Wishing everyone a happy and healthy 2011, but must share with you some final thoughts on 2010, a remarkable and challenging year.
BEST MOVIE—For overall entertainment, edification, and enchantment, I’m going with The King’s Speech which had me hooked from the very first scene and about which I am still pondering days later. Close seconds to The Social Network which was extremely well-made, but not emotionally intelligent and The Fighter which was emotionally intelligent, as well as a riveting drama.
WORST MOVIE—I saw some pretty disappointing movies this year like Wall Street 2 and Black Swan, but the very worst was Convicted, a movie so bad that, as the only person in the theater, I sat and screamed epithets at the screen like “who gives a s%*#, you f%(@@@ a’hole”. I do not have a brother, but I cannot imagine that a woman would sacrifice her marriage and her children for the sake of getting her brother with whom her bond was portrayed as little too creepy out of jail.
BEST BOOK-FICTION—The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman was, by turns, funny, poignant, despairing, cynical, and cheering. I could not put it down nor will you as soon as you rush to download or purchase it.
BEST BOOK-NONFICTION—I just got to Andre Agassiz’s Open in 2010 and read it while in NYC during the US Open. I carried it everywhere and could not put it down. Honest, self-aware, and filled with interesting anecdotes, it is one of the best memoirs I have read.
BEST BROADWAY SHOW—The revival of La Cage aux Folles was not as sweeping and Busby Berkeley-like as the original, but it captured the seediness of the nightclub as well as the true love between the two leads in a wonderful way. To see Douglas Hodge is a marvel.
BEST SONG—The salacious sweetness of California Gurls never fails to amuse and hearten me. Who can be down when Snoop Dogg is rapping about his eternal affection for the West Coast and Katy Perry’s hits the high octaves with that infectious chorus? Snoop Doggy Dogg on the stereo, indeed!
BEST DISH—Tied between two memorable dishes—a pork butt that had been roasted in pine, the most lovely, kind, seductive flavor—at McCrady’s in Charleston, SC and for which I will long (almost said pine) forever. And, the roasted chicken for two at Eleven Madison Park prepared with the love and care that goes into a Thanksgiving turkey by Chef Daniel Humm. The moistness and the flavor are unparalleled. Honorable mention to the pecan pie tarts at It’s in the Sauce BBQ in Ventura, CA which featured the most nutty, brown-sugary filling and the most buttery, flaky crust imaginable.
BEST MOMENT—In a year filled with so many wonderful, lovely times, one moment stood up as representative and that was when K and I went to Eleven Madison Park for our birthdays and Chef Humm, as K put it, “made a beeline for OUR table”. She was mesmerized and enchanted. There followed a procession of my NYC dining family anxious to meet my friend and about whom she said, “you have found your dining home”. A spectacular meal, but one that was such a grand experience for both of us. Honorable mention—I finally, finally got rid of the PC that G had given me in 2000 (what was I waiting for? For it to be declared an antique?) and bought an iMac. In the process of going from PC to Mac, 2500 songs from my iPod which contains 11,000 songs went missing. The folks at the Apple store tried to help, but it took my friend C to suggest that we click on the folder marked “back-up” on the storage drive after trying desperately to find them. The second that the first of the 2500 started flowing into iTunes was the equivalent of a last minute touchdown pass for—fill in your favorite team here—at the Super Bowl. We were whooping and hollering like two girls who pilfered a glass from which Justin Bieber had drunk.
Family of One thanks you for coming along for the ride and will be posting again in about ten days. And, that’s a resolution for 2011!!
Friday, December 31, 2010
Family of One Takes a Vacation Stateside
A seminal event of my life occurred in Beverly Hills, CA when I was ten years old. Mother and Dad had taken me on an extensive trip through the West—the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Yosemite, and Yellowstone Park, to name a few of the highlights. They explained that the apotheosis (although they did not use that exact word) of the trip for me would be Disneyland. The rest of the trip would be for the grown-ups. You will not be surprised to learn that with the exception of throwing back Shirley Temples with an extremely cute Asian tour guide at the Top of the Mark in San Francisco (more on that another time), the most wonderful part of the trip was the tour of the movie stars’ homes in a limousine which came about because the tour bus left us standing forlornly while it blithely passed us by. A phone call to the tour company and we were being shown Loretta Young and Dean Martin’s houses in luxury, a feeling that I was determined to capture for the rest of my life or as soon as I could get out of High Point.
When I returned to Los Angeles in the 90s, I absolutely loved everything about it. The way the ocean meets the mountains, the lively and fun restaurant scene, the never-ending array of movies, the casualness—in fact, I would have moved to Santa Monica rather than Miami, but I didn’t think I should be so far from the aforementioned Mother and Dad.
So, when I made the decision to stay stateside this year, I decided that Santa Monica was the place to be. I had connected with some wonderful folks on facebook and needed to see one of my dearest friends from way back in Ventura. I did not feel the need to see grand temples or art museums. I did not feel the need to eat incredible meals. I did feel the need to laugh and talk about shared history and make witty remarks and listen to charming conversation. So, what better place than LA? Aside—while I did take a limousine to LAX for old times’ sake, my taxi to the Oceana Hotel was driven by a most flirtation gentlemen who said something like “I tell my daughter not to waste her time having sex, it only lasts two seconds and then it’s over”. Me (after a slight pause)-“ I don’t think I will want to go out with you after all”. Much laughter. Then he assured me that he was only speaking in metaphors. And invited me out for a drink.
You may have heard of the Dodges, a publishing dynasty based in the greater Santa Monica/Venice area, comprised of A. Dodge, her brother J. Dodge, and his wife D. Dodge. They are very successful at what they do, but what I like even more is that they are so interesting and so fun that you want them to be on a mini-series. Not a reality show, for Christ’s sake, but some sort of show about living the delightful life in SoCal.
Now, I knew J. Dodge from having been his colleague three years ago and D. Dodge from a brief encounter at a sales conference in January. I had never met A. Dodge. I had gotten to know them through facebook where we exchange pithy comments about all of the things we love like food and movies.
On my first night, I was having some dinner at a local trattoria in Santa Monica and posting my status update on fb when I get a call from A. Dodge who informs me that she is at yoga several blocks away and will be joining me for a glass of wine. A blind date!! We are immediately laughing and screaming. After our dinner, she walks her bike back down Montana so that we can stroll along together and I tell her that I feel we have had a successful blind date and I would like to see her again. Actually, we had already made plans to go out for one of the most authentic Italian dinners outside of Rome that I have had in the US—Capo was a fantastic treat with the most exquisite black sea bass and pillowy ravioli and luscious wine and bubbly rose. Eating with A Dodge requires intense concentration because she will tell you things that are very important about herself, yourself, and the world around you. I loved every second.
Later in the week, I met J.Dodge at the Huckleberry Café which is a place that, once you go there, you will always think about because you will wish that you had one next to your house. Over green eggs and ham (fabulous ham over soft scrambled eggs with arugula and a crunchy sort of English muffin-y kind of thing), we sat for two hours while I savored every second of his sense of the absurd and his practical, yet slightly cynical, view of the world. On my final day, I had the pleasure of dining with D. Dodge at the 3 Square café and over bratwurst and fried eggs, we laughed and slightly cried about the interesting twists and turns of our lives. She had come without their daughter S and so we were able to just sit back and talk about everything while letting loose a few F bombs. I loved getting to know her better and experiencing her wonderful heart and passion for everything from movies to food to friends.
Who else did I see? The closest thing to a godchild that I have had is my friend H whom I had not seen since she was 13 and visited me in NYC where the last thing I remember about her is taking her to see Eloise at the Plaza Hotel. She is now 28 and lives in LA. We, too, had connected on facebook, so I invited her to dinner. I was somewhat nervous about this. What would we talk about? I knew that she was doing some acting and writing and singing, so I figured that getting caught up on her parents (who live in Chapel Hill, NC and whom I adore) and talking about her work would get us through a dinner at Lucques, a place I had been longing to go. H turned out to be beautiful with an unusual husky voice and so engaging and fun that we ended up closing the restaurants. In fact, we didn’t order for about an hour and I can barely remember what I ate—although it was wonderful (some kind of duck dish for the entrée). We spoke of movies, movie stars, her growing up, TV, books (turns out she is a writer as well), our love lives, she spotted John Lithgow across the restaurant. . . .it was a lovely evening.
Now, at this point, you might be thinking—how could all of these people that she is meeting be so enchanting—from Philadelphia to Los Angeles? But, it’s true! I was having the time of my life reconnecting/connecting with all of these wonderful people. And, not to mention over such delectable meals!
I was very happy to see one of the dearest people in the world to me, the wonderful Ma whom I met when we were new editors at HM in 1990. Ma was the kind of editor who kept a bowl of fancy tulips on her desk and spun the most engaging stories about her interesting life. We bonded over the fact that we were both Southerners trying to adjust to life in Boston, but our bond now goes much deeper. I had not seen her since 2003. I looked forward to seeing her spouse, CD, as well, whom I adored on sight for her practicality and wisdom about the vagaries of life. Our time together was splendid. We ate fried green olives and drank lemon drops at lovely restaurant, saw a mediocre movie (Due Date), I visited their church. We ate what are possibly the world’s best pancakes and ham steak at Pete’s. I shopped at the outlets while she worked. We ate fabulous crab fried rice at a new Thai restaurant that featured the freshest, most tasty crab. We curled up on their mammoth furniture and watched Moonstruck while we ate delicious tri-tip and their dogs used my body as furniture. I had been wearing the engagement ring from G, so I had been looking for a replacement and she helped me find one at a jewelry store that had designed their wedding rings—coral in a very unusual setting. I felt loved and appreciated. Ma is now a psychologist and I, of course, asked many questions designed to improve my mental health. One thing I asked her was why I had such an easy time enjoying friendships all over the US, but had none of any real heft in the place where I lived. She said that having been in relationships that were oppressive and unpleasant, I probably needed this time in Miami for myself where I could live life on my terms and be rejuvenated and that when the time was right, I would have this plethora of friends in Miami. In the meantime, I was free to explore the world and enjoy all of my wonderful friends and have them visit the triplex. On our last morning, Ma scheduled a lunch with a colleague, in the exact place where we had enjoyed strawberry pancakes and ham steak for about two hours. I thought that was very wise because I knew that I felt like getting in the back seat of the Mustang and sobbing. Ma is the epitome of a BFF. We laughed, we cried, we ate. It was fabulous.
I had a wonderful time on the rest of my vacation. I shopped at Sephora (where I had never been) and spent $450 on things that I TRULY use every day! I visited an Apple store and picked out the kind of computer I wanted to buy. I saw another mediocre movie, Morning Glory, but at 1:00 in the afternoon. I walked along the wonderful park that fronts the Pacific Ocean in Santa Monica. I read my Walt Disney biography. It was all so divine.
I can’t wait to go back.
Although I think Venice is calling my name for a vacation in late 2011.
When I returned to Los Angeles in the 90s, I absolutely loved everything about it. The way the ocean meets the mountains, the lively and fun restaurant scene, the never-ending array of movies, the casualness—in fact, I would have moved to Santa Monica rather than Miami, but I didn’t think I should be so far from the aforementioned Mother and Dad.
So, when I made the decision to stay stateside this year, I decided that Santa Monica was the place to be. I had connected with some wonderful folks on facebook and needed to see one of my dearest friends from way back in Ventura. I did not feel the need to see grand temples or art museums. I did not feel the need to eat incredible meals. I did feel the need to laugh and talk about shared history and make witty remarks and listen to charming conversation. So, what better place than LA? Aside—while I did take a limousine to LAX for old times’ sake, my taxi to the Oceana Hotel was driven by a most flirtation gentlemen who said something like “I tell my daughter not to waste her time having sex, it only lasts two seconds and then it’s over”. Me (after a slight pause)-“ I don’t think I will want to go out with you after all”. Much laughter. Then he assured me that he was only speaking in metaphors. And invited me out for a drink.
You may have heard of the Dodges, a publishing dynasty based in the greater Santa Monica/Venice area, comprised of A. Dodge, her brother J. Dodge, and his wife D. Dodge. They are very successful at what they do, but what I like even more is that they are so interesting and so fun that you want them to be on a mini-series. Not a reality show, for Christ’s sake, but some sort of show about living the delightful life in SoCal.
Now, I knew J. Dodge from having been his colleague three years ago and D. Dodge from a brief encounter at a sales conference in January. I had never met A. Dodge. I had gotten to know them through facebook where we exchange pithy comments about all of the things we love like food and movies.
On my first night, I was having some dinner at a local trattoria in Santa Monica and posting my status update on fb when I get a call from A. Dodge who informs me that she is at yoga several blocks away and will be joining me for a glass of wine. A blind date!! We are immediately laughing and screaming. After our dinner, she walks her bike back down Montana so that we can stroll along together and I tell her that I feel we have had a successful blind date and I would like to see her again. Actually, we had already made plans to go out for one of the most authentic Italian dinners outside of Rome that I have had in the US—Capo was a fantastic treat with the most exquisite black sea bass and pillowy ravioli and luscious wine and bubbly rose. Eating with A Dodge requires intense concentration because she will tell you things that are very important about herself, yourself, and the world around you. I loved every second.
Later in the week, I met J.Dodge at the Huckleberry Café which is a place that, once you go there, you will always think about because you will wish that you had one next to your house. Over green eggs and ham (fabulous ham over soft scrambled eggs with arugula and a crunchy sort of English muffin-y kind of thing), we sat for two hours while I savored every second of his sense of the absurd and his practical, yet slightly cynical, view of the world. On my final day, I had the pleasure of dining with D. Dodge at the 3 Square café and over bratwurst and fried eggs, we laughed and slightly cried about the interesting twists and turns of our lives. She had come without their daughter S and so we were able to just sit back and talk about everything while letting loose a few F bombs. I loved getting to know her better and experiencing her wonderful heart and passion for everything from movies to food to friends.
Who else did I see? The closest thing to a godchild that I have had is my friend H whom I had not seen since she was 13 and visited me in NYC where the last thing I remember about her is taking her to see Eloise at the Plaza Hotel. She is now 28 and lives in LA. We, too, had connected on facebook, so I invited her to dinner. I was somewhat nervous about this. What would we talk about? I knew that she was doing some acting and writing and singing, so I figured that getting caught up on her parents (who live in Chapel Hill, NC and whom I adore) and talking about her work would get us through a dinner at Lucques, a place I had been longing to go. H turned out to be beautiful with an unusual husky voice and so engaging and fun that we ended up closing the restaurants. In fact, we didn’t order for about an hour and I can barely remember what I ate—although it was wonderful (some kind of duck dish for the entrée). We spoke of movies, movie stars, her growing up, TV, books (turns out she is a writer as well), our love lives, she spotted John Lithgow across the restaurant. . . .it was a lovely evening.
Now, at this point, you might be thinking—how could all of these people that she is meeting be so enchanting—from Philadelphia to Los Angeles? But, it’s true! I was having the time of my life reconnecting/connecting with all of these wonderful people. And, not to mention over such delectable meals!
I was very happy to see one of the dearest people in the world to me, the wonderful Ma whom I met when we were new editors at HM in 1990. Ma was the kind of editor who kept a bowl of fancy tulips on her desk and spun the most engaging stories about her interesting life. We bonded over the fact that we were both Southerners trying to adjust to life in Boston, but our bond now goes much deeper. I had not seen her since 2003. I looked forward to seeing her spouse, CD, as well, whom I adored on sight for her practicality and wisdom about the vagaries of life. Our time together was splendid. We ate fried green olives and drank lemon drops at lovely restaurant, saw a mediocre movie (Due Date), I visited their church. We ate what are possibly the world’s best pancakes and ham steak at Pete’s. I shopped at the outlets while she worked. We ate fabulous crab fried rice at a new Thai restaurant that featured the freshest, most tasty crab. We curled up on their mammoth furniture and watched Moonstruck while we ate delicious tri-tip and their dogs used my body as furniture. I had been wearing the engagement ring from G, so I had been looking for a replacement and she helped me find one at a jewelry store that had designed their wedding rings—coral in a very unusual setting. I felt loved and appreciated. Ma is now a psychologist and I, of course, asked many questions designed to improve my mental health. One thing I asked her was why I had such an easy time enjoying friendships all over the US, but had none of any real heft in the place where I lived. She said that having been in relationships that were oppressive and unpleasant, I probably needed this time in Miami for myself where I could live life on my terms and be rejuvenated and that when the time was right, I would have this plethora of friends in Miami. In the meantime, I was free to explore the world and enjoy all of my wonderful friends and have them visit the triplex. On our last morning, Ma scheduled a lunch with a colleague, in the exact place where we had enjoyed strawberry pancakes and ham steak for about two hours. I thought that was very wise because I knew that I felt like getting in the back seat of the Mustang and sobbing. Ma is the epitome of a BFF. We laughed, we cried, we ate. It was fabulous.
I had a wonderful time on the rest of my vacation. I shopped at Sephora (where I had never been) and spent $450 on things that I TRULY use every day! I visited an Apple store and picked out the kind of computer I wanted to buy. I saw another mediocre movie, Morning Glory, but at 1:00 in the afternoon. I walked along the wonderful park that fronts the Pacific Ocean in Santa Monica. I read my Walt Disney biography. It was all so divine.
I can’t wait to go back.
Although I think Venice is calling my name for a vacation in late 2011.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Family of One Goes to Philadelphia
For the past few years, I have been journeying to places in Europe during the fall of the year. This has been very important because, believe it or not, until five years ago, I refused to get on a plane that crossed the ocean and the thought of dealing with learning a foreign country was anathema to me. So, just like I made myself move to Miami where I knew no one in order to learn how to build a life, I decided to start with Paris and then go from there. Mother and Dad took me to Europe when I was in college, so I was familiar with most places. But, going there on my own has been one of the great joys of my life. I needed a break, though, from the thought and studying that go into my trips and from spending twelve or so days with no real companionship. I decided to return to a place that I had dearly loved in the 90s—Santa Monica with a side trip to Ventura to see one of my most beloved friends and her spouse whom I also adore. I also had made some new friends with whom I wanted to spend time and so I planned a delightful sojourn trip to SoCal, complete with Mustang convertible for traversing PCH.
But, before my trip to Los Angeles, I made a weekend trip to Philadelphia, a place that I had been meaning to visit on my own for years. I had been there on many worktrips, but never had any time to just explore and enjoy the city. I had connected with several folks on facebook who lived in the PHL area, so it made sense to plan a weekend there. I was delighted to discover yet another place where I have my very own PHL family.
I enjoyed talking to J about food and family and we had long plotted a food lover excursion through Philly. So, when I told him I would be coming to town, he pulled out all the stops and arranged a dinner at Vetri for us. But, first, we had cocktails at the Ritz-Carlton. Well, to be truthful, we had a cocktail, then tequila. We headed for Vetri, which is a very small and rustic place that is known for its outstanding Italian cooking. We were handed a menu and told that we would be served from the items listed there. We put ourselves in the hands of the staff and proceeded to enjoy golden onion crepes, the most tasty and luscious pastas, a whole cooked fish, and, our favorite, apple/bacon napoleon. We were satiated from food and wine, but we still tramped over to the Capital Grill for a grappa to finish off the evening.
