I was looking forward to a few days in Chicago. I used to spend a lot of time there when I traveled the country as an editor, but hadn’t really savored the city in recent years. I made my restaurant plans accordingly, consulting a variety of friends and restaurant reviews. But, I never imagined that I would fall in love with the Windy City dining scene. Especially when one of my first meals was one of the worst dining experiences of my life. I may write further descriptions of these memorable meals, but, for now, wanted to let you know what I’ve been up to and some great Chicago places to try.
Friday—I had heard great things about NoMi at the Park Hyatt, so headed there for a Friday evening dinner. The restaurant had just received four stars from the Chicago Tribune, so everyone was in a festive mood and Piper Heidsick was served all around. My meal was splendid, selected from a brief array of selections—white asparagus veloute, veal tenderloin with sweetbreads (possibly my very favorite thing in the culinary world) and an apricot/hazelnut dessert. After a slightly bumpy beginning in too close a proximity to a four top of big mouths, I had my own four top and met several delightful folks including Aaron Sherman, the top notch sommelier. He gifted me with sliced black truffles on my veal dish and the server did something very interesting which was give me the last glass of wine that several patrons had remaining in their bottles. A lovely experience and I felt very well cared for.
Saturday—I had been looking forward to my dinner at Avenues with a chef who had worked at Alinea and won a James Beard prize. A glam location at the Peninsula, highly recommended by the folks at Eleven Madison Park as well as the folks at NoMi—sounds wonderful!! It was, unequivocally, the worst fine dining experience I have ever had. Of course, one is bound to have a misfire or two. But, this one was so egregious that I actually went back to my room, sat on my elegant sofa, and thought---why do I enjoy this so much? Is it a waste of my time (and money)? Is there something else that could feed (no pun intended) so much of my soul and energy?
The dining experience was not aided by a drab room, reminiscent of a conference room at the Marriott and techno-jazz blaring reminiscent of a two star Miami Beach hotel. The lovely sommelier from NoMi had made sure that a glass of Taittinger was waiting for me. The server was charming, but neglected to give me key information about the menu which was divided into two columns of eight dishes with names like sweet corn; grains, seeds, nuts; passion fruit. He explained that I could choose one of the two tastings. The one of the left—Light—or the one on the right—Protein. At the time, I thought this was a very odd description of the food served in a very fancy restaurant, but who was I to question it? Since I had enjoyed meat the night before, I went with the Light, thinking it would be seafood focused. What transpired was truly some of the most horrific taste combinations I have ever encountered and pray that I never taste again. The aforementioned sweet corn contained a “dome” of coconut and some other ingredient that I needed to crack which turned the whole dish into nothing but glop. In eight courses, there was not one flavor that I could identify or that tasted good. Period. In addition, there was a bread to accompany every course. The breads were tasteless as well. The servers kept piling them up on top of each other until there were literally four different kinds of bread piled up and toppling on the table. At this point, I called over the server and said, “I am not at Perkins—please take away these runaway pieces of bread”. One of the dessert courses was so acidic that I could not enjoy another meal for a couple of days.
You get the picture. And, so did the assistant general manager when I sat down with him on Monday. But, in the meantime, we end Saturday—for the first time—filled with doubt about why the art of dining is so important.
Sunday—After several Immodiums and some Pepto-Bismol along with a gorgeous summer day awaiting, I decided to keep my reservations for the day—brunch at the Publican and dinner at Spiaggia. After a stroll through Lincoln Park, I found myself at an outdoor table at the Publican with a cool breeze blowing and surrounded by lively, engaged diners like myself. I ordered the Wurstweis with pretzel and hash browns. The latter were among the best I have ever tasted. The Wurstweis was sweet and flavorful, if a bit overwhelming. I ate only a tiny bit, but felt great reading my Scott Turow novel and enjoying the buzz of the restaurant. A nice gray-haired gentleman came over and asked how I was doing. I assumed he was a manager of some sorts, so we exchanged a few pleasantries, then I heard him barking orders to a waiter. In a few minutes, the gentleman passed by me on a Schwinn bike. Our eyes met and I said, “I am so sorry you are leaving. I thought we were just starting to get to know each other”. Much to my surprise, he hopped off the bike and came over sat down with me. I told him that I had heard him chatting with someone he called “Chef” and asked who that might be. He said, “oh, I must introduce you”, and within moments, I had made the acquaintance of Chef Randy Guidara of the fabulous green restaurant Province. As Chef Randy and I chatted, my new friend was scribbling away on a postcard. He handed me the card with both of their cell phones as well as addresses of their restaurants and asked if I would come to visit them in the week ahead. I was seated with Donnie Madia, owner of not only The Publican, but Blackbird and Avec. I mentioned my disappointment of the night before and they assured me that I would be in good hands at their restaurants. The gentlemen excused themselves to continue their afternoons and I sighed contentedly as I recalled what happiness my passion for dining brings me with the unexpected connections that we make at the top of the list.
