Family of One Has a Perfect Day

In mid-December of 1987, I had one of the most perfect days of my life. I was in New York to celebrate Christmas, one of my solo trips that would again become a tradition much later in my life. On this day, I had three things to anticipate, so it was like my birthday and Christmas and every other special day rolled into one. First, I had an orchestra third row left seat to see Anything Goes with Patti LuPone at Lincoln Center. Last, I had a reservation for the 11:00 performance of Bobby Short at the Café Carlyle In between, I had a reservation for Le Bernardin, probably the hardest reservation to get in the country, thanks to its mega-popularity as one of the very first temples of seafood. The reviews for it were worshipful, the press given to it only stellar, and the happiness when I finally got through the always-busy reservation line, unparalleled.

At the time, I was living in Charleston and prided myself on my slightly outré, but still tasteful, wardrobe. I also sported a short coiffure of platinum hair which was an incredible pain to keep maintained. For the theater, I was wearing a gray calf-length skirt with side kick pleat, a white silk blouse, and a hot pink angora cardigan sweater with a double strand of long pearls. To set off this ensemble, I had a pair of teal pumps and, I regret to tell you, a matching teal wool coat. Although, somehow it all came together.

The show was an incredible bundle of energy and “You’re the Top” with Ms. LuPone and Howard McGillin an absolute delight. I savored every Cole Porter song and was mesmerized by the dancing. At the intermission, I went out to the lobby of the theater where I could see up to the stark towers surrounding the theater and to a bleak gray sky. But, I was happy as Bo Diddley, so happy that I could hardly stand it because it was Christmas in New York and I loved my little life and I was enjoying every second of it.

I returned to my room at the Intercontinental and prepared for the evening with a very simple look of a calf-length black skirt and white silk shirt adorned with a neckline of a few rhinestones and black pumps. I cannot stress what an event it was to be going to Le Bernardin. It was my version of a fairy tale ball because just to tell someone that you had a reservation there elicited gasps of awe.

I felt like a goddess from the time that I arrived at the restaurant which was not particularly large or especially glamorous. What it had was a kind of magic from the simplicity of the wood beams and the stunning flower arrangements carefully placed to the paintings on the wall that were all fish-related including one that was quite controversial at the time and depicted fishmongers slicing open fish in their markets and the blood running out. It was as if every sense was being tantalized and you were in a place so protected that you knew that when you left, you might need an anti-depressant the next day.

The chef was Gilbert LeCoze who had won great acclaim for his superb fish preparations and his sister, Maguy, ran the front of the restaurant with an élan rarely seen in New York. I was given a lovely table, right in the middle of the restaurant. I had a great view of the infamous painting of the bloody fish which I just adored. I do not remember my main course, but I will never forget the starter of sea bass sashimi. We say that now like ordering a cheeseburger, but, then, it was tres exotic and the taste of fish with the light citrus and the subtle taste of the oil. I had read that the bananas three ways was the finest dessert, so I went with it even though other descriptions were more tempting. It was so incredible that I still start smiling thinking about it. There was a mousse and something like a timbale and it was all tied together with this spun sugar geometrical wonder that was not only gorgeous, but tasted divine.

The room was hushed with people speaking in respectful tones and about Serious Subjects, not squawking wildly about their feelings about the dinner as they were wont to do on visits that I made not too many years ago. The service was lovely without being pompous. My captain was a charming Greek fellow with a gorgeous head of floppy black hair and a killer smile. We became friendly throughout the evening and when I had finished my meal, he invited me into the kitchen to meet Gilbert LeCoze. Now, it had not become de rigueur for valued guests to be invited into kitchens, so it was very exciting to see where all of the magic happened and, for the kitchen staff, it was also very unusual to have a party of one as the VIP guest. I could not linger because I had to get to my next stop, the 11:00 Bobby Short show at the Café Carlyle.

It was a very cold evening and I was pleased to be entering into the overheated warmth that is a fancy New York City hotel lobby. I was almost looking forward to seeing and hearing Bobby Short more than the other big events of the day. Much to my disappointment, the café doors were closed and a sign was posted that Bobby Short had the flu and would not be able to perform. I was crestfallen and dejectedly walked back out to get a cab to my hotel. To have had such a wonderful day end this way did not seem fair.

I did not have a chance to be morose for long because as I walked into my hotel room, the telephone was ringing and it was the chef that I was currently seeing who wanted to know if I could join him for a late night bite to eat and some champagne. Yes, indeed, a perfect day.

25 years later, I am standing at the picture window in my hotel room overlooking Central Park and stunning building that surround it. I am pondering the fact that, once again, I am seeing a well-reviewed revival of Anything Goes that evening and how I wish I could go back to redo some of the decisions I have made in those ensuing years that would have saved me so much heartache. And, how I wish I had saved that hot pink sweater. But, then, I say to myself, “stop being such a pussy and get out and enjoy this wonderful day.”