When I met my best friend from junior high at Parc, a delightful bistro fronting Rittenhouse Square, I will confess to being just a bit hungover. But, that didn’t stop me from reveling in AD’s presence—her loveliness, her way with language, her wonderful laugh. She was stunning in a green suede jacket, sexy boots, and gorgeous jewelry. While I basically threw back Cokes with lemon and nibbled on mussels frites, we chatted about all matter of things and then strolled to a bench in Rittenhouse Square on an absolutely perfect autumn afternoon and talked and laughed some more.
A lovely dinner at Fountain at the Four Seasons hotel with a nice veal chop and a glass of wine was sufficient for the evening hours while I read Gail Collins’ When Everything Changed, a wonderful history of women’s progress from the 1950s to the present.
I was meeting R for brunch on Sunday at the much touted Le Croix at The Rittenhouse hotel. R and I had an interesting history. We started at the same major publisher at the exact same time and were in the same training class; however, we did not get to know each other until we both ended up in junior executive positions in Boston in the early 90s. That phrase “junior executives” is making me giggle because it sounds like something out of a Joan Crawford/Susan Hayward NYC-based movie from the 1950s. Anyway, we became good friends and shared lots in common including complicated fiancées. R ended up moving back to Philly and there our lives diverged. She married a wonderful man and is raising two delightful, kind, lovely children. I, as we know, am single. BUT, we both work for the same company yet again, basically the same company of 1980 when we met. Within seconds, we were laughing and pouring out our hearts. In between, we feasted on fabulous hors d’oeuvres including caviar and delightful little doodads that were my favorite part of the meal. Later, we were invited into the kitchen for the traditional laying on of breakfast meats and way-too-sweet waffles and pancakes. We both agreed that we liked the idea of going into the kitchen, but that the food was way too heavy. But, who cared? We were in a beautiful place and time had both stood still and was moving us quickly forward to what we would like to with our lives. At one point, R said, “what the hell were we doing in our 30s?” And we had a good laugh about how far we have come—a bit rueful, but a laugh, nonetheless. After brunch, we strolled across Rittenhouse Square in a haze of good feeling and I sat down to listen to my iPod and savor my fabulous weekend.
I must tell you that I was getting a bit weary on Sunday night, but I journeyed to Tinto for a few tapas. A delightful place where I enjoyed cod, roast pork, a little jamon Serrano and the conversation of two lovely pharmacists from Haverhill, MA in town for a convention.
I finished off my weekend with the only sensible choice---Dinic’s roasted pork with provolone and greens at the Reading Terminal, truly one of the outstanding sandwiches in the universe. And then grabbed a sub for the flight home.
I adored this weekend getaway with wonderful time spent with friends old and new and, once again, I couldn’t help but wonder—couldn’t there be just one person like this in the greater Miami area? But, who’s complaining. These delightful folks and the Dinic’s are but a plane ride away.
But, before my trip to Los Angeles, I made a weekend trip to Philadelphia, a place that I had been meaning to visit on my own for years. I had been there on many worktrips, but never had any time to just explore and enjoy the city. I had connected with several folks on facebook who lived in the PHL area, so it made sense to plan a weekend there. I was delighted to discover yet another place where I have my very own PHL family.
I enjoyed talking to J about food and family and we had long plotted a food lover excursion through Philly. So, when I told him I would be coming to town, he pulled out all the stops and arranged a dinner at Vetri for us. But, first, we had cocktails at the Ritz-Carlton. Well, to be truthful, we had a cocktail, then tequila. We headed for Vetri, which is a very small and rustic place that is known for its outstanding Italian cooking. We were handed a menu and told that we would be served from the items listed there. We put ourselves in the hands of the staff and proceeded to enjoy golden onion crepes, the most tasty and luscious pastas, a whole cooked fish, and, our favorite, apple/bacon napoleon. We were satiated from food and wine, but we still tramped over to the Capital Grill for a grappa to finish off the evening.
When I met my best friend from junior high at Parc, a delightful bistro fronting Rittenhouse Square, I will confess to being just a bit hungover. But, that didn’t stop me from reveling in AD’s presence—her loveliness, her way with language, her wonderful laugh. She was stunning in a green suede jacket, sexy boots, and gorgeous jewelry. While I basically threw back Cokes with lemon and nibbled on mussels frites, we chatted about all matter of things and then strolled to a bench in Rittenhouse Square on an absolutely perfect autumn afternoon and talked and laughed some more.
A lovely dinner at Fountain at the Four Seasons hotel with a nice veal chop and a glass of wine was sufficient for the evening hours while I read Gail Collins’ When Everything Changed, a wonderful history of women’s progress from the 1950s to the present.
I was meeting R for brunch on Sunday at the much touted Le Croix at The Rittenhouse hotel. R and I had an interesting history. We started at the same major publisher at the exact same time and were in the same training class; however, we did not get to know each other until we both ended up in junior executive positions in Boston in the early 90s. That phrase “junior executives” is making me giggle because it sounds like something out of a Joan Crawford/Susan Hayward NYC-based movie from the 1950s. Anyway, we became good friends and shared lots in common including complicated fiancées. R ended up moving back to Philly and there our lives diverged. She married a wonderful man and is raising two delightful, kind, lovely children. I, as we know, am single. BUT, we both work for the same company yet again, basically the same company of 1980 when we met. Within seconds, we were laughing and pouring out our hearts. In between, we feasted on fabulous hors d’oeuvres including caviar and delightful little doodads that were my favorite part of the meal. Later, we were invited into the kitchen for the traditional laying on of breakfast meats and way-too-sweet waffles and pancakes. We both agreed that we liked the idea of going into the kitchen, but that the food was way too heavy. But, who cared? We were in a beautiful place and time had both stood still and was moving us quickly forward to what we would like to with our lives. At one point, R said, “what the hell were we doing in our 30s?” And we had a good laugh about how far we have come—a bit rueful, but a laugh, nonetheless. After brunch, we strolled across Rittenhouse Square in a haze of good feeling and I sat down to listen to my iPod and savor my fabulous weekend.
I must tell you that I was getting a bit weary on Sunday night, but I journeyed to Tinto for a few tapas. A delightful place where I enjoyed cod, roast pork, a little jamon Serrano and the conversation of two lovely pharmacists from Haverhill, MA in town for a convention.
I finished off my weekend with the only sensible choice---Dinic’s roasted pork with provolone and greens at the Reading Terminal, truly one of the outstanding sandwiches in the universe. And then grabbed a sub for the flight home.
I adored this weekend getaway with wonderful time spent with friends old and new and, once again, I couldn’t help but wonder—couldn’t there be just one person like this in the greater Miami area? But, who’s complaining. These delightful folks and the Dinic’s are but a plane ride away.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Family of One Celebrates Christmas in New York, 2010
As I looked forward to my annual New York trip to celebrate Christmas, I realized that I needed some serious downtime without my usual spreadsheet approach to the city wherein every hour is filled in with some fun activity. I decided to do something unprecedented and just go where I felt like going at the time. I made a couple of restaurant reservations, made an appointment with my beloved Meme at Think Pink for mani, made plans to see a new friend, and anticipated a few days at a brand new hotel, the Gansevoort Park.
I am happy to report that this approach was a great success.
When I travel alone overseas, I always make sure that I have something planned every day lest I end up lolling the day away over espresso in the hotel dining room. And, now, I think, what exactly would be wrong with that?
But, I digress. The New York trip was filled, of course, with fabulous meals at places new like db moderne where I loved the energy and the coq au vin and Oceana where I had the delight of having the same wonderful waiter that I had met at Toqueville earlier this year and where I had the pleasure of a perfect, if simple, meal—exquisite East Coast oysters, Maine lobster, striped bass, and housemade gnocchi—in a bustling, but warm, atmosphere. I saw the tree at the Met, I reflected at the stately Temple of Dendur, I shopped, I had a mid-morning Coke at the newly-revamped Plaza Hotel, I drank fabulous champagne sent over by the manager at the Modern bar where I have enjoyed so many wonderful meals this year. I had a memorable meal at Eleven Madison Park, prepared for me by Chef Humm, and was given a most marvelous gift by my friends there—the largest bottle possible of Woodford Reserve.
But, I must share with you two of the four days which were so remarkable, one in its almost magical connection with a great love and one in its almost magical connection to new adventures.
Just before coming to NYC, I heard from my former partner, G, with whom I have had sporadic communication for the past year. He was going to be in New York where he lives part-time, so we agreed to have dinner on Sunday evening after I arrived there in morning. I called him when I got to NYC to confirm our dinner date and he asked if I would like to join him for brunch at one of our old favorites, EJ’s Luncheonette. At first, I demurred, but then I rethought it—what would be the harm in having brunch? I jumped in a cab and headed to his Park Avenue address. In the taxi, I reminded myself to stay in the moment and just go with whatever was presented to me. There would be time later to think over what happened and I had three more wonderful days to explore NYC.
On the surface, it appeared that we had a wonderful late breakfast at EJ’s where the corned beef hash is real corned beef, not from a can; we tried to see a movie, but it was sold out; we had a lovely dinner at Café Boulud; and we savored every second of The King’s Speech.
But, below the surface, the things that I learned were of Christmas gift proportions.
Two things that drove me crazy about G—and him crazy about me—were his penchant for doing last minute doodads that perpetually made us on the cusp of being late and slow response time in conversation. For the former, I would be on the verge of a small stroke by the time we finally left the house to get to dinner or the movie and the number of times that we had to revise our original schedule made me insane. As for the conversation, I was always convinced that what I was saying must not be interesting enough for him, so I would say something, wait about a minute, then try another conversational tangent. Christ, it was exhausting!! Because he would, of course, respond, to what I had originally said.
With no stake in a relationship, it was easy to sit back and observe how this could play out under less pressure-filled circumstances. Sure enough, soon after arriving at his lovely apartment overlooking Park Avenue, the phone was ringing and he was taking the calls and having 20 minute conversations. Today, I just smiled to myself, put my feet up on the couch, and read the NY Times. Soon enough, he was hungry enough to limit the calls. I noticed the conversational lull at dinner more than at brunch in the loud EJ’s, but, sure enough, the same old pattern started up. This time, I just stopped and let him take his time. Even if we sat there for three or four minutes. What did it matter? We were in a lovely place, enjoying world class cuisine (peekytoe crab salad with green apple gelee and crispy cod with Tandoori spices). And, it was just conversation, not earth-shattering confessions.
When we arrived at the afternoon The King’s Speech to discover that it was sold out, I had to suggest that we purchase tickets for the evening show. So, after the perfect amount of time at dinner, we were off for the movie with time to loiter in the lobby and choose seats with no sense of urgency. To me, perfection!
I wonder if you feel this same way about an ex. There are some moments that you long to re-create if only for just a few minutes. To re-experience one or two of the quotidian things that you naturally take for granted would be such a gift, you think. In this case, the moments for which I longed were to sit in a movie theater with G and to hear him call out as he was grading papers on a Sunday afternoon to come into the study with him and watch TV while he graded because he needed my presence in the room with him.
The aforementioned The King’s Speech provided the perfect venue for the movie as G and I were both completely enthralled and immediately fell back into our interpersonal code of raised eyebrows, muted laughs, and various facial expressions to convey our great affection for this wonderful movie. Earlier, I had returned to G’s apartment for a little while before strolling to Café Boulud. He invited me in and, as I headed for “my” sofa in the living room, he whisked me into his study, handed me the TV remote, and said, “now you sit in here with me while I answer some emails”. In a moment, I was back at his apartment in Stoughton on a Sunday afternoon, feeling cherished. But, now, it’s ten years later and we have both lived lifetimes that we could never convey to each other. But, for that hour, I remembered why I loved him so much and how many lovely times we had enjoyed.
I suppose it looks very foolish to admit this, but, I finally realized that, no matter what or who comes into our lives, G and I will always have a place for each that no one else can touch. Would I want him back? Probably not a good idea. But, to know that I can return from time to time to the places with him that were warm and positive is, indeed, a wonderful gift.
Monday was cold and sunny, the perfect day to explore New York. I asked the taxi driver to drop me off at the IFC Center where I was going to see Tiny Furniture. I had envisioned an inexpensive Asian lunch, the movie, coffee at someplace fab, then off to meet JP at the John Dory Oyster Bar. Instead, I spotted one of my perennial favorites, Lupa, from the taxi. Within minutes, I was perched at the bar with a glass of Prosecco, sunchoke soup with truffle oil, those fabulous sardines that Batali does so well, and freshly baked focaccia. And, chatting with an attorney from DC who had been to Lupa the night before, but was returning prior to a court date in Brooklyn, for one more helping of the bucatini.
Amazingly, the theater was about half full and it was divine to sit in an early afternoon movie with other like-minded folks enjoying the quirky and surprisingly heartfelt film.
Afterwards, I got about half a block before spotting the Pearl Oyster Bar where I immediately perched at the bar for a half dozen along with crispy fried shrimp and a glass of Sancerre. This time, I met the editor of the wonderful film The Kids Are All Right and I enjoyed talking movies and LA restaurants with his wife and him. So much fun to hear about the shooting of the film and the work that he did on it and to share that I, too, was an editor, but of a completely different sort.
I met JP at the way-too-hip lobby of the Ace Hotel where every conceivable seat in the lobby was taken by a twenty-something with at least two wires/machines attached in some way to his/her body. I barely had time to get out my blackberry and iPod when JP came over to escort me to the John Dory Oyster Bar, a nicely cavernous space with floor to ceiling windows looking out on the slightly seedy atmosphere of Broadway at 29th. We shared lobster chowder, Parker House rolls, littleneck clams, and mussels stuffed with chorizo and marvelous conversation about the professional, the personal, our dreams, our regrets. Off with JP with his brand-new iPad and I to my next stop.
I finished the evening at the Mandarin Oriental lobby bar where I always go for not only the pink cosmos and the stunning view of the East Side of Manhattan, but the company of my friends C and F who take very good care of me. On this night, F revealed that his best friend and new beau were also in the house. I smiled and continued pushing shuffle on my iPod. Suddenly, there appeared before me John Travolta’s doppelganger and a lovely Filipino fellow. The former kissed my hand with great authority and introduced himself as T, F’s best friend along with B, the dentist beau. They asked to join me. In minutes, we were laughing and screaming in the way that always annoys me when other tables are doing it.
I finished off my pumpkin spice cocktail and returned to my dream room at the Gansevoort Park South with its huge space, its Juliet balcony overlooking Les Halles as well as a huge swath of sky, its brand new bathroom with soaking tub and splendid shower, its sitting area, its giant TV. And, all within a walk of Madison Park and a quick, accessible cab ride to anyplace in the World’s Greatest City. What a fantastic day I had to savor!
Merry Christmas, 2010!!
I am happy to report that this approach was a great success.
When I travel alone overseas, I always make sure that I have something planned every day lest I end up lolling the day away over espresso in the hotel dining room. And, now, I think, what exactly would be wrong with that?
But, I digress. The New York trip was filled, of course, with fabulous meals at places new like db moderne where I loved the energy and the coq au vin and Oceana where I had the delight of having the same wonderful waiter that I had met at Toqueville earlier this year and where I had the pleasure of a perfect, if simple, meal—exquisite East Coast oysters, Maine lobster, striped bass, and housemade gnocchi—in a bustling, but warm, atmosphere. I saw the tree at the Met, I reflected at the stately Temple of Dendur, I shopped, I had a mid-morning Coke at the newly-revamped Plaza Hotel, I drank fabulous champagne sent over by the manager at the Modern bar where I have enjoyed so many wonderful meals this year. I had a memorable meal at Eleven Madison Park, prepared for me by Chef Humm, and was given a most marvelous gift by my friends there—the largest bottle possible of Woodford Reserve.
But, I must share with you two of the four days which were so remarkable, one in its almost magical connection with a great love and one in its almost magical connection to new adventures.
Just before coming to NYC, I heard from my former partner, G, with whom I have had sporadic communication for the past year. He was going to be in New York where he lives part-time, so we agreed to have dinner on Sunday evening after I arrived there in morning. I called him when I got to NYC to confirm our dinner date and he asked if I would like to join him for brunch at one of our old favorites, EJ’s Luncheonette. At first, I demurred, but then I rethought it—what would be the harm in having brunch? I jumped in a cab and headed to his Park Avenue address. In the taxi, I reminded myself to stay in the moment and just go with whatever was presented to me. There would be time later to think over what happened and I had three more wonderful days to explore NYC.
On the surface, it appeared that we had a wonderful late breakfast at EJ’s where the corned beef hash is real corned beef, not from a can; we tried to see a movie, but it was sold out; we had a lovely dinner at Café Boulud; and we savored every second of The King’s Speech.
But, below the surface, the things that I learned were of Christmas gift proportions.
Two things that drove me crazy about G—and him crazy about me—were his penchant for doing last minute doodads that perpetually made us on the cusp of being late and slow response time in conversation. For the former, I would be on the verge of a small stroke by the time we finally left the house to get to dinner or the movie and the number of times that we had to revise our original schedule made me insane. As for the conversation, I was always convinced that what I was saying must not be interesting enough for him, so I would say something, wait about a minute, then try another conversational tangent. Christ, it was exhausting!! Because he would, of course, respond, to what I had originally said.
With no stake in a relationship, it was easy to sit back and observe how this could play out under less pressure-filled circumstances. Sure enough, soon after arriving at his lovely apartment overlooking Park Avenue, the phone was ringing and he was taking the calls and having 20 minute conversations. Today, I just smiled to myself, put my feet up on the couch, and read the NY Times. Soon enough, he was hungry enough to limit the calls. I noticed the conversational lull at dinner more than at brunch in the loud EJ’s, but, sure enough, the same old pattern started up. This time, I just stopped and let him take his time. Even if we sat there for three or four minutes. What did it matter? We were in a lovely place, enjoying world class cuisine (peekytoe crab salad with green apple gelee and crispy cod with Tandoori spices). And, it was just conversation, not earth-shattering confessions.
When we arrived at the afternoon The King’s Speech to discover that it was sold out, I had to suggest that we purchase tickets for the evening show. So, after the perfect amount of time at dinner, we were off for the movie with time to loiter in the lobby and choose seats with no sense of urgency. To me, perfection!
I wonder if you feel this same way about an ex. There are some moments that you long to re-create if only for just a few minutes. To re-experience one or two of the quotidian things that you naturally take for granted would be such a gift, you think. In this case, the moments for which I longed were to sit in a movie theater with G and to hear him call out as he was grading papers on a Sunday afternoon to come into the study with him and watch TV while he graded because he needed my presence in the room with him.
The aforementioned The King’s Speech provided the perfect venue for the movie as G and I were both completely enthralled and immediately fell back into our interpersonal code of raised eyebrows, muted laughs, and various facial expressions to convey our great affection for this wonderful movie. Earlier, I had returned to G’s apartment for a little while before strolling to Café Boulud. He invited me in and, as I headed for “my” sofa in the living room, he whisked me into his study, handed me the TV remote, and said, “now you sit in here with me while I answer some emails”. In a moment, I was back at his apartment in Stoughton on a Sunday afternoon, feeling cherished. But, now, it’s ten years later and we have both lived lifetimes that we could never convey to each other. But, for that hour, I remembered why I loved him so much and how many lovely times we had enjoyed.