Although my stomach was still doing jumping jacks, I decided to proceed to Spiaggia. It was a good call. When dining alone, I usually focus on the servers and how I can make their jobs easy because I know how busy they are and I am, after all, only one patron. But, on this night, I shared with the lovely Erin and her colleague Annette my physical distress and they promised that I would leave Spiaggia feeling better. (My only goal was to not feel worse). The chef prepared a special amuse for me—a bomboloni crested with prosciutto—something about the sweetness and saltiness tasted really good. I felt like eating some sort of very light fish as well as some pasta. I ordered crudo of fluke with ossetra caviar (at $58, one of the most expensive appetizers that I have ever had) which was just perfect. And, the chef prepared some housemade pasta with olive oil and cheese. Absolute heaven. By now, Erin, Annette, and I are all great friends. Erin insists on treating me to a glass of an amaro which was powerful and helpful. Annette brought over orange and passion fruit sorbet in addition to the cantaloupe one that I had ordered. The chef came out to make sure that they had not overwhelmed me. The manager came over to make sure we had all hit it off as he thought we would—based on the fact that when I entered the restaurant and he said, “Miss Southern, I presume,” I replied, “who wants to know?” And, as Erin had assured me, I DID feel better. Not great, but good. And, I strolled down Michigan Avenue to my hotel to watch Mad Men in high def , realizing that Avenues had been but a blip in my dining career.
To be continued. . . .
With—what transpired from the meeting with the Avenues manager, dining at a classic Chicago institution, and dining with Chef Randy and Donnie. . . .
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Family of One Goes to a Reading
It was with some horror that I realized recently that I have been spending way too much time lounging on the sectional sofa. I believe that is referred to as cocooning and can be very restorative for one's mental health; however, as I noted that I spent every Sunday night and most Saturday nights in the triplex, I realized that it was time to get out a bit more. Trips to NYC and points beyond are wonderful, of course, but one should not ignore the marvelous city just outside the gates of the triplex community.
Monday night had been a night for catching up on work and assorted other doodads around the house, but when I saw that Jennifer Weiner was giving a reading at my beloved Books and Books, I decided to make a night of it, complete with dinner in Coral Gables.
I had been abstaining from readings since the the last couple that I attended were either so boring as to be embarrassing or so borderline hostile as to be irritating. Per the latter, I had been very excited about meeting a certain somewhat successful authoress who has written one of my alltime favorite novels. There to tout her latest, I was shocked at her gaunt and spindly appearance, resembling nothing like the lissome creature on her cover photos. She insisted on reading from the book in different voices for each character which I found off-putting. But, not nearly as off-putting as when I approached her to sign my book and said, "I must think about your book xxxxxxxxx every couple of days. What a fascinating world you created". Looking at me in a way that can only be called supercilious, she replied, "Don't you have anything better to do? I don't even think about it like that and I wrote it".
So, an evening with Jennifer Weiner promised to be the antidote to such brittleness. And, indeed, it was. I loved being surrounded in the audience by smart, attractive women talking with each other in an animated way about their latest goings-on. There was a large crowd and the energy in the room was full of happy anticipation. I helped an elderly couple relocate from their cramped seats in front of me and ended up learning all about them, including the fact that rather than get married for the third time for each, they are happy to be companions--at the age of 86. An Asian woman came over to speak to them and told me how familiar I looked to her. It turns out that we worked together 15 years ago at Harper Collins in NYC.
The author has a real gift for making the room a delight. She has written quite a few best sellers and tells a great story as well as creating warm, memorable characters. She was kind, funny, lovely, and passed out huge trays of Misha's cupcakes. I asked a question that elicited lots of supporting murmurs from the people around me and a very kind response from her. Afterwards, as I stood in the long line to have my book signed, I observed how she personally connected with each person and I loved seeing the smiles on thier faces as they walked away from her. I enjoyed my moment with her as well.
Then, the return to another tradition that I had abandoned. At one time, I was journeying to Ruth's Chris (which is in the next block) with much frequency although you will be happy to know that I did not have a steak except once a month. I stopped going because they replaced most of the comfortable club chairs in the bar where I ate with high stools that were not so comfortable. But, I felt like it was a good night to go back. I strode in and there was Mike, my favorite server. "Mary Jo," he calls out, "there is your favorite table". And, indeed, there it was, one of the three surviving tables with "real" chairs. Within minutes, "here's your lemon drop". Sighing with happiness, I settled in with my book, a chopped salad, and a crab-tini (a freshly luscious crab salad) and savored the evening.
Monday night had been a night for catching up on work and assorted other doodads around the house, but when I saw that Jennifer Weiner was giving a reading at my beloved Books and Books, I decided to make a night of it, complete with dinner in Coral Gables.
I had been abstaining from readings since the the last couple that I attended were either so boring as to be embarrassing or so borderline hostile as to be irritating. Per the latter, I had been very excited about meeting a certain somewhat successful authoress who has written one of my alltime favorite novels. There to tout her latest, I was shocked at her gaunt and spindly appearance, resembling nothing like the lissome creature on her cover photos. She insisted on reading from the book in different voices for each character which I found off-putting. But, not nearly as off-putting as when I approached her to sign my book and said, "I must think about your book xxxxxxxxx every couple of days. What a fascinating world you created". Looking at me in a way that can only be called supercilious, she replied, "Don't you have anything better to do? I don't even think about it like that and I wrote it".
So, an evening with Jennifer Weiner promised to be the antidote to such brittleness. And, indeed, it was. I loved being surrounded in the audience by smart, attractive women talking with each other in an animated way about their latest goings-on. There was a large crowd and the energy in the room was full of happy anticipation. I helped an elderly couple relocate from their cramped seats in front of me and ended up learning all about them, including the fact that rather than get married for the third time for each, they are happy to be companions--at the age of 86. An Asian woman came over to speak to them and told me how familiar I looked to her. It turns out that we worked together 15 years ago at Harper Collins in NYC.
