Thursday, August 25, 2011
Family of One Checks In
For the past several months, I have been spending my writing time working on a proposal for a book entitled Party of One: Adventures in Dining Alone which is a dircct offshoot of this blog. I apologize for not keeping the blog more active and I will try to do better, but, as you can imagine, my priority is getting my book off the ground. I am so grateful to those of you who have read Family of One faithfully and encouraged me to turn it into a book. Indeed, I have another idea for a second book which will be Family of One! I am almost ready for the proposal to go out into the world and I will keep you posted!
Family of One Has a Perfect Day
In mid-December of 1987, I had one of the most perfect days of my life. I was in New York to celebrate Christmas, one of my solo trips that would again become a tradition much later in my life. On this day, I had three things to anticipate, so it was like my birthday and Christmas and every other special day rolled into one. First, I had an orchestra third row left seat to see Anything Goes with Patti LuPone at Lincoln Center. Last, I had a reservation for the 11:00 performance of Bobby Short at the Café Carlyle In between, I had a reservation for Le Bernardin, probably the hardest reservation to get in the country, thanks to its mega-popularity as one of the very first temples of seafood. The reviews for it were worshipful, the press given to it only stellar, and the happiness when I finally got through the always-busy reservation line, unparalleled.
At the time, I was living in Charleston and prided myself on my slightly outré, but still tasteful, wardrobe. I also sported a short coiffure of platinum hair which was an incredible pain to keep maintained. For the theater, I was wearing a gray calf-length skirt with side kick pleat, a white silk blouse, and a hot pink angora cardigan sweater with a double strand of long pearls. To set off this ensemble, I had a pair of teal pumps and, I regret to tell you, a matching teal wool coat. Although, somehow it all came together.
The show was an incredible bundle of energy and “You’re the Top” with Ms. LuPone and Howard McGillin an absolute delight. I savored every Cole Porter song and was mesmerized by the dancing. At the intermission, I went out to the lobby of the theater where I could see up to the stark towers surrounding the theater and to a bleak gray sky. But, I was happy as Bo Diddley, so happy that I could hardly stand it because it was Christmas in New York and I loved my little life and I was enjoying every second of it.
I returned to my room at the Intercontinental and prepared for the evening with a very simple look of a calf-length black skirt and white silk shirt adorned with a neckline of a few rhinestones and black pumps. I cannot stress what an event it was to be going to Le Bernardin. It was my version of a fairy tale ball because just to tell someone that you had a reservation there elicited gasps of awe.
I felt like a goddess from the time that I arrived at the restaurant which was not particularly large or especially glamorous. What it had was a kind of magic from the simplicity of the wood beams and the stunning flower arrangements carefully placed to the paintings on the wall that were all fish-related including one that was quite controversial at the time and depicted fishmongers slicing open fish in their markets and the blood running out. It was as if every sense was being tantalized and you were in a place so protected that you knew that when you left, you might need an anti-depressant the next day.
The chef was Gilbert LeCoze who had won great acclaim for his superb fish preparations and his sister, Maguy, ran the front of the restaurant with an élan rarely seen in New York. I was given a lovely table, right in the middle of the restaurant. I had a great view of the infamous painting of the bloody fish which I just adored. I do not remember my main course, but I will never forget the starter of sea bass sashimi. We say that now like ordering a cheeseburger, but, then, it was tres exotic and the taste of fish with the light citrus and the subtle taste of the oil. I had read that the bananas three ways was the finest dessert, so I went with it even though other descriptions were more tempting. It was so incredible that I still start smiling thinking about it. There was a mousse and something like a timbale and it was all tied together with this spun sugar geometrical wonder that was not only gorgeous, but tasted divine.
The room was hushed with people speaking in respectful tones and about Serious Subjects, not squawking wildly about their feelings about the dinner as they were wont to do on visits that I made not too many years ago. The service was lovely without being pompous. My captain was a charming Greek fellow with a gorgeous head of floppy black hair and a killer smile. We became friendly throughout the evening and when I had finished my meal, he invited me into the kitchen to meet Gilbert LeCoze. Now, it had not become de rigueur for valued guests to be invited into kitchens, so it was very exciting to see where all of the magic happened and, for the kitchen staff, it was also very unusual to have a party of one as the VIP guest. I could not linger because I had to get to my next stop, the 11:00 Bobby Short show at the Café Carlyle.
It was a very cold evening and I was pleased to be entering into the overheated warmth that is a fancy New York City hotel lobby. I was almost looking forward to seeing and hearing Bobby Short more than the other big events of the day. Much to my disappointment, the café doors were closed and a sign was posted that Bobby Short had the flu and would not be able to perform. I was crestfallen and dejectedly walked back out to get a cab to my hotel. To have had such a wonderful day end this way did not seem fair.
I did not have a chance to be morose for long because as I walked into my hotel room, the telephone was ringing and it was the chef that I was currently seeing who wanted to know if I could join him for a late night bite to eat and some champagne. Yes, indeed, a perfect day.
25 years later, I am standing at the picture window in my hotel room overlooking Central Park and stunning building that surround it. I am pondering the fact that, once again, I am seeing a well-reviewed revival of Anything Goes that evening and how I wish I could go back to redo some of the decisions I have made in those ensuing years that would have saved me so much heartache. And, how I wish I had saved that hot pink sweater. But, then, I say to myself, “stop being such a pussy and get out and enjoy this wonderful day.”
So, first stop, one of my new traditions which is Le Pain Quotidien on Madison and 84th Street which was introduced to me by the daughter of my dear friend R. It’s not that unusual a place to grab some breakfast, but what I love about it is the gestalt of the neighborhood which ranges from placid stay-at-home moms with their beautifully behaved children to three mothers frenetically grabbing some time together to a charming elderly gentleman in a seersucker suit. It just feels right and the staff is always very nice to me.
From there, I cross Madison Avenue to Schweitzer Linens where I have a lovely time selecting some beautiful linens which, thankfully, can be toted in my carryon bag.
Then, to the Metropolitan Museum of Art where I perfunctorily head for an exhibit which turns out to completely capture my imagination—the various drafts of The Card Players by Cezanne. I am enthralled with how he changed his perspective in the several incarnations, so much so that I start answering questions for other folks. At one point, I have a fairly large group around as I expound on the nature of the garment that one of the men is wearing and I hear a woman whisper, “she is so knowledgeable and even with that Southern accent”.
Lunch in the Members Dining Room overlooking Cleopatra’s Needle and the burgeoning trees is completely enveloping with a delightful repast of slightly spicy octopus salad, a gruyere cheese soufflé, and a butterscotch pot de crème. I am surrounded by people having the most interesting conversations about Book of Mormon, the dance scene in NYC, their interesting families, and, best of all, three gentlemen behind me discussing movies of the 70s and 80s in mesmerizing detail. As I get up to leave, I stop at their table—two 50ish gentlemen and a college age student. I tell the men that I feel that I have been attending a graduate film seminar and, thinking that I am complaining, start apologizing. I immediately reassure them that I have enjoyed every second and what a pleasure to know that there is a young man studying film at Syracuse University who has such a wonderful knowledge of the cinema. They invite me to sit down with them, but I have more place to go including a quick stop at my favorite place at the Met, the Temple of Dendur, which never fails to remind me both how important and how insignificant we are in this big world.
Before heading to the evening show of Anything Goes, I have an early dinner at Oceana, a lovely seafood restaurant on Sixth and 49th, a halfway point between my hotel and the theater. I am starting to become friends with the manager, a delightful gentleman whose wife is a manager at Eleven Madison Park. He chats with me, asking me what I am up for, but I think he is asking me what play I am seeing—Anything Goes, I tell him. His eyes light up and he begins telling me what he would like for me to order. I let him know that we have had a slight miscommunication, but, what the hay. I put myself in his hands and look forward to a lovely dinner. As I enjoy a pasta prepared with king crab legs flown in from Alaska, he and I chat some more and he tells me that the owner of Oceana was a captain at Le Bernardin when it first opened. Without thinking, I say, “oh, that is very funny because I had an affair with one of the captains when it first opened”. His eyes become very wide and his mouth makes a perfect O. He walks very quickly away from the table. I am horrified and scold myself, “why in the world did you have to reveal that? This nice man now thinks you are a harlot or strumpet or whatever the right word is. When he comes back, just try to act more demure”. When he returns, it is with the aforementioned owner of the restaurant who immediately puts me at my ease by saying, “so, you were a Le Bernardin groupie?” with a hearty laugh. I was relieved to see that it was not the gentleman I had known, I must be honest. I corrected myself and told him that it was more of dalliance than an affair and he caught me up on where the gentleman in question works and we spoke a bit about the exciting early days of the restaurant.
By now, I have bonded with the savvy and charming sommelier and I am enjoying incredible soft shell crabs followed by strawberry shortcake with mint ice cream which has me practically lying down on the banquette in happiness. I can hardly believe that it is time to depart this wonderful place, but I must scamper to the theater, so off I go, trailing best wishes to my new friends at Oceana.