I suppose it looks very foolish to admit this, but, I finally realized that, no matter what or who comes into our lives, G and I will always have a place for each that no one else can touch. Would I want him back? Probably not a good idea. But, to know that I can return from time to time to the places with him that were warm and positive is, indeed, a wonderful gift.
Monday was cold and sunny, the perfect day to explore New York. I asked the taxi driver to drop me off at the IFC Center where I was going to see Tiny Furniture. I had envisioned an inexpensive Asian lunch, the movie, coffee at someplace fab, then off to meet JP at the John Dory Oyster Bar. Instead, I spotted one of my perennial favorites, Lupa, from the taxi. Within minutes, I was perched at the bar with a glass of Prosecco, sunchoke soup with truffle oil, those fabulous sardines that Batali does so well, and freshly baked focaccia. And, chatting with an attorney from DC who had been to Lupa the night before, but was returning prior to a court date in Brooklyn, for one more helping of the bucatini.
Amazingly, the theater was about half full and it was divine to sit in an early afternoon movie with other like-minded folks enjoying the quirky and surprisingly heartfelt film.
Afterwards, I got about half a block before spotting the Pearl Oyster Bar where I immediately perched at the bar for a half dozen along with crispy fried shrimp and a glass of Sancerre. This time, I met the editor of the wonderful film The Kids Are All Right and I enjoyed talking movies and LA restaurants with his wife and him. So much fun to hear about the shooting of the film and the work that he did on it and to share that I, too, was an editor, but of a completely different sort.
I met JP at the way-too-hip lobby of the Ace Hotel where every conceivable seat in the lobby was taken by a twenty-something with at least two wires/machines attached in some way to his/her body. I barely had time to get out my blackberry and iPod when JP came over to escort me to the John Dory Oyster Bar, a nicely cavernous space with floor to ceiling windows looking out on the slightly seedy atmosphere of Broadway at 29th. We shared lobster chowder, Parker House rolls, littleneck clams, and mussels stuffed with chorizo and marvelous conversation about the professional, the personal, our dreams, our regrets. Off with JP with his brand-new iPad and I to my next stop.
I finished the evening at the Mandarin Oriental lobby bar where I always go for not only the pink cosmos and the stunning view of the East Side of Manhattan, but the company of my friends C and F who take very good care of me. On this night, F revealed that his best friend and new beau were also in the house. I smiled and continued pushing shuffle on my iPod. Suddenly, there appeared before me John Travolta’s doppelganger and a lovely Filipino fellow. The former kissed my hand with great authority and introduced himself as T, F’s best friend along with B, the dentist beau. They asked to join me. In minutes, we were laughing and screaming in the way that always annoys me when other tables are doing it.
I finished off my pumpkin spice cocktail and returned to my dream room at the Gansevoort Park South with its huge space, its Juliet balcony overlooking Les Halles as well as a huge swath of sky, its brand new bathroom with soaking tub and splendid shower, its sitting area, its giant TV. And, all within a walk of Madison Park and a quick, accessible cab ride to anyplace in the World’s Greatest City. What a fantastic day I had to savor!
Merry Christmas, 2010!!
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Family of One Goes to Southern California
I am looking forward to a few days in the greater Southern California area, specifically Santa Monica and Ventura. I went to Philadelphia for a weekend recently and it was just wonderful to visit a place where I got to see old friends, new friends, eat wonderfully, and just stroll around. I am looking forward to much of the same in an extended format--oceanview suite, Mustang convertible, seeing a young friend whom I have not seen she was 11 (and is now 28), seeing new friends and their adorable 3 year old daughter, and, seeing my beloved friends M and C for the first time in nine years.
In fact, it has been nine years since I visited Santa Monica a place that I tried to get to at least once a year. It was a tossup as to whether I would move from Boston to Santa Monica or Miami, but being close to the parental units tipped the scale to Miami. The last time I was there, I had a most interesting experience at the counter at the Broadway Deli.
I had not been apart from G for very long and had not thought about dating or meeting anyone. A nice enough man struck up a conversation with me, tearing me away from my Newsweek which featured Tony Soprano on the cover. We ended up chatting for about an hour and marveled at our similarities--love of NCAA basketball, movies, both only children, he was a pharmacist like my dad--and that he was contemplating ending a longterm relationship. When we started chatting, I said to him, "please don't waste my time if you are really married because that is just silly". And, he insisted that he was as he described. We agreed to stay in touch.
After I got back from Boston, I had a fairly innocuous email from him and responded in kind.I had another one, then one sent right after that--another innocuous one, then one from someone who said that she was his wife and asking me not to contact him again. She said that her husband had the habit of meeting people and becoming inappropriately close and she wanted to spare me that pain. All of the emails were sent from the same address which she said was their family email. She signed it "Sincerely, Mrs. D.W. Crosby".
I responded to her and told her that I had no reason to believe her, but since I had recently been in a situation where an aggressive woman let it be known that she would not be happy until she had destroyed my nine-year relationship, I understood and I would back off when I had confirmation from her "husband". I then forwarded the whole email chain to Don, the gentleman in question.
A couple of days later, I received an email from the "wife". This time, she said that she would not put up with my attempts to woo her husband. She wrote about how I should find my own man, etc. She wrote that he had three children and seven grandchildren that were the light of his life. And, she made a list of about 25 women who had tried to break up their marriage including the gifts that they had sent him. "You, my dear, have a long way to go to compete with them," she wrote. This time, she signed it "Sylvia".
I was caught between horror and amusement. But, without a second thought, I wrote to her, "My dear Sylvia, I feel so lucky to be on my own. I have no desire to even know people like Mr. Crosby and you. Your relationship sounds like one that could benefit from therapy and it is definitely one about which I do not want to hear another word. Please do not contact me again and I am removing your contact information from my address book. Sincerely, Mary Jo Southern".
Some people have wondered if Don and Sylvia Crosby were one and the same person. Some people were disappointed that I cut off the correspondence wondering what wild concoction I would have received if I had kept it going. But, out of all the things that made me know I would be OK in the dating world after I was ignominiously dumped back into it, this was the one that gave me the most confidence. If I could take on Mrs. D.W. Crosby, I would be fine and, one day, maybe there would be a man seated next to me at a counter or on a plane or at Eleven Madison Park who would turn out to be exactly who he said.
I'll be back in touch after my Santa Monica/Ventura adventure.
In fact, it has been nine years since I visited Santa Monica a place that I tried to get to at least once a year. It was a tossup as to whether I would move from Boston to Santa Monica or Miami, but being close to the parental units tipped the scale to Miami. The last time I was there, I had a most interesting experience at the counter at the Broadway Deli.
I had not been apart from G for very long and had not thought about dating or meeting anyone. A nice enough man struck up a conversation with me, tearing me away from my Newsweek which featured Tony Soprano on the cover. We ended up chatting for about an hour and marveled at our similarities--love of NCAA basketball, movies, both only children, he was a pharmacist like my dad--and that he was contemplating ending a longterm relationship. When we started chatting, I said to him, "please don't waste my time if you are really married because that is just silly". And, he insisted that he was as he described. We agreed to stay in touch.
After I got back from Boston, I had a fairly innocuous email from him and responded in kind.I had another one, then one sent right after that--another innocuous one, then one from someone who said that she was his wife and asking me not to contact him again. She said that her husband had the habit of meeting people and becoming inappropriately close and she wanted to spare me that pain. All of the emails were sent from the same address which she said was their family email. She signed it "Sincerely, Mrs. D.W. Crosby".
I responded to her and told her that I had no reason to believe her, but since I had recently been in a situation where an aggressive woman let it be known that she would not be happy until she had destroyed my nine-year relationship, I understood and I would back off when I had confirmation from her "husband". I then forwarded the whole email chain to Don, the gentleman in question.
A couple of days later, I received an email from the "wife". This time, she said that she would not put up with my attempts to woo her husband. She wrote about how I should find my own man, etc. She wrote that he had three children and seven grandchildren that were the light of his life. And, she made a list of about 25 women who had tried to break up their marriage including the gifts that they had sent him. "You, my dear, have a long way to go to compete with them," she wrote. This time, she signed it "Sylvia".
I was caught between horror and amusement. But, without a second thought, I wrote to her, "My dear Sylvia, I feel so lucky to be on my own. I have no desire to even know people like Mr. Crosby and you. Your relationship sounds like one that could benefit from therapy and it is definitely one about which I do not want to hear another word. Please do not contact me again and I am removing your contact information from my address book. Sincerely, Mary Jo Southern".
Some people have wondered if Don and Sylvia Crosby were one and the same person. Some people were disappointed that I cut off the correspondence wondering what wild concoction I would have received if I had kept it going. But, out of all the things that made me know I would be OK in the dating world after I was ignominiously dumped back into it, this was the one that gave me the most confidence. If I could take on Mrs. D.W. Crosby, I would be fine and, one day, maybe there would be a man seated next to me at a counter or on a plane or at Eleven Madison Park who would turn out to be exactly who he said.
I'll be back in touch after my Santa Monica/Ventura adventure.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Family of One Goes to the Blue Ridge Parkway
On my last trip to High Point, I took Mother and Dad to the Blue Ridge Parkway for the day. This was a momentous occasion as both had determined that they would never again get to visit one of their favorite places in the world. They had made this decision based on the fact that they are 88 and 91, respectively, and that they probably shouldn’t travel too far from home base. Many a time in recent years, I have gotten them situated in my rental vehicle and we have made it as far as the outskirts of Winston-Salem which is maybe 20 miles from High Point and it is then determined that we need to turn back because “something could happen”.
I had made up my mind that, given only the smallest encouragement, I was going to get them to the Parkway. On this particular Friday, the sun was bright, the trees while not at the height of their fall foliage were still lush in their greenery, and the temperature was pleasant. I piled Mother and Dad in the motorized vehicle and off we went to the bank as a first stop. I pulled up to the bank, intending to assist Dad into the bank lobby, but leaving the car running to keep the radio and AC on for Mother. She was aghast. “You turn that car off now,” she said with alacrity. “A running car outside a bank is an open invitation for a robbery”. I pointed out that anyone robbing the bank would probably have his own motorized vehicle, but she was not convinced. “This is a perfect set up,” she retorted. “Here I am, the ideal hostage”. Shades of the O. Henry story, “Ransom of Red Chief” came to mind. But, I turned off the engine.
When Dad and I returned to the car, she was calmer, having not been approached by any would-be hostage takers. I decided to take the most direct route to Winston-Salem rather than the more scenic one that I usually took. In less than thirty minutes, we were zooming along on the “superhighway” as Mother and Dad referred to it. Mother announced that we would go as far as Mt. Airy (renowned as the “real” Mayberry as portrayed in TV’s Andy Griffith Show). Mother made for an excellent companion as she offered commentary on every restaurant, store, and other place of business that we passed as we drove past Mt.Airy and on to Hillsville, VA. “There’s no way we can make it to the Parkway,” she announced. But, suddenly, there was a sign indicating there were only 20 more miles to go. My father was all for it. Mother said, “Let’s not push our luck”. But, I was driving.
Within thirty minutes, we were driving along one of the prettiest roads in the country. The speed limit is something like 40 MPH, so one is forced to sit back and enjoy the ride, as it were. The sun dappled through the leafy trees; split rail fences and beautiful green pastures were omnipresent; and the views of the Blue Ridge Mountains were breath-taking. I quietly observed, “Isn’t it amazing how people go all over the world to find beautiful sights when one of the most splendid is right in our back yard?” Mother replied, “Well, some people have to be big shots—like the person driving this car—and can’t stop to appreciate what is right in front of them”. But, for the most part, our exchanges were kind and considerate.
Dad was determined that we make it as far as Doughton Park where there is a nice diner-like restaurant run by the National Park Service and The Bluffs lodge where Mother and he spent their honeymoon. In an amazing piece of luck, there were no cars at all on the Parkway, so we meandered along with it all to ourselves. Mother would become somewhat distraught when we passed through a grove of trees casting dark shadows. “Evening shadows fall,” she sang quietly. “Now the day is over,” I sang calmly. “Thanks a lot, “she said, “I was almost calm and now you have reminded me of the shadow of death”.
We made it to Doughton Park for an early supper. I helped my parents in and we all ordered some iteration of country ham—Mother, country ham and biscuits, my father and I, the country ham platter which came with salad and potato. I asked if there were housemade dressings. Mother told me she was ashamed of me and not to ask such things in a restaurant run by the National Park Service. I became obsessed if my father’s mashed potatoes could possibly be the real thing. All three of us drifted in our own little worlds. Mother was becoming snappish, my dad more removed. It occurred to me that they were thinking this would probably be the last time that we sat there together. And, how miraculous it was that we were there at all.
We quickly finished up our meal and I helped them back to the car. Once traveling along the Parkway, the good spirits returned and Mother and Dad reminisced about their wedding and their courtship and the trips that they had made to the Parkway. The sun was still bright, but twilight was definitely approaching. I asked my parents how they would like to get back to High Point. They had no particular way, so I followed the setting sun and took us through some delightful little towns like Elkin and North Wilkesboro. Mother and I conversed quietly while Dad just gazed out the window. Some of her musings—
***On Hillary Clinton---I can’t stand Old Lady Clinton, but, compared to Sarah Palin, she is like George Washington
***On Mike Huckabee—he has too many stringed instruments going on that TV show. Who is going to take him seriously as a presidential candidate when he’s either playing the fiddle or the banjo?
***On water towers—when I was a little girl, I thought that water towers were hospitals and I was deathly afraid of them. You know, isn’t it interesting how children get these ideas?
Just as it became dark, we arrived back at home. It had been a lovely and memorable day.
A couple of days later, I was preparing to leave to return to Miami and sat down on the sofa next to Mother while she read the High Point Enterprise. I said, “Mother, I know we laugh a lot about when you will be in Heaven, but the fact is that it will be very sad for me because no matter how good a spin we put on it, I will be alone, despite having so many wonderful friends. I will be a family of one”. She rattled the paper in irritation. “What are you saying? Don’t you realize that I have a reservation in a place called Heaven and that I cannot be late?” “Yes,” I told her, “I do realize that, but isn’t there some sort of code we could set up so that I will know when you are around?” (I had asked Aunt Louise something similar and had been told in no uncertain terms to never ask anything so foolish again; hence, I feel no connection to Aunt Louise, gone since March).
She continued rattling the paper, but with less ferocity. With a very uncommon catch in her voice, she replied from behind the paper, “I will be with you always. Always. And you will have so many wonderful surprises waiting for you, things you never imagined, that it will be OK”. We both sat silently, not wanting to break our connection.
In an interesting coda, I was seated next to a lovely lady on my flight from Greensboro to Charlotte. We talked about our weekends and she told me that she was headed to Rochester to see her parents who were the same age and state of mind as mine. Now on the verge of tears, I told Laurie about what had happened with Mother and she, too, became teary. And, we both agreed that we had been brought together to share a moment of happy reflection about our parents.
I had made up my mind that, given only the smallest encouragement, I was going to get them to the Parkway. On this particular Friday, the sun was bright, the trees while not at the height of their fall foliage were still lush in their greenery, and the temperature was pleasant. I piled Mother and Dad in the motorized vehicle and off we went to the bank as a first stop. I pulled up to the bank, intending to assist Dad into the bank lobby, but leaving the car running to keep the radio and AC on for Mother. She was aghast. “You turn that car off now,” she said with alacrity. “A running car outside a bank is an open invitation for a robbery”. I pointed out that anyone robbing the bank would probably have his own motorized vehicle, but she was not convinced. “This is a perfect set up,” she retorted. “Here I am, the ideal hostage”. Shades of the O. Henry story, “Ransom of Red Chief” came to mind. But, I turned off the engine.
When Dad and I returned to the car, she was calmer, having not been approached by any would-be hostage takers. I decided to take the most direct route to Winston-Salem rather than the more scenic one that I usually took. In less than thirty minutes, we were zooming along on the “superhighway” as Mother and Dad referred to it. Mother announced that we would go as far as Mt. Airy (renowned as the “real” Mayberry as portrayed in TV’s Andy Griffith Show). Mother made for an excellent companion as she offered commentary on every restaurant, store, and other place of business that we passed as we drove past Mt.Airy and on to Hillsville, VA. “There’s no way we can make it to the Parkway,” she announced. But, suddenly, there was a sign indicating there were only 20 more miles to go. My father was all for it. Mother said, “Let’s not push our luck”. But, I was driving.
Within thirty minutes, we were driving along one of the prettiest roads in the country. The speed limit is something like 40 MPH, so one is forced to sit back and enjoy the ride, as it were. The sun dappled through the leafy trees; split rail fences and beautiful green pastures were omnipresent; and the views of the Blue Ridge Mountains were breath-taking. I quietly observed, “Isn’t it amazing how people go all over the world to find beautiful sights when one of the most splendid is right in our back yard?” Mother replied, “Well, some people have to be big shots—like the person driving this car—and can’t stop to appreciate what is right in front of them”. But, for the most part, our exchanges were kind and considerate.
Dad was determined that we make it as far as Doughton Park where there is a nice diner-like restaurant run by the National Park Service and The Bluffs lodge where Mother and he spent their honeymoon. In an amazing piece of luck, there were no cars at all on the Parkway, so we meandered along with it all to ourselves. Mother would become somewhat distraught when we passed through a grove of trees casting dark shadows. “Evening shadows fall,” she sang quietly. “Now the day is over,” I sang calmly. “Thanks a lot, “she said, “I was almost calm and now you have reminded me of the shadow of death”.
We made it to Doughton Park for an early supper. I helped my parents in and we all ordered some iteration of country ham—Mother, country ham and biscuits, my father and I, the country ham platter which came with salad and potato. I asked if there were housemade dressings. Mother told me she was ashamed of me and not to ask such things in a restaurant run by the National Park Service. I became obsessed if my father’s mashed potatoes could possibly be the real thing. All three of us drifted in our own little worlds. Mother was becoming snappish, my dad more removed. It occurred to me that they were thinking this would probably be the last time that we sat there together. And, how miraculous it was that we were there at all.
We quickly finished up our meal and I helped them back to the car. Once traveling along the Parkway, the good spirits returned and Mother and Dad reminisced about their wedding and their courtship and the trips that they had made to the Parkway. The sun was still bright, but twilight was definitely approaching. I asked my parents how they would like to get back to High Point. They had no particular way, so I followed the setting sun and took us through some delightful little towns like Elkin and North Wilkesboro. Mother and I conversed quietly while Dad just gazed out the window. Some of her musings—
***On Hillary Clinton---I can’t stand Old Lady Clinton, but, compared to Sarah Palin, she is like George Washington
***On Mike Huckabee—he has too many stringed instruments going on that TV show. Who is going to take him seriously as a presidential candidate when he’s either playing the fiddle or the banjo?
***On water towers—when I was a little girl, I thought that water towers were hospitals and I was deathly afraid of them. You know, isn’t it interesting how children get these ideas?
Just as it became dark, we arrived back at home. It had been a lovely and memorable day.
A couple of days later, I was preparing to leave to return to Miami and sat down on the sofa next to Mother while she read the High Point Enterprise. I said, “Mother, I know we laugh a lot about when you will be in Heaven, but the fact is that it will be very sad for me because no matter how good a spin we put on it, I will be alone, despite having so many wonderful friends. I will be a family of one”. She rattled the paper in irritation. “What are you saying? Don’t you realize that I have a reservation in a place called Heaven and that I cannot be late?” “Yes,” I told her, “I do realize that, but isn’t there some sort of code we could set up so that I will know when you are around?” (I had asked Aunt Louise something similar and had been told in no uncertain terms to never ask anything so foolish again; hence, I feel no connection to Aunt Louise, gone since March).