The author has a real gift for making the room a delight. She has written quite a few best sellers and tells a great story as well as creating warm, memorable characters. She was kind, funny, lovely, and passed out huge trays of Misha's cupcakes. I asked a question that elicited lots of supporting murmurs from the people around me and a very kind response from her. Afterwards, as I stood in the long line to have my book signed, I observed how she personally connected with each person and I loved seeing the smiles on thier faces as they walked away from her. I enjoyed my moment with her as well.
Then, the return to another tradition that I had abandoned. At one time, I was journeying to Ruth's Chris (which is in the next block) with much frequency although you will be happy to know that I did not have a steak except once a month. I stopped going because they replaced most of the comfortable club chairs in the bar where I ate with high stools that were not so comfortable. But, I felt like it was a good night to go back. I strode in and there was Mike, my favorite server. "Mary Jo," he calls out, "there is your favorite table". And, indeed, there it was, one of the three surviving tables with "real" chairs. Within minutes, "here's your lemon drop". Sighing with happiness, I settled in with my book, a chopped salad, and a crab-tini (a freshly luscious crab salad) and savored the evening.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Family of One Goes to Madrid
In a little while, I will be heading off to Madrid where I plan to do little more than stroll through lovely gardens, seek out cathedrals that I have not visited, sit with my novel for hours in a tapas cafe, and, of course, chow down during the dinner hour. I will be back in ten days. Maybe.
As I prepare to depart, I couldn't help but think about an interesting adventure that I had with Mother. When I was in college, Mother and Dad took me on the Grand Tour of Europe, aka an American Express tour. While in Rome, we had a group dinner at one of the fabulous villas just outside the city and there was dancing to the strains of a local band afterwards. Certain gentlemen had been enlisted to dance with the ladies in the group. The forty-something pseudo-Lothario who danced with me was, shall we say, very excited by this opportunity and he danced me outside the restaurant where we made out frantically. This was all very exciting to a 19 year old.
As we prepared to get on the bus for the ride back to Rome, there was a group of young men--all incredibly handsome--loitering around the bus. I am not sure why because they weren't pan handlers, but, at any rate, they caught site of another young woman on the tour, a lissome, but demure, beauty from Asheville, NC and me. They went crazy whistling and yelling and making the international symbol for I would like to have sex with you. I couldn't help but look over and give a saucy glance or three.
We got on the bus and they went even crazier. Now, they were standing on each other's shoulders and peering in the bus and continuing to make their hand signals accompanied by leers and obscene mouth movements. Mother got wind of this and went into action. She made the international sign for I don't really care for you (third finger erect) and, then, not understanding how truly insulting this was, the Italian sign for get you know what--hand under chin in a dismissive gesture.
The crowd went wild and now started rocking the bus back and forth! This was much more exciting than being thrown out of the Louis XV hotel casino in Monte Carlo because I was underage. They were kissing the windows and giving Mother obscene gestures and almost out of control.
Finally, the bus driver (on whom I had a crush, one of my early brushes with an older man) had to step outside and put a stop to this frivolity. Mother was lecturing everyone around us on the evils of sex and how men should be kept in cages until they were 25. I was trying to get one last peek at the sight of all these adorable men.
I don't plan on taking any bus tours in Madrid, but I shall certainly be on the lookout for any restaurant experiences that include being danced on to a veranda and smooched passionately.
As I prepare to depart, I couldn't help but think about an interesting adventure that I had with Mother. When I was in college, Mother and Dad took me on the Grand Tour of Europe, aka an American Express tour. While in Rome, we had a group dinner at one of the fabulous villas just outside the city and there was dancing to the strains of a local band afterwards. Certain gentlemen had been enlisted to dance with the ladies in the group. The forty-something pseudo-Lothario who danced with me was, shall we say, very excited by this opportunity and he danced me outside the restaurant where we made out frantically. This was all very exciting to a 19 year old.
As we prepared to get on the bus for the ride back to Rome, there was a group of young men--all incredibly handsome--loitering around the bus. I am not sure why because they weren't pan handlers, but, at any rate, they caught site of another young woman on the tour, a lissome, but demure, beauty from Asheville, NC and me. They went crazy whistling and yelling and making the international symbol for I would like to have sex with you. I couldn't help but look over and give a saucy glance or three.
We got on the bus and they went even crazier. Now, they were standing on each other's shoulders and peering in the bus and continuing to make their hand signals accompanied by leers and obscene mouth movements. Mother got wind of this and went into action. She made the international sign for I don't really care for you (third finger erect) and, then, not understanding how truly insulting this was, the Italian sign for get you know what--hand under chin in a dismissive gesture.
The crowd went wild and now started rocking the bus back and forth! This was much more exciting than being thrown out of the Louis XV hotel casino in Monte Carlo because I was underage. They were kissing the windows and giving Mother obscene gestures and almost out of control.
Finally, the bus driver (on whom I had a crush, one of my early brushes with an older man) had to step outside and put a stop to this frivolity. Mother was lecturing everyone around us on the evils of sex and how men should be kept in cages until they were 25. I was trying to get one last peek at the sight of all these adorable men.