Third row center for Anything Goes, circa 2011, was a marvelous experience. Above all, the energetic performance by Sutton Foster including the entire cast’s dancing their hearts out in the title number was something that I will never forget. I could have done without Joel Grey’s mugging and I find some of the subplots tiresome, but what a truly engaging and charming show. I liked it much better than the earlier revival because it was more energetic and also a little more wistful. Even though the appropriate lovers end up together, you can’t help but notice that some of the decisions are made with more than bit of practicality.
Time for a nightcap. I walk into the Oak Bar at the Plaza Hotel just as the bartender announces last call for the current revelers. He shakes his head at me and says he is closed. I hand him $40 and ask him to send over a Manhattan to the table at the window overlooking Central Park South. I think about my day and its coincidences as well as the new friends I have made. I think about the past 25 years and the marvelous journey I’ve had, certainly more wonderful than anything I imagined sitting at Lincoln Center all those years ago. I raise my glass to the sweet-faced horse who is loitering outside the window. Here’s to 2036, I
At the time, I was living in Charleston and prided myself on my slightly outré, but still tasteful, wardrobe. I also sported a short coiffure of platinum hair which was an incredible pain to keep maintained. For the theater, I was wearing a gray calf-length skirt with side kick pleat, a white silk blouse, and a hot pink angora cardigan sweater with a double strand of long pearls. To set off this ensemble, I had a pair of teal pumps and, I regret to tell you, a matching teal wool coat. Although, somehow it all came together.
The show was an incredible bundle of energy and “You’re the Top” with Ms. LuPone and Howard McGillin an absolute delight. I savored every Cole Porter song and was mesmerized by the dancing. At the intermission, I went out to the lobby of the theater where I could see up to the stark towers surrounding the theater and to a bleak gray sky. But, I was happy as Bo Diddley, so happy that I could hardly stand it because it was Christmas in New York and I loved my little life and I was enjoying every second of it.
I returned to my room at the Intercontinental and prepared for the evening with a very simple look of a calf-length black skirt and white silk shirt adorned with a neckline of a few rhinestones and black pumps. I cannot stress what an event it was to be going to Le Bernardin. It was my version of a fairy tale ball because just to tell someone that you had a reservation there elicited gasps of awe.
I felt like a goddess from the time that I arrived at the restaurant which was not particularly large or especially glamorous. What it had was a kind of magic from the simplicity of the wood beams and the stunning flower arrangements carefully placed to the paintings on the wall that were all fish-related including one that was quite controversial at the time and depicted fishmongers slicing open fish in their markets and the blood running out. It was as if every sense was being tantalized and you were in a place so protected that you knew that when you left, you might need an anti-depressant the next day.
The chef was Gilbert LeCoze who had won great acclaim for his superb fish preparations and his sister, Maguy, ran the front of the restaurant with an élan rarely seen in New York. I was given a lovely table, right in the middle of the restaurant. I had a great view of the infamous painting of the bloody fish which I just adored. I do not remember my main course, but I will never forget the starter of sea bass sashimi. We say that now like ordering a cheeseburger, but, then, it was tres exotic and the taste of fish with the light citrus and the subtle taste of the oil. I had read that the bananas three ways was the finest dessert, so I went with it even though other descriptions were more tempting. It was so incredible that I still start smiling thinking about it. There was a mousse and something like a timbale and it was all tied together with this spun sugar geometrical wonder that was not only gorgeous, but tasted divine.
The room was hushed with people speaking in respectful tones and about Serious Subjects, not squawking wildly about their feelings about the dinner as they were wont to do on visits that I made not too many years ago. The service was lovely without being pompous. My captain was a charming Greek fellow with a gorgeous head of floppy black hair and a killer smile. We became friendly throughout the evening and when I had finished my meal, he invited me into the kitchen to meet Gilbert LeCoze. Now, it had not become de rigueur for valued guests to be invited into kitchens, so it was very exciting to see where all of the magic happened and, for the kitchen staff, it was also very unusual to have a party of one as the VIP guest. I could not linger because I had to get to my next stop, the 11:00 Bobby Short show at the Café Carlyle.
It was a very cold evening and I was pleased to be entering into the overheated warmth that is a fancy New York City hotel lobby. I was almost looking forward to seeing and hearing Bobby Short more than the other big events of the day. Much to my disappointment, the café doors were closed and a sign was posted that Bobby Short had the flu and would not be able to perform. I was crestfallen and dejectedly walked back out to get a cab to my hotel. To have had such a wonderful day end this way did not seem fair.
I did not have a chance to be morose for long because as I walked into my hotel room, the telephone was ringing and it was the chef that I was currently seeing who wanted to know if I could join him for a late night bite to eat and some champagne. Yes, indeed, a perfect day.
25 years later, I am standing at the picture window in my hotel room overlooking Central Park and stunning building that surround it. I am pondering the fact that, once again, I am seeing a well-reviewed revival of Anything Goes that evening and how I wish I could go back to redo some of the decisions I have made in those ensuing years that would have saved me so much heartache. And, how I wish I had saved that hot pink sweater. But, then, I say to myself, “stop being such a pussy and get out and enjoy this wonderful day.”
So, first stop, one of my new traditions which is Le Pain Quotidien on Madison and 84th Street which was introduced to me by the daughter of my dear friend R. It’s not that unusual a place to grab some breakfast, but what I love about it is the gestalt of the neighborhood which ranges from placid stay-at-home moms with their beautifully behaved children to three mothers frenetically grabbing some time together to a charming elderly gentleman in a seersucker suit. It just feels right and the staff is always very nice to me.
From there, I cross Madison Avenue to Schweitzer Linens where I have a lovely time selecting some beautiful linens which, thankfully, can be toted in my carryon bag.
Then, to the Metropolitan Museum of Art where I perfunctorily head for an exhibit which turns out to completely capture my imagination—the various drafts of The Card Players by Cezanne. I am enthralled with how he changed his perspective in the several incarnations, so much so that I start answering questions for other folks. At one point, I have a fairly large group around as I expound on the nature of the garment that one of the men is wearing and I hear a woman whisper, “she is so knowledgeable and even with that Southern accent”.
Lunch in the Members Dining Room overlooking Cleopatra’s Needle and the burgeoning trees is completely enveloping with a delightful repast of slightly spicy octopus salad, a gruyere cheese soufflé, and a butterscotch pot de crème. I am surrounded by people having the most interesting conversations about Book of Mormon, the dance scene in NYC, their interesting families, and, best of all, three gentlemen behind me discussing movies of the 70s and 80s in mesmerizing detail. As I get up to leave, I stop at their table—two 50ish gentlemen and a college age student. I tell the men that I feel that I have been attending a graduate film seminar and, thinking that I am complaining, start apologizing. I immediately reassure them that I have enjoyed every second and what a pleasure to know that there is a young man studying film at Syracuse University who has such a wonderful knowledge of the cinema. They invite me to sit down with them, but I have more place to go including a quick stop at my favorite place at the Met, the Temple of Dendur, which never fails to remind me both how important and how insignificant we are in this big world.
Before heading to the evening show of Anything Goes, I have an early dinner at Oceana, a lovely seafood restaurant on Sixth and 49th, a halfway point between my hotel and the theater. I am starting to become friends with the manager, a delightful gentleman whose wife is a manager at Eleven Madison Park. He chats with me, asking me what I am up for, but I think he is asking me what play I am seeing—Anything Goes, I tell him. His eyes light up and he begins telling me what he would like for me to order. I let him know that we have had a slight miscommunication, but, what the hay. I put myself in his hands and look forward to a lovely dinner. As I enjoy a pasta prepared with king crab legs flown in from Alaska, he and I chat some more and he tells me that the owner of Oceana was a captain at Le Bernardin when it first opened. Without thinking, I say, “oh, that is very funny because I had an affair with one of the captains when it first opened”. His eyes become very wide and his mouth makes a perfect O. He walks very quickly away from the table. I am horrified and scold myself, “why in the world did you have to reveal that? This nice man now thinks you are a harlot or strumpet or whatever the right word is. When he comes back, just try to act more demure”. When he returns, it is with the aforementioned owner of the restaurant who immediately puts me at my ease by saying, “so, you were a Le Bernardin groupie?” with a hearty laugh. I was relieved to see that it was not the gentleman I had known, I must be honest. I corrected myself and told him that it was more of dalliance than an affair and he caught me up on where the gentleman in question works and we spoke a bit about the exciting early days of the restaurant.
By now, I have bonded with the savvy and charming sommelier and I am enjoying incredible soft shell crabs followed by strawberry shortcake with mint ice cream which has me practically lying down on the banquette in happiness. I can hardly believe that it is time to depart this wonderful place, but I must scamper to the theater, so off I go, trailing best wishes to my new friends at Oceana.