She continued rattling the paper, but with less ferocity. With a very uncommon catch in her voice, she replied from behind the paper, “I will be with you always. Always. And you will have so many wonderful surprises waiting for you, things you never imagined, that it will be OK”. We both sat silently, not wanting to break our connection.
In an interesting coda, I was seated next to a lovely lady on my flight from Greensboro to Charlotte. We talked about our weekends and she told me that she was headed to Rochester to see her parents who were the same age and state of mind as mine. Now on the verge of tears, I told Laurie about what had happened with Mother and she, too, became teary. And, we both agreed that we had been brought together to share a moment of happy reflection about our parents.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Family of One Takes a Day Off
How many times do we say I am going to take a day off? And, then, what do we do? We stay on our computer, we can’t let go of the blackberry, we multitask as much as ever. You know. When I went to NYC for my annual Labor Day fiesta, I decided that it was the ideal time to take a day off, so I added on an extra day. My colleges had been in session for two weeks, so most of the start-up drama was over. I had another big push looming with submissions of manuscripts for spring semester due in a couple of weeks. It seemed like the ideal time to take a deep breath. And, so I did.
I started the day with something that I always say I am going to do, but then I never get around to it. I strolled through Central Park on a cloudless, sunny day and enjoyed all of the various sights—for God’s sake, I have even lived in New York and I had never stopped to look at that charming clock with the animals on it that is at the gate to the Central Park Zoo. Frederick Olmstead must have been so ashamed of me. I strolled all around and savored the lovely day and finally plopped down on a bench around Fifth and 70th. I read my Andre Agassiz autobio, I listened to my iPod, I did check my blackberry. But, I mainly thought about the wonderful moments I had experienced during this weekend.
Every trip to NYC has its own personality and, for this one, I had made it a point to try new restaurants and to reach out to fellow dining patrons that I might find annoying in places where the tables are too close together (read, Marea). I had a wonderful Saturday lunch at a charming Austrian place called Seasonal very close to my hotel—outstanding wiener schnitzel. I had my usual beauty maintenance from my dear MeMe at Think Pink where I am now ensconced as one of the regulars. I had a delightful conversation while there with an Australian fellow getting a pedicure who wanted to discuss the Agassiz book with me. I had a lovely meal, especially the sea bass crudo and the spaghetti with crab and sea urchin at Marea; I bonded with a delightful British couple trying to have a night on the town while there three daughters kept phoning them to come home. On Sunday, I started the day with breakfast at Sarabeth’s Kitchen where I perched at the bar and next to a lovely family from DC who just happened to hail from South Carolina. Laughs and charming conversation all around, with special emphasis on restaurant choices. Then, as the patriarch of the group passed by, he said, “how many times do fellow Southerners meet up in New York? I paid for your breakfast”. I was completely stunned as was the waitress. Then, two stylish ladies came up to the bar and asked if I were leaving. I told them that I wanted to read one more chapter and they could have my seat. But, we ended up chatting and have a date for coffee (at the very least) on my next visit. They were smart and witty and I hated to say goodbye. Later, I had an enchanting lunch at a vegan restaurant called Pure next to Gramercy Park where I met with dear friend R with whom I connected over our mutual love for EMP. We sat in the breezy garden and drank concoction of kale and cucumber which were delicious and had one of the best salads that I have ever tasted. And, it was all so good for me!
What else to ponder? I visited my old neighborhood for the first time in 11 years, strolling down East 49th Street and on Beekman Place, ending up at one of my favorite refuges, the park at the end of 57th Street, overlooking the East River. I saw a poignant movie, Cairo Time. I had a fabulous, laughter-filled lunch on the sunny patio at Bar Boulud with my dear friend Cristana and her baby son Aidan who slept like a prince while we threw back champagne cocktails and chowed down on charcuterie and floating island. I had the Moderne bratwurst and tuna tartare and sweetbreads at the Moderne bar room while talking to a delightful couple about dining in Philadelphia. But, one of the most interesting things that happened was that I got the most spacious, lovely room overlooking Central Park at the Park Lane hotel for the unheard-of price at $228. I had booked it on quikbook and thought, “Christ, the room must be horrible, but how bad can it be with a view of Central Park?” When I checked in, my reservation slip from the front desk said $350. I asked if that was a mistake and was told that park view rooms were $550. I showed the clerk my confirmation from quikbook and the hotel determined that an interfacing glitch (an exact quote) had given me the wrong price. They cheerfully honored it and so I was all in a beautiful room that would have made Leona Helmsley proud and a stunning view of the park.
But, my day is drifting away and it’s time to proceed to Esca for lunch. Esca is the kind of place where I always say I am gong to go, but then I get caught up going to my favorites or I forget about it until it’s too late. Even though it is in the theater district, it feels like more of a restaurant that one would find in Rome or Lisbon. The chef, Dave Pasternack, is well-known for his way with a fish and I was so happy with my meal-oysters from Maine, a variety of crudo, spaghetti with crab (a very spicy tang to this one), and a grape sorbet complemented with vanilla ice cream. I read, I looked out the beautiful plate glass windows at the skyscrapers, I enjoyed the murmurs of the businessmen around me. It was divine.
I glanced at my watch and realized that since I had a 7:00 curtain for Promises, Promises, I needed to get along with my afternoon, so returned to my palatial room for a savoring of the fabulous view and a quick check of email. Nothing urgent, so I headed for my front row seat, excited about seeing Sean Hayes and Kristin Chenoweth up close. As I sat down, the announcer said, “there will be a special guest star in the show tonight”. The people close to me asked me, “who do you think it will be?” Perplexed as to why they thought I had the answer, I took them seriously anyway. “I’ll go with Rosie O’Donnell”. There were less than positive murmurs. “Or, for my second choice, I’ll go with Donald Trump”. The murmurs become disappointed. The accountant from Chagrin Falls, Ohio seated next to me says, “My money is on Al Pacino”. I am screaming with laughter. The murmurs take on a disgusted tone.
The show is very engaging with outstanding dancing and costumes. Some of the songs are a little weak and I find the story line challenging to embrace, but what the hay? There’s Sean and Kristin right in front of me and everyone is at the top of his/her game. And, then, without warning, Ellen DeGeneres appears in the role of The Nurse. The theater goes wild! She is so terrible!! She is ghastly! But, there is so much warm feeling towards her that everyone is laughing and screaming, even the stars. It is a very nice moment. At intermission, several people say to me, “Well, you were not far off in your prediction”. One of the things I liked best about my front row seat was that I could watch the conductor as he mouthed the words to every song. Like a prompter from days of old! I also liked hearing strains of Satin Doll played by the trombone during intermission and peering into the orchestra pit to see a lone player having a little fun.
I raced out of the theater and into a waiting cab (and how many times can you say that?) which took me to my beloved Eleven Madison Park. But, not just any night at EMP. This was the opening of their newly renovated room and menu which you might have read about in the NYT. Chef Humm and Will, the manager, are trying to do something unique at EMP by having a menu that gives only the basics of the dish on the menu, sort of like a bingo card. The customer is then encouraged to interact with the server to select his dish prepared exactly as he would like it. Chef and Will want the dining experience to be more about the interaction between restaurant and customer and less about being entertained by the chef. Of course, I knew none of this only that I would have a lovely evening. I was met at the door with a glass of champagne and escorted to a sitting area to visit with my favorites. I knew this was because my usual table wasn’t ready, but I loved the aperitif in a different location and, of course, it was wonderful to chat with everyone.
Since I usually just ask Chef Humm to cook for me, I didn’t care what the bingo card said, but I played along and chose four dishes which were, of course, exquisite. There were several courses of amuse bouches and lovely preparations of foie gras, tomato, and lobster. For dessert, I chose, well, I can’t remember now, and they didn’t have menus for me to take home that night. But, it was absolutely awful and looked like someone had dropped it on the way to the table. I tried very hard to be a good sport and get it down, but my server, the inimitable Kevin, took pity on me. He said, “please pick something else”. It was late and I was getting tired, so I said “chocolate” which turned out to be a bit of a misnomer as it was more of a mint, but it was delicious with an ice cream and a little dessert which tasted fabulous.
I am reserving judgment about what I think about the new EMP until I return at Christmas because, after all, it was their first night. I loved being part of the excitement, of course. But, I was not fond of having the kitchen staff serve me. I tried to start a conversation with one fellow by asking him his name. When he told me, I said, “oh, I think I saw that on the bus station wall last week” a line that usually slays them at, say, DBGB or the Moderne. He stared at the floor and I felt absolutely horrible. Later, I pondered that I should not be made to feel horrible at a fine dining place. Of course, I shouldn’t have been so flippant, but part of the fun of EMP for me is the wonderful exchanges that I have with the captains and the managers. As more kitchen staff served my dinner, I sat quietly and mumbled kind things, but it took a lot of the fun out of the dinner. But, all of this is nothing compared to the horror that I expressed when Kevin said that there is no cheese cart. I love cheese carts. The one at EMP may have gotten my prize for the best one ever. And, now it is no more, gone the way of desserts flambé and lobster thermidor.
But, what am I squawking for? For God’s sake, I am at EMP, my NYC dining family. We are laughing and screaming and talking and Megan, the service director, brings out a printed copy of the article that will be in the Food Section of the NYT the next day about the changes. Everyone is in high spirits and, so, around 1:30, I leap into a cab and go back to my Central Park South lair with a day and an evening to remember.
I started the day with something that I always say I am going to do, but then I never get around to it. I strolled through Central Park on a cloudless, sunny day and enjoyed all of the various sights—for God’s sake, I have even lived in New York and I had never stopped to look at that charming clock with the animals on it that is at the gate to the Central Park Zoo. Frederick Olmstead must have been so ashamed of me. I strolled all around and savored the lovely day and finally plopped down on a bench around Fifth and 70th. I read my Andre Agassiz autobio, I listened to my iPod, I did check my blackberry. But, I mainly thought about the wonderful moments I had experienced during this weekend.
Every trip to NYC has its own personality and, for this one, I had made it a point to try new restaurants and to reach out to fellow dining patrons that I might find annoying in places where the tables are too close together (read, Marea). I had a wonderful Saturday lunch at a charming Austrian place called Seasonal very close to my hotel—outstanding wiener schnitzel. I had my usual beauty maintenance from my dear MeMe at Think Pink where I am now ensconced as one of the regulars. I had a delightful conversation while there with an Australian fellow getting a pedicure who wanted to discuss the Agassiz book with me. I had a lovely meal, especially the sea bass crudo and the spaghetti with crab and sea urchin at Marea; I bonded with a delightful British couple trying to have a night on the town while there three daughters kept phoning them to come home. On Sunday, I started the day with breakfast at Sarabeth’s Kitchen where I perched at the bar and next to a lovely family from DC who just happened to hail from South Carolina. Laughs and charming conversation all around, with special emphasis on restaurant choices. Then, as the patriarch of the group passed by, he said, “how many times do fellow Southerners meet up in New York? I paid for your breakfast”. I was completely stunned as was the waitress. Then, two stylish ladies came up to the bar and asked if I were leaving. I told them that I wanted to read one more chapter and they could have my seat. But, we ended up chatting and have a date for coffee (at the very least) on my next visit. They were smart and witty and I hated to say goodbye. Later, I had an enchanting lunch at a vegan restaurant called Pure next to Gramercy Park where I met with dear friend R with whom I connected over our mutual love for EMP. We sat in the breezy garden and drank concoction of kale and cucumber which were delicious and had one of the best salads that I have ever tasted. And, it was all so good for me!
What else to ponder? I visited my old neighborhood for the first time in 11 years, strolling down East 49th Street and on Beekman Place, ending up at one of my favorite refuges, the park at the end of 57th Street, overlooking the East River. I saw a poignant movie, Cairo Time. I had a fabulous, laughter-filled lunch on the sunny patio at Bar Boulud with my dear friend Cristana and her baby son Aidan who slept like a prince while we threw back champagne cocktails and chowed down on charcuterie and floating island. I had the Moderne bratwurst and tuna tartare and sweetbreads at the Moderne bar room while talking to a delightful couple about dining in Philadelphia. But, one of the most interesting things that happened was that I got the most spacious, lovely room overlooking Central Park at the Park Lane hotel for the unheard-of price at $228. I had booked it on quikbook and thought, “Christ, the room must be horrible, but how bad can it be with a view of Central Park?” When I checked in, my reservation slip from the front desk said $350. I asked if that was a mistake and was told that park view rooms were $550. I showed the clerk my confirmation from quikbook and the hotel determined that an interfacing glitch (an exact quote) had given me the wrong price. They cheerfully honored it and so I was all in a beautiful room that would have made Leona Helmsley proud and a stunning view of the park.
But, my day is drifting away and it’s time to proceed to Esca for lunch. Esca is the kind of place where I always say I am gong to go, but then I get caught up going to my favorites or I forget about it until it’s too late. Even though it is in the theater district, it feels like more of a restaurant that one would find in Rome or Lisbon. The chef, Dave Pasternack, is well-known for his way with a fish and I was so happy with my meal-oysters from Maine, a variety of crudo, spaghetti with crab (a very spicy tang to this one), and a grape sorbet complemented with vanilla ice cream. I read, I looked out the beautiful plate glass windows at the skyscrapers, I enjoyed the murmurs of the businessmen around me. It was divine.
I glanced at my watch and realized that since I had a 7:00 curtain for Promises, Promises, I needed to get along with my afternoon, so returned to my palatial room for a savoring of the fabulous view and a quick check of email. Nothing urgent, so I headed for my front row seat, excited about seeing Sean Hayes and Kristin Chenoweth up close. As I sat down, the announcer said, “there will be a special guest star in the show tonight”. The people close to me asked me, “who do you think it will be?” Perplexed as to why they thought I had the answer, I took them seriously anyway. “I’ll go with Rosie O’Donnell”. There were less than positive murmurs. “Or, for my second choice, I’ll go with Donald Trump”. The murmurs become disappointed. The accountant from Chagrin Falls, Ohio seated next to me says, “My money is on Al Pacino”. I am screaming with laughter. The murmurs take on a disgusted tone.
The show is very engaging with outstanding dancing and costumes. Some of the songs are a little weak and I find the story line challenging to embrace, but what the hay? There’s Sean and Kristin right in front of me and everyone is at the top of his/her game. And, then, without warning, Ellen DeGeneres appears in the role of The Nurse. The theater goes wild! She is so terrible!! She is ghastly! But, there is so much warm feeling towards her that everyone is laughing and screaming, even the stars. It is a very nice moment. At intermission, several people say to me, “Well, you were not far off in your prediction”. One of the things I liked best about my front row seat was that I could watch the conductor as he mouthed the words to every song. Like a prompter from days of old! I also liked hearing strains of Satin Doll played by the trombone during intermission and peering into the orchestra pit to see a lone player having a little fun.
I raced out of the theater and into a waiting cab (and how many times can you say that?) which took me to my beloved Eleven Madison Park. But, not just any night at EMP. This was the opening of their newly renovated room and menu which you might have read about in the NYT. Chef Humm and Will, the manager, are trying to do something unique at EMP by having a menu that gives only the basics of the dish on the menu, sort of like a bingo card. The customer is then encouraged to interact with the server to select his dish prepared exactly as he would like it. Chef and Will want the dining experience to be more about the interaction between restaurant and customer and less about being entertained by the chef. Of course, I knew none of this only that I would have a lovely evening. I was met at the door with a glass of champagne and escorted to a sitting area to visit with my favorites. I knew this was because my usual table wasn’t ready, but I loved the aperitif in a different location and, of course, it was wonderful to chat with everyone.
Since I usually just ask Chef Humm to cook for me, I didn’t care what the bingo card said, but I played along and chose four dishes which were, of course, exquisite. There were several courses of amuse bouches and lovely preparations of foie gras, tomato, and lobster. For dessert, I chose, well, I can’t remember now, and they didn’t have menus for me to take home that night. But, it was absolutely awful and looked like someone had dropped it on the way to the table. I tried very hard to be a good sport and get it down, but my server, the inimitable Kevin, took pity on me. He said, “please pick something else”. It was late and I was getting tired, so I said “chocolate” which turned out to be a bit of a misnomer as it was more of a mint, but it was delicious with an ice cream and a little dessert which tasted fabulous.
I am reserving judgment about what I think about the new EMP until I return at Christmas because, after all, it was their first night. I loved being part of the excitement, of course. But, I was not fond of having the kitchen staff serve me. I tried to start a conversation with one fellow by asking him his name. When he told me, I said, “oh, I think I saw that on the bus station wall last week” a line that usually slays them at, say, DBGB or the Moderne. He stared at the floor and I felt absolutely horrible. Later, I pondered that I should not be made to feel horrible at a fine dining place. Of course, I shouldn’t have been so flippant, but part of the fun of EMP for me is the wonderful exchanges that I have with the captains and the managers. As more kitchen staff served my dinner, I sat quietly and mumbled kind things, but it took a lot of the fun out of the dinner. But, all of this is nothing compared to the horror that I expressed when Kevin said that there is no cheese cart. I love cheese carts. The one at EMP may have gotten my prize for the best one ever. And, now it is no more, gone the way of desserts flambé and lobster thermidor.
But, what am I squawking for? For God’s sake, I am at EMP, my NYC dining family. We are laughing and screaming and talking and Megan, the service director, brings out a printed copy of the article that will be in the Food Section of the NYT the next day about the changes. Everyone is in high spirits and, so, around 1:30, I leap into a cab and go back to my Central Park South lair with a day and an evening to remember.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Family of One Has a Medical Procedure
The doctor told me that the lump, while definitely benign and of no great significance, would need to come out eventually because it could lead to big problems down the road. I filed this information away under things to do (along with reading Crime and Punishment, learning to make the perfect roast chicken, etc), but as I watched the lump grow from the size of a pea to the size of an egg over a year and a half, I decided to be proactive and have the lump removed on my terms, rather than waiting for an emergency.
The surgeon that I visited told me that I would need to assure him that I would have someone to bring me to the hospital for the out-patient surgery, stay there during the surgery, take me home, and stay with me while I got settled. I told him that I preferred to take a taxi. I am, after all, a Family of One. He replied that he could not allow me to leave the hospital under my own duress and would keep me in the hospital until I showed that I could take care of myself.
This prompted much soul searching. My beloved K, of course, said that she fly down from the greater Hudson Valley area to stay with me, but the procedure did not seem that it warranted such energy. I considered having the procedure done in any number of places throughout the United States where I would have any number of delightful friends to go with me. I pondered why I enjoy living in a place where I have so few folks to call on, let alone hang out with. I pondered postponing the procedure until the year 2025. But, I finally decided to ask one of my colleagues, the lovely L, because we happened to be chatting about her family and I realized what a caring heart she had. I asked her if she would help and she said that she would be honored.
Having never had surgery of any sort, I was somewhat anxious about being anesthized as well as having to deal with pain that I had voted to have. The lump was on my belly button which would make sitting and standing very difficult for a few days. I was, of course, forbidden to drive for several days because of the anesthesia. I also could not attend my beloved Biltmore gym for several weeks and had to proceed with great caution in terms of my usual energetic schedule.