I don't plan on taking any bus tours in Madrid, but I shall certainly be on the lookout for any restaurant experiences that include being danced on to a veranda and smooched passionately.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Family of One Has a Birthday Weekend to Remember
Even though it has been three weeks since my birthday weekend, I am still so pleased that it was, indeed, a birthday to wipe away all memories of the dreadful ones of years past. I enjoyed every minute at the Gramercy Park hotel, even when the room hadn't been cleaned at 4:30 in the afternoon and there were light bulbs missing because this led to a scene straight out of the Marx Brothers' Night at the Opera when what seemed like hundreds of people filled their tiny stateroom. I had six workers in the room and the bathroom and we were all just giggling with the absurdity of the situation. I loved sitting in Gramercy Park. I loved Maiolino, the restaurant in the Gramercy Park hotel where I had Italian breakfast, brunch, and lunch (not on the same day. I loved seeing Please Give and Solitary Man. I loved going to the Redhead and having incredible homemade potato chips with brown butter onion dip, a one-eyed Caesar (Caesar salad with a brioche topped with a perfectly fried egg), and duck andouille gumbo, all under the aegis of Gregg Nelson, possibly the nicest person in the New York area. I loved seeing Cristina and Frank at the Mandarin Oriental and enjoying the glorious view and key lime cosmos. I loved being on the first row for La Cage aux Folles and seeing Douglas Hodge give one of the best performances that I have ever seen. All of this would have been a fabulous gift to unwrap, but I had more experiences, all in restaurants, that made the weekend one to remember for a long time.
LA TOCQUEVILLE ROMANCE UP CLOSE:
Dear friends had recommended La Tocqueville, just off Union Square and I was anxious to give it a try, so I sauntered over there after seeing Please Give. As the Zagat guide says, it is a jewel box of a restaurant and reminded me of how I had pictured all NYC restaurants when I was growing up. It is spacious and comfortable with an extremely high ceiling and muted colors complemented by beautiful moldings. The food was lovely--a vegetable salad with marvelous ingredients right from the Union Square greenmarket and a perfectly poached lobster with celery root puree and a lovely little flan. All very tasteful and relaxing. I am feeling very cosseted. But, at a table about six feet away are an older man and a younger woman. I roll my eyes at the cliche of it. He is short, but appears handsome, and wearing a suit (very unusual). She is completely overdressed like something out of a Carol Burnett parody of New York and has the worst overbite that I have ever seen. It is so pronounced that I keep running my tongue over my teeth to make sure that my teeth are stil alinged. Yet, she seems to think that she is a combination of Ivana Trump and Cameron Diaz. The other patrons are casually dressed and speak in calm, if enthusiastic tones. I try very hard not to hear every word being said, but as the evening wears on and diners depart, I have no choice. The lady asks the man to describe every woman he has "known" in the capacity that he has known her. Gentle Jesus, I cry to myself, don't go there. But, there he goes, enumerating what he has "loved" about his other "women". Then, he talks about why he loves his wife and why he will never leave her. I am starting to get annoyed, but I decide to sit back and watch this unfold. It is like some kind of two-character play for which I would pay $90. The gentleman then used the word "mistress" to describe his guest--the horror, the faux tears, the recriminations. I wouldn't leave for anything. Then, he asked her about the men she had loved. It was all I could do not to shush her as she proceeded to dish for more than 20 minutes about the one man to whom she had been engaged growing more and more unappealing as she described the falling apart of their relationship. During this tirade, the man never stopped sitting straight up, but his entire body language became more and more withdrawn which, of course, that poor fool never noted. There were so many facets that fascinated me--why they never acknowledged me, as close I was sitting; the wistfulness emanating from each of them as they completely missed each other; and, as I departed, the fact that this was one unattractive man as his face and body resembled that of Rumpelstiltkin and a woman who was desperately trying to look 35 even though she was probably 50. As I strolled back to the Gramercy Park hotel, I savored my Family of Oneness and made mental notes on how not to talk if and when I find myself in such a situation.
A MODERN BIRTHDAY
Lunch at the Modern barroom seemed like the perfect place to while away a couple of hours. And, indeed, the white gazpacho, the housemade sausage, the himachi sashimi, the adult Kit Kat (chocolate dacquoise) were all fabulous. But, even better, I chatted with the most lovely couple of a certain age next to me who were from Columbia, SC. They had met after their first spouses passed away and friends insisted on introducing them. They were utterly happy and so comfortable in their conversation that I teasingly told them that I could not believe that they were married. They had been together about seven years. The gentleman offered to buy me a glass of champagne and the three of us had the most delightful time comparing living in NYC to living in the South, the mercurial nature of falling in love, etc. As we dished and chatted, a family of four across the aisle was eyeing us-an elderly lady, two middle-aged fellows, and a young woman in her 20s. One of the men yelled over, "it's our grandmother's birthday and she is 95!" Said lady got up and came over to the table and we marveled at the serendipity of meeting on our birthdays. Turns out the group was from Charlotte--the elderly lady, her gay son, his partner, and her niece. I said--"you are just like your own TV show". We were all screaming with laughter and everyone else wished that they were sitting close to us. We all agreed that we would love to spend the afternoon yukking it up, but we had places to go--weddings for the couple from Columbia, the Twyla Tharp show for the family from Charlotte followed by dinner at Cafe Boulud (God, that 95 year old had more energy than I did! ), and Think Pink salon for mani/pedi with my darling Meme.