Third row center for Anything Goes, circa 2011, was a marvelous experience. Above all, the energetic performance by Sutton Foster including the entire cast’s dancing their hearts out in the title number was something that I will never forget. I could have done without Joel Grey’s mugging and I find some of the subplots tiresome, but what a truly engaging and charming show. I liked it much better than the earlier revival because it was more energetic and also a little more wistful. Even though the appropriate lovers end up together, you can’t help but notice that some of the decisions are made with more than bit of practicality.
Time for a nightcap. I walk into the Oak Bar at the Plaza Hotel just as the bartender announces last call for the current revelers. He shakes his head at me and says he is closed. I hand him $40 and ask him to send over a Manhattan to the table at the window overlooking Central Park South. I think about my day and its coincidences as well as the new friends I have made. I think about the past 25 years and the marvelous journey I’ve had, certainly more wonderful than anything I imagined sitting at Lincoln Center all those years ago. I raise my glass to the sweet-faced horse who is loitering outside the window. Here’s to 2036, I
Monday, May 30, 2011
Family of One Has an Interesting Experience at Eleven Madison Park
I recently had the opportunity to dine at my beloved Eleven Madison Park (which just won the James Beard Award for Best Restaurant in the United States) and was anticipating the occasion all day and in the cab ride over to the restaurant. There are so few places in our lives that truly represent a place with joy, pleasant surprises, and great affection with no stress or untoward drama and I reminded myself as I stood outside the restaurant to never take that for granted.
As I pushed the revolving door to enter the restaurant, there were two of my very favorites, Sandra and J.P., and we were laughing and screaming. I always look forward to strolling to the upper level and my usual table which is next to the marvelous high windows overlooking Madison Square Park and also overlooks the entire restaurant. There are usually a few friends for me to greet on the way and it is a great start to the evening.
But, on this night, I make the turn to the left, but J.P. keeps going straight. I try to hide my dismay. He is not only not taking me to my usual table, but the one that I call in my mind The Cinderella Table. When the restaurant expanded recently, they added a couple of tables that are in a corner with no ostensible views, particularly of the entire restaurant. From my perch at what I consider a premiere table, I would smugly glance at that table and think, “thank goodness I will never have to sit there”.
I can no longer hide my distress. J.P. tries to explain that my usual table is not in play for me tonight. He cannot clearly explain why I cannot sit at that table, but this is quickly turning into one of those moments that keep people from ever dining out alone. People are glancing up, wondering why I just don’t sit down, J.P is attempting to find me another table, friends are starting to rush over to see if I am OK, and three thoughts are going through my mind.
First, I think about how I have touted myself as a person to trust when it comes to dining alone, especially on a Saturday night. I have spent years building up advice and encouragement for friends on how to make sure to have a fabulous experience. Get to know the staff, don’t make kooky demands, show how much you enjoy the experience. . . and all of that effort has obviously gone for naught. Who am I to think that I know anything about dining alone successfully? The staff must have included me in their category of eccentric diners and tried to make a show of keeping me happy. But, now, it was time for me to take my proper place at one of the most undesirable tables. Which led me to my next thoughts.
Being in sales, I thought of the difficult customers that I stroke and cosset, all in the effort of keeping their business and how, sometimes, the moment comes when you just can’t up the pretense any more or something outside of your control happens and the customer sees that he was, merely, a customer. Now I knew how that person felt. I vowed that when I recovered my equilibrium, I would think of better ways to treat my customers so they never had to experience this sinking feeling.
The third thought that I had as a lovely table was finally set for me was “no one puts Baby in a corner” from the classic film Dirty Dancing.
Let’s face it, this is one of the top restaurants in the world, not just the United States. Why would the needs of a single diner on their busiest night of the week be of any consequence? I pondered what to do. It seemed a bit strident to just leave, even though it was going to be a long, miserable night. I decided that the best course of action was to return to the entrance and tell Sandra and J.P. that it was simply not going to be a very good night to dine there and ask them to make me a reservation at another USHG (Danny Meyer’s empire) restaurant. I sat down at the table that I had been shown to think through what I wanted to do.
By now, several of the managers had come over to talk with me, but I was getting a different explanation from each one. I decided that I needed to do a very hard thing and ask this question—is there something that I am doing or some behavior that I have exhibited that I need to correct in order to make serving me a better experience for you? While I did not expect anyone to say, “oh, yes, stop listening to your iPod, it makes us think you don’t like the course we have just served you” or some such, I did think that I would be able to read the nonverbals and get a sense of what I could do better.
Each person seemed genuinely aghast and the only constructive criticism was that I had never said that the preferred table was a deal-breaker, so no one thought it would be that horrific to give me another table. In fact, it might be seen as a welcome change. I quickly pointed out all of the tables that I would like, but not The Cinderella Table.
We all quickly fell into our familiar roles and I enjoyed a marvelous dinner with many of my favorites including the shredded pig in the shape of a Milky Way, a fabulous cheddar accompanied by light as air cheddar biscuits, and sea urchin cappuccino served in an eggshell. The wine tasting was served by a new sommelier with whom I quickly developed a wonderful rapport. At the end of the meal, the manager for my section told me that my wine pairing would be comped due to the mix-up which was a lovely gesture. I left the restaurant feeling very good.
But, still, I couldn’t put the experience behind me. I never wanted to go into a fabulous restaurant and feel that level of dismay again. So, since I am considered part of the EMP Family, I did what one is supposed to do when harboring concerns about one’s family. I called Megan Vaughn, who has to be one of the top managers in the fine dining business. I told her that it was very important that I not come across as demanding or spoiled, but that it was probably time (after 23 visits) that I let her know what was important to me. I asked that I have a captain with whom I felt comfortable and was also skilled at reading what I wanted; I asked that if I were to be given a different table, I was told at the entrance, not merely taken to the table; and I asked that the staff always feel free to tell me if I was asking too much. It was a wonderful conversation.
So, now, as I head to New York for my birthday weekend and my Saturday dinner at EMP, I look forward to it with great delight. Maybe more than usual.
As I pushed the revolving door to enter the restaurant, there were two of my very favorites, Sandra and J.P., and we were laughing and screaming. I always look forward to strolling to the upper level and my usual table which is next to the marvelous high windows overlooking Madison Square Park and also overlooks the entire restaurant. There are usually a few friends for me to greet on the way and it is a great start to the evening.
But, on this night, I make the turn to the left, but J.P. keeps going straight. I try to hide my dismay. He is not only not taking me to my usual table, but the one that I call in my mind The Cinderella Table. When the restaurant expanded recently, they added a couple of tables that are in a corner with no ostensible views, particularly of the entire restaurant. From my perch at what I consider a premiere table, I would smugly glance at that table and think, “thank goodness I will never have to sit there”.
I can no longer hide my distress. J.P. tries to explain that my usual table is not in play for me tonight. He cannot clearly explain why I cannot sit at that table, but this is quickly turning into one of those moments that keep people from ever dining out alone. People are glancing up, wondering why I just don’t sit down, J.P is attempting to find me another table, friends are starting to rush over to see if I am OK, and three thoughts are going through my mind.
First, I think about how I have touted myself as a person to trust when it comes to dining alone, especially on a Saturday night. I have spent years building up advice and encouragement for friends on how to make sure to have a fabulous experience. Get to know the staff, don’t make kooky demands, show how much you enjoy the experience. . . and all of that effort has obviously gone for naught. Who am I to think that I know anything about dining alone successfully? The staff must have included me in their category of eccentric diners and tried to make a show of keeping me happy. But, now, it was time for me to take my proper place at one of the most undesirable tables. Which led me to my next thoughts.
Being in sales, I thought of the difficult customers that I stroke and cosset, all in the effort of keeping their business and how, sometimes, the moment comes when you just can’t up the pretense any more or something outside of your control happens and the customer sees that he was, merely, a customer. Now I knew how that person felt. I vowed that when I recovered my equilibrium, I would think of better ways to treat my customers so they never had to experience this sinking feeling.
The third thought that I had as a lovely table was finally set for me was “no one puts Baby in a corner” from the classic film Dirty Dancing.
Let’s face it, this is one of the top restaurants in the world, not just the United States. Why would the needs of a single diner on their busiest night of the week be of any consequence? I pondered what to do. It seemed a bit strident to just leave, even though it was going to be a long, miserable night. I decided that the best course of action was to return to the entrance and tell Sandra and J.P. that it was simply not going to be a very good night to dine there and ask them to make me a reservation at another USHG (Danny Meyer’s empire) restaurant. I sat down at the table that I had been shown to think through what I wanted to do.
By now, several of the managers had come over to talk with me, but I was getting a different explanation from each one. I decided that I needed to do a very hard thing and ask this question—is there something that I am doing or some behavior that I have exhibited that I need to correct in order to make serving me a better experience for you? While I did not expect anyone to say, “oh, yes, stop listening to your iPod, it makes us think you don’t like the course we have just served you” or some such, I did think that I would be able to read the nonverbals and get a sense of what I could do better.
Each person seemed genuinely aghast and the only constructive criticism was that I had never said that the preferred table was a deal-breaker, so no one thought it would be that horrific to give me another table. In fact, it might be seen as a welcome change. I quickly pointed out all of the tables that I would like, but not The Cinderella Table.
