As I was working on the draft for this post, I pondered exactly why this particular subject could be considered relevant in a blog called Family of One. After all, each one of us has our particular annoyances at the gym whether an orphan or a quadruplet. But, it occurred to me that the reason I wanted to share these thoughts with you is because as a Family of One, I don't have the luxury of being able to regale a captive companion (i.e., spouse, significant other) with them. I am not sure if this is especially good or bad, but I do think that it is important for us to be able to process our annoying experiences through the lens of someone else to keep our perspective. I am counting on you to help me do that and thus prevent me from one day going completely ballistic in the gymnasium and risking expulsion as I did last year when I had the resistance set on 25 on the recumbent bicycle and almost had a heart attack.
To me, the overarching annoyance at the gym can be summed up very simply--it's only about me. You know that expression that we all use about our business plans--80% of the total is controlled by 20% of the customers? Well, that is what I think about the folks in a gym. 80% are perfectly lovely, considerate, well-behaved. They take the time to wipe off the machine with a wet towel before they leave, they only stay the alotted time, they make eye contact and smile pleasantly. But, that other 20%? Oh, boy! Do they ever make life miserable for the rest of us!
After watching how one person can ruin a workout for twenty, I decided that it was causing me too much stress to keep quiet. The principal rudeness is talking too loudly on a cell phone, followed closely by chatting with others in a loud tone.I did not want to become known as the local bee-yotch, but nor did I want to be known as that middle-aged plump lady who will put up with anything. I established a five minute zone during which the person is allowed to blab as loudly as he likes. It quickly became obvious that there would need to be different strategies for different groups. For example, middle-aged to elderly women respond best to "SSSHSHSHSHHH" in a sharp hiss. Younger women respond to "Please be a little quieter" with a pleasant look. Men in general respond best to "sir, could I ask you to be a little quieter as I can hear you through my iPod on its highest volume?" These strategies have all worked out pretty well. I will be interested in what you say at your gym to such badly behaved gymnasts.
One of the more interesting exchanges--and just having an exchange is interesting because they so rarely happen--occurred a couple of weeks ago. I was on the elliptical next to a treadmill. A man in his late 20s who was obviously very important as illustrated by his high quotient of designer gym ware jumped on and immediately began taking calls on his blackberry which, unfortunately, had the same ringtone as mine. Every time it rang, I jumped out of my skin. He tried to make eye contact with me in a triumphant way to share his importance with me. Finally, I had enough. I said, "sir, your phone has the same ringtone as mine and it is completely ruining these few minutes when I am not a captive to it. Cell phones are not allowed here anyway, but I was going to let you get by with a brief conversation. But, this is becoming very tiresome". He smiled in a condescending way and said, "oh, you are mistaken. Cell phones are not banned here--just look at all of the people with them" and, as he said this, he looked around triumphantly, quizzically, despairingly. It was a beautiful sight because there were, of course, no cell phones to be seen. I smiled pleasantly and said, "I have three minutes left in my workout. May I ask you to silence your phone for those three minutes and, after I leave, you may return to talking and annoying the next person on this machine?" He begrudgingly agreed. But, guess what? When I left the gym twenty minutes later, he still had the phone turned off and exactly where he had left it!
The most annoying abuse of the machine that I have witnessed, however, did not revolve around a cell phone. There were four members of a family all using the ellipticals--a father (who was sporting a particularly heinous tank top and short shorts), a mother (late 40s, lots of bling), two lissome daughters fancying themselves to be Paris and Nicky Hilton. They had been on the machines longer than the allotted time, but showed no signs of getting off even though there were several of us waiting. In fact, they delighted in flaunting the fact that they were going to stay on the machines as long as they wanted! They treated them like an amusement park ride. They held hands in a long line of four while climbing; they turned around to face us and worked the levers backwards; they constantly gave each other high fives and screamed with laughter. I cannot tell you how much this was grating on me. You may ask why I simply didn't go to another type of machine, but, in the name of Madonna, I was going to get my workout on that elliptical. Finally, the mother stepped down in a fit of exhaustion, breathing heavily and doubling over. I leapt over and jumped on the machine with a dexterity that surprised everyone, especially me. Within seconds, another lissome daughter was at my side with a pouty face. "My mami said that I could have this machine and for you to get off". My response: "too bad".
