By Carol Tannenhauser
It’s never a good time to chip a tooth, but a front tooth on a Friday afternoon at the start of a three-day weekend is particularly bad. That’s when I tasted the grains and felt the ragged edge with my tongue. I ran to the mirror. I needed a dentist.
I had met one, years before, through my work at West Side Rag. It turns out Anya Brodsky, DDS, who advertises in the Rag, is married to my husband’s cousin’s son, who grew up in California. I barely knew her, but I had her cell phone number. I had been wanting to switch to an UWS dentist for some time. But should I bother her now? I looked in the mirror again, and dialed.
Dr. Brodsky, 37, a lifelong Upper West Sider, was just packing up her four-year-old twin sons to leave for their country house upstate. She shifted to Plan B without hesitation.
“I’ll meet you at my office in 20 minutes,” she said.
She arrived at 71st and CPW with two adorable, dark-haired boys (who I could definitely tell apart.) One of them told me earnestly that when I go to the dentist, I really should “bring a grownup.” Dr. Brodsky set them up in the waiting room with drinkable yogurts, banana bread, and her cell phone, set to a New York City subway app.
“Here comes the D train,” one of the boys exclaimed.
“Do you take the D to your house?” I asked.
“No,” his brother answered. “The D’s an express.”
We could hear them chattering away about trains from the other room, as Dr. Brodsky fixed my tooth. For a moment, their voices rose.
“No hitting, boys,” the doctor called. “Open wider.”
When she finished, my tooth looked perfect. But I could only think of how she must have looked to her boys. From where I was sitting, the view was spectacular.