We all quickly fell into our familiar roles and I enjoyed a marvelous dinner with many of my favorites including the shredded pig in the shape of a Milky Way, a fabulous cheddar accompanied by light as air cheddar biscuits, and sea urchin cappuccino served in an eggshell. The wine tasting was served by a new sommelier with whom I quickly developed a wonderful rapport. At the end of the meal, the manager for my section told me that my wine pairing would be comped due to the mix-up which was a lovely gesture. I left the restaurant feeling very good.
But, still, I couldn’t put the experience behind me. I never wanted to go into a fabulous restaurant and feel that level of dismay again. So, since I am considered part of the EMP Family, I did what one is supposed to do when harboring concerns about one’s family. I called Megan Vaughn, who has to be one of the top managers in the fine dining business. I told her that it was very important that I not come across as demanding or spoiled, but that it was probably time (after 23 visits) that I let her know what was important to me. I asked that I have a captain with whom I felt comfortable and was also skilled at reading what I wanted; I asked that if I were to be given a different table, I was told at the entrance, not merely taken to the table; and I asked that the staff always feel free to tell me if I was asking too much. It was a wonderful conversation.
So, now, as I head to New York for my birthday weekend and my Saturday dinner at EMP, I look forward to it with great delight. Maybe more than usual.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Family of One Has a Conversation with Mother
Mother called recently and there was an unusual lilt in her voice.
“There was a goat at the beauty shop,” she said.
I thought that I had misunderstood.
“Yes, Miss Astorbilt (as she refers to me), there was a goat. The people who own the building also have a big farm outside Thomasville. This little goat is black instead of white like his mother and brothers, so they don’t want anything to do with him. He also has a very bad underbite. So, the people are bottle feeding him and are keeping him in the fenced yard behind the beauty shop until he grows up a bit”.
So, I queried, she saw the goat in the yard behind the beauty shop?
“If it is any of your business,” she riposted, “they brought the goat into the beauty shop so that we could see him. He was running and skipping and running and skipping all around. He tried to eat my shoe and he also ate a plant”.
She was wistful for a moment.
“He has the softest fur”.
I had not heard her this excited since she shook Vincent Price’s hand at the Sedgefield Country Club.
I immediately texted my partner in absurdity, Jason, who had a series of questions including were there not any cosmetology laws in High Point preventing goats from entering beauty shops. He also named the goat “McCullers” after Carson McCullers, a nod to both his Southern roots and my father, Carson Southern.
When I spoke to Mother the next day, she immediately began talking about the goat. I told her that Jason had some questions about the goat.
“I do not care for the tone in Jason’s questions,” she offered. “I do not think he has the goat’s best interest at heart”.
I told her we had named the goat “McCullers”.
“It is none of Jason’s business what the goat is named. Besides, the former mayor of High Point is named Roy Culler and that could be very confusing to the goat. And, he already has a name. His name is Valentino”.
I made the point that she should have told me the goat’s name before Jason so kindly thought of a name.
“I do not like your attitude or Jason’s attitude”.
In response to concern about the cosmetology laws, Mother was succinct.
“Why don’t Jason and you worry about those books you are supposed to be making?”
Discussion about McCullers dominated much of our conversations for the next week. She could hardly wait to see “McCuster”, as she begrudgingly called him, again.
After her visit to the beauty shop, she called me, completely crestfallen.
“They took the goat back to live with his family. He found a hole in the fence behind the beauty shop and they found him wandering in the parking lot.”
Her voice brightened for a moment.
“I told them that he needed some vegetables and was walking to Food Town”.
There was a long silence.
“I loved that little fellow”.
Several weeks later, a letter arrived from High Point. On lovely stationery engraved Mary Southern, there was a scrawled note from Valentino asking if he could meet me one day and sending me $43.00. There was also a murky photograph of the goat (taken down from her beautician’s mirror where it had a place of honor).
Mother has assured me that when I come to High Point, the owners have consented to bring the goat for a visit so that I can meet him.
I hope he will answer to McCullers. But, of course, it is none of my business.
“There was a goat at the beauty shop,” she said.
I thought that I had misunderstood.
“Yes, Miss Astorbilt (as she refers to me), there was a goat. The people who own the building also have a big farm outside Thomasville. This little goat is black instead of white like his mother and brothers, so they don’t want anything to do with him. He also has a very bad underbite. So, the people are bottle feeding him and are keeping him in the fenced yard behind the beauty shop until he grows up a bit”.
So, I queried, she saw the goat in the yard behind the beauty shop?
“If it is any of your business,” she riposted, “they brought the goat into the beauty shop so that we could see him. He was running and skipping and running and skipping all around. He tried to eat my shoe and he also ate a plant”.
She was wistful for a moment.
“He has the softest fur”.
I had not heard her this excited since she shook Vincent Price’s hand at the Sedgefield Country Club.
I immediately texted my partner in absurdity, Jason, who had a series of questions including were there not any cosmetology laws in High Point preventing goats from entering beauty shops. He also named the goat “McCullers” after Carson McCullers, a nod to both his Southern roots and my father, Carson Southern.
When I spoke to Mother the next day, she immediately began talking about the goat. I told her that Jason had some questions about the goat.
“I do not care for the tone in Jason’s questions,” she offered. “I do not think he has the goat’s best interest at heart”.
I told her we had named the goat “McCullers”.
“It is none of Jason’s business what the goat is named. Besides, the former mayor of High Point is named Roy Culler and that could be very confusing to the goat. And, he already has a name. His name is Valentino”.
I made the point that she should have told me the goat’s name before Jason so kindly thought of a name.
“I do not like your attitude or Jason’s attitude”.
In response to concern about the cosmetology laws, Mother was succinct.
“Why don’t Jason and you worry about those books you are supposed to be making?”
Discussion about McCullers dominated much of our conversations for the next week. She could hardly wait to see “McCuster”, as she begrudgingly called him, again.
After her visit to the beauty shop, she called me, completely crestfallen.
“They took the goat back to live with his family. He found a hole in the fence behind the beauty shop and they found him wandering in the parking lot.”
Her voice brightened for a moment.
“I told them that he needed some vegetables and was walking to Food Town”.
There was a long silence.
“I loved that little fellow”.
Several weeks later, a letter arrived from High Point. On lovely stationery engraved Mary Southern, there was a scrawled note from Valentino asking if he could meet me one day and sending me $43.00. There was also a murky photograph of the goat (taken down from her beautician’s mirror where it had a place of honor).
Mother has assured me that when I come to High Point, the owners have consented to bring the goat for a visit so that I can meet him.
I hope he will answer to McCullers. But, of course, it is none of my business.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Family of One Attends Jersey Boys in Miami, FL
Later tonight, I am headed to see Jersey Boys for the third time, the first two being on Broadway. Tonight, for the first time, I have a really great seat. I have been thinking about why I wanted to spend premium bucks to see a show again that, frankly, is no 42nd Street or God of Carnage, for that matter. I hear about a lot of folks who are transfixed by this show and see it again and again.
There’s definitely something about the (for the most part) upbeat music. I barely remember Frankie Valli and the Four Season from my childhood, enjoying their music more when I was in my 30s. The plot of a rags to riches to rags to riches experience definitely resonates. I like the idea of spending an evening in the theater where there is a happy ending and lots of energizing tunes. I like not having to focus on every plot twist and listen to every lyric, but just relax.
But, I think that my great affection for this show goes back to the first time that I saw it in June of 2006 just as it was becoming a huge phenomenon and just after the show and its star won the Tony awards.
I was just coming out of the worst period of my life and had begun what were still tentative forays back into the NYC scene. Now, I take it for granted that I zip all over the city, throwing back cocktails and yucking it up with new friends at the latest restaurants. Then, I was still grappling with remaining issues from the days when I lived in New York as well as what my future held. I was not particularly excited about seeing Jersey Boys, but I had heard great things about it, so, given that I used to see almost every show playing on Broadway, I decided to see that along with a delightful and underrated show called The Drowsy Chaperone.
My seat was in the second mezzanine and I was surrounded by mostly folks my age and older, but lots of couples, most of whom seemed to be from New Jersey. I say that not with sarcasm, but because they were all yelling out to each other where they were from and greeting each other warmly.
Even the second mezzanine was a treat to me because in an attempt to be thrifty and because NYC hotels were starting at $400 a night for just a mediocre room, I had done something that I thought was brilliant and rented an apartment which was advertised as close to Lincoln Center. It was in the housing project directly behind Lincoln Center, so that part was true. The apartment, which it also was, had one lone light bulb, a mattress directly on the floor, and smelled of a gas leak which encouraged me to stay out of it the whole time I was there. I wouldn’t even go in the bathroom, but washed my hands—and my hair—in the kitchen sink. The one thing that it had going for it was that it had a nice long sofa overlooking 68th Street, so that I could lie there and read and look out on a tree-covered street, long one of my NYC dreams. Suffice to say, I never looked back once my time there was up and I immediately made plans to return to NYC a few weeks later when the Gramercy Park Hotel was reopening with an introductory rate of $250 per night.