When I first started going to the gym two years ago, I was approached by a wiry, older gentleman who was cute in a kind of aging leprechaun , Frank McCourt kind of way. He wanted me to show him how to use the various machines and it finally occurred to me that he was hitting on me. Indeed. His was a most direct approach: "The best lovemaking that I ever had in my life was with a large woman who lived on the Upper West Side of New York. You remind me so much of her. I am sure that I could have a better experience with you. I am happily married, but I would welcome the chance to get to know you better". I was fascinated by his approach--had I joined Plato's Retreat without realizing it? I have also been intrigued by a fellow named George who is about eight feet tall, approaching 70, bald, and has the loudest voice that I have ever heard. I was pondering how to get him to pipe down when I realized that he is considered the Biltmore Gym mascot, of a sort. Everyone knows him and tolerates his yelling because he is truly a kind guy and the gym is his main social outlet. So, I introduced myself to him and now I laugh and giggle with him and it is all very pleasant.
You might be wondering-ha, I bet Mary Jo has her moments of annoying others. I truly hope that I don't because I pride myself on being considerate in this world that can be so rude at times. But, I will confess to you that while on the recumbent bike the other day and, I swear, with no one around, I could not help myself from belting out the refrain to "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered", the fabulous song from Pal Joey.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Family of One Deals with an Unusual Old Folks' Crisis
I was in High Point about ten days ago dealing with a very unusual crisis revolving around Aunt Louise. When you hear what it was, you will be so incensed. And, I have to say, dealing with it reminded me that sometimes it is good to be a Family of One, but sometimes, it would be nice to be a Family of Fifty or Sixty.
Before I tell you, I must relate an interesting exchange that took place on one of first nights there when Dad and I were watching the ALCS. I professed my affection for the Yankees. This caused a great outburst--wasn't I for the Red Sox?? Yes, I demurred, but I liked both a great deal with a slight edge going towards the Red Sox. "That is NOT allowed," affirmed Mother with much indignation. "You have to be for one or the other. Everyone knows that. Why do you have to do everything so oddly?"
I reminded them that, as a child, I had an undying fascination with anything revolving around New York or Boston. This all started when my father would regale us with stories from his quarterly trips to New York to buy toys, cosmetics, the 1960s versions of electronics, and other sundries for his drugstore chain. The restaurants--Gallaghers, The Forum of the Twelve Caesars, even The Playboy Club, the shows--Mame, Hello, Dolly, Half a Sixpence--it all sounded so fabulous. And, to top it off, my dad always brought me the latest Nancy Drew book from Macy's.
"So," Mother queried, "it is Dad's fault that you were not content to live in High Point like a person with good sense and that you had to move up North?" I indicated that she was correct. There proceeded much excoriating of my dear father who quietly accepted responsibility for sending me on the path that led to the glorious delights of living in Boston and New York.
My aunt lives in a very nice, government-subsidized apartment building for the elderly which is owned by the Wesleyan church in the High Point area. They somehow got it into their heads to sell it to the local university for a dormitory and had a meeting where they announced to the 89 residents that they would need to find a place a live--pronto. Most of the folks there do not have cars and, of course, had been expecting to live out their lives there. There were no immediate openings in local assisted living or independent living communities. After the local TV station featured it as the opening story on the evening news, all you know what broke loose and, by the time I got to High Point, the spokesperson for the Wesleyan church had apologized for being a bit too hasty, the local university was posting disclaimers everywhere that they did not realize that the old folks had no place to go, and the government had threatened the church with serious repercussions for violating their contract.
The folks who live there have been given a year to find a place and have been assured that the place will not be sold until every person has found a place to live. This has taken considerable pressure off Aunt Louise who has gone on record as saying that she hopes her next destination is her heavenly home. When told this, Mother snorted and said, "she should be so lucky". Mother has forbidden me to try to help her because, of course, what do I know about how to find an old person a place to live?