The day before, I went for the pre-op interview which was conducted by a vivacious woman who asked very earnestly—“I see that you live alone. Do you like it?” Inwardly sighing, I gave a pat answer. While she was looking through my file, I tried to think of something pleasant, so decided to ponder Paris. She asked me why I seemed so far away and I told her that I was thinking about my upcoming trip.. She said, “oh, you will feel just fine by the time you go to Paris in January.” I sighed and said, “well, before then, I have three trips to Charleston, three trips to see my parents, a trip to Philadelphia, a trip to Los Angeles, and a trip to New York”. She was very quiet. Then she said, “are you going on these trips by yourself?” I explained that I was although some of them were for business. She said, “do you ever stop and remember how lucky you are to have this time to yourself? I have never been anywhere by myself, not even out of the city of Miami”. So we worked on a day trip to Palm Beach for her. And, I was reminded again that being a Family of One is not so bad.
I know you are wondering if I told Mother. I had very mixed feelings about telling her. It was like it was something horrible that she would need to accept. On the other hand, I would be out of commission for a few days and, if she should need me, that would not be the time to tell her. She counts on my being available 24/7, so I decided it was best to just let her know that I was having a minor procedure and she should plan to count on the housekeeper for a few days. She was fine at first, but then lashed out at me, saying how selfish and heartless it was for me to tell her because I knew that they count on me and what were they supposed to do if I couldn’t get to North Carolina if they needed me? There was a time that her outrage would have really stung, but I realized that she was scared and cornered and that was just her way of releasing her fear. I listened and tried not to take her words to heart.
On the day of the surgery, I called her before I left the triplex. She was almost jaunty, but then said, “I want you to pretend like you are holding my right hand. Here it is, take it.” I went along with her. Then, she said, “now, I want you to hold out your left hand and feel who is holding it. That’s God”. I was incredibly touched. I had actually thought she was going to say my father. She said, “God and I are holding on to you and you are going to be fine”.
I also spoke to my dad who said, “I have had very similar procedures done, but it’s different when I have to live through your having the procedure. It’s not so bad when I am the one having it”. An interesting perspective.
And, with that, L picked me up. She turned out to be the ideal companion for a medical experience. L did not natter on mindlessly while we waited. She worked on her computer and I worked on my blackberry and we occasionally exchange work stories. After two hours, I finally picked up the book that I had brought. L said, without glancing up from her computer, “you better start reading because you have not read one word. I am watching you and you look at the page and then stare off into space. You are going to drive yourself crazy”. I laughed sheepishly.
I was frightened and anxious because I had absolutely no idea what to expect. I have probably experienced most feelings—broken heart, badly sprained ankle, family death, emergency landing on a plane—but I had never experienced being put to sleep and I was very nervous. Not terrified, just concerned.
Finally, I was called back to a room where I put on the ubiquitous hospital gown and laid down on the bed. Within minutes, a very nice nurse came in and said, “For goodness sake, you don’t even have a pillow—didn’t you know to ask for one?” I said, “No because I thought you just had a lot of cost-saving measures in place”. Indeed, I was lying flat on my back holding my book up over my eyes—tres uncomfortable.
The surgeon came in for last minute questions. I asked, “can I have sex?” His reply, “can you?” My retort—“I am not asking for a recommendation, but an authorization”. But, I did confess how frightened I felt. I heard him say to someone, “Please make sure that you really knock her out because this is her first time and I don’t want her to be scared at all”.
I remember a couple of exchanges with the ever faithful L who was sitting by my side, then the next thing I remember is one of the ten worst moments of my life---the coming to. I guess no one can explain to you how horrible it is to slowly awaken with terrible shooting pains and no idea where you are. Unless, of course, you have attended a sales meeting in college publishing and stayed out too late after the awards banquet. Nah, this was much worse. I felt like my brain was stuttering and why did it hurt so much when I had been promised all this wonderful drugs?
The nurse came over and smiled, “oh, you’re finally coming to”. I bleated out, “have I suffered brain damage?” She turned away, her shoulders heaving. Christ, this was worse than anyone had told me. She couldn’t even face me. She looked at me and I tried to smile in a way that showed I could take any news, but my mouth wouldn’t move. I said, “please just go ahead and tell me because I can’t make a smile, so I know that I have brain damage”. She turned away again. This was worse than a Very Special Episode of Gray’s Anatomy. She walked back to my side and said, “your daughter will be here soon”. Then, I realized that she had been laughing, not crying, so I felt a bit better because surely she wasn’t one of the sadistic nurses that you read about in the New York Post metro section.
L came in and I tried to think of the kindest, dearest thing that I could say that would express my eternal gratitude to her. After all, it was now 8:00 and we had been told that we would be back at the triplex by 5:00. We still had hours to go. “I am going to buy you a television,” I announced.
I had to go through the horror of being moved from one bed to another, possibly one of the most painful moments of my life, but then the drugs started kicking in and I cheered up. Also, it was confirmed that I did not have brain damage and I could start to make a smile.
As we settled into the recovery room, L leaned close to me. “Stop saying that you are going to get me a television. You have said it about ten times. The nurses think that I don’t have a TV and you are making me look bad”. I thought about it for a minute. “OK,” I said, “then I will buy you a radio”. Where in the name of Jack Benny does anyone even get a radio?
After a little while, I called Mother although L had called her when the doctor gave the all clear. I immediately shouted, “please buy L a television” followed by “I have not sustained any brain damage”. The next day, Mother left me a plaintive message asking me to assure her that I had not really had brain surgery and also asked if it would be OK for her to send me the money for the TV for L because she wasn’t sure how to get one delivered to her.
Within two hours, I was walking out of the hospital. I told L just to let me out at the gate of the triplex and to get back to her life. She, wisely, said that she would leave the triplex until she saw that I was in bed. I came out of the bathroom and L had arranged on my nightstand a plethora of things that she thought I might want—Coke, water, blackberry, book, Lance’s crackers, and Reese peanut butter cups. I climbed in bed. L walked over and looked out the sliding glass door at the palm trees. She quietly said, “If I find out that you have walked down those steep steps, I’m not going to say something like I won’t help you again. Because you know I will, but, what I will do is come over and beat you up”. This is the kind of approach that I appreciate—direct and without sentimentality. As she walked down the hall, I called out, “I love you, L”. I heard a soft voice, “Love you, too”.
My recovery was complicated by, of all things, a terrible cold, which left me feeling cranky and tired. It took awhile to get the anesthesia out of my system, but, after 24 hours, I was not in any real pain. And, now I know what to expect from being put under, so I’ll cope better next time. And, as always, the wonderful doors that open when you least expect it reminded me that God or whomever you believe in will always see to it that you have family when you need it.
The surgeon that I visited told me that I would need to assure him that I would have someone to bring me to the hospital for the out-patient surgery, stay there during the surgery, take me home, and stay with me while I got settled. I told him that I preferred to take a taxi. I am, after all, a Family of One. He replied that he could not allow me to leave the hospital under my own duress and would keep me in the hospital until I showed that I could take care of myself.
This prompted much soul searching. My beloved K, of course, said that she fly down from the greater Hudson Valley area to stay with me, but the procedure did not seem that it warranted such energy. I considered having the procedure done in any number of places throughout the United States where I would have any number of delightful friends to go with me. I pondered why I enjoy living in a place where I have so few folks to call on, let alone hang out with. I pondered postponing the procedure until the year 2025. But, I finally decided to ask one of my colleagues, the lovely L, because we happened to be chatting about her family and I realized what a caring heart she had. I asked her if she would help and she said that she would be honored.
Having never had surgery of any sort, I was somewhat anxious about being anesthized as well as having to deal with pain that I had voted to have. The lump was on my belly button which would make sitting and standing very difficult for a few days. I was, of course, forbidden to drive for several days because of the anesthesia. I also could not attend my beloved Biltmore gym for several weeks and had to proceed with great caution in terms of my usual energetic schedule.
The day before, I went for the pre-op interview which was conducted by a vivacious woman who asked very earnestly—“I see that you live alone. Do you like it?” Inwardly sighing, I gave a pat answer. While she was looking through my file, I tried to think of something pleasant, so decided to ponder Paris. She asked me why I seemed so far away and I told her that I was thinking about my upcoming trip.. She said, “oh, you will feel just fine by the time you go to Paris in January.” I sighed and said, “well, before then, I have three trips to Charleston, three trips to see my parents, a trip to Philadelphia, a trip to Los Angeles, and a trip to New York”. She was very quiet. Then she said, “are you going on these trips by yourself?” I explained that I was although some of them were for business. She said, “do you ever stop and remember how lucky you are to have this time to yourself? I have never been anywhere by myself, not even out of the city of Miami”. So we worked on a day trip to Palm Beach for her. And, I was reminded again that being a Family of One is not so bad.
I know you are wondering if I told Mother. I had very mixed feelings about telling her. It was like it was something horrible that she would need to accept. On the other hand, I would be out of commission for a few days and, if she should need me, that would not be the time to tell her. She counts on my being available 24/7, so I decided it was best to just let her know that I was having a minor procedure and she should plan to count on the housekeeper for a few days. She was fine at first, but then lashed out at me, saying how selfish and heartless it was for me to tell her because I knew that they count on me and what were they supposed to do if I couldn’t get to North Carolina if they needed me? There was a time that her outrage would have really stung, but I realized that she was scared and cornered and that was just her way of releasing her fear. I listened and tried not to take her words to heart.
On the day of the surgery, I called her before I left the triplex. She was almost jaunty, but then said, “I want you to pretend like you are holding my right hand. Here it is, take it.” I went along with her. Then, she said, “now, I want you to hold out your left hand and feel who is holding it. That’s God”. I was incredibly touched. I had actually thought she was going to say my father. She said, “God and I are holding on to you and you are going to be fine”.
I also spoke to my dad who said, “I have had very similar procedures done, but it’s different when I have to live through your having the procedure. It’s not so bad when I am the one having it”. An interesting perspective.
And, with that, L picked me up. She turned out to be the ideal companion for a medical experience. L did not natter on mindlessly while we waited. She worked on her computer and I worked on my blackberry and we occasionally exchange work stories. After two hours, I finally picked up the book that I had brought. L said, without glancing up from her computer, “you better start reading because you have not read one word. I am watching you and you look at the page and then stare off into space. You are going to drive yourself crazy”. I laughed sheepishly.
I was frightened and anxious because I had absolutely no idea what to expect. I have probably experienced most feelings—broken heart, badly sprained ankle, family death, emergency landing on a plane—but I had never experienced being put to sleep and I was very nervous. Not terrified, just concerned.
Finally, I was called back to a room where I put on the ubiquitous hospital gown and laid down on the bed. Within minutes, a very nice nurse came in and said, “For goodness sake, you don’t even have a pillow—didn’t you know to ask for one?” I said, “No because I thought you just had a lot of cost-saving measures in place”. Indeed, I was lying flat on my back holding my book up over my eyes—tres uncomfortable.
The surgeon came in for last minute questions. I asked, “can I have sex?” His reply, “can you?” My retort—“I am not asking for a recommendation, but an authorization”. But, I did confess how frightened I felt. I heard him say to someone, “Please make sure that you really knock her out because this is her first time and I don’t want her to be scared at all”.
I remember a couple of exchanges with the ever faithful L who was sitting by my side, then the next thing I remember is one of the ten worst moments of my life---the coming to. I guess no one can explain to you how horrible it is to slowly awaken with terrible shooting pains and no idea where you are. Unless, of course, you have attended a sales meeting in college publishing and stayed out too late after the awards banquet. Nah, this was much worse. I felt like my brain was stuttering and why did it hurt so much when I had been promised all this wonderful drugs?
The nurse came over and smiled, “oh, you’re finally coming to”. I bleated out, “have I suffered brain damage?” She turned away, her shoulders heaving. Christ, this was worse than anyone had told me. She couldn’t even face me. She looked at me and I tried to smile in a way that showed I could take any news, but my mouth wouldn’t move. I said, “please just go ahead and tell me because I can’t make a smile, so I know that I have brain damage”. She turned away again. This was worse than a Very Special Episode of Gray’s Anatomy. She walked back to my side and said, “your daughter will be here soon”. Then, I realized that she had been laughing, not crying, so I felt a bit better because surely she wasn’t one of the sadistic nurses that you read about in the New York Post metro section.
L came in and I tried to think of the kindest, dearest thing that I could say that would express my eternal gratitude to her. After all, it was now 8:00 and we had been told that we would be back at the triplex by 5:00. We still had hours to go. “I am going to buy you a television,” I announced.
I had to go through the horror of being moved from one bed to another, possibly one of the most painful moments of my life, but then the drugs started kicking in and I cheered up. Also, it was confirmed that I did not have brain damage and I could start to make a smile.
As we settled into the recovery room, L leaned close to me. “Stop saying that you are going to get me a television. You have said it about ten times. The nurses think that I don’t have a TV and you are making me look bad”. I thought about it for a minute. “OK,” I said, “then I will buy you a radio”. Where in the name of Jack Benny does anyone even get a radio?
After a little while, I called Mother although L had called her when the doctor gave the all clear. I immediately shouted, “please buy L a television” followed by “I have not sustained any brain damage”. The next day, Mother left me a plaintive message asking me to assure her that I had not really had brain surgery and also asked if it would be OK for her to send me the money for the TV for L because she wasn’t sure how to get one delivered to her.
Within two hours, I was walking out of the hospital. I told L just to let me out at the gate of the triplex and to get back to her life. She, wisely, said that she would leave the triplex until she saw that I was in bed. I came out of the bathroom and L had arranged on my nightstand a plethora of things that she thought I might want—Coke, water, blackberry, book, Lance’s crackers, and Reese peanut butter cups. I climbed in bed. L walked over and looked out the sliding glass door at the palm trees. She quietly said, “If I find out that you have walked down those steep steps, I’m not going to say something like I won’t help you again. Because you know I will, but, what I will do is come over and beat you up”. This is the kind of approach that I appreciate—direct and without sentimentality. As she walked down the hall, I called out, “I love you, L”. I heard a soft voice, “Love you, too”.
My recovery was complicated by, of all things, a terrible cold, which left me feeling cranky and tired. It took awhile to get the anesthesia out of my system, but, after 24 hours, I was not in any real pain. And, now I know what to expect from being put under, so I’ll cope better next time. And, as always, the wonderful doors that open when you least expect it reminded me that God or whomever you believe in will always see to it that you have family when you need it.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Family of One Finds a New Dining Mecca Part II
As I checked out of the Peninsula Hotel on Monday, I mentioned to the concierge that my meal at Avenues was less than stellar and I would be warning folks not to try to the restaurant. He insisted that I meet with one of the managers, an idea that was well worth the time. Jisoo Chon, the assistant general manager for all of the Peninsula restaurants, helped to restore my faith in fine dining by taking my comments seriously and helping me to understand what had gone wrong. For example, the menu that I selected was Vegan which I should have been told. I should also have been informed that each course was available for $18, so that one could mix and match from each side of the menu. I shook my head in dismay. As he so nicely put it, “you chose our restaurant for your special Saturday night dinner and we completely ruined it for you”. He insisted that I come back for a do-over and, at some point, I probably will. I did read many rave reviews of Chef Curtis Duffy, so I should probably give it another try.
Now, on to other Chicago delights!
Gene and Georgettt---I heard mostly enthusiastic cries of YES when I said I was going there with the occasional “Why are you going to that dump?” It turned out be fabulous, not only a quintessential Chicago steakhouse experience, but one that also featured delectable Italian dishes that I am still thinking about. I went with a group of four, but am wondering if I could go there alone and devour the fried ravioli, shrimp de jonghe, and garbage salad on my own. The meat sauce for the fried ravioli was robust, but not overwhelming; the scampi-like flavor of the shrimp de jonghe was filled with citrus and just enough garlic; and the garbage salad, comprised of “whatever is left over in the kitchen” was glorious, but made magnificent by the best thousand island dressing that I have ever, ever tasted. Interestingly, my bone-in ribeye was my least favorite of the dishes, but it was still wonderful. The accompanying cottage fries truly tasted like potatoes with just enough crispness to make a perfect accompaniment to the steaks we ordered, along with sautéed mushrooms and creamed spinach. I wish that at this very moment I had the spumoni, clearly separated into four distinct flavors of vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, and pistachio, each rich and flavorful. The service was crisp, but wonderful. When I dribbled some of the meat sauce from the fried ravioli on the pristine white tablecloth, the waiter came over with a napkin to place expertly over it and murmured, “I shouldn’t have done that—please accept my apologies”. The atmosphere was just what we wanted—bustling, energetic, but not clamorous.
Province—This is exactly the kind of restaurant that we all want in our neighborhoods where we can get anything from a few light bites to ten hour BBQ’d lamb with potatoes frites and house made ketchup. A wonderful space with lots of light coming in from the floor to ceiling windows, the restaurant is a truly green space, awarded Gold Level LEED certification. The floors and tables are made from sustainably harvested cork. The banquettes are covered with recycled material. But, the food is the most happy combination of interesting, familiar, and flavorful—just like we all long for. I put myself into Chef Randy Zweiban’s hands with only three requests from the menu—the house cured and smoked arctic char ceviche, the roasted and pulled Indiana duck with seedling farms BBQ sauce and smoked slaw, and the buttermilk whipped potatoes. Chef Randy supplemented my choices beautifully with an heirloom tomato salad and an delightfully unexpected version of shrimp and grits featuring farm raised shrimp, Anson Mills grits, and manchego cheese, all coming together with a POW of flavor unlike the more sweet/salty combination that I have in my dear Charleston where shrimp and grits are more ubiquitous than cheeseburgers. The aforementioned duck was superb, but not nearly as stellar as the smoked slaw which I will always remember. I also enjoyed every bite of the buttermilk whipped potatoes—peppery, robust, and creamy—just like a Southern girl likes. After this meal, I was happy to enjoy the housemade goat milk ice cream and sit back to savor the evening. Interestingly, I heard a lovely woman across the restaurant talking about developmental math, a phrase that I think is only used by folks in educational publishing and education in general. I yelled in a most unlady-like way across the room—as there was no one left but us—if she worked in college publishing and, indeed, she was attending the same sales conference as I was, but our paths had never crossed. We discovered that we had worked with the same author—nearly 30 years apart—a nice touch of serendipity for what was a lovely exhale of an evening. Chef Randy was an attentive and spot-on host and I very sadly departed, wishing that I could have my own Province in the heart of my beloved Grove. PS. Chef Randy had actually lived in Miami and worked with Norman Van Aken, another delightful coincidence.
Blackbird—I was greeted with a welcoming glass of champagne as I entered yet another bright and airy spot. My new friend, Donnie, came over to greet me and we chatted about my range of experiences in the various Chicago restaurants I had frequented. A quick glance at the menu—appetizers only—and I was in heaven as several of my very favorite foods were represented: sweetbreads, duck liver pate, softshell crab, and foie gras. I explained my dilemma to Donnie who helped me figure out a menu—
Coffee-scented fluke tartare with lemon cucumber, saffron, and bread sauce
Salad of endives with crispy potatoes, basil, Dijon, pancetta, and fried egg (Donnie explained that this had been on the menu since the start of Blackbird—and it looked fabulous with its potato nest--)
Crispy Maryland soft shell crab with honey custard, edamame, yuba, and soy caramel (Donnie surprised me with this course)
Glazed veal sweetbreads with lime onions, tamarind, bee pollen, and fried chocolate
Roasted Hudson Valley foie gras with charred green garlic, black garlic, green strawberries, and shrimp salt
Every course was delectable with tastes that worked perfectly and, even after a delightful dacquoise, I did not fill overstuffed or ill. Just good. And happy.