But, for now, I am in a nice, cool theater and I am not disappointed by the energy and the direction of the show. And, the performances are excellent. Everyone gets into the show and we are all laughing and discreetly sniffing at the appropriate times. Early in the show, Frankie Valli is told that because of his great talent, one day he will be a superstar singing with the backing of an orchestra that includes horns. Somehow, this never seems to happen.
So, towards the end of the second act, the familiar strains of “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” start, the single horn playing the introduction and Frankie Valli’s single clear voice singing the song of so much yearning and possible fulfillment. As John Lloyd Young sang the song, my mind almost exploded with thoughts of people in my life who had reached great heights in the second acts of their life. I even thought about my ex G and what an incredible second act he was having. And, then, I thought about myself and how in what seemed like just a few weeks, everything that had been so grim had turned into something wonderful and affirming. As I was thinking this, several musicians strutted onto the stage playing horns like trombones and trumpets, that incredible heart of the song. It was so incredibly overpowering that I burst into tears and just sat there sobbing unabashedly. Then, I pulled myself together. I said to myself, “stop acting like such a p***** and stop embarrassing yourself in front of all of these people from New Jersey”. I sat up and looked around. Everyone else was collapsed in tears as well. Even the men! Especially the men!
And, then, all of a sudden, everyone in the theater leapt up and started a standing ovation in the middle of the song. I just assumed that the producers had manipulated the emotional pull of the song to evoke such a response. But, that didn’t tarnish the moment at all. We all clapped and clapped and STOPPED THE SHOW!! Never in my life did I think I would write those words, unless it was for a revival of Elaine Stritch in Company or Lunt/Fontanne in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. The ovation went on for a couple of minutes. Finally, John Lloyd Young had nodded and bowed and held his hands to his heart enough times and the show went on.
Christ on a crutch, I was so worn out that I couldn’t even tell you what happened after that. But, of course, there is the wonderful scene when the group reunites at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and rises up below the stage singing Rag Doll with the haunting chorus boomeranging all over the theater. And other wonderful scenes. We were all so connected by this time that no one wanted to leave the theater after the final note.
So, the second time that I saw it, I was not as emotionally frayed and enjoyed the whole show and no one collapsed with emotion during “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” or received a standing ovation in the middle of the show. This time, the audience was filled with parents from all over the country with their teen-aged daughters, singing every word along with the cast. Fascinating that this show so entranced them, I thought.
Tonight, from my box seat, I plan on just enjoying the show from my box seat along with a pre-theater meal at Barton G’s restaurant, Prelude, located at the theater. Who loves you, indeed!!
There’s definitely something about the (for the most part) upbeat music. I barely remember Frankie Valli and the Four Season from my childhood, enjoying their music more when I was in my 30s. The plot of a rags to riches to rags to riches experience definitely resonates. I like the idea of spending an evening in the theater where there is a happy ending and lots of energizing tunes. I like not having to focus on every plot twist and listen to every lyric, but just relax.
But, I think that my great affection for this show goes back to the first time that I saw it in June of 2006 just as it was becoming a huge phenomenon and just after the show and its star won the Tony awards.
I was just coming out of the worst period of my life and had begun what were still tentative forays back into the NYC scene. Now, I take it for granted that I zip all over the city, throwing back cocktails and yucking it up with new friends at the latest restaurants. Then, I was still grappling with remaining issues from the days when I lived in New York as well as what my future held. I was not particularly excited about seeing Jersey Boys, but I had heard great things about it, so, given that I used to see almost every show playing on Broadway, I decided to see that along with a delightful and underrated show called The Drowsy Chaperone.
My seat was in the second mezzanine and I was surrounded by mostly folks my age and older, but lots of couples, most of whom seemed to be from New Jersey. I say that not with sarcasm, but because they were all yelling out to each other where they were from and greeting each other warmly.
Even the second mezzanine was a treat to me because in an attempt to be thrifty and because NYC hotels were starting at $400 a night for just a mediocre room, I had done something that I thought was brilliant and rented an apartment which was advertised as close to Lincoln Center. It was in the housing project directly behind Lincoln Center, so that part was true. The apartment, which it also was, had one lone light bulb, a mattress directly on the floor, and smelled of a gas leak which encouraged me to stay out of it the whole time I was there. I wouldn’t even go in the bathroom, but washed my hands—and my hair—in the kitchen sink. The one thing that it had going for it was that it had a nice long sofa overlooking 68th Street, so that I could lie there and read and look out on a tree-covered street, long one of my NYC dreams. Suffice to say, I never looked back once my time there was up and I immediately made plans to return to NYC a few weeks later when the Gramercy Park Hotel was reopening with an introductory rate of $250 per night.
But, for now, I am in a nice, cool theater and I am not disappointed by the energy and the direction of the show. And, the performances are excellent. Everyone gets into the show and we are all laughing and discreetly sniffing at the appropriate times. Early in the show, Frankie Valli is told that because of his great talent, one day he will be a superstar singing with the backing of an orchestra that includes horns. Somehow, this never seems to happen.
So, towards the end of the second act, the familiar strains of “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” start, the single horn playing the introduction and Frankie Valli’s single clear voice singing the song of so much yearning and possible fulfillment. As John Lloyd Young sang the song, my mind almost exploded with thoughts of people in my life who had reached great heights in the second acts of their life. I even thought about my ex G and what an incredible second act he was having. And, then, I thought about myself and how in what seemed like just a few weeks, everything that had been so grim had turned into something wonderful and affirming. As I was thinking this, several musicians strutted onto the stage playing horns like trombones and trumpets, that incredible heart of the song. It was so incredibly overpowering that I burst into tears and just sat there sobbing unabashedly. Then, I pulled myself together. I said to myself, “stop acting like such a p***** and stop embarrassing yourself in front of all of these people from New Jersey”. I sat up and looked around. Everyone else was collapsed in tears as well. Even the men! Especially the men!
And, then, all of a sudden, everyone in the theater leapt up and started a standing ovation in the middle of the song. I just assumed that the producers had manipulated the emotional pull of the song to evoke such a response. But, that didn’t tarnish the moment at all. We all clapped and clapped and STOPPED THE SHOW!! Never in my life did I think I would write those words, unless it was for a revival of Elaine Stritch in Company or Lunt/Fontanne in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. The ovation went on for a couple of minutes. Finally, John Lloyd Young had nodded and bowed and held his hands to his heart enough times and the show went on.
Christ on a crutch, I was so worn out that I couldn’t even tell you what happened after that. But, of course, there is the wonderful scene when the group reunites at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and rises up below the stage singing Rag Doll with the haunting chorus boomeranging all over the theater. And other wonderful scenes. We were all so connected by this time that no one wanted to leave the theater after the final note.
So, the second time that I saw it, I was not as emotionally frayed and enjoyed the whole show and no one collapsed with emotion during “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” or received a standing ovation in the middle of the show. This time, the audience was filled with parents from all over the country with their teen-aged daughters, singing every word along with the cast. Fascinating that this show so entranced them, I thought.
Tonight, from my box seat, I plan on just enjoying the show from my box seat along with a pre-theater meal at Barton G’s restaurant, Prelude, located at the theater. Who loves you, indeed!!
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Family of One Remembers an Interesting Encounter
As I lounged on the couch in front of a lovely fire at my beloved Hotel Sainte-Beuve in Paris recently listening to my iPod, a song came on from the early 80s (Hall and Oates’ “Private Eyes”) that took me back to when I briefly lived in Austin, TX and, from there, a memory that I had not thought about in a long time came rushing back and has stayed with me ever since. Interesting how that happens, isn’t it?
Before I moved to Austin, I took one last trip to NYC from my current home in Richmond, VA and was looking forward to seeing Rex Harrison in a production of My Fair Lady with a dear friend who was working on her doctorate in English at Princeton. We agreed to meet for dinner at one of those French bistros that, at the time, lined W. 45th and W. 46th Street in the theater district.
For this auspicious occasion, I was wearing a dress which I had seen pictured on the front of the Fall Lord and Taylor catalog, then considered the very best in working woman fashion. It was a navy paisley pseudo-polyester with matching belt, white Peter Pan collar, and floppy red bow tie. It cost $125 which would be like $800 today. I had seen Nina Courtlandt wear a very similar dress on All My Children and I felt that it was the height of sophistication. To accompany this dress, I had a similarly priced pair of navy leather pumps that were not quite Ferragamos, but the next thing to them.
As I waited for my friend, I stood outside perusing the menu and a middle-aged fellow walked up to join me, standing just a little too close. I glanced at him in annoyance, but he did not appear to notice. He was probably in his late 40’s, salt and pepper unruly hair and beard, dressed in the style of the artiste of the day which was a beige linen shirt, white painter’s pants, and some kind of sandals. I seem to recall some kind of backpack or bag carelessly slung over his shoulder.