As for having a family, I have dear friends who helped me research what was going on, brainstorm solutions, and provide moments of much-needed levity. I was taking my beloved J to breakfast the day after I found out and I said to him that there had been a crisis with Aunt Louise. His response, so very kind, was "has she passed?" My response, maybe not so kind, but accurate: "would that be a crisis?"
After visiting Aunt Louise, Mother wanted nothing more than a trip to Belk's, the local emporium, at a somewhat nice shopping mall. But, what would we do with my dad, she wondered? I said, very matter-of-factly, "why can't he sit in the car?" Just as matter-of-factly, Mother replies, "oh, no, someone will shoot him". I told her that I had not heard of any murders in the Oak Hollow Mall area in several months, but she was adamant that he could not sit in the car. Instead, we took a drive all through the backroads of Guilford County and it was a lovely end to the weekend.
Before I tell you, I must relate an interesting exchange that took place on one of first nights there when Dad and I were watching the ALCS. I professed my affection for the Yankees. This caused a great outburst--wasn't I for the Red Sox?? Yes, I demurred, but I liked both a great deal with a slight edge going towards the Red Sox. "That is NOT allowed," affirmed Mother with much indignation. "You have to be for one or the other. Everyone knows that. Why do you have to do everything so oddly?"
I reminded them that, as a child, I had an undying fascination with anything revolving around New York or Boston. This all started when my father would regale us with stories from his quarterly trips to New York to buy toys, cosmetics, the 1960s versions of electronics, and other sundries for his drugstore chain. The restaurants--Gallaghers, The Forum of the Twelve Caesars, even The Playboy Club, the shows--Mame, Hello, Dolly, Half a Sixpence--it all sounded so fabulous. And, to top it off, my dad always brought me the latest Nancy Drew book from Macy's.
"So," Mother queried, "it is Dad's fault that you were not content to live in High Point like a person with good sense and that you had to move up North?" I indicated that she was correct. There proceeded much excoriating of my dear father who quietly accepted responsibility for sending me on the path that led to the glorious delights of living in Boston and New York.
My aunt lives in a very nice, government-subsidized apartment building for the elderly which is owned by the Wesleyan church in the High Point area. They somehow got it into their heads to sell it to the local university for a dormitory and had a meeting where they announced to the 89 residents that they would need to find a place a live--pronto. Most of the folks there do not have cars and, of course, had been expecting to live out their lives there. There were no immediate openings in local assisted living or independent living communities. After the local TV station featured it as the opening story on the evening news, all you know what broke loose and, by the time I got to High Point, the spokesperson for the Wesleyan church had apologized for being a bit too hasty, the local university was posting disclaimers everywhere that they did not realize that the old folks had no place to go, and the government had threatened the church with serious repercussions for violating their contract.
The folks who live there have been given a year to find a place and have been assured that the place will not be sold until every person has found a place to live. This has taken considerable pressure off Aunt Louise who has gone on record as saying that she hopes her next destination is her heavenly home. When told this, Mother snorted and said, "she should be so lucky". Mother has forbidden me to try to help her because, of course, what do I know about how to find an old person a place to live?
As for having a family, I have dear friends who helped me research what was going on, brainstorm solutions, and provide moments of much-needed levity. I was taking my beloved J to breakfast the day after I found out and I said to him that there had been a crisis with Aunt Louise. His response, so very kind, was "has she passed?" My response, maybe not so kind, but accurate: "would that be a crisis?"
After visiting Aunt Louise, Mother wanted nothing more than a trip to Belk's, the local emporium, at a somewhat nice shopping mall. But, what would we do with my dad, she wondered? I said, very matter-of-factly, "why can't he sit in the car?" Just as matter-of-factly, Mother replies, "oh, no, someone will shoot him". I told her that I had not heard of any murders in the Oak Hollow Mall area in several months, but she was adamant that he could not sit in the car. Instead, we took a drive all through the backroads of Guilford County and it was a lovely end to the weekend.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Family of One Goes to Eleven Madison Park
Many of you know of my great fondness for the fabulous New York restaurant, Eleven Madison Park, and how thrilled I was this summer when the restaurants received the highly-coveted and rarely-given four stars from the New York Times. I started going to the restaurant regularly back in 2006 when four stars were a dream for the new chef, Daniel Humm, who had come from San Francisco and the restaurant at the Campton Place hotel. I don’t know exactly what made me decide to go there, but I am awfully glad that I did.
