Author Archives: Matt

About Matt

Matt Gross writes about travel and food for the New York Times, Saveur, Gourmet, and Afar, where he is a Contributing Writer. When he’s not on the road, he’s with his wife, Jean, and daughter, Sasha, in Boerum Hill, Brooklyn.

Welcome to Pre-K: I Am Your Disease Vector

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A little over a week ago, I was taking Sasha home from day care when we stopped to play in our local playground. After a few minutes of climbing around, however, she started complaining that she was cold, and that her head hurt. Since it was 80 degrees out, I figured something was wrong, and sure enough, she had a fever. I gave her some ibuprofen, and in a day or so her fever broke and she got better.

Two days ago, while shopping with Sasha and Jean, I suddenly began to feel achy all over—from the back of my neck to the soles of my feet. Yup, I had the same thing, and after a sweaty, shivery night last night, I’m finally getting better.

These things happen, of course, but it’s our luck that they’re happening right before the beginning of the new school year. Tomorrow Sasha has her very first day of city Pre-K—yay, universal Pre-K!—and she’ll both be exposing kids to her germs and getting exposed herself. I expect her to come down with something new and annoying early next week. Yay, universal Pre-K.

But what’s even more awesome is that yesterday Sasha had two friends over to play—friends who this very week are starting to go to new preschools (two of the best-known in Brooklyn, as it happens) and who, in all likelihood, will come down with the fever I just got over and spread it around to their new classmates.

Do I feel guilty about this? Maybe a little. I mean, it’s not like it’s whooping cough or the measles. And Sasha, who gave me this bug, surely got it from some other kid at her old school, so maybe it’s that kid’s parents who should feel guilty. All I’m saying is, if you’re looking for Patient Zero, she’s wearing a pink dress and pretending to fly around on a broomstick behind me as I type this.

Tonight at 7: DadWagon Presents!

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Just a quick reminder to you, our legions of rabidly loyal fans, that tonight at 7 p.m. is the third installment of DadWagon Presents, this time featuring:

• Benjamin Anastas is the author of the novels An Underachiever’s Diary and The Faithful Narrative of a Pastor’s Disappearance, which was a New York Times notable book. Other work has appeared in The Paris Review, Harper’s, The New York Times Magazine, Bookforum, and is forthcoming in The Best American Essays 2012. His memoir Too Good to Be True will be published in October and will cost his 5-year-old son a small fortune in future therapy.

• Brian Braiker, a former Newsweek and Rolling Stone staff writer, is a senior editor of Parenting magazine. He loves one of his daughters more than the other, but he’ll never tell which.

• David J. Rosen is the author of the novel I Just Want My Pants Back, as well as the creator and executive producer of the MTV series of the same name.  He is also the author of the nonfiction book What’s That Job and How the Hell Do I Get It?, and his writing has appeared in publications like Esquire and The New York Times. Rosen lives in Brooklyn and has the stroller arms to prove it.

So, if you’re anywhere near New York City, come on by Pacific Standard (82 Fourth Avenue, Brooklyn, 718-858-1951; pacificstandardbrooklyn.com) and check us out. Oh, and it’s free, of course.

Subway Follies: Dads vs. Pregnant Women

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A couple of weeks ago, Jean, Sasha, and I were riding the F train. We do this a lot. It goes where we want to go, generally, and takes us back to where we live. I don’t know where we were going at the time, but what I do remember is that the train was moderately, but not insanely, crowded. All the seats were taken, but there was still room to stand.

And stand was what we did, in front of a row of seats. Eh, so what? Well, Jean is eight months’ pregnant, and seems to have been so all summer long. And there was this guy sitting right in front of us, maybe in his mid-20s, with headphones and eyeglasses on and a backpack in his lap; his face was maybe 18 inches from the watermelon-like protuberance of Jean’s belly. And he didn’t get up and give Jean his seat. He sat there, not looking at anything in particular, for station stop after station stop. Eventually, he debarked, and Jean was granted a one-stop reprieve before we too had to leave. What a dick.

This isn’t totally typical, Jean tells me. Often, people give her a seat. But not that often—and certainly not as often as people offer me their seats when I’m riding alone with Sasha. Then, my god! Look, I’m a healthy 38-year-old guy who has no trouble standing in a subway car, and Sasha, though only 3 and two-thirds years old, is certainly capable of doing the same, no matter how ear-splittingly she may whine. But still, we walk onto the F train and everyone offers us their seat: middle-aged women, gorgeous young creatures, gym-built behemoths, old Chinese dudes in sweat-stained undershirts, businessmen in somber suits and Happy Socks. It’s incredible how polite everyone is, and although I’m thankful for their collective kindness, I’m also a little put off. Do I look that harried and wiped out? Am I cloaked in an aura that declares, “Danger! This father incapable of guarding his kid for three stops!”? Or is it just some bending-over-backward to be nice to an incredibly rare father-who’s-actually-there?

Whatever the reasoning, I wish it was as automatically there for Jean (and other pregnant ladies) as it is for me. But only because that would make me feel less guilty and lazy about so speedily and wholeheartedly accepting the offers.

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Hello, Dan Zanes

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'His hair looks like Grandpa's!'

So, Sasha and I were walking home from school yesterday, and as we neared our apartment, who should we see a couple of doors down but Dan Zanes, king of the Brooklyn kiddie-music scene. Gray curls blazing, surrounded by fellow musicians. Yep, that’s him.

This happens occasionally. Zanes is like Jim Jarmusch in the East Village, or Terry Richardson around Bowery. Eventually, you’re going to spot him.

I didn’t have anything in particular to say to him, so we walked on by. But after we’d passed him I turned to Sasha.

“You see that guy with the gray hair?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You know the CD we always listen to? That song ‘Polly-Wolly Doodle’?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That guy with the gray hair is the one who sings the song!”

“I sing the songs, too!”

She’s right, of course. “That’s right,” I said. “You sing the songs, too.”

As I hunted around in my pocket for the keys to our gate, Zanes and his crew walked past with their instruments. Sasha glanced over at them.

“His hair looks like Grandpa’s,” she said.

She was right.

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