It turned out that I was sitting next to a stunning couple around my age who was visiting from NYC. They work in the art world and were interesting and dynamic and we discussed our mutual love of travel and food and NYC and we were laughing and screaming like old friends, so Donnie brought over a complimentary dessert for them. After they departed, I chatted with a young couple from Kansas City and our conversation revolved around Roy Williams (friend or foe?) and, of course, North Carolina barbecue. We also laughed and screamed like old friends.
Being at Blackbird was like sitting in this bubble of wonderful energy. I talked books with the lovely Brittney, NYC restaurants with my server, Chicago observations with Donnie, I met interesting people, I savored so many foods that I love and wonderful wines to accompany them.
All of my dinners in Chicago were memorable—but the ones at Blackbird, Province, NoMi, and Spiaggia reminded me of why I am so passionate about dining and the incredible joy that it gives me. Which I hope I pass on to you! Now, how soon can I go back?
Now, on to other Chicago delights!
Gene and Georgettt---I heard mostly enthusiastic cries of YES when I said I was going there with the occasional “Why are you going to that dump?” It turned out be fabulous, not only a quintessential Chicago steakhouse experience, but one that also featured delectable Italian dishes that I am still thinking about. I went with a group of four, but am wondering if I could go there alone and devour the fried ravioli, shrimp de jonghe, and garbage salad on my own. The meat sauce for the fried ravioli was robust, but not overwhelming; the scampi-like flavor of the shrimp de jonghe was filled with citrus and just enough garlic; and the garbage salad, comprised of “whatever is left over in the kitchen” was glorious, but made magnificent by the best thousand island dressing that I have ever, ever tasted. Interestingly, my bone-in ribeye was my least favorite of the dishes, but it was still wonderful. The accompanying cottage fries truly tasted like potatoes with just enough crispness to make a perfect accompaniment to the steaks we ordered, along with sautéed mushrooms and creamed spinach. I wish that at this very moment I had the spumoni, clearly separated into four distinct flavors of vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, and pistachio, each rich and flavorful. The service was crisp, but wonderful. When I dribbled some of the meat sauce from the fried ravioli on the pristine white tablecloth, the waiter came over with a napkin to place expertly over it and murmured, “I shouldn’t have done that—please accept my apologies”. The atmosphere was just what we wanted—bustling, energetic, but not clamorous.
Province—This is exactly the kind of restaurant that we all want in our neighborhoods where we can get anything from a few light bites to ten hour BBQ’d lamb with potatoes frites and house made ketchup. A wonderful space with lots of light coming in from the floor to ceiling windows, the restaurant is a truly green space, awarded Gold Level LEED certification. The floors and tables are made from sustainably harvested cork. The banquettes are covered with recycled material. But, the food is the most happy combination of interesting, familiar, and flavorful—just like we all long for. I put myself into Chef Randy Zweiban’s hands with only three requests from the menu—the house cured and smoked arctic char ceviche, the roasted and pulled Indiana duck with seedling farms BBQ sauce and smoked slaw, and the buttermilk whipped potatoes. Chef Randy supplemented my choices beautifully with an heirloom tomato salad and an delightfully unexpected version of shrimp and grits featuring farm raised shrimp, Anson Mills grits, and manchego cheese, all coming together with a POW of flavor unlike the more sweet/salty combination that I have in my dear Charleston where shrimp and grits are more ubiquitous than cheeseburgers. The aforementioned duck was superb, but not nearly as stellar as the smoked slaw which I will always remember. I also enjoyed every bite of the buttermilk whipped potatoes—peppery, robust, and creamy—just like a Southern girl likes. After this meal, I was happy to enjoy the housemade goat milk ice cream and sit back to savor the evening. Interestingly, I heard a lovely woman across the restaurant talking about developmental math, a phrase that I think is only used by folks in educational publishing and education in general. I yelled in a most unlady-like way across the room—as there was no one left but us—if she worked in college publishing and, indeed, she was attending the same sales conference as I was, but our paths had never crossed. We discovered that we had worked with the same author—nearly 30 years apart—a nice touch of serendipity for what was a lovely exhale of an evening. Chef Randy was an attentive and spot-on host and I very sadly departed, wishing that I could have my own Province in the heart of my beloved Grove. PS. Chef Randy had actually lived in Miami and worked with Norman Van Aken, another delightful coincidence.
Blackbird—I was greeted with a welcoming glass of champagne as I entered yet another bright and airy spot. My new friend, Donnie, came over to greet me and we chatted about my range of experiences in the various Chicago restaurants I had frequented. A quick glance at the menu—appetizers only—and I was in heaven as several of my very favorite foods were represented: sweetbreads, duck liver pate, softshell crab, and foie gras. I explained my dilemma to Donnie who helped me figure out a menu—
Coffee-scented fluke tartare with lemon cucumber, saffron, and bread sauce
Salad of endives with crispy potatoes, basil, Dijon, pancetta, and fried egg (Donnie explained that this had been on the menu since the start of Blackbird—and it looked fabulous with its potato nest--)
Crispy Maryland soft shell crab with honey custard, edamame, yuba, and soy caramel (Donnie surprised me with this course)
Glazed veal sweetbreads with lime onions, tamarind, bee pollen, and fried chocolate
Roasted Hudson Valley foie gras with charred green garlic, black garlic, green strawberries, and shrimp salt
Every course was delectable with tastes that worked perfectly and, even after a delightful dacquoise, I did not fill overstuffed or ill. Just good. And happy.
It turned out that I was sitting next to a stunning couple around my age who was visiting from NYC. They work in the art world and were interesting and dynamic and we discussed our mutual love of travel and food and NYC and we were laughing and screaming like old friends, so Donnie brought over a complimentary dessert for them. After they departed, I chatted with a young couple from Kansas City and our conversation revolved around Roy Williams (friend or foe?) and, of course, North Carolina barbecue. We also laughed and screamed like old friends.
Being at Blackbird was like sitting in this bubble of wonderful energy. I talked books with the lovely Brittney, NYC restaurants with my server, Chicago observations with Donnie, I met interesting people, I savored so many foods that I love and wonderful wines to accompany them.
All of my dinners in Chicago were memorable—but the ones at Blackbird, Province, NoMi, and Spiaggia reminded me of why I am so passionate about dining and the incredible joy that it gives me. Which I hope I pass on to you! Now, how soon can I go back?
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Family of One Discovers a New Dining Mecca
I was looking forward to a few days in Chicago. I used to spend a lot of time there when I traveled the country as an editor, but hadn’t really savored the city in recent years. I made my restaurant plans accordingly, consulting a variety of friends and restaurant reviews. But, I never imagined that I would fall in love with the Windy City dining scene. Especially when one of my first meals was one of the worst dining experiences of my life. I may write further descriptions of these memorable meals, but, for now, wanted to let you know what I’ve been up to and some great Chicago places to try.
Friday—I had heard great things about NoMi at the Park Hyatt, so headed there for a Friday evening dinner. The restaurant had just received four stars from the Chicago Tribune, so everyone was in a festive mood and Piper Heidsick was served all around. My meal was splendid, selected from a brief array of selections—white asparagus veloute, veal tenderloin with sweetbreads (possibly my very favorite thing in the culinary world) and an apricot/hazelnut dessert. After a slightly bumpy beginning in too close a proximity to a four top of big mouths, I had my own four top and met several delightful folks including Aaron Sherman, the top notch sommelier. He gifted me with sliced black truffles on my veal dish and the server did something very interesting which was give me the last glass of wine that several patrons had remaining in their bottles. A lovely experience and I felt very well cared for.
Saturday—I had been looking forward to my dinner at Avenues with a chef who had worked at Alinea and won a James Beard prize. A glam location at the Peninsula, highly recommended by the folks at Eleven Madison Park as well as the folks at NoMi—sounds wonderful!! It was, unequivocally, the worst fine dining experience I have ever had. Of course, one is bound to have a misfire or two. But, this one was so egregious that I actually went back to my room, sat on my elegant sofa, and thought---why do I enjoy this so much? Is it a waste of my time (and money)? Is there something else that could feed (no pun intended) so much of my soul and energy?
The dining experience was not aided by a drab room, reminiscent of a conference room at the Marriott and techno-jazz blaring reminiscent of a two star Miami Beach hotel. The lovely sommelier from NoMi had made sure that a glass of Taittinger was waiting for me. The server was charming, but neglected to give me key information about the menu which was divided into two columns of eight dishes with names like sweet corn; grains, seeds, nuts; passion fruit. He explained that I could choose one of the two tastings. The one of the left—Light—or the one on the right—Protein. At the time, I thought this was a very odd description of the food served in a very fancy restaurant, but who was I to question it? Since I had enjoyed meat the night before, I went with the Light, thinking it would be seafood focused. What transpired was truly some of the most horrific taste combinations I have ever encountered and pray that I never taste again. The aforementioned sweet corn contained a “dome” of coconut and some other ingredient that I needed to crack which turned the whole dish into nothing but glop. In eight courses, there was not one flavor that I could identify or that tasted good. Period. In addition, there was a bread to accompany every course. The breads were tasteless as well. The servers kept piling them up on top of each other until there were literally four different kinds of bread piled up and toppling on the table. At this point, I called over the server and said, “I am not at Perkins—please take away these runaway pieces of bread”. One of the dessert courses was so acidic that I could not enjoy another meal for a couple of days.
You get the picture. And, so did the assistant general manager when I sat down with him on Monday. But, in the meantime, we end Saturday—for the first time—filled with doubt about why the art of dining is so important.
Sunday—After several Immodiums and some Pepto-Bismol along with a gorgeous summer day awaiting, I decided to keep my reservations for the day—brunch at the Publican and dinner at Spiaggia. After a stroll through Lincoln Park, I found myself at an outdoor table at the Publican with a cool breeze blowing and surrounded by lively, engaged diners like myself. I ordered the Wurstweis with pretzel and hash browns. The latter were among the best I have ever tasted. The Wurstweis was sweet and flavorful, if a bit overwhelming. I ate only a tiny bit, but felt great reading my Scott Turow novel and enjoying the buzz of the restaurant. A nice gray-haired gentleman came over and asked how I was doing. I assumed he was a manager of some sorts, so we exchanged a few pleasantries, then I heard him barking orders to a waiter. In a few minutes, the gentleman passed by me on a Schwinn bike. Our eyes met and I said, “I am so sorry you are leaving. I thought we were just starting to get to know each other”. Much to my surprise, he hopped off the bike and came over sat down with me. I told him that I had heard him chatting with someone he called “Chef” and asked who that might be. He said, “oh, I must introduce you”, and within moments, I had made the acquaintance of Chef Randy Guidara of the fabulous green restaurant Province. As Chef Randy and I chatted, my new friend was scribbling away on a postcard. He handed me the card with both of their cell phones as well as addresses of their restaurants and asked if I would come to visit them in the week ahead. I was seated with Donnie Madia, owner of not only The Publican, but Blackbird and Avec. I mentioned my disappointment of the night before and they assured me that I would be in good hands at their restaurants. The gentlemen excused themselves to continue their afternoons and I sighed contentedly as I recalled what happiness my passion for dining brings me with the unexpected connections that we make at the top of the list.
Although my stomach was still doing jumping jacks, I decided to proceed to Spiaggia. It was a good call. When dining alone, I usually focus on the servers and how I can make their jobs easy because I know how busy they are and I am, after all, only one patron. But, on this night, I shared with the lovely Erin and her colleague Annette my physical distress and they promised that I would leave Spiaggia feeling better. (My only goal was to not feel worse). The chef prepared a special amuse for me—a bomboloni crested with prosciutto—something about the sweetness and saltiness tasted really good. I felt like eating some sort of very light fish as well as some pasta. I ordered crudo of fluke with ossetra caviar (at $58, one of the most expensive appetizers that I have ever had) which was just perfect. And, the chef prepared some housemade pasta with olive oil and cheese. Absolute heaven. By now, Erin, Annette, and I are all great friends. Erin insists on treating me to a glass of an amaro which was powerful and helpful. Annette brought over orange and passion fruit sorbet in addition to the cantaloupe one that I had ordered. The chef came out to make sure that they had not overwhelmed me. The manager came over to make sure we had all hit it off as he thought we would—based on the fact that when I entered the restaurant and he said, “Miss Southern, I presume,” I replied, “who wants to know?” And, as Erin had assured me, I DID feel better. Not great, but good. And, I strolled down Michigan Avenue to my hotel to watch Mad Men in high def , realizing that Avenues had been but a blip in my dining career.
To be continued. . . .
With—what transpired from the meeting with the Avenues manager, dining at a classic Chicago institution, and dining with Chef Randy and Donnie. . . .
Friday—I had heard great things about NoMi at the Park Hyatt, so headed there for a Friday evening dinner. The restaurant had just received four stars from the Chicago Tribune, so everyone was in a festive mood and Piper Heidsick was served all around. My meal was splendid, selected from a brief array of selections—white asparagus veloute, veal tenderloin with sweetbreads (possibly my very favorite thing in the culinary world) and an apricot/hazelnut dessert. After a slightly bumpy beginning in too close a proximity to a four top of big mouths, I had my own four top and met several delightful folks including Aaron Sherman, the top notch sommelier. He gifted me with sliced black truffles on my veal dish and the server did something very interesting which was give me the last glass of wine that several patrons had remaining in their bottles. A lovely experience and I felt very well cared for.
Saturday—I had been looking forward to my dinner at Avenues with a chef who had worked at Alinea and won a James Beard prize. A glam location at the Peninsula, highly recommended by the folks at Eleven Madison Park as well as the folks at NoMi—sounds wonderful!! It was, unequivocally, the worst fine dining experience I have ever had. Of course, one is bound to have a misfire or two. But, this one was so egregious that I actually went back to my room, sat on my elegant sofa, and thought---why do I enjoy this so much? Is it a waste of my time (and money)? Is there something else that could feed (no pun intended) so much of my soul and energy?
The dining experience was not aided by a drab room, reminiscent of a conference room at the Marriott and techno-jazz blaring reminiscent of a two star Miami Beach hotel. The lovely sommelier from NoMi had made sure that a glass of Taittinger was waiting for me. The server was charming, but neglected to give me key information about the menu which was divided into two columns of eight dishes with names like sweet corn; grains, seeds, nuts; passion fruit. He explained that I could choose one of the two tastings. The one of the left—Light—or the one on the right—Protein. At the time, I thought this was a very odd description of the food served in a very fancy restaurant, but who was I to question it? Since I had enjoyed meat the night before, I went with the Light, thinking it would be seafood focused. What transpired was truly some of the most horrific taste combinations I have ever encountered and pray that I never taste again. The aforementioned sweet corn contained a “dome” of coconut and some other ingredient that I needed to crack which turned the whole dish into nothing but glop. In eight courses, there was not one flavor that I could identify or that tasted good. Period. In addition, there was a bread to accompany every course. The breads were tasteless as well. The servers kept piling them up on top of each other until there were literally four different kinds of bread piled up and toppling on the table. At this point, I called over the server and said, “I am not at Perkins—please take away these runaway pieces of bread”. One of the dessert courses was so acidic that I could not enjoy another meal for a couple of days.
You get the picture. And, so did the assistant general manager when I sat down with him on Monday. But, in the meantime, we end Saturday—for the first time—filled with doubt about why the art of dining is so important.
Sunday—After several Immodiums and some Pepto-Bismol along with a gorgeous summer day awaiting, I decided to keep my reservations for the day—brunch at the Publican and dinner at Spiaggia. After a stroll through Lincoln Park, I found myself at an outdoor table at the Publican with a cool breeze blowing and surrounded by lively, engaged diners like myself. I ordered the Wurstweis with pretzel and hash browns. The latter were among the best I have ever tasted. The Wurstweis was sweet and flavorful, if a bit overwhelming. I ate only a tiny bit, but felt great reading my Scott Turow novel and enjoying the buzz of the restaurant. A nice gray-haired gentleman came over and asked how I was doing. I assumed he was a manager of some sorts, so we exchanged a few pleasantries, then I heard him barking orders to a waiter. In a few minutes, the gentleman passed by me on a Schwinn bike. Our eyes met and I said, “I am so sorry you are leaving. I thought we were just starting to get to know each other”. Much to my surprise, he hopped off the bike and came over sat down with me. I told him that I had heard him chatting with someone he called “Chef” and asked who that might be. He said, “oh, I must introduce you”, and within moments, I had made the acquaintance of Chef Randy Guidara of the fabulous green restaurant Province. As Chef Randy and I chatted, my new friend was scribbling away on a postcard. He handed me the card with both of their cell phones as well as addresses of their restaurants and asked if I would come to visit them in the week ahead. I was seated with Donnie Madia, owner of not only The Publican, but Blackbird and Avec. I mentioned my disappointment of the night before and they assured me that I would be in good hands at their restaurants. The gentlemen excused themselves to continue their afternoons and I sighed contentedly as I recalled what happiness my passion for dining brings me with the unexpected connections that we make at the top of the list.
Although my stomach was still doing jumping jacks, I decided to proceed to Spiaggia. It was a good call. When dining alone, I usually focus on the servers and how I can make their jobs easy because I know how busy they are and I am, after all, only one patron. But, on this night, I shared with the lovely Erin and her colleague Annette my physical distress and they promised that I would leave Spiaggia feeling better. (My only goal was to not feel worse). The chef prepared a special amuse for me—a bomboloni crested with prosciutto—something about the sweetness and saltiness tasted really good. I felt like eating some sort of very light fish as well as some pasta. I ordered crudo of fluke with ossetra caviar (at $58, one of the most expensive appetizers that I have ever had) which was just perfect. And, the chef prepared some housemade pasta with olive oil and cheese. Absolute heaven. By now, Erin, Annette, and I are all great friends. Erin insists on treating me to a glass of an amaro which was powerful and helpful. Annette brought over orange and passion fruit sorbet in addition to the cantaloupe one that I had ordered. The chef came out to make sure that they had not overwhelmed me. The manager came over to make sure we had all hit it off as he thought we would—based on the fact that when I entered the restaurant and he said, “Miss Southern, I presume,” I replied, “who wants to know?” And, as Erin had assured me, I DID feel better. Not great, but good. And, I strolled down Michigan Avenue to my hotel to watch Mad Men in high def , realizing that Avenues had been but a blip in my dining career.
To be continued. . . .
With—what transpired from the meeting with the Avenues manager, dining at a classic Chicago institution, and dining with Chef Randy and Donnie. . . .
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Family of One Goes to a Reading
It was with some horror that I realized recently that I have been spending way too much time lounging on the sectional sofa. I believe that is referred to as cocooning and can be very restorative for one's mental health; however, as I noted that I spent every Sunday night and most Saturday nights in the triplex, I realized that it was time to get out a bit more. Trips to NYC and points beyond are wonderful, of course, but one should not ignore the marvelous city just outside the gates of the triplex community.