After many years of not visiting New York, I had developed a taste for going there again and I was looking for a restaurant with which I could become associated. I call it my “tentpole” restaurant and it is one which totally captures my heart and my palate and which becomes a regular stop for me. I look forward to getting to know the folks that work there and to seeing how the restaurant changes. My fancy dinner on that trip was at Le Bernardin and so I was looking for something lovely, but maybe not quite as precious. I had frequented most of Danny Meyer’s restaurants and so thought I should give Eleven Madison Park a try.
When I walked in, I was totally captivated because the large, elegant, beautifully decorated space with the giant windows overlooking Madison Square Park was exactly as I had envisioned NYC restaurants when I was growing up in High Point. There was a slight drizzle outside which only made the scene more enchanting. The food was excellent and I enjoyed getting to know the general manager who had recently come from Charlie Trotter’s. I walked away with a good feeling.
I went back at Christmas and the next spring and the next summer and soon I had lived through a couple of changes in management. With the third group, I started feeling very much at home. I was given “my” table, at the top left hand corner of the highest level where I could watch everyone in the restaurant and with a peerless view of the park. I started growing fond of the staff. I started looking forward to the incredible gougeres and amuse bouches and the wonderful goat cheese butter that accompanies the bread.
At the same time, I did not want to put all of my culinary eggs into one basket, as it were, so I also formed an attachment to a restaurant called Country that was also highly touted and conveniently located in the hotel where I often stayed. It, too, was a beautiful restaurant, lovingly restored, but with much more of a cozy feeling. I started getting to know the staff there as well and had some marvelous meals including a truffle tasting.
At EMP, I now looked forward to finding out the latest in the lives of almost everyone I knew. I mourned when ones that I had grown close to left. I had received requests from friends to go with me to EMP, but, somehow, it had become my place, the place where I could read and listen to my iPod and eat increasingly delectable meals. Taking someone would break that spell.
Every year, I go to EMP just before I go to my parents for Christmas. I consider that my Christmas dinner since my actual Christmas celebrating is a bit, shall we say, muted as it is in the presence of a ninety year old and an eighty seven year old. Last year, one of my favorite managers told me that he had a present for me. The staff is always kind to me in letting my try new vintages or new dishes so I supposed it was a special course. Imagine my delight when Rob presented me with a menu, based on what I had eaten that evening, focused on my upcoming trip to Paris that gave staff members’ personal recommendation for places that I would like. At the top, it said, “From your EMP dining family”. I was so touched and grateful and would have sobbed, but I had not had the cheese course or dessert.
So, when I saw the announcement that EMP had gotten four stars, I was beside myself with joy as if a treasured colleague had closed a spectacular sale. I had Tshirts made for the staff that said—EMP Four Star Summer 2009—because they are my dining family.
As for Country, the story is not so pretty. There were several changes in management, but none of them could get any traction. They were repeatedly closed for health code violations. Finally, the restaurants closed with a slight whimper. I made the decision that one tentpole fancy restaurant is enough.
Let’s just say I am sticking with EMP.
Now, here is what I had on my last visit in early September—
Thousands of gougeres
Amazing amuse bouches
Sweet corn veloute chilled with bacon bavaroise
Santa Barbara sea urchin cappuccino with peekytoe crab and cauliflower
Hawaiian prawns roulade with avocado, lime, and yogurt (I had never had this and it was one of the signature dishes)
Organic rabbit rillettes with Concord grapes, pickled onions, and grilled pistachio bread (one of the rare misfires)
Atlantic halibut seared with sweet corn, summer radishes, and purslane
Four Story Hill pork belly applewood smoked with summer truffles (and presented in the most breathtaking—literally—way under a glass dome of swirling smoke)
Elysian Fields farm lamb herb roasted with petits farcis Nicois
Fromage including Brebirousse d’Argental, Aria, Tomme de la Chatigneraie, St. Nectaire
Blueberry and sweet corn bread pudding with buttermilk sorbet
After many years of not visiting New York, I had developed a taste for going there again and I was looking for a restaurant with which I could become associated. I call it my “tentpole” restaurant and it is one which totally captures my heart and my palate and which becomes a regular stop for me. I look forward to getting to know the folks that work there and to seeing how the restaurant changes. My fancy dinner on that trip was at Le Bernardin and so I was looking for something lovely, but maybe not quite as precious. I had frequented most of Danny Meyer’s restaurants and so thought I should give Eleven Madison Park a try.