EMP
On Friday, my beloved K journeyed in from Rhinebeck to join me at Eleven Madison Park. For Christmas, Aunt Louise had given me an envelope with ten ten dollar bills in it and said for me to take someone to lunch at someplace special. So, I asked K if she could go with me to EMP to use that money. K was delighted and said that she would subsidize the rest. It was the meal of a lifetime in so many ways. Of course, we went crazy over the roasted chicken for two, the very best chicken I have ever tasted. We savored our tuna tartare and our gnocchi and our other treats. We didn't talk that much--we had already had our usual heart to heart chat while we strolled through Gramercy Park. From time to time, K's eyes filled with tears. It was a truly magical lunch because, best of all, K met nearly every member of my EMP dining family who presented themselves at our table like courtiers. And, as K put it, "I shall never forget the sight of Chef Humm making a beeline for OUR table". She was quite taken with him (the latest James Beard award winner) and his easy charm and down to earth attitude. Afterwards, we strolled back to the hotel where we could only loll in a state of suspended happiness and recount every morsel we had eaten and every lovely person we had seen. K's parting remark--"EMP is truly a bubble of delight in this crazy world and no wonder you cherish it so much because everything else just falls away".
I returned for my birthday dinner and had a marvelous meal and yukked it up with the folks who have become so very dear to me. My dear friends, the Rs, whom I met through EMP, made sure that I had a glass of champagne sent over. Interestingly, I can't say that the dinner was any better or different than the usual meal there, but I think that is a wonderful thing. Although the captain did bring me my very own bottle of Woodford Reserve for after-dinner imbibing. I was there until 1:30 AM, so it was quite an evening. I savored my conversations with each of my EMP family-each so devoted to good food and wonderful living, but so different from each other and with whom I have an unique fondness for each one. Just like a family!
Here is the menu:
Santa Barbara sea urchin/custard with Sterling Royal Caviar, Green Apple and Shellfish Ragout
Ice Cream Lollipop--carrot and kasha and presented in a silver bowl filled with green grass from which you pluck the lollipop
Spring Pea chilled soup with buttermilk snow and Bayonne ham crisp
Peekytoe crab sald with pickled Daikon radish, crustacean mayonnaise, and spring flowers
Arctic Char seared with Oregon morels, garden peas, and pearl onions
Milk Fed Veal blanquette with spring vegetables, tarragon, and crayfish
Artisanal cheeses
"Soda Pop", a concoction of tangerine, grapefruit, pomelo, lemon and pop rocks
Milk and Chocolate variations of flavor and texture (this is one of the few weak links that I have ever tasted at EMP)
What a relief to have such a weekend and what a joy to re-live it with you!
LA TOCQUEVILLE ROMANCE UP CLOSE:
Dear friends had recommended La Tocqueville, just off Union Square and I was anxious to give it a try, so I sauntered over there after seeing Please Give. As the Zagat guide says, it is a jewel box of a restaurant and reminded me of how I had pictured all NYC restaurants when I was growing up. It is spacious and comfortable with an extremely high ceiling and muted colors complemented by beautiful moldings. The food was lovely--a vegetable salad with marvelous ingredients right from the Union Square greenmarket and a perfectly poached lobster with celery root puree and a lovely little flan. All very tasteful and relaxing. I am feeling very cosseted. But, at a table about six feet away are an older man and a younger woman. I roll my eyes at the cliche of it. He is short, but appears handsome, and wearing a suit (very unusual). She is completely overdressed like something out of a Carol Burnett parody of New York and has the worst overbite that I have ever seen. It is so pronounced that I keep running my tongue over my teeth to make sure that my teeth are stil alinged. Yet, she seems to think that she is a combination of Ivana Trump and Cameron Diaz. The other patrons are casually dressed and speak in calm, if enthusiastic tones. I try very hard not to hear every word being said, but as the evening wears on and diners depart, I have no choice. The lady asks the man to describe every woman he has "known" in the capacity that he has known her. Gentle Jesus, I cry to myself, don't go there. But, there he goes, enumerating what he has "loved" about his other "women". Then, he talks about why he loves his wife and why he will never leave her. I am starting to get annoyed, but I decide to sit back and watch this unfold. It is like some kind of two-character play for which I would pay $90. The gentleman then used the word "mistress" to describe his guest--the horror, the faux tears, the recriminations. I wouldn't leave for anything. Then, he asked her about the men she had loved. It was all I could do not to shush her as she proceeded to dish for more than 20 minutes about the one man to whom she had been engaged growing more and more unappealing as she described the falling apart of their relationship. During this tirade, the man never stopped sitting straight up, but his entire body language became more and more withdrawn which, of course, that poor fool never noted. There were so many facets that fascinated me--why they never acknowledged me, as close I was sitting; the wistfulness emanating from each of them as they completely missed each other; and, as I departed, the fact that this was one unattractive man as his face and body resembled that of Rumpelstiltkin and a woman who was desperately trying to look 35 even though she was probably 50. As I strolled back to the Gramercy Park hotel, I savored my Family of Oneness and made mental notes on how not to talk if and when I find myself in such a situation.