Monday night had been a night for catching up on work and assorted other doodads around the house, but when I saw that Jennifer Weiner was giving a reading at my beloved Books and Books, I decided to make a night of it, complete with dinner in Coral Gables.
I had been abstaining from readings since the the last couple that I attended were either so boring as to be embarrassing or so borderline hostile as to be irritating. Per the latter, I had been very excited about meeting a certain somewhat successful authoress who has written one of my alltime favorite novels. There to tout her latest, I was shocked at her gaunt and spindly appearance, resembling nothing like the lissome creature on her cover photos. She insisted on reading from the book in different voices for each character which I found off-putting. But, not nearly as off-putting as when I approached her to sign my book and said, "I must think about your book xxxxxxxxx every couple of days. What a fascinating world you created". Looking at me in a way that can only be called supercilious, she replied, "Don't you have anything better to do? I don't even think about it like that and I wrote it".
So, an evening with Jennifer Weiner promised to be the antidote to such brittleness. And, indeed, it was. I loved being surrounded in the audience by smart, attractive women talking with each other in an animated way about their latest goings-on. There was a large crowd and the energy in the room was full of happy anticipation. I helped an elderly couple relocate from their cramped seats in front of me and ended up learning all about them, including the fact that rather than get married for the third time for each, they are happy to be companions--at the age of 86. An Asian woman came over to speak to them and told me how familiar I looked to her. It turns out that we worked together 15 years ago at Harper Collins in NYC.
The author has a real gift for making the room a delight. She has written quite a few best sellers and tells a great story as well as creating warm, memorable characters. She was kind, funny, lovely, and passed out huge trays of Misha's cupcakes. I asked a question that elicited lots of supporting murmurs from the people around me and a very kind response from her. Afterwards, as I stood in the long line to have my book signed, I observed how she personally connected with each person and I loved seeing the smiles on thier faces as they walked away from her. I enjoyed my moment with her as well.
Then, the return to another tradition that I had abandoned. At one time, I was journeying to Ruth's Chris (which is in the next block) with much frequency although you will be happy to know that I did not have a steak except once a month. I stopped going because they replaced most of the comfortable club chairs in the bar where I ate with high stools that were not so comfortable. But, I felt like it was a good night to go back. I strode in and there was Mike, my favorite server. "Mary Jo," he calls out, "there is your favorite table". And, indeed, there it was, one of the three surviving tables with "real" chairs. Within minutes, "here's your lemon drop". Sighing with happiness, I settled in with my book, a chopped salad, and a crab-tini (a freshly luscious crab salad) and savored the evening.
Monday night had been a night for catching up on work and assorted other doodads around the house, but when I saw that Jennifer Weiner was giving a reading at my beloved Books and Books, I decided to make a night of it, complete with dinner in Coral Gables.
I had been abstaining from readings since the the last couple that I attended were either so boring as to be embarrassing or so borderline hostile as to be irritating. Per the latter, I had been very excited about meeting a certain somewhat successful authoress who has written one of my alltime favorite novels. There to tout her latest, I was shocked at her gaunt and spindly appearance, resembling nothing like the lissome creature on her cover photos. She insisted on reading from the book in different voices for each character which I found off-putting. But, not nearly as off-putting as when I approached her to sign my book and said, "I must think about your book xxxxxxxxx every couple of days. What a fascinating world you created". Looking at me in a way that can only be called supercilious, she replied, "Don't you have anything better to do? I don't even think about it like that and I wrote it".
So, an evening with Jennifer Weiner promised to be the antidote to such brittleness. And, indeed, it was. I loved being surrounded in the audience by smart, attractive women talking with each other in an animated way about their latest goings-on. There was a large crowd and the energy in the room was full of happy anticipation. I helped an elderly couple relocate from their cramped seats in front of me and ended up learning all about them, including the fact that rather than get married for the third time for each, they are happy to be companions--at the age of 86. An Asian woman came over to speak to them and told me how familiar I looked to her. It turns out that we worked together 15 years ago at Harper Collins in NYC.
The author has a real gift for making the room a delight. She has written quite a few best sellers and tells a great story as well as creating warm, memorable characters. She was kind, funny, lovely, and passed out huge trays of Misha's cupcakes. I asked a question that elicited lots of supporting murmurs from the people around me and a very kind response from her. Afterwards, as I stood in the long line to have my book signed, I observed how she personally connected with each person and I loved seeing the smiles on thier faces as they walked away from her. I enjoyed my moment with her as well.
Then, the return to another tradition that I had abandoned. At one time, I was journeying to Ruth's Chris (which is in the next block) with much frequency although you will be happy to know that I did not have a steak except once a month. I stopped going because they replaced most of the comfortable club chairs in the bar where I ate with high stools that were not so comfortable. But, I felt like it was a good night to go back. I strode in and there was Mike, my favorite server. "Mary Jo," he calls out, "there is your favorite table". And, indeed, there it was, one of the three surviving tables with "real" chairs. Within minutes, "here's your lemon drop". Sighing with happiness, I settled in with my book, a chopped salad, and a crab-tini (a freshly luscious crab salad) and savored the evening.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Family of One Goes to Madrid
In a little while, I will be heading off to Madrid where I plan to do little more than stroll through lovely gardens, seek out cathedrals that I have not visited, sit with my novel for hours in a tapas cafe, and, of course, chow down during the dinner hour. I will be back in ten days. Maybe.
As I prepare to depart, I couldn't help but think about an interesting adventure that I had with Mother. When I was in college, Mother and Dad took me on the Grand Tour of Europe, aka an American Express tour. While in Rome, we had a group dinner at one of the fabulous villas just outside the city and there was dancing to the strains of a local band afterwards. Certain gentlemen had been enlisted to dance with the ladies in the group. The forty-something pseudo-Lothario who danced with me was, shall we say, very excited by this opportunity and he danced me outside the restaurant where we made out frantically. This was all very exciting to a 19 year old.
As we prepared to get on the bus for the ride back to Rome, there was a group of young men--all incredibly handsome--loitering around the bus. I am not sure why because they weren't pan handlers, but, at any rate, they caught site of another young woman on the tour, a lissome, but demure, beauty from Asheville, NC and me. They went crazy whistling and yelling and making the international symbol for I would like to have sex with you. I couldn't help but look over and give a saucy glance or three.
We got on the bus and they went even crazier. Now, they were standing on each other's shoulders and peering in the bus and continuing to make their hand signals accompanied by leers and obscene mouth movements. Mother got wind of this and went into action. She made the international sign for I don't really care for you (third finger erect) and, then, not understanding how truly insulting this was, the Italian sign for get you know what--hand under chin in a dismissive gesture.
The crowd went wild and now started rocking the bus back and forth! This was much more exciting than being thrown out of the Louis XV hotel casino in Monte Carlo because I was underage. They were kissing the windows and giving Mother obscene gestures and almost out of control.
Finally, the bus driver (on whom I had a crush, one of my early brushes with an older man) had to step outside and put a stop to this frivolity. Mother was lecturing everyone around us on the evils of sex and how men should be kept in cages until they were 25. I was trying to get one last peek at the sight of all these adorable men.
I don't plan on taking any bus tours in Madrid, but I shall certainly be on the lookout for any restaurant experiences that include being danced on to a veranda and smooched passionately.
As I prepare to depart, I couldn't help but think about an interesting adventure that I had with Mother. When I was in college, Mother and Dad took me on the Grand Tour of Europe, aka an American Express tour. While in Rome, we had a group dinner at one of the fabulous villas just outside the city and there was dancing to the strains of a local band afterwards. Certain gentlemen had been enlisted to dance with the ladies in the group. The forty-something pseudo-Lothario who danced with me was, shall we say, very excited by this opportunity and he danced me outside the restaurant where we made out frantically. This was all very exciting to a 19 year old.
As we prepared to get on the bus for the ride back to Rome, there was a group of young men--all incredibly handsome--loitering around the bus. I am not sure why because they weren't pan handlers, but, at any rate, they caught site of another young woman on the tour, a lissome, but demure, beauty from Asheville, NC and me. They went crazy whistling and yelling and making the international symbol for I would like to have sex with you. I couldn't help but look over and give a saucy glance or three.
We got on the bus and they went even crazier. Now, they were standing on each other's shoulders and peering in the bus and continuing to make their hand signals accompanied by leers and obscene mouth movements. Mother got wind of this and went into action. She made the international sign for I don't really care for you (third finger erect) and, then, not understanding how truly insulting this was, the Italian sign for get you know what--hand under chin in a dismissive gesture.
The crowd went wild and now started rocking the bus back and forth! This was much more exciting than being thrown out of the Louis XV hotel casino in Monte Carlo because I was underage. They were kissing the windows and giving Mother obscene gestures and almost out of control.
Finally, the bus driver (on whom I had a crush, one of my early brushes with an older man) had to step outside and put a stop to this frivolity. Mother was lecturing everyone around us on the evils of sex and how men should be kept in cages until they were 25. I was trying to get one last peek at the sight of all these adorable men.
I don't plan on taking any bus tours in Madrid, but I shall certainly be on the lookout for any restaurant experiences that include being danced on to a veranda and smooched passionately.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Family of One Has a Birthday Weekend to Remember
Even though it has been three weeks since my birthday weekend, I am still so pleased that it was, indeed, a birthday to wipe away all memories of the dreadful ones of years past. I enjoyed every minute at the Gramercy Park hotel, even when the room hadn't been cleaned at 4:30 in the afternoon and there were light bulbs missing because this led to a scene straight out of the Marx Brothers' Night at the Opera when what seemed like hundreds of people filled their tiny stateroom. I had six workers in the room and the bathroom and we were all just giggling with the absurdity of the situation. I loved sitting in Gramercy Park. I loved Maiolino, the restaurant in the Gramercy Park hotel where I had Italian breakfast, brunch, and lunch (not on the same day. I loved seeing Please Give and Solitary Man. I loved going to the Redhead and having incredible homemade potato chips with brown butter onion dip, a one-eyed Caesar (Caesar salad with a brioche topped with a perfectly fried egg), and duck andouille gumbo, all under the aegis of Gregg Nelson, possibly the nicest person in the New York area. I loved seeing Cristina and Frank at the Mandarin Oriental and enjoying the glorious view and key lime cosmos. I loved being on the first row for La Cage aux Folles and seeing Douglas Hodge give one of the best performances that I have ever seen. All of this would have been a fabulous gift to unwrap, but I had more experiences, all in restaurants, that made the weekend one to remember for a long time.
LA TOCQUEVILLE ROMANCE UP CLOSE:
Dear friends had recommended La Tocqueville, just off Union Square and I was anxious to give it a try, so I sauntered over there after seeing Please Give. As the Zagat guide says, it is a jewel box of a restaurant and reminded me of how I had pictured all NYC restaurants when I was growing up. It is spacious and comfortable with an extremely high ceiling and muted colors complemented by beautiful moldings. The food was lovely--a vegetable salad with marvelous ingredients right from the Union Square greenmarket and a perfectly poached lobster with celery root puree and a lovely little flan. All very tasteful and relaxing. I am feeling very cosseted. But, at a table about six feet away are an older man and a younger woman. I roll my eyes at the cliche of it. He is short, but appears handsome, and wearing a suit (very unusual). She is completely overdressed like something out of a Carol Burnett parody of New York and has the worst overbite that I have ever seen. It is so pronounced that I keep running my tongue over my teeth to make sure that my teeth are stil alinged. Yet, she seems to think that she is a combination of Ivana Trump and Cameron Diaz. The other patrons are casually dressed and speak in calm, if enthusiastic tones. I try very hard not to hear every word being said, but as the evening wears on and diners depart, I have no choice. The lady asks the man to describe every woman he has "known" in the capacity that he has known her. Gentle Jesus, I cry to myself, don't go there. But, there he goes, enumerating what he has "loved" about his other "women". Then, he talks about why he loves his wife and why he will never leave her. I am starting to get annoyed, but I decide to sit back and watch this unfold. It is like some kind of two-character play for which I would pay $90. The gentleman then used the word "mistress" to describe his guest--the horror, the faux tears, the recriminations. I wouldn't leave for anything. Then, he asked her about the men she had loved. It was all I could do not to shush her as she proceeded to dish for more than 20 minutes about the one man to whom she had been engaged growing more and more unappealing as she described the falling apart of their relationship. During this tirade, the man never stopped sitting straight up, but his entire body language became more and more withdrawn which, of course, that poor fool never noted. There were so many facets that fascinated me--why they never acknowledged me, as close I was sitting; the wistfulness emanating from each of them as they completely missed each other; and, as I departed, the fact that this was one unattractive man as his face and body resembled that of Rumpelstiltkin and a woman who was desperately trying to look 35 even though she was probably 50. As I strolled back to the Gramercy Park hotel, I savored my Family of Oneness and made mental notes on how not to talk if and when I find myself in such a situation.
A MODERN BIRTHDAY
Lunch at the Modern barroom seemed like the perfect place to while away a couple of hours. And, indeed, the white gazpacho, the housemade sausage, the himachi sashimi, the adult Kit Kat (chocolate dacquoise) were all fabulous. But, even better, I chatted with the most lovely couple of a certain age next to me who were from Columbia, SC. They had met after their first spouses passed away and friends insisted on introducing them. They were utterly happy and so comfortable in their conversation that I teasingly told them that I could not believe that they were married. They had been together about seven years. The gentleman offered to buy me a glass of champagne and the three of us had the most delightful time comparing living in NYC to living in the South, the mercurial nature of falling in love, etc. As we dished and chatted, a family of four across the aisle was eyeing us-an elderly lady, two middle-aged fellows, and a young woman in her 20s. One of the men yelled over, "it's our grandmother's birthday and she is 95!" Said lady got up and came over to the table and we marveled at the serendipity of meeting on our birthdays. Turns out the group was from Charlotte--the elderly lady, her gay son, his partner, and her niece. I said--"you are just like your own TV show". We were all screaming with laughter and everyone else wished that they were sitting close to us. We all agreed that we would love to spend the afternoon yukking it up, but we had places to go--weddings for the couple from Columbia, the Twyla Tharp show for the family from Charlotte followed by dinner at Cafe Boulud (God, that 95 year old had more energy than I did! ), and Think Pink salon for mani/pedi with my darling Meme.
EMP
On Friday, my beloved K journeyed in from Rhinebeck to join me at Eleven Madison Park. For Christmas, Aunt Louise had given me an envelope with ten ten dollar bills in it and said for me to take someone to lunch at someplace special. So, I asked K if she could go with me to EMP to use that money. K was delighted and said that she would subsidize the rest. It was the meal of a lifetime in so many ways. Of course, we went crazy over the roasted chicken for two, the very best chicken I have ever tasted. We savored our tuna tartare and our gnocchi and our other treats. We didn't talk that much--we had already had our usual heart to heart chat while we strolled through Gramercy Park. From time to time, K's eyes filled with tears. It was a truly magical lunch because, best of all, K met nearly every member of my EMP dining family who presented themselves at our table like courtiers. And, as K put it, "I shall never forget the sight of Chef Humm making a beeline for OUR table". She was quite taken with him (the latest James Beard award winner) and his easy charm and down to earth attitude. Afterwards, we strolled back to the hotel where we could only loll in a state of suspended happiness and recount every morsel we had eaten and every lovely person we had seen. K's parting remark--"EMP is truly a bubble of delight in this crazy world and no wonder you cherish it so much because everything else just falls away".
I returned for my birthday dinner and had a marvelous meal and yukked it up with the folks who have become so very dear to me. My dear friends, the Rs, whom I met through EMP, made sure that I had a glass of champagne sent over. Interestingly, I can't say that the dinner was any better or different than the usual meal there, but I think that is a wonderful thing. Although the captain did bring me my very own bottle of Woodford Reserve for after-dinner imbibing. I was there until 1:30 AM, so it was quite an evening. I savored my conversations with each of my EMP family-each so devoted to good food and wonderful living, but so different from each other and with whom I have an unique fondness for each one. Just like a family!
Here is the menu:
Santa Barbara sea urchin/custard with Sterling Royal Caviar, Green Apple and Shellfish Ragout
Ice Cream Lollipop--carrot and kasha and presented in a silver bowl filled with green grass from which you pluck the lollipop
Spring Pea chilled soup with buttermilk snow and Bayonne ham crisp
Peekytoe crab sald with pickled Daikon radish, crustacean mayonnaise, and spring flowers
Arctic Char seared with Oregon morels, garden peas, and pearl onions
Milk Fed Veal blanquette with spring vegetables, tarragon, and crayfish
Artisanal cheeses
"Soda Pop", a concoction of tangerine, grapefruit, pomelo, lemon and pop rocks
Milk and Chocolate variations of flavor and texture (this is one of the few weak links that I have ever tasted at EMP)
What a relief to have such a weekend and what a joy to re-live it with you!
LA TOCQUEVILLE ROMANCE UP CLOSE:
Dear friends had recommended La Tocqueville, just off Union Square and I was anxious to give it a try, so I sauntered over there after seeing Please Give. As the Zagat guide says, it is a jewel box of a restaurant and reminded me of how I had pictured all NYC restaurants when I was growing up. It is spacious and comfortable with an extremely high ceiling and muted colors complemented by beautiful moldings. The food was lovely--a vegetable salad with marvelous ingredients right from the Union Square greenmarket and a perfectly poached lobster with celery root puree and a lovely little flan. All very tasteful and relaxing. I am feeling very cosseted. But, at a table about six feet away are an older man and a younger woman. I roll my eyes at the cliche of it. He is short, but appears handsome, and wearing a suit (very unusual). She is completely overdressed like something out of a Carol Burnett parody of New York and has the worst overbite that I have ever seen. It is so pronounced that I keep running my tongue over my teeth to make sure that my teeth are stil alinged. Yet, she seems to think that she is a combination of Ivana Trump and Cameron Diaz. The other patrons are casually dressed and speak in calm, if enthusiastic tones. I try very hard not to hear every word being said, but as the evening wears on and diners depart, I have no choice. The lady asks the man to describe every woman he has "known" in the capacity that he has known her. Gentle Jesus, I cry to myself, don't go there. But, there he goes, enumerating what he has "loved" about his other "women". Then, he talks about why he loves his wife and why he will never leave her. I am starting to get annoyed, but I decide to sit back and watch this unfold. It is like some kind of two-character play for which I would pay $90. The gentleman then used the word "mistress" to describe his guest--the horror, the faux tears, the recriminations. I wouldn't leave for anything. Then, he asked her about the men she had loved. It was all I could do not to shush her as she proceeded to dish for more than 20 minutes about the one man to whom she had been engaged growing more and more unappealing as she described the falling apart of their relationship. During this tirade, the man never stopped sitting straight up, but his entire body language became more and more withdrawn which, of course, that poor fool never noted. There were so many facets that fascinated me--why they never acknowledged me, as close I was sitting; the wistfulness emanating from each of them as they completely missed each other; and, as I departed, the fact that this was one unattractive man as his face and body resembled that of Rumpelstiltkin and a woman who was desperately trying to look 35 even though she was probably 50. As I strolled back to the Gramercy Park hotel, I savored my Family of Oneness and made mental notes on how not to talk if and when I find myself in such a situation.