This was not the kind of man to whom I would have given a second glance as I preferred the clean-cut, preppy look. In thinking about this now, it is clear that he resembled nothing less than a grayer version of the character that Alan Bates played in An Unmarried Woman, a movie that had had a seminal effect on my life choices, but I wasn’t paying very close attention. Perhaps the thought of an evening with Rex Harrison was dancing in my brain.
At any rate, we struck up a conversation about the menu and one thing led to another and, before I could say coq au vin, he had asked me if I would like to go into the restaurant and have dinner with him. I was slightly horrified. What would a young, Nina Courtlandt wanna-be do with such an invitation? This fellow had told me that he was an actor and a writer (as if who, dressed like him, wasn’t?). I could see my friend coming down the street, so I told him that I would not be able to have dinner with him. He then invited me to see the apartment he was renovating on the corner of 45th Street and Ninth Avenue, a neighborhood with which I was not all that familiar. He scrawled his name—Keith A. Walker—and his phone number on a piece of paper and asked me to call him the next afternoon.
He loped off down the street and, before I could tell my friend about this encounter, she took a nasty spill in a puddle of water in the restaurant and did great damage to her skirt, the fact of which consumed us for our evening as she dealt with getting the restaurant to pay for a new skirt, etc.
After My Fair Lady, I headed back to Minetta Lane where I was staying with college friends with whom I regaled the tale of the actor/writer and they all agreed that he was setting me up for, if not robbery, then a possible gang rape, since he had told me not to be worried about coming to his apartment because there would be plenty of workmen around and we would not be alone. “He lives in HELL’S KITCHEN,” they kept stressing in particularly ominous tones. It occurs to me now that they must have been trained at the Mother School of Scary Situation, but, nonetheless, I ignored their entreaties which were made all the more interesting as they never met a recreational drug that they didn’t like and were constantly having unsavory affairs with stockbrokers, lawyers, etc.
I met Keith A. Walker at his apartment on Saturday afternoon. Because I wanted to come across as fierce and independent, I wore (also from Lord and Taylor) a raspberry faux-polyester of a particularly pillable fabric with matching belt and shoulder pads. I complemented this look with a pair of faux leather beige pumps with what we now call peektoe, but then we called professional.
Keith took me on a tour of the duplex that he was renovating and introduced me to the lone Hispanic worker who was grouting the kitchen floor. The only time that he touched was me when he gave me a gentlemanly hand to help me up and down the various steps and over the carpentry tools spread all around. He suggested that we go to get a cappuccino. I was beside myself with excitement. At that time, cappuccino was not widely available in instant powder formats, let along being served at McDonald’s. I doubt that I had ever had a cappuccino. To sit on a Saturday afternoon with what was quickly becoming an interesting companion was the height of sophistication.
Keith told me that he was an erstwhile actor (having appeared in such shows as Mannix, Quincy, and The Rookies), but that his true love was writing and that his dream was to write a movie that would make enough money for him to live on farm in Tennessee, using land that he had bought. He was married to an actress who found a role as the maid on Dynasty, but, at the time, was an actress in Los Angeles. He made vague allusions to some sort of open marriage which I chose to ignore.
Talking with him was engaging and provocative in a way that I had rarely experienced and, in fact, was slightly intimidating. I felt sad that I was getting ready to go to Austin and that I would not be able to continue this whatever it was.
We still had some time to kill before I had to leave for the airport, so we strolled back to his brownstone and sat on his stoop on a lovely September afternoon. In the middle of discussing our favorite movies and books, he suddenly said, “there is something I want to say to you that I don’t think you will ever hear from anyone else. You have so many gifts that you are not using and you are completely wasting your time in college textbook publishing. Please don’t let yourself languish there when you could be doing something that could really have a huge impact”. I disagreed with him. I told him that I realized I wasn’t on my way to being Maxwell Perkins, but I had come from a mean little town and gotten myself into a business that was interesting and fun and where I knew I could flourish. He nodded resignedly. I told him that I would keep his advice in mind.
After I got to Austin, we became great correspondents although, interestingly, we never talked on the phone. He asked me to come back to NYC to see him but I told him that I needed to focus on getting to know my new territory. He also made me an offer that no one else has ever made—to go to Paris—but, as put it, either for a long weekend or for six months which, he said, was the only way to do it. I asked for a rain check.
I only stayed in Austin a short while, but, by the time I was back to my regular visits to NYC, I was seeing a couple of other men who were not as intimidating (even though they were also twenty-plus years older like Keith) and so our correspondence drifted away.
Years later, I had just moved back to Boston from NYC where I had lived for two years when I read his obituary in Entertainment Weekly. He had written the screenplays for the Free Willy series of movies and had, indeed, been able to move to Tennessee and live on his beloved farm. He was only 61. I was so sad that our paths would never cross again because I had always thought that somehow we would be back in touch.
Around this time, my beloved friend B was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. After our initial shock had worn off and we realized that we needed to spend our time together talking about what was ahead for her, I told her about Keith A. Walker and asked her to look him up. Her fact lit up. She said, “he sounds so wonderful and I love the fact that he established such a strong connection with you so quickly”.
Perhaps they are having a cappuccino right now.
As for me, I am very grateful that I went to Hell’s Kitchen on a sunny September day and only wish that I could have had the courage to take a long weekend in Paris.
Before I moved to Austin, I took one last trip to NYC from my current home in Richmond, VA and was looking forward to seeing Rex Harrison in a production of My Fair Lady with a dear friend who was working on her doctorate in English at Princeton. We agreed to meet for dinner at one of those French bistros that, at the time, lined W. 45th and W. 46th Street in the theater district.
For this auspicious occasion, I was wearing a dress which I had seen pictured on the front of the Fall Lord and Taylor catalog, then considered the very best in working woman fashion. It was a navy paisley pseudo-polyester with matching belt, white Peter Pan collar, and floppy red bow tie. It cost $125 which would be like $800 today. I had seen Nina Courtlandt wear a very similar dress on All My Children and I felt that it was the height of sophistication. To accompany this dress, I had a similarly priced pair of navy leather pumps that were not quite Ferragamos, but the next thing to them.
As I waited for my friend, I stood outside perusing the menu and a middle-aged fellow walked up to join me, standing just a little too close. I glanced at him in annoyance, but he did not appear to notice. He was probably in his late 40’s, salt and pepper unruly hair and beard, dressed in the style of the artiste of the day which was a beige linen shirt, white painter’s pants, and some kind of sandals. I seem to recall some kind of backpack or bag carelessly slung over his shoulder.
This was not the kind of man to whom I would have given a second glance as I preferred the clean-cut, preppy look. In thinking about this now, it is clear that he resembled nothing less than a grayer version of the character that Alan Bates played in An Unmarried Woman, a movie that had had a seminal effect on my life choices, but I wasn’t paying very close attention. Perhaps the thought of an evening with Rex Harrison was dancing in my brain.
At any rate, we struck up a conversation about the menu and one thing led to another and, before I could say coq au vin, he had asked me if I would like to go into the restaurant and have dinner with him. I was slightly horrified. What would a young, Nina Courtlandt wanna-be do with such an invitation? This fellow had told me that he was an actor and a writer (as if who, dressed like him, wasn’t?). I could see my friend coming down the street, so I told him that I would not be able to have dinner with him. He then invited me to see the apartment he was renovating on the corner of 45th Street and Ninth Avenue, a neighborhood with which I was not all that familiar. He scrawled his name—Keith A. Walker—and his phone number on a piece of paper and asked me to call him the next afternoon.
He loped off down the street and, before I could tell my friend about this encounter, she took a nasty spill in a puddle of water in the restaurant and did great damage to her skirt, the fact of which consumed us for our evening as she dealt with getting the restaurant to pay for a new skirt, etc.
After My Fair Lady, I headed back to Minetta Lane where I was staying with college friends with whom I regaled the tale of the actor/writer and they all agreed that he was setting me up for, if not robbery, then a possible gang rape, since he had told me not to be worried about coming to his apartment because there would be plenty of workmen around and we would not be alone. “He lives in HELL’S KITCHEN,” they kept stressing in particularly ominous tones. It occurs to me now that they must have been trained at the Mother School of Scary Situation, but, nonetheless, I ignored their entreaties which were made all the more interesting as they never met a recreational drug that they didn’t like and were constantly having unsavory affairs with stockbrokers, lawyers, etc.
I met Keith A. Walker at his apartment on Saturday afternoon. Because I wanted to come across as fierce and independent, I wore (also from Lord and Taylor) a raspberry faux-polyester of a particularly pillable fabric with matching belt and shoulder pads. I complemented this look with a pair of faux leather beige pumps with what we now call peektoe, but then we called professional.