A MODERN BIRTHDAY
Lunch at the Modern barroom seemed like the perfect place to while away a couple of hours. And, indeed, the white gazpacho, the housemade sausage, the himachi sashimi, the adult Kit Kat (chocolate dacquoise) were all fabulous. But, even better, I chatted with the most lovely couple of a certain age next to me who were from Columbia, SC. They had met after their first spouses passed away and friends insisted on introducing them. They were utterly happy and so comfortable in their conversation that I teasingly told them that I could not believe that they were married. They had been together about seven years. The gentleman offered to buy me a glass of champagne and the three of us had the most delightful time comparing living in NYC to living in the South, the mercurial nature of falling in love, etc. As we dished and chatted, a family of four across the aisle was eyeing us-an elderly lady, two middle-aged fellows, and a young woman in her 20s. One of the men yelled over, "it's our grandmother's birthday and she is 95!" Said lady got up and came over to the table and we marveled at the serendipity of meeting on our birthdays. Turns out the group was from Charlotte--the elderly lady, her gay son, his partner, and her niece. I said--"you are just like your own TV show". We were all screaming with laughter and everyone else wished that they were sitting close to us. We all agreed that we would love to spend the afternoon yukking it up, but we had places to go--weddings for the couple from Columbia, the Twyla Tharp show for the family from Charlotte followed by dinner at Cafe Boulud (God, that 95 year old had more energy than I did! ), and Think Pink salon for mani/pedi with my darling Meme.
EMP
On Friday, my beloved K journeyed in from Rhinebeck to join me at Eleven Madison Park. For Christmas, Aunt Louise had given me an envelope with ten ten dollar bills in it and said for me to take someone to lunch at someplace special. So, I asked K if she could go with me to EMP to use that money. K was delighted and said that she would subsidize the rest. It was the meal of a lifetime in so many ways. Of course, we went crazy over the roasted chicken for two, the very best chicken I have ever tasted. We savored our tuna tartare and our gnocchi and our other treats. We didn't talk that much--we had already had our usual heart to heart chat while we strolled through Gramercy Park. From time to time, K's eyes filled with tears. It was a truly magical lunch because, best of all, K met nearly every member of my EMP dining family who presented themselves at our table like courtiers. And, as K put it, "I shall never forget the sight of Chef Humm making a beeline for OUR table". She was quite taken with him (the latest James Beard award winner) and his easy charm and down to earth attitude. Afterwards, we strolled back to the hotel where we could only loll in a state of suspended happiness and recount every morsel we had eaten and every lovely person we had seen. K's parting remark--"EMP is truly a bubble of delight in this crazy world and no wonder you cherish it so much because everything else just falls away".
I returned for my birthday dinner and had a marvelous meal and yukked it up with the folks who have become so very dear to me. My dear friends, the Rs, whom I met through EMP, made sure that I had a glass of champagne sent over. Interestingly, I can't say that the dinner was any better or different than the usual meal there, but I think that is a wonderful thing. Although the captain did bring me my very own bottle of Woodford Reserve for after-dinner imbibing. I was there until 1:30 AM, so it was quite an evening. I savored my conversations with each of my EMP family-each so devoted to good food and wonderful living, but so different from each other and with whom I have an unique fondness for each one. Just like a family!
Here is the menu:
Santa Barbara sea urchin/custard with Sterling Royal Caviar, Green Apple and Shellfish Ragout
Ice Cream Lollipop--carrot and kasha and presented in a silver bowl filled with green grass from which you pluck the lollipop
Spring Pea chilled soup with buttermilk snow and Bayonne ham crisp
Peekytoe crab sald with pickled Daikon radish, crustacean mayonnaise, and spring flowers
Arctic Char seared with Oregon morels, garden peas, and pearl onions
Milk Fed Veal blanquette with spring vegetables, tarragon, and crayfish
Artisanal cheeses
"Soda Pop", a concoction of tangerine, grapefruit, pomelo, lemon and pop rocks
Milk and Chocolate variations of flavor and texture (this is one of the few weak links that I have ever tasted at EMP)
What a relief to have such a weekend and what a joy to re-live it with you!
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Family of One Celebrates a Birthday
There is something a little more special about a birthday that falls on a Saturday. At least, I have always thought so and when my birthday fell on a Saturday in 2004, I decided to do something different and have a dream party for myself. I had been living in Miami for about two years, had a favorite restaurant in the still dilapidated Midtown part of Miami, and had collected an interesting array of acquaintances. I asked the owners of the restaurant, a small Victorian home featuring better coconut cake than the Peninsula Grill, to close for the night and we planned a buffet menu and asked their piano player who had played with Count Basie and accompanied Sammy Davis, Jr. at the Fontainebleau to be there. Because there was a theme to the party--it was going to be a jazz cabaret and everyone who wanted to could sing a song. I prepared two songs. H, one of my BFFs, flew in from Atlanta. I had 25 RSVPs.
It was the worst birthday of my life and when I tell you what happened, you will see why I gave up on planning parties.
As a family of one, birthdays in general are fairly tricky. I had been part of a couple for nine years just before this birthday and was used to having someone plan the celebration. In the years after our parting, I took a trip somewhere like Sanibel or the Keys for a couple of days.
But, I liked the idea of this party and it was received with much enthusiasm. As I began planning the party, I started seeing an attorney and it was going well, so I was faced with the dilemma of whether or not to invite him. My instincts screamed no, but I fretted that he could find out about the party and have hurt feelings. He was very enthusiastic when I invited him and offered to be my accompanist since he was an accomplished piano player.