A MODERN BIRTHDAY
Lunch at the Modern barroom seemed like the perfect place to while away a couple of hours. And, indeed, the white gazpacho, the housemade sausage, the himachi sashimi, the adult Kit Kat (chocolate dacquoise) were all fabulous. But, even better, I chatted with the most lovely couple of a certain age next to me who were from Columbia, SC. They had met after their first spouses passed away and friends insisted on introducing them. They were utterly happy and so comfortable in their conversation that I teasingly told them that I could not believe that they were married. They had been together about seven years. The gentleman offered to buy me a glass of champagne and the three of us had the most delightful time comparing living in NYC to living in the South, the mercurial nature of falling in love, etc. As we dished and chatted, a family of four across the aisle was eyeing us-an elderly lady, two middle-aged fellows, and a young woman in her 20s. One of the men yelled over, "it's our grandmother's birthday and she is 95!" Said lady got up and came over to the table and we marveled at the serendipity of meeting on our birthdays. Turns out the group was from Charlotte--the elderly lady, her gay son, his partner, and her niece. I said--"you are just like your own TV show". We were all screaming with laughter and everyone else wished that they were sitting close to us. We all agreed that we would love to spend the afternoon yukking it up, but we had places to go--weddings for the couple from Columbia, the Twyla Tharp show for the family from Charlotte followed by dinner at Cafe Boulud (God, that 95 year old had more energy than I did! ), and Think Pink salon for mani/pedi with my darling Meme.
EMP
On Friday, my beloved K journeyed in from Rhinebeck to join me at Eleven Madison Park. For Christmas, Aunt Louise had given me an envelope with ten ten dollar bills in it and said for me to take someone to lunch at someplace special. So, I asked K if she could go with me to EMP to use that money. K was delighted and said that she would subsidize the rest. It was the meal of a lifetime in so many ways. Of course, we went crazy over the roasted chicken for two, the very best chicken I have ever tasted. We savored our tuna tartare and our gnocchi and our other treats. We didn't talk that much--we had already had our usual heart to heart chat while we strolled through Gramercy Park. From time to time, K's eyes filled with tears. It was a truly magical lunch because, best of all, K met nearly every member of my EMP dining family who presented themselves at our table like courtiers. And, as K put it, "I shall never forget the sight of Chef Humm making a beeline for OUR table". She was quite taken with him (the latest James Beard award winner) and his easy charm and down to earth attitude. Afterwards, we strolled back to the hotel where we could only loll in a state of suspended happiness and recount every morsel we had eaten and every lovely person we had seen. K's parting remark--"EMP is truly a bubble of delight in this crazy world and no wonder you cherish it so much because everything else just falls away".
I returned for my birthday dinner and had a marvelous meal and yukked it up with the folks who have become so very dear to me. My dear friends, the Rs, whom I met through EMP, made sure that I had a glass of champagne sent over. Interestingly, I can't say that the dinner was any better or different than the usual meal there, but I think that is a wonderful thing. Although the captain did bring me my very own bottle of Woodford Reserve for after-dinner imbibing. I was there until 1:30 AM, so it was quite an evening. I savored my conversations with each of my EMP family-each so devoted to good food and wonderful living, but so different from each other and with whom I have an unique fondness for each one. Just like a family!
Here is the menu:
Santa Barbara sea urchin/custard with Sterling Royal Caviar, Green Apple and Shellfish Ragout
Ice Cream Lollipop--carrot and kasha and presented in a silver bowl filled with green grass from which you pluck the lollipop
Spring Pea chilled soup with buttermilk snow and Bayonne ham crisp
Peekytoe crab sald with pickled Daikon radish, crustacean mayonnaise, and spring flowers
Arctic Char seared with Oregon morels, garden peas, and pearl onions
Milk Fed Veal blanquette with spring vegetables, tarragon, and crayfish
Artisanal cheeses
"Soda Pop", a concoction of tangerine, grapefruit, pomelo, lemon and pop rocks
Milk and Chocolate variations of flavor and texture (this is one of the few weak links that I have ever tasted at EMP)
What a relief to have such a weekend and what a joy to re-live it with you!
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Family of One Celebrates a Birthday
There is something a little more special about a birthday that falls on a Saturday. At least, I have always thought so and when my birthday fell on a Saturday in 2004, I decided to do something different and have a dream party for myself. I had been living in Miami for about two years, had a favorite restaurant in the still dilapidated Midtown part of Miami, and had collected an interesting array of acquaintances. I asked the owners of the restaurant, a small Victorian home featuring better coconut cake than the Peninsula Grill, to close for the night and we planned a buffet menu and asked their piano player who had played with Count Basie and accompanied Sammy Davis, Jr. at the Fontainebleau to be there. Because there was a theme to the party--it was going to be a jazz cabaret and everyone who wanted to could sing a song. I prepared two songs. H, one of my BFFs, flew in from Atlanta. I had 25 RSVPs.
It was the worst birthday of my life and when I tell you what happened, you will see why I gave up on planning parties.
As a family of one, birthdays in general are fairly tricky. I had been part of a couple for nine years just before this birthday and was used to having someone plan the celebration. In the years after our parting, I took a trip somewhere like Sanibel or the Keys for a couple of days.
But, I liked the idea of this party and it was received with much enthusiasm. As I began planning the party, I started seeing an attorney and it was going well, so I was faced with the dilemma of whether or not to invite him. My instincts screamed no, but I fretted that he could find out about the party and have hurt feelings. He was very enthusiastic when I invited him and offered to be my accompanist since he was an accomplished piano player.
Everything was all set. I was beside myself with excitement. But, the day was eerily quiet. I developed a strong sense of foreboding throughout the day. Around 4:30, B called on all my phones while H and I were taking rests--much like Scarlett and the girls did before the Twelve Oaks barbecue. When I heard his voice on the message, I knew what a mistake I had made. He professed to have food poisoning. I was upset because I knew he was lying, but I was also counting on him to play the piano for me. In addition, a couple of people had invited their beaux to fly in from places as distant as Connecticut so that they could hang out with us.
Just after I spoke with him, the phone began ringing incessantly with people calling to say things like-my husband's cousin is in the hospital and we are going to need to go visit him or I forgot that it is Chick Flick night with my girls group and they will kill me if I don't come. Suddenly, the guest list was down to twelve.
My heart was no longer in the party. I just wanted my friends to reopen the restaurant and I would pay them the $500 I had promised them. H convinced me to just show up. So, I did.
And, it was a wonderful affair. The 12 people who showed up all hit it off. The buffet was magnificent featuring a roast turkey, all kinds of pasta, and a chocolate fountain. Billy Ray showed up to play the piano and he and I melded perfectly. At one point, I looked around and thought--how amazing that these people came together in this charming cottage in the heart of one of the worst neighborhoods in Miami for such a night.
Everyone tactfully avoided mentioning B. But, towards the end, a local radio personality with a flair for the theatrical and for wearing clear plastic pumps designed to look like Cindertella's leapt up on a table and screamed out, "B has a tiny dick". I was horrified because many of the people there attended my church. It was very interesting that they were the ones cheering her on with additional vicious epithets.
I found out months later that B's Brazilian girlfriend with whom he had a stormy history had called the night before the party and asked to come back and live with him. Four months later, when she moved out again, he was calling me contritely.
Even though it turned out to be a lovely evening, I decided to not put that kind of pressure on myself again. So, tonight, I am ensconced at the Gramercy Park Hotel anticipating a lovely dinner for one at EMP on Saturday night and a day spent reading and relaxing in Gramercy Park with a stop at Think Pink for a mani/pedi. My dear K is journeying in from Rhinebeck to have lunch with me at EMP on Friday.
When I drove away from the RoseBriar Cafe on June 5, 2004, I could not have imagined the dark days that were ahead--which is a good thing. But, nor would I have ever imagined the wonderful and splendid delights that were ahead, many of which involve you, my dear, dear friends.
It was the worst birthday of my life and when I tell you what happened, you will see why I gave up on planning parties.
As a family of one, birthdays in general are fairly tricky. I had been part of a couple for nine years just before this birthday and was used to having someone plan the celebration. In the years after our parting, I took a trip somewhere like Sanibel or the Keys for a couple of days.
But, I liked the idea of this party and it was received with much enthusiasm. As I began planning the party, I started seeing an attorney and it was going well, so I was faced with the dilemma of whether or not to invite him. My instincts screamed no, but I fretted that he could find out about the party and have hurt feelings. He was very enthusiastic when I invited him and offered to be my accompanist since he was an accomplished piano player.
Everything was all set. I was beside myself with excitement. But, the day was eerily quiet. I developed a strong sense of foreboding throughout the day. Around 4:30, B called on all my phones while H and I were taking rests--much like Scarlett and the girls did before the Twelve Oaks barbecue. When I heard his voice on the message, I knew what a mistake I had made. He professed to have food poisoning. I was upset because I knew he was lying, but I was also counting on him to play the piano for me. In addition, a couple of people had invited their beaux to fly in from places as distant as Connecticut so that they could hang out with us.
Just after I spoke with him, the phone began ringing incessantly with people calling to say things like-my husband's cousin is in the hospital and we are going to need to go visit him or I forgot that it is Chick Flick night with my girls group and they will kill me if I don't come. Suddenly, the guest list was down to twelve.
My heart was no longer in the party. I just wanted my friends to reopen the restaurant and I would pay them the $500 I had promised them. H convinced me to just show up. So, I did.
And, it was a wonderful affair. The 12 people who showed up all hit it off. The buffet was magnificent featuring a roast turkey, all kinds of pasta, and a chocolate fountain. Billy Ray showed up to play the piano and he and I melded perfectly. At one point, I looked around and thought--how amazing that these people came together in this charming cottage in the heart of one of the worst neighborhoods in Miami for such a night.
Everyone tactfully avoided mentioning B. But, towards the end, a local radio personality with a flair for the theatrical and for wearing clear plastic pumps designed to look like Cindertella's leapt up on a table and screamed out, "B has a tiny dick". I was horrified because many of the people there attended my church. It was very interesting that they were the ones cheering her on with additional vicious epithets.
I found out months later that B's Brazilian girlfriend with whom he had a stormy history had called the night before the party and asked to come back and live with him. Four months later, when she moved out again, he was calling me contritely.
Even though it turned out to be a lovely evening, I decided to not put that kind of pressure on myself again. So, tonight, I am ensconced at the Gramercy Park Hotel anticipating a lovely dinner for one at EMP on Saturday night and a day spent reading and relaxing in Gramercy Park with a stop at Think Pink for a mani/pedi. My dear K is journeying in from Rhinebeck to have lunch with me at EMP on Friday.
When I drove away from the RoseBriar Cafe on June 5, 2004, I could not have imagined the dark days that were ahead--which is a good thing. But, nor would I have ever imagined the wonderful and splendid delights that were ahead, many of which involve you, my dear, dear friends.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Family of One Goes to McCrady's
When in Charleston recently on one of my monthly business trips, I decided to branch out from the usual places I go where I am considered, well, part of the family. Sean Brock had just won the James Beard Award for the Southeast, so I thought it might be fun to give it a try. I was also desperate to sit with my book and just have a lovely meal and do some observing, something that always rejuvenates me.
Sometimes, my experiences dining alone in the fancier Charleston restaurants have been less than stellar. I am often treated much worse than when I started going to fancy restaurants alone in the early 80s although now I have the confidence to speak up. I had no reason to think that McCrady's would not be welcoming. I had dined there alone on a Saturday night ten years ago and was treated wonderfully.
So, it was a combination of sadness and something close to rage that I spent my first half hour at McCrady's. I was given a prime table on a banquette overlooking the room. I was at a comfortable space between two couples who were all sitting on the banquette. Both couples were around my age. One couple was eyeing me in a friendly and kind way. One couple was making out.
I was treated in a dismissive fashion by the waiter who did not introduce himself or make eye contact and acted as if he would prefer that I was dining at the Wreck of Richard and Charlene. On his second pass, I made the point--somewhat tactfully, I hope--that I am a big fan of the James Beard winners and try to get to as many of their restaurants as I can. I hated to be so potentially pretentious, but I wanted him to know that he was dealing with a neophyte who would not know a ramp from a shallot. Twenty minutes go by and all I have is ice water. In the meantime, he has served four tables and brought cocktails to a fifth.
I catch his eye and he frowns as he comes over to the table. "Sir, I find it bordering on disrespectful that you have not even taken my drink order after the amount of time that I have been sitting here. Is there an issue because I am here alone? Because I am feeling that there is something slightly hostile going on here."
Christ on a crutch, I hated to be so blunt, but I had time to think through what I was going to say and the letter that I would write to Sean Brock. Does winning a James Beard award give you the leeway to make your guests feel so badly? The waiter did not seem perturbed; however, within about five minutes, I was approached by a warm and kind waiter with the most appealing demeanor.
"Hello, Mrs. Southern," he greeted me. "May I call you by your first name?" I was so stunned by this turn of events that I could only nod. "OK, I will call you Miss Jo," he rather somberly stated. "Well," I said, "that is not really my name, but if you want to call me that, it's fine". And, indeed, I liked the idea of being called Miss Jo--it had a rather jaunty ring.
Ross and I very quickly established that I was thrilled to be in the restaurant and wanted to try as many flavors as possible, so we set up a mini-tasting. In the meantime, the couple on my right had become very engaged with my efforts to receive service and I ended up having the most delightful time with the Kellys from Minneapolis who were celebrating their 25th anniversary. We were laughing! We were screaming! We were discussing how to get to the aforementioned Wreck of Richard and Charlene! I was as happy as Bo Diddley.
And, when the food started coming, I was very happy that I had stayed--
***yellow squash bisque with wild ramps from West Virginia-lovely with a delightful lemon undertone
***Special of the Day which was a warm vegetable salad with the most vibrantly tasty, interesting array of vegetables with four or five dollops of various sauces (I actually replicated this at home with moderate success)
***Kimberly's stone crab with strawberry gazpacho, green strawberries, and wood sorrel which was one of the best things that I have eaten all year and for which I told them that need to charge at least five more dollars
***Country friend sweetbreads with Sea Island red peas and Wadmalaw onions
The dessert was one of the most interesting presentations, if not tastes, that I have ever seen (and that is saying a lot)--10 different flavors of sorbet about the size of a marble on ten petite ice cream cones and standing up in an especially made holder. There was coconut and basil thyme and blueberries and cream. . .frankly, the sorbet was not as memorable as the presentation, but it was a fabulous way to end the meal.
Ross and I continued to have a wonderful time and I asked him what had been going on that I had been treated so dismissively. He said that JJ had gotten a whole bunch of tables at once and just got overwhelmed. Then, when he got off to such a bad start with me, he just decided to have as little to do with me as possible. I pondered this. I was not happy that things had started out so bumpy and I felt that JJ should have not been afraid to make amends. But, I decided to implement one of my favorite tenets about dining alone--behave as if you are a guest in the chef's dining room, not a customer.
I asked JJ to come over and I told him that since he had been my waiter, I wanted to give him a gratuity and I discreetly handed him a ten-spot. I thanked him for making sure that I was taken care of and we ended up having a very pleasant exchange.
Now,I can hardly wait to go back! And, almost more importantly, it was a valuable reminder to me when dining alone--nothing is about you, but then again, everything is about you, so it is up to you, the guest, to make of the experience what you can.
Sometimes, my experiences dining alone in the fancier Charleston restaurants have been less than stellar. I am often treated much worse than when I started going to fancy restaurants alone in the early 80s although now I have the confidence to speak up. I had no reason to think that McCrady's would not be welcoming. I had dined there alone on a Saturday night ten years ago and was treated wonderfully.
So, it was a combination of sadness and something close to rage that I spent my first half hour at McCrady's. I was given a prime table on a banquette overlooking the room. I was at a comfortable space between two couples who were all sitting on the banquette. Both couples were around my age. One couple was eyeing me in a friendly and kind way. One couple was making out.
I was treated in a dismissive fashion by the waiter who did not introduce himself or make eye contact and acted as if he would prefer that I was dining at the Wreck of Richard and Charlene. On his second pass, I made the point--somewhat tactfully, I hope--that I am a big fan of the James Beard winners and try to get to as many of their restaurants as I can. I hated to be so potentially pretentious, but I wanted him to know that he was dealing with a neophyte who would not know a ramp from a shallot. Twenty minutes go by and all I have is ice water. In the meantime, he has served four tables and brought cocktails to a fifth.
I catch his eye and he frowns as he comes over to the table. "Sir, I find it bordering on disrespectful that you have not even taken my drink order after the amount of time that I have been sitting here. Is there an issue because I am here alone? Because I am feeling that there is something slightly hostile going on here."
Christ on a crutch, I hated to be so blunt, but I had time to think through what I was going to say and the letter that I would write to Sean Brock. Does winning a James Beard award give you the leeway to make your guests feel so badly? The waiter did not seem perturbed; however, within about five minutes, I was approached by a warm and kind waiter with the most appealing demeanor.
"Hello, Mrs. Southern," he greeted me. "May I call you by your first name?" I was so stunned by this turn of events that I could only nod. "OK, I will call you Miss Jo," he rather somberly stated. "Well," I said, "that is not really my name, but if you want to call me that, it's fine". And, indeed, I liked the idea of being called Miss Jo--it had a rather jaunty ring.
Ross and I very quickly established that I was thrilled to be in the restaurant and wanted to try as many flavors as possible, so we set up a mini-tasting. In the meantime, the couple on my right had become very engaged with my efforts to receive service and I ended up having the most delightful time with the Kellys from Minneapolis who were celebrating their 25th anniversary. We were laughing! We were screaming! We were discussing how to get to the aforementioned Wreck of Richard and Charlene! I was as happy as Bo Diddley.
And, when the food started coming, I was very happy that I had stayed--
***yellow squash bisque with wild ramps from West Virginia-lovely with a delightful lemon undertone
***Special of the Day which was a warm vegetable salad with the most vibrantly tasty, interesting array of vegetables with four or five dollops of various sauces (I actually replicated this at home with moderate success)
***Kimberly's stone crab with strawberry gazpacho, green strawberries, and wood sorrel which was one of the best things that I have eaten all year and for which I told them that need to charge at least five more dollars
***Country friend sweetbreads with Sea Island red peas and Wadmalaw onions
The dessert was one of the most interesting presentations, if not tastes, that I have ever seen (and that is saying a lot)--10 different flavors of sorbet about the size of a marble on ten petite ice cream cones and standing up in an especially made holder. There was coconut and basil thyme and blueberries and cream. . .frankly, the sorbet was not as memorable as the presentation, but it was a fabulous way to end the meal.
Ross and I continued to have a wonderful time and I asked him what had been going on that I had been treated so dismissively. He said that JJ had gotten a whole bunch of tables at once and just got overwhelmed. Then, when he got off to such a bad start with me, he just decided to have as little to do with me as possible. I pondered this. I was not happy that things had started out so bumpy and I felt that JJ should have not been afraid to make amends. But, I decided to implement one of my favorite tenets about dining alone--behave as if you are a guest in the chef's dining room, not a customer.
I asked JJ to come over and I told him that since he had been my waiter, I wanted to give him a gratuity and I discreetly handed him a ten-spot. I thanked him for making sure that I was taken care of and we ended up having a very pleasant exchange.
Now,I can hardly wait to go back! And, almost more importantly, it was a valuable reminder to me when dining alone--nothing is about you, but then again, everything is about you, so it is up to you, the guest, to make of the experience what you can.
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