What Makes It Good?

Lessons from a Saturday afternoon on the Upper East Side.

“Want to go to a museum together this Saturday?” my brother wrote me on Wednesday. What a nice idea. “Let’s have lunch at JG Melon first and then go to the Met,” I suggested. He was in.

Once Saturday rolled around, I was giddy at the thought of a cheeseburger and cheerful conversation with my only sibling on a Saturday afternoon. Our time together as adults feels more sacred, as it requires planning, intent, and actually responding to each other’s texts. David and I grew up in the same 2 houses together (our parents are divorced), so naturally, we had no choice but to spend most of our time together as kids. When I see my brother now, however, it’s usually the derivation of us realizing we actually miss each other and want to hang out. (And it usually involves food.)

David beat me to the Upper East Side after I had an appointment that went overtime, and he hangrily shared the unfortunate news that the wait time for JG Melon was well over an hour. “I’m hungrrrry,” he whined on the phone. “Okay,” I said, already having thought of a Plan B for this exact situation. “Meet me at Butterfield Market—the one on Lex. And oh—” I added, “Dad wants us to bring food to Allen.”

Allen is an 87-year-old Jewish man that my dad befriended many years ago, and he lives in an apartment on E 74th St where he gives private acting lessons from his living room. There are many 20-somethings who would complain about having to bring food to an 87-year-old person they barely know on a perfectly sunny Saturday afternoon, but my brother and I shared the quiet understanding that this was something we would be doing, and we wouldn’t complain for a second.

At Butterfield Market, I indecisively picked up and put down at least 4 separate items before deciding on a salmon avocado roll. My brother also chose sushi, and I added a piece of carrot cake to our basket to share. For Allen, we selected a chicken mezze plate. I paid for the food and met David outside, reminding him that we needed to deliver Allen’s meal before we could eat. “Bro,” he huffed, practically in two syllables. I began walking and he had no choice but to follow.

When we arrived to Allen’s building, we explained our situation to the doorman, and he asked whether we wanted to just leave the food with him or go up and deliver it to Allen ourselves. I looked to David for the answer. Even though he’s younger than me, he’s much taller and, in my eyes, often wiser. “We’ll bring it to him,” he responded assuredly. The doorman nodded and called Allen to let him know we were coming. “The Hazzouri kids are here to drop off food.” I’m guessing Allen asked who that was because the doorman repeated himself. I had only met Allen once when I was a kid and once on FaceTime more recently, so I wasn’t expecting him to remember me. Nevertheless, the doorman motioned for us to head up.

The elevator was slow and smelled as you imagine an old Upper East Side building would—musty with hints of Chanel No. 5. As it jolted us to the third floor, David and I looked at each other with the understanding that we were doing a good thing for someone. We walked down the quiet hallway to Allen’s apartment, and David gave a heavy knock on the door.

Nothing.

He banged again.

“It’s open,” we heard Allen call from inside.

David led the way and greeted Allen first.

“Do you want us to take our shoes off?” my brother asked. “Well, how long are you staying?” Allen asked. “We’ll take our shoes off,” decided David, setting down our shopping bag of sushi and carrot cake, bringing Allen’s food over to his spot in the living room. The questions started immediately.

“What are your names?” “Angelina and Dav—”

“Have we met before?” “Yeah, remember when—”

“What is this?” “Chicken and vegetables from Butterfield—”

“Oh, Butterfield Market is a nice market.”

Probably the last person I had talked to around Allen’s age was my grandmother who passed away in June. She had terrible hearing and you had to speak loudly and clearly to her, often needing to repeat yourself. Allen, however, is soft-spoken and thinks quickly. Before you can finish your answer to his first question, he’s already onto his second and third.

He motioned for us to sit. David plopped down in front of where Allen was seated on a worn-out chair upholstered with faded green fabric. I sat across from him on an antique sofa that swallowed me the moment my black jeans met its velvet brown cushion.

Allen had more questions for us. How old are we and where do we live and where did we go to college and what do we do for work?

“I work in fashion, and I’m also a writer,” I answered.

“What do you write?” he asked, which remains my least favorite question because I never know how to answer it. (I recently attended a Substack Bestsellers event where someone said she writes “personal essays,” so that’s going to be my answer from now on.)

I answered as best I could, and without replying to me, Allen looked at David. “Is your sister a good writer?”

David smiled. “Really good.”

“Oh yeah?” said Allen. “What makes her good?”

David laughed and thought for a moment. “She’s very descriptive.”

“So the words make the writing good,” Allen replied, shifting his eyes to me for less than a second, slightly smiling, to let me know he was messing with my brother. His timing of this was impeccable, and his many years of working in the film industry were revealed in just that one look. “Yeah, I—well, I mean. I guess so. Yeah,” stammered my brother. Allen smiled at me again. I sunk deeper into the sofa, knowing we’d be staying here longer than anticipated. I knew I was in for some entertainment.

“Do you watch Breaking Bad?” David asked Allen.

“Never heard of it,” replied Allen. This was very clearly sarcasm to me, but my brother didn’t pick up on it. “REALLY?” David asked Allen. “Really, I’ve never heard of it.” Allen looked over at me again to make sure we were on the same page. I laughed to myself. “It’s so good,” my brother said, still under the impression that Allen had never heard of the show. “What makes it good?” Allen asked him, and David began to explain Breaking Bad to someone with over 50 years of experience in the film industry. Brilliant.