When I walked in, I was totally captivated because the large, elegant, beautifully decorated space with the giant windows overlooking Madison Square Park was exactly as I had envisioned NYC restaurants when I was growing up in High Point. There was a slight drizzle outside which only made the scene more enchanting. The food was excellent and I enjoyed getting to know the general manager who had recently come from Charlie Trotter’s. I walked away with a good feeling.
I went back at Christmas and the next spring and the next summer and soon I had lived through a couple of changes in management. With the third group, I started feeling very much at home. I was given “my” table, at the top left hand corner of the highest level where I could watch everyone in the restaurant and with a peerless view of the park. I started growing fond of the staff. I started looking forward to the incredible gougeres and amuse bouches and the wonderful goat cheese butter that accompanies the bread.
At the same time, I did not want to put all of my culinary eggs into one basket, as it were, so I also formed an attachment to a restaurant called Country that was also highly touted and conveniently located in the hotel where I often stayed. It, too, was a beautiful restaurant, lovingly restored, but with much more of a cozy feeling. I started getting to know the staff there as well and had some marvelous meals including a truffle tasting.
At EMP, I now looked forward to finding out the latest in the lives of almost everyone I knew. I mourned when ones that I had grown close to left. I had received requests from friends to go with me to EMP, but, somehow, it had become my place, the place where I could read and listen to my iPod and eat increasingly delectable meals. Taking someone would break that spell.
Every year, I go to EMP just before I go to my parents for Christmas. I consider that my Christmas dinner since my actual Christmas celebrating is a bit, shall we say, muted as it is in the presence of a ninety year old and an eighty seven year old. Last year, one of my favorite managers told me that he had a present for me. The staff is always kind to me in letting my try new vintages or new dishes so I supposed it was a special course. Imagine my delight when Rob presented me with a menu, based on what I had eaten that evening, focused on my upcoming trip to Paris that gave staff members’ personal recommendation for places that I would like. At the top, it said, “From your EMP dining family”. I was so touched and grateful and would have sobbed, but I had not had the cheese course or dessert.
So, when I saw the announcement that EMP had gotten four stars, I was beside myself with joy as if a treasured colleague had closed a spectacular sale. I had Tshirts made for the staff that said—EMP Four Star Summer 2009—because they are my dining family.
As for Country, the story is not so pretty. There were several changes in management, but none of them could get any traction. They were repeatedly closed for health code violations. Finally, the restaurants closed with a slight whimper. I made the decision that one tentpole fancy restaurant is enough.
Let’s just say I am sticking with EMP.
Now, here is what I had on my last visit in early September—
Thousands of gougeres
Amazing amuse bouches
Sweet corn veloute chilled with bacon bavaroise
Santa Barbara sea urchin cappuccino with peekytoe crab and cauliflower
Hawaiian prawns roulade with avocado, lime, and yogurt (I had never had this and it was one of the signature dishes)
Organic rabbit rillettes with Concord grapes, pickled onions, and grilled pistachio bread (one of the rare misfires)
Atlantic halibut seared with sweet corn, summer radishes, and purslane
Four Story Hill pork belly applewood smoked with summer truffles (and presented in the most breathtaking—literally—way under a glass dome of swirling smoke)
Elysian Fields farm lamb herb roasted with petits farcis Nicois
Fromage including Brebirousse d’Argental, Aria, Tomme de la Chatigneraie, St. Nectaire
Blueberry and sweet corn bread pudding with buttermilk sorbet
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