So, first stop, one of my new traditions which is Le Pain Quotidien on Madison and 84th Street which was introduced to me by the daughter of my dear friend R. It’s not that unusual a place to grab some breakfast, but what I love about it is the gestalt of the neighborhood which ranges from placid stay-at-home moms with their beautifully behaved children to three mothers frenetically grabbing some time together to a charming elderly gentleman in a seersucker suit. It just feels right and the staff is always very nice to me.

From there, I cross Madison Avenue to Schweitzer Linens where I have a lovely time selecting some beautiful linens which, thankfully, can be toted in my carryon bag.

Then, to the Metropolitan Museum of Art where I perfunctorily head for an exhibit which turns out to completely capture my imagination—the various drafts of The Card Players by Cezanne. I am enthralled with how he changed his perspective in the several incarnations, so much so that I start answering questions for other folks. At one point, I have a fairly large group around as I expound on the nature of the garment that one of the men is wearing and I hear a woman whisper, “she is so knowledgeable and even with that Southern accent”.

Lunch in the Members Dining Room overlooking Cleopatra’s Needle and the burgeoning trees is completely enveloping with a delightful repast of slightly spicy octopus salad, a gruyere cheese soufflé, and a butterscotch pot de crème. I am surrounded by people having the most interesting conversations about Book of Mormon, the dance scene in NYC, their interesting families, and, best of all, three gentlemen behind me discussing movies of the 70s and 80s in mesmerizing detail. As I get up to leave, I stop at their table—two 50ish gentlemen and a college age student. I tell the men that I feel that I have been attending a graduate film seminar and, thinking that I am complaining, start apologizing. I immediately reassure them that I have enjoyed every second and what a pleasure to know that there is a young man studying film at Syracuse University who has such a wonderful knowledge of the cinema. They invite me to sit down with them, but I have more place to go including a quick stop at my favorite place at the Met, the Temple of Dendur, which never fails to remind me both how important and how insignificant we are in this big world.

Before heading to the evening show of Anything Goes, I have an early dinner at Oceana, a lovely seafood restaurant on Sixth and 49th, a halfway point between my hotel and the theater. I am starting to become friends with the manager, a delightful gentleman whose wife is a manager at Eleven Madison Park. He chats with me, asking me what I am up for, but I think he is asking me what play I am seeing—Anything Goes, I tell him. His eyes light up and he begins telling me what he would like for me to order. I let him know that we have had a slight miscommunication, but, what the hay. I put myself in his hands and look forward to a lovely dinner. As I enjoy a pasta prepared with king crab legs flown in from Alaska, he and I chat some more and he tells me that the owner of Oceana was a captain at Le Bernardin when it first opened. Without thinking, I say, “oh, that is very funny because I had an affair with one of the captains when it first opened”. His eyes become very wide and his mouth makes a perfect O. He walks very quickly away from the table. I am horrified and scold myself, “why in the world did you have to reveal that? This nice man now thinks you are a harlot or strumpet or whatever the right word is. When he comes back, just try to act more demure”. When he returns, it is with the aforementioned owner of the restaurant who immediately puts me at my ease by saying, “so, you were a Le Bernardin groupie?” with a hearty laugh. I was relieved to see that it was not the gentleman I had known, I must be honest. I corrected myself and told him that it was more of dalliance than an affair and he caught me up on where the gentleman in question works and we spoke a bit about the exciting early days of the restaurant.

By now, I have bonded with the savvy and charming sommelier and I am enjoying incredible soft shell crabs followed by strawberry shortcake with mint ice cream which has me practically lying down on the banquette in happiness. I can hardly believe that it is time to depart this wonderful place, but I must scamper to the theater, so off I go, trailing best wishes to my new friends at Oceana.

Third row center for Anything Goes, circa 2011, was a marvelous experience. Above all, the energetic performance by Sutton Foster including the entire cast’s dancing their hearts out in the title number was something that I will never forget. I could have done without Joel Grey’s mugging and I find some of the subplots tiresome, but what a truly engaging and charming show. I liked it much better than the earlier revival because it was more energetic and also a little more wistful. Even though the appropriate lovers end up together, you can’t help but notice that some of the decisions are made with more than bit of practicality.

Time for a nightcap. I walk into the Oak Bar at the Plaza Hotel just as the bartender announces last call for the current revelers. He shakes his head at me and says he is closed. I hand him $40 and ask him to send over a Manhattan to the table at the window overlooking Central Park South. I think about my day and its coincidences as well as the new friends I have made. I think about the past 25 years and the marvelous journey I’ve had, certainly more wonderful than anything I imagined sitting at Lincoln Center all those years ago. I raise my glass to the sweet-faced horse who is loitering outside the window. Here’s to 2036, I