Allen and David began talking about basketball, and I happily observed as they bantered back and forth about last night’s Knicks game and the coach of the Celtics and how the NBA has changed and several other sentiments I wasn’t really paying attention to but was happy to observe in silence. I zoned out for a minute and was brought back to attention when Allen deadpanned, looking me straight in the eye from across the room and said, “Remember that.” Very seriously, I replied, “I will,” — even though it was very clear I had not been paying close attention to the basketball talk. Allen was just amazing.

As my brother was telling Allen about something that was of little importance to me, I looked around the room we were sitting in. Faded photographs covered the scuffed beige walls. An old TV sat in the corner next to a desk piled with books and papers that looked as if they hadn’t been touched in 30 years. An umbrella stand sat in the hallway where our sushi was losing its chilled temperature by the minute, but for once, I wasn’t worried about something like this. I looked at the side table next to me and noticed a DVD set. “You like The Sopranos?” I asked aloud, still looking at the DVD set on the table.

“We’re having a conversation!” Allen said abruptly, glancing at my brother, and I couldn’t help but laugh. He was right. “Sorry,” I said.

After they finished their conversation, Allen looked at me. “I worked on that show.”

“I’m watching it right now. I love it—it’s so good,” I said.

“What makes it good?” Allen asked me. I had to think for a second. I wasn’t used to answering such a question, but it seemed Allen was very used to asking it.

---

For nearly 40 minutes, David and I sat talking with Allen. He continued to have perfectly-timed facetious comments, and my brother continued to take a second to realize when Allen was joking with him. I felt like I was watching a movie in real life and had a brief moment of missing this memory even though I was still living in it. Watching Allen talk to my 24-year-old brother as if they were the same age was pure magic.

Eventually when there were a few seconds of silence, I said to David, “We should probably get going soon.” Before David could answer, Allen asked where we were going.

“We’re going to the Met,” I answered.

“It’s nice there,” Allen said, and I agreed. He told us how his daughter lives in a building across the street. He told us she has two kids, aged 5 and 9.

“This might be rude, but how old were you when you had her?” David asked. Allen stared at him, purposefully making him uncomfortable. I could tell he didn’t mind the question at all, but he wanted David to feel like he did mind. I can’t explain how, but Allen and I understood each other. It was magnificent to watch.

“What are you trying to say?” Allen asked David. I watched with wide eyes.

“Well, I’m just saying, like—you told us you were eighty-seven, and your daughter has a 5 year old, so—”

Allen kept staring at David. I was smiling.

My brother laughed nervously, “I just mean—well, if you’re eighty-seven, then how old is your daughter? Did she have kids late? Sorry, is that—I just meant, like—”

Allen kept staring, and David kept talking. I was holding in laughter. Allen looked at me and smiled for a second. Just brilliant.

“Are you finished?” Allen interrupted David. “You’re right. I was 60 when I had her.” He glanced over at me to make sure I was still with him, and I chuckled to myself. My poor brother exhaled.

Finally, we stood up, putting our coats on to head for the museum.

“Can we come back?” David asked Allen. It was clear we all had fun.

“Of course you can come back,” he said.

---

We walked away from Allen’s building smiling—and still very hungry. Finding a bench along Central Park on our way to the Met, we devoured our room-temperature sushi (which, thankfully, did not give us food poisoning), and I opened the carrot cake to try. After my first bite, my brother asked if it was good.

“It’s good,” I said, “but not as good as mine.”

He took a bite and nodded. “You’re right.”

I took another forkful and thought about Allen’s question. What makes it good? So often I describe things as “so good,” without really thinking about what I’m saying. We all do that—it’s not a fault—but Allen really had me thinking. I’m someone who loves very easily. I love people. I love food. I love clothing. I love music. I love my job. I think coffee is So Good and The Sopranos is So Good and the book I’m reading is So Good and the breakfast I had this morning was So Good. I’m constantly describing things as “so good,” but perhaps I should think more about what it is that makes them good. Maybe it would make me a better conversationalist. Maybe it would make me a better writer. Maybe, it would simply allow me the privilege of cherishing certain elements of things rather than always describing the thing as a whole. I didn’t expect to learn so much from our visit with Allen, but it was one of the most eye-opening lessons I’d had in a while.

---

After about 2 hours of sauntering around the Metropolitan Museum of Art, David and I walked outside to the sun setting over New York City. We walked toward the 6 train, and I asked David if he was hungry (to which his answer is almost always yes).

“You know,” I said, “we didn’t get burgers for lunch and I was kind of craving one. Should we go to Hamburger America for dinner?” He loved that idea.

---

At the restaurant, we each ordered a classic smash burger with everything on it, a chocolate milk for David, and fries to share. Sitting atop the yellow diner stools at the counter, we recounted the events of the last few hours we had shared together.

“Best part of your day?” I asked my brother, a question our dad often poses at the dinner table.

“Honestly,” David began, “this whole day has been great, but I had so much fun at Allen’s.”

“I was going to say that too,” I replied. “We can go back soon.”

I chewed my bite of cheeseburger in happy silence, and I thought about what makes it good.

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