Keith took me on a tour of the duplex that he was renovating and introduced me to the lone Hispanic worker who was grouting the kitchen floor. The only time that he touched was me when he gave me a gentlemanly hand to help me up and down the various steps and over the carpentry tools spread all around. He suggested that we go to get a cappuccino. I was beside myself with excitement. At that time, cappuccino was not widely available in instant powder formats, let along being served at McDonald’s. I doubt that I had ever had a cappuccino. To sit on a Saturday afternoon with what was quickly becoming an interesting companion was the height of sophistication.
Keith told me that he was an erstwhile actor (having appeared in such shows as Mannix, Quincy, and The Rookies), but that his true love was writing and that his dream was to write a movie that would make enough money for him to live on farm in Tennessee, using land that he had bought. He was married to an actress who found a role as the maid on Dynasty, but, at the time, was an actress in Los Angeles. He made vague allusions to some sort of open marriage which I chose to ignore.
Talking with him was engaging and provocative in a way that I had rarely experienced and, in fact, was slightly intimidating. I felt sad that I was getting ready to go to Austin and that I would not be able to continue this whatever it was.
We still had some time to kill before I had to leave for the airport, so we strolled back to his brownstone and sat on his stoop on a lovely September afternoon. In the middle of discussing our favorite movies and books, he suddenly said, “there is something I want to say to you that I don’t think you will ever hear from anyone else. You have so many gifts that you are not using and you are completely wasting your time in college textbook publishing. Please don’t let yourself languish there when you could be doing something that could really have a huge impact”. I disagreed with him. I told him that I realized I wasn’t on my way to being Maxwell Perkins, but I had come from a mean little town and gotten myself into a business that was interesting and fun and where I knew I could flourish. He nodded resignedly. I told him that I would keep his advice in mind.
After I got to Austin, we became great correspondents although, interestingly, we never talked on the phone. He asked me to come back to NYC to see him but I told him that I needed to focus on getting to know my new territory. He also made me an offer that no one else has ever made—to go to Paris—but, as put it, either for a long weekend or for six months which, he said, was the only way to do it. I asked for a rain check.
I only stayed in Austin a short while, but, by the time I was back to my regular visits to NYC, I was seeing a couple of other men who were not as intimidating (even though they were also twenty-plus years older like Keith) and so our correspondence drifted away.
Years later, I had just moved back to Boston from NYC where I had lived for two years when I read his obituary in Entertainment Weekly. He had written the screenplays for the Free Willy series of movies and had, indeed, been able to move to Tennessee and live on his beloved farm. He was only 61. I was so sad that our paths would never cross again because I had always thought that somehow we would be back in touch.
Around this time, my beloved friend B was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. After our initial shock had worn off and we realized that we needed to spend our time together talking about what was ahead for her, I told her about Keith A. Walker and asked her to look him up. Her fact lit up. She said, “he sounds so wonderful and I love the fact that he established such a strong connection with you so quickly”.
Perhaps they are having a cappuccino right now.
As for me, I am very grateful that I went to Hell’s Kitchen on a sunny September day and only wish that I could have had the courage to take a long weekend in Paris.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Family of One Celebrates 30 Years in College Publishing
On May 27th of last year, I celebrated my 30th year in college textbook publishing. On that day, I was a little too busy in my current job to properly celebrate it and then, as the year went on, I kept forgetting to mention it or even think too much about it. But, now that I have a chance to breathe again for a week or two, it occurs to me that this is a significant milestone and one that I am planning to ponder, especially which jobs I have enjoyed the most and what I see as the future for our industry that can keep me engaged for twenty more years.
I have worked for eighteen managers at five different companies and been a sales representative (9 years), acquisitions editor (12 years), editor-in-chief/executive editor (2 years), marketing manager (1 year), and custom editor (7 years). I have lived in eight cities with the longest stints in Boston and Miami. The job at which I was unequivocally the worst was marketing manager as it was just, for me, a thankless role of marketing books on which I had been able to have no impact editorially and having to be available to answer questions 24/7 to which I was never all that sure of the answers. I was a good, but not great, sales rep. I was very skilled at procuring the business when the adoption was open to everyone because I was blessed with fabulous books, especially in the late 80s at Houghton Mifflin. But, when I would ask an instructor if he were interested in changing texts and he would say, “oh, I am happy with xxxx”, then I would cheerfully reply, “oh, then you should keep using xxx” and go on my merry way. Thankfully, as an acquisitions editor, I learned to be more aggressive and convince professors to write books who had never thought about it and customers to switch to my books because I could really convince them that they were the best for their courses.
My favorite job is being an editor. I love the combination of sitting in my office, working away on a project that only I can deliver be it a submission or a review summary or a strategic plan along with the thrill of talking to customers and seeing their faces light up when I can offer a solution to a knotty problem in their coursework. I am very lucky to do something that I enjoy so much, especially having done the jobs where I do not look forward to turning on my computer every day.
I could write about the marvelous people I have met, the kooks I have encountered, the passes I have deflected, the affairs that I have enjoyed, the authors that I have nurtured, the projects in which I have delighted, and the fabulous lunches and dinners that I have enjoyed with a plethora of publishers and professors. But, I think I would most enjoy telling you about how I got into college publishing.
After working on my M.A. in English for a year at the College of William and Mary, I had about as much direction as Meg Ryan has an upcoming movie role. I had worked at a fancy clothing store in High Point and was surprised by how much I liked selling and finding the perfect ensembles for my customers. I had a chance meeting with a sales rep for Houghton Mifflin as we both waited outside my Shakespeare professor’s office and he told me about his glamorous life of travel, expensed meals, and free car. But, I had always assumed that, like most women of my generation, I would do something to kill a little time and then get married and produce the what-seemed-obligatory three (always beautiful) children). But, I had hitched my wagon to a star that was not particularly interested in returning the favor, having found someone else to marry and so I was headed back to High Point with a heavy heart. I went back to work at the clothing store and resigned myself to a very modest life.
Then, of all things, Mother heard that High Point College (now University) was hiring an English instructor to run the writing lab. This was at a time when there were thousands of PhDs and MAs in English chasing down the very few jobs that existed. I took my resume over to the college and, while I was at work, the department head called our house and talked to Mother who made me a sound like a cross between Diana Trilling and Diane Keaton. I got the job and taught the 8:00 classes that no one wanted of developmental English and freshman composition and ran the writing lab. I also taught introduction to literature in the adult education program at R.J. Reynolds’ world headquarters in Winston-Salem where I had the dubious distinction of dating the most handsome man in the class, a fact that endeared me to all of the “students’ who were at least twice my age except for the two of us.
Interestingly, during that time, I was courted by some other very nice young men and so the goal of being Mrs. Somebody or Other could have been easily accomplished. But, I had read The Best of Everything and seen An Unmarried Woman and I thought that there had to be another life, one that would not center around being someone wife’s or mother and which would enable me to truly shine on my own. If I had stayed at High Point College, I have no doubt that I could have created such a life, but I thought it would be much easier to find an interesting job that took me away from where I had grown up so unhappily.
I started paying attention to the textbook sales reps that came around and asking them about their jobs. The fellow for Little, Brown was particularly helpful and as he had a brand-new handbook to sell, something called The Little Brown Handbook which promised to revolutionize the teaching of freshman composition, he made sure to spend time with me. Our department had been using the standard for the time, the Harbrace Handbook, since Eisenhower had been president. I told the sales rep that I would convince the department to use the Little Brown Handbook if we would help me get a job with his company.
At the same time, our department head, a glamorous, wealthy divorcee who had a beautiful mane of chestnut hair and resembled the studio chief Sherry Lansing , invited two of the full professors and me to accompany her to a convention of English professors called 4C’s that was being held in Washington, DC. I thought that this might be a good way to meet other publishers although I was, of course, supposed to attend sessions on becoming a better writing lab director. When we got to the convention hotel, I was stunned to see rows and rows of publishers all just standing around, waiting to talk to us, the professors to whom they sold. I was as excited as I would be today at a foie gras festival.
Thankfully, I had on my very best ensemble which was a gray suit that I bought at Saks Fifth Avenue, Floor 6, in New York City from Beatrice Wiener. At that time, it was very popular to wear not only suits, but skirts that had front slits from the knee to mid-thigh. So, I had on what I considered this stunning suit with a faux gray silk blouse and faux pearls. To complete this festival of fashion, I wore my highest stiletto sandals (sometimes known as F*** Me pumps) which are common (in all senses of the word) today, but, back then, were considered fairly daring with gray sheer hose. I felt that I was too short to have any kind of lovely figure, but I often received compliments on my legs which were perfectly proportioned. So, I go prancing into this exhibit hall.
I quickly learn to ask for the sales manager or editorial director who is “working the booth” and tell them that I am an English “professor” hoping to make the switch into college textbook publishing. By the time I leave the exhibit hall, I have three commitments for interviews and five more names to call for possible interviews. I am invited to the Prentice Hall cocktail party where I am more popular than Sue Ellen Ewing at the Cattleman’s Ball. I meet sales reps and district managers and editors and they all say how wonderful it would be if I worked at their company. Until then, I had pretty much thought that I would end up at Little, Brown because of my promise to my sales rep, but I was greeted with mild enthusiasm by the Editorial Director (who many years later became a good friend) who sent me a letter written by his secretary and telling me that I might have a future in the textbook business.