Everything was all set. I was beside myself with excitement. But, the day was eerily quiet. I developed a strong sense of foreboding throughout the day. Around 4:30, B called on all my phones while H and I were taking rests--much like Scarlett and the girls did before the Twelve Oaks barbecue. When I heard his voice on the message, I knew what a mistake I had made. He professed to have food poisoning. I was upset because I knew he was lying, but I was also counting on him to play the piano for me. In addition, a couple of people had invited their beaux to fly in from places as distant as Connecticut so that they could hang out with us.
Just after I spoke with him, the phone began ringing incessantly with people calling to say things like-my husband's cousin is in the hospital and we are going to need to go visit him or I forgot that it is Chick Flick night with my girls group and they will kill me if I don't come. Suddenly, the guest list was down to twelve.
My heart was no longer in the party. I just wanted my friends to reopen the restaurant and I would pay them the $500 I had promised them. H convinced me to just show up. So, I did.
And, it was a wonderful affair. The 12 people who showed up all hit it off. The buffet was magnificent featuring a roast turkey, all kinds of pasta, and a chocolate fountain. Billy Ray showed up to play the piano and he and I melded perfectly. At one point, I looked around and thought--how amazing that these people came together in this charming cottage in the heart of one of the worst neighborhoods in Miami for such a night.
Everyone tactfully avoided mentioning B. But, towards the end, a local radio personality with a flair for the theatrical and for wearing clear plastic pumps designed to look like Cindertella's leapt up on a table and screamed out, "B has a tiny dick". I was horrified because many of the people there attended my church. It was very interesting that they were the ones cheering her on with additional vicious epithets.
I found out months later that B's Brazilian girlfriend with whom he had a stormy history had called the night before the party and asked to come back and live with him. Four months later, when she moved out again, he was calling me contritely.
Even though it turned out to be a lovely evening, I decided to not put that kind of pressure on myself again. So, tonight, I am ensconced at the Gramercy Park Hotel anticipating a lovely dinner for one at EMP on Saturday night and a day spent reading and relaxing in Gramercy Park with a stop at Think Pink for a mani/pedi. My dear K is journeying in from Rhinebeck to have lunch with me at EMP on Friday.
When I drove away from the RoseBriar Cafe on June 5, 2004, I could not have imagined the dark days that were ahead--which is a good thing. But, nor would I have ever imagined the wonderful and splendid delights that were ahead, many of which involve you, my dear, dear friends.
It was the worst birthday of my life and when I tell you what happened, you will see why I gave up on planning parties.
As a family of one, birthdays in general are fairly tricky. I had been part of a couple for nine years just before this birthday and was used to having someone plan the celebration. In the years after our parting, I took a trip somewhere like Sanibel or the Keys for a couple of days.
But, I liked the idea of this party and it was received with much enthusiasm. As I began planning the party, I started seeing an attorney and it was going well, so I was faced with the dilemma of whether or not to invite him. My instincts screamed no, but I fretted that he could find out about the party and have hurt feelings. He was very enthusiastic when I invited him and offered to be my accompanist since he was an accomplished piano player.
Everything was all set. I was beside myself with excitement. But, the day was eerily quiet. I developed a strong sense of foreboding throughout the day. Around 4:30, B called on all my phones while H and I were taking rests--much like Scarlett and the girls did before the Twelve Oaks barbecue. When I heard his voice on the message, I knew what a mistake I had made. He professed to have food poisoning. I was upset because I knew he was lying, but I was also counting on him to play the piano for me. In addition, a couple of people had invited their beaux to fly in from places as distant as Connecticut so that they could hang out with us.
Just after I spoke with him, the phone began ringing incessantly with people calling to say things like-my husband's cousin is in the hospital and we are going to need to go visit him or I forgot that it is Chick Flick night with my girls group and they will kill me if I don't come. Suddenly, the guest list was down to twelve.
My heart was no longer in the party. I just wanted my friends to reopen the restaurant and I would pay them the $500 I had promised them. H convinced me to just show up. So, I did.
And, it was a wonderful affair. The 12 people who showed up all hit it off. The buffet was magnificent featuring a roast turkey, all kinds of pasta, and a chocolate fountain. Billy Ray showed up to play the piano and he and I melded perfectly. At one point, I looked around and thought--how amazing that these people came together in this charming cottage in the heart of one of the worst neighborhoods in Miami for such a night.
Everyone tactfully avoided mentioning B. But, towards the end, a local radio personality with a flair for the theatrical and for wearing clear plastic pumps designed to look like Cindertella's leapt up on a table and screamed out, "B has a tiny dick". I was horrified because many of the people there attended my church. It was very interesting that they were the ones cheering her on with additional vicious epithets.
I found out months later that B's Brazilian girlfriend with whom he had a stormy history had called the night before the party and asked to come back and live with him. Four months later, when she moved out again, he was calling me contritely.
Even though it turned out to be a lovely evening, I decided to not put that kind of pressure on myself again. So, tonight, I am ensconced at the Gramercy Park Hotel anticipating a lovely dinner for one at EMP on Saturday night and a day spent reading and relaxing in Gramercy Park with a stop at Think Pink for a mani/pedi. My dear K is journeying in from Rhinebeck to have lunch with me at EMP on Friday.
