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.
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