In an interesting twist of fate, one of my friends from high school (and a reader of the blog!), Miss Lynn York, was a sales rep for Prentice Hall in Dallas and we connected after my meeting with the PH people in DC. PH also had territories that were open and available in a number of places that I wanted to live including Richmond, VA which I thought would be the perfect starting point as I ventured away from High Point and contemplated eventually going to New York or Boston. And, so, once I returned to High Point, all of the pieces of the job search puzzle felt into place and I was on my way to Richmond by the beginning of the summer. And, on to a ride that has lasted for more than 30 years.
But, back to the 4C’s in DC. My comrades from HPC were flabbergasted that I was nowhere to be found as they had thought that they would be babysitting me since I could have easily been their daughter. We had dinner one night and went our own way the other night, but before we went back to High Point on Saturday, the “men” wanted to go to the Folger Shakespeare Library while they dropped the “women” off at Lord and Taylor to shop. I was happy as could be in such a sophisticated store while my department head looked on in amusement. After shopping, she took me to lunch in a very upscale bistro and said that she knew that I would be on to bigger things soon and toasted me with champagne. It was all very heady.
When the men picked us up, we had a long ride back to High Point, but she and I curled up under her mink coast in the back seat of her Lincoln Continental while the men sat in front and chatted. We took US 29 back to Greensboro which carried us through the horse country of Virginia and where there was nothing to be seen in the pitch black except an occasional fence and stars in the sky. I lay under the mink coat and realized, for the first time, that I was going to be able to make my future happen and that it was starting right then.
I have worked for eighteen managers at five different companies and been a sales representative (9 years), acquisitions editor (12 years), editor-in-chief/executive editor (2 years), marketing manager (1 year), and custom editor (7 years). I have lived in eight cities with the longest stints in Boston and Miami. The job at which I was unequivocally the worst was marketing manager as it was just, for me, a thankless role of marketing books on which I had been able to have no impact editorially and having to be available to answer questions 24/7 to which I was never all that sure of the answers. I was a good, but not great, sales rep. I was very skilled at procuring the business when the adoption was open to everyone because I was blessed with fabulous books, especially in the late 80s at Houghton Mifflin. But, when I would ask an instructor if he were interested in changing texts and he would say, “oh, I am happy with xxxx”, then I would cheerfully reply, “oh, then you should keep using xxx” and go on my merry way. Thankfully, as an acquisitions editor, I learned to be more aggressive and convince professors to write books who had never thought about it and customers to switch to my books because I could really convince them that they were the best for their courses.
My favorite job is being an editor. I love the combination of sitting in my office, working away on a project that only I can deliver be it a submission or a review summary or a strategic plan along with the thrill of talking to customers and seeing their faces light up when I can offer a solution to a knotty problem in their coursework. I am very lucky to do something that I enjoy so much, especially having done the jobs where I do not look forward to turning on my computer every day.
I could write about the marvelous people I have met, the kooks I have encountered, the passes I have deflected, the affairs that I have enjoyed, the authors that I have nurtured, the projects in which I have delighted, and the fabulous lunches and dinners that I have enjoyed with a plethora of publishers and professors. But, I think I would most enjoy telling you about how I got into college publishing.
After working on my M.A. in English for a year at the College of William and Mary, I had about as much direction as Meg Ryan has an upcoming movie role. I had worked at a fancy clothing store in High Point and was surprised by how much I liked selling and finding the perfect ensembles for my customers. I had a chance meeting with a sales rep for Houghton Mifflin as we both waited outside my Shakespeare professor’s office and he told me about his glamorous life of travel, expensed meals, and free car. But, I had always assumed that, like most women of my generation, I would do something to kill a little time and then get married and produce the what-seemed-obligatory three (always beautiful) children). But, I had hitched my wagon to a star that was not particularly interested in returning the favor, having found someone else to marry and so I was headed back to High Point with a heavy heart. I went back to work at the clothing store and resigned myself to a very modest life.
Then, of all things, Mother heard that High Point College (now University) was hiring an English instructor to run the writing lab. This was at a time when there were thousands of PhDs and MAs in English chasing down the very few jobs that existed. I took my resume over to the college and, while I was at work, the department head called our house and talked to Mother who made me a sound like a cross between Diana Trilling and Diane Keaton. I got the job and taught the 8:00 classes that no one wanted of developmental English and freshman composition and ran the writing lab. I also taught introduction to literature in the adult education program at R.J. Reynolds’ world headquarters in Winston-Salem where I had the dubious distinction of dating the most handsome man in the class, a fact that endeared me to all of the “students’ who were at least twice my age except for the two of us.
Interestingly, during that time, I was courted by some other very nice young men and so the goal of being Mrs. Somebody or Other could have been easily accomplished. But, I had read The Best of Everything and seen An Unmarried Woman and I thought that there had to be another life, one that would not center around being someone wife’s or mother and which would enable me to truly shine on my own. If I had stayed at High Point College, I have no doubt that I could have created such a life, but I thought it would be much easier to find an interesting job that took me away from where I had grown up so unhappily.
I started paying attention to the textbook sales reps that came around and asking them about their jobs. The fellow for Little, Brown was particularly helpful and as he had a brand-new handbook to sell, something called The Little Brown Handbook which promised to revolutionize the teaching of freshman composition, he made sure to spend time with me. Our department had been using the standard for the time, the Harbrace Handbook, since Eisenhower had been president. I told the sales rep that I would convince the department to use the Little Brown Handbook if we would help me get a job with his company.
At the same time, our department head, a glamorous, wealthy divorcee who had a beautiful mane of chestnut hair and resembled the studio chief Sherry Lansing , invited two of the full professors and me to accompany her to a convention of English professors called 4C’s that was being held in Washington, DC. I thought that this might be a good way to meet other publishers although I was, of course, supposed to attend sessions on becoming a better writing lab director. When we got to the convention hotel, I was stunned to see rows and rows of publishers all just standing around, waiting to talk to us, the professors to whom they sold. I was as excited as I would be today at a foie gras festival.
Thankfully, I had on my very best ensemble which was a gray suit that I bought at Saks Fifth Avenue, Floor 6, in New York City from Beatrice Wiener. At that time, it was very popular to wear not only suits, but skirts that had front slits from the knee to mid-thigh. So, I had on what I considered this stunning suit with a faux gray silk blouse and faux pearls. To complete this festival of fashion, I wore my highest stiletto sandals (sometimes known as F*** Me pumps) which are common (in all senses of the word) today, but, back then, were considered fairly daring with gray sheer hose. I felt that I was too short to have any kind of lovely figure, but I often received compliments on my legs which were perfectly proportioned. So, I go prancing into this exhibit hall.
I quickly learn to ask for the sales manager or editorial director who is “working the booth” and tell them that I am an English “professor” hoping to make the switch into college textbook publishing. By the time I leave the exhibit hall, I have three commitments for interviews and five more names to call for possible interviews. I am invited to the Prentice Hall cocktail party where I am more popular than Sue Ellen Ewing at the Cattleman’s Ball. I meet sales reps and district managers and editors and they all say how wonderful it would be if I worked at their company. Until then, I had pretty much thought that I would end up at Little, Brown because of my promise to my sales rep, but I was greeted with mild enthusiasm by the Editorial Director (who many years later became a good friend) who sent me a letter written by his secretary and telling me that I might have a future in the textbook business.
In an interesting twist of fate, one of my friends from high school (and a reader of the blog!), Miss Lynn York, was a sales rep for Prentice Hall in Dallas and we connected after my meeting with the PH people in DC. PH also had territories that were open and available in a number of places that I wanted to live including Richmond, VA which I thought would be the perfect starting point as I ventured away from High Point and contemplated eventually going to New York or Boston. And, so, once I returned to High Point, all of the pieces of the job search puzzle felt into place and I was on my way to Richmond by the beginning of the summer. And, on to a ride that has lasted for more than 30 years.
But, back to the 4C’s in DC. My comrades from HPC were flabbergasted that I was nowhere to be found as they had thought that they would be babysitting me since I could have easily been their daughter. We had dinner one night and went our own way the other night, but before we went back to High Point on Saturday, the “men” wanted to go to the Folger Shakespeare Library while they dropped the “women” off at Lord and Taylor to shop. I was happy as could be in such a sophisticated store while my department head looked on in amusement. After shopping, she took me to lunch in a very upscale bistro and said that she knew that I would be on to bigger things soon and toasted me with champagne. It was all very heady.
When the men picked us up, we had a long ride back to High Point, but she and I curled up under her mink coast in the back seat of her Lincoln Continental while the men sat in front and chatted. We took US 29 back to Greensboro which carried us through the horse country of Virginia and where there was nothing to be seen in the pitch black except an occasional fence and stars in the sky. I lay under the mink coat and realized, for the first time, that I was going to be able to make my future happen and that it was starting right then.
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