaton meets Fran Lebowitz, but with more of a sense of humor. (Those bright-green shoes!) I had a martini— vodka, slightly dirty, three olives — and we shared fried artichokes, which were marvelous. I also had a massive flank of roasted branzino and a bowl of gigante beans. Perfect meal.
,I took a little valerian root before bed and slept like a dead animal.
,Thursday, June 12
Day eight without papaya. I felt an intense longing for the sound of a knife whispering through the middle of the fruit and the abundant release of wet black seeds onto the cutting board.
,I worked for a little while at Think Coffee and had a drip coffee and part of a mediocre gluten-free pumpkin muffin. I knew the muffin wasn’t going to be good, and yet there I was, accepting yet another breakfast that did not include papaya. Also, I take back everything I said about coffee. What a magnificent drug.
,Lunch was uptown with my agent, Jin Auh, at Momofuku Noodle Bar . I ended up having tuna hand rolls and a salad that could have fed three people. I tried Jin’s seared broccoli, and it was perfect. I’ve been working with Jin for more than a decade, and it’s always great to see her. She has saved me from so many dumb decisions in my creative life and seen me through so many dumb choices in my personal life; she would be my one and only phone call if I ever found myself in jail.
,Later that afternoon, I listened to Lorde’s new single, “Man of the Year,” on repeat and languished in between errands and emails. It was hot as hell, so I got a frozen Greek yogurt from Culture , a place I’d walked past a million times and never been in. It was apricot-flavored and transformative.
,That night was the Young Lions Fiction Award ceremony at the Bryant Park public library. I have strong feelings about that building. I proposed to my husband there a few years ago, and we met because he came to New York for the Cullman fellowship at the NYPL in 2022. I ate a bunch of salted almonds before the ceremony since it wasn’t clear how long it would be until dinner.
,My friend Chioke Nassor was my plus-one for the night. I’ve known Chioke for ten years now, and every time I hang out with him, he ends up turning strangers into friends faster than anyone I know. He’s also one of the funniest people alive. At the after-party, I had a spicy mezcal cocktail that was delicious. I also had three mini arancinis with pea and mint in quick succession while talking to the catering waiter.
,Chioke and I took a cab downtown to Freemans and shared a Caesar salad with a deranged but delicious avalanche of Parmesan on it. We shared the salmon and black-eyed peas and a massive bowl of fries. How the hell did they get those black-eyed peas to taste like that? Jim, our server, told us it was beurre blanc, of course. At least half the time I ask what makes something taste so good, the answer is butter and white wine.
,I ended the night with Chioke’s new short film he just shot in Paris (so beautiful! Altman-esque!) and went to sleep.
,Friday, June 13
In the morning, I made coffee at “home” — that is, my friend Brenda’s apartment, though she and her husband were out of town with their two kids and one perfect grandson. I had some Greek yogurt with maple syrup and almonds and then had a meeting with my mentee, Alexandra, to talk about her novel in progress.
,Lunch was exciting — perhaps the peak of this diary — because it was with C Pam Zhang, a fantastic novelist and very adventurous eater. She suggested Mountain House East Village . We started with a plate of long beans with eggplant, and though we were going to order some kind of fish-head thing, we swerved last-minute to a massive dish of sticky rice and whole crab.
,A hatlike crab shell sat in the middle of the plate, surrounded by a field of swaying bonito flakes. Beneath the bonito thicket: crab brain, sticky rice, a lot of crab claws, and a lotus leaf. (Can you eat lotus leaf? Not really, but I tried anyway.) The dish arrived with a lot of accessories — tiny forks, plastic gloves, that metal thing you use to crack the claws open. We tried with the gloves at first, but it was more trouble than it was worth. Ultimately we went at the crab claws bare-handed. The gloves, we concluded, are for the sort of people who don’t know what their own vaginas look like.
,I had to head uptown to drop off a signed book I donated to a fundraising auction for the Ali Forney Center. Jeff, the winning bidder, bought me an almond cortado for bringing it to his neighborhood. Thanks, Jeff!
,Later that afternoon, I stopped by Magenta Plains to see a new exhibit by Matt Keegan, whose work I love. My friend Cecelia met me there and we went for a walk, then for a dozen oysters and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc at some random place near McNally Jackson, where the poet Ry Cook was launching their new book. It was the first I had heard of Ry, but their reading was amazing. I was exhausted, so I went home instead of going out with all the poets. I picked up some vegetables and hummus from Naya on the way for a late dinner.
,Saturday, June 14
It was rainy, and I had that feeling in the back of your throat — your body’s way of telling you, Bitch, you better stay in or it’s going to be a full-blown illness. So I canceled plans and stayed in to write and read.
,Breakfast was two pieces of gluten-free toast from Our Daily Bread — they have a stand at the Union Square farmers’ market — with peanut butter, blueberry jam, Greek yogurt, and blueberries. And black coffee. And a bunch of Emergen-C packets. And some turmeric extract in water.
,I went out briefly to get groceries and an almond latte from Blue Bottle, but it was the kind of rain that just makes everything feel impossible. So that was the end of my travel outside the apartment.
,For lunch, I made a pot of brown rice, sautéed kale, and some tofu marinated in miso and sriracha. There was leftover eggplant and long beans from lunch with Pam, so I added that to the bowl and it felt actually pretty fancy. In the afternoon, I had one of those Hail Merry Meyer-lemon tart things. Also a cayenne kombucha, which on first sip is awful and makes you wonder if you are mentally well for drinking it. But it helped fight the cold away.
,My husband, Daniel, arrived from Mexico City late that night. I made us something I’ve taken to calling “risotro,” a non-recipe recipe for making a meal out of old rice. Otro is Spanish for “other,” so it’s not risotto, as I respect the beauty of a real risotto; it’s simply some other thing. This one had yellow tomatoes, crispy chickpeas, anchovy, white pepper, and a lot of Pecorino.
,Sunday, June 15
Breakfast was fried eggs, black coffee, and toast with butter, honey, and flaky salt. I’m a big proponent of flaky salt on toast with jam or whatever. Daniel made the eggs. In the last few years, I’ve developed a learned helplessness about eggs. I almost never eat them unless he makes them.
,We ended up impulsively going uptown to see the Sargent show at the Met — but before the museum, we got a coffee and pastry at Noglu . I got the thing they are calling a croissant there. It was more like a brioche having an identity crisis — vaguely edible, a little dry, but generally confusing. I know that gluten-free pastry is difficult to accomplish, but a croissant should be dignified. Just because I have a gluten allergy doesn’t mean I have an allergy to dignity.
,That night, Avery Trufelman and her partner, Drew Haupt, came over for dinner at Brenda’s place. Drew brought hummus he’d just made, which was the best hummus I’ve ever had in my life hands down. I made a recipe I copied from Brenda’s husband, Rich, who is the beloved cook of this house. It’s deceptively simple — just a bunch of seared zucchini, pasta (Rummo’s gluten free in my case), and feta cheese — but my version wasn’t as good as when Rich makes it. That’s life!
,After dinner, we had both real negronis and Phony Negronis and vanilla ice cream from Van Leeuwen, which was pretty ideal.
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