When I drove away from the RoseBriar Cafe on June 5, 2004, I could not have imagined the dark days that were ahead--which is a good thing. But, nor would I have ever imagined the wonderful and splendid delights that were ahead, many of which involve you, my dear, dear friends.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Family of One Goes to McCrady's
When in Charleston recently on one of my monthly business trips, I decided to branch out from the usual places I go where I am considered, well, part of the family. Sean Brock had just won the James Beard Award for the Southeast, so I thought it might be fun to give it a try. I was also desperate to sit with my book and just have a lovely meal and do some observing, something that always rejuvenates me.
Sometimes, my experiences dining alone in the fancier Charleston restaurants have been less than stellar. I am often treated much worse than when I started going to fancy restaurants alone in the early 80s although now I have the confidence to speak up. I had no reason to think that McCrady's would not be welcoming. I had dined there alone on a Saturday night ten years ago and was treated wonderfully.
So, it was a combination of sadness and something close to rage that I spent my first half hour at McCrady's. I was given a prime table on a banquette overlooking the room. I was at a comfortable space between two couples who were all sitting on the banquette. Both couples were around my age. One couple was eyeing me in a friendly and kind way. One couple was making out.
I was treated in a dismissive fashion by the waiter who did not introduce himself or make eye contact and acted as if he would prefer that I was dining at the Wreck of Richard and Charlene. On his second pass, I made the point--somewhat tactfully, I hope--that I am a big fan of the James Beard winners and try to get to as many of their restaurants as I can. I hated to be so potentially pretentious, but I wanted him to know that he was dealing with a neophyte who would not know a ramp from a shallot. Twenty minutes go by and all I have is ice water. In the meantime, he has served four tables and brought cocktails to a fifth.
I catch his eye and he frowns as he comes over to the table. "Sir, I find it bordering on disrespectful that you have not even taken my drink order after the amount of time that I have been sitting here. Is there an issue because I am here alone? Because I am feeling that there is something slightly hostile going on here."
Christ on a crutch, I hated to be so blunt, but I had time to think through what I was going to say and the letter that I would write to Sean Brock. Does winning a James Beard award give you the leeway to make your guests feel so badly? The waiter did not seem perturbed; however, within about five minutes, I was approached by a warm and kind waiter with the most appealing demeanor.
"Hello, Mrs. Southern," he greeted me. "May I call you by your first name?" I was so stunned by this turn of events that I could only nod. "OK, I will call you Miss Jo," he rather somberly stated. "Well," I said, "that is not really my name, but if you want to call me that, it's fine". And, indeed, I liked the idea of being called Miss Jo--it had a rather jaunty ring.
Ross and I very quickly established that I was thrilled to be in the restaurant and wanted to try as many flavors as possible, so we set up a mini-tasting. In the meantime, the couple on my right had become very engaged with my efforts to receive service and I ended up having the most delightful time with the Kellys from Minneapolis who were celebrating their 25th anniversary. We were laughing! We were screaming! We were discussing how to get to the aforementioned Wreck of Richard and Charlene! I was as happy as Bo Diddley.
And, when the food started coming, I was very happy that I had stayed--
***yellow squash bisque with wild ramps from West Virginia-lovely with a delightful lemon undertone
***Special of the Day which was a warm vegetable salad with the most vibrantly tasty, interesting array of vegetables with four or five dollops of various sauces (I actually replicated this at home with moderate success)
***Kimberly's stone crab with strawberry gazpacho, green strawberries, and wood sorrel which was one of the best things that I have eaten all year and for which I told them that need to charge at least five more dollars
***Country friend sweetbreads with Sea Island red peas and Wadmalaw onions
The dessert was one of the most interesting presentations, if not tastes, that I have ever seen (and that is saying a lot)--10 different flavors of sorbet about the size of a marble on ten petite ice cream cones and standing up in an especially made holder. There was coconut and basil thyme and blueberries and cream. . .frankly, the sorbet was not as memorable as the presentation, but it was a fabulous way to end the meal.
Ross and I continued to have a wonderful time and I asked him what had been going on that I had been treated so dismissively. He said that JJ had gotten a whole bunch of tables at once and just got overwhelmed. Then, when he got off to such a bad start with me, he just decided to have as little to do with me as possible. I pondered this. I was not happy that things had started out so bumpy and I felt that JJ should have not been afraid to make amends. But, I decided to implement one of my favorite tenets about dining alone--behave as if you are a guest in the chef's dining room, not a customer.
I asked JJ to come over and I told him that since he had been my waiter, I wanted to give him a gratuity and I discreetly handed him a ten-spot. I thanked him for making sure that I was taken care of and we ended up having a very pleasant exchange.
Now,I can hardly wait to go back! And, almost more importantly, it was a valuable reminder to me when dining alone--nothing is about you, but then again, everything is about you, so it is up to you, the guest, to make of the experience what you can.
Sometimes, my experiences dining alone in the fancier Charleston restaurants have been less than stellar. I am often treated much worse than when I started going to fancy restaurants alone in the early 80s although now I have the confidence to speak up. I had no reason to think that McCrady's would not be welcoming. I had dined there alone on a Saturday night ten years ago and was treated wonderfully.
So, it was a combination of sadness and something close to rage that I spent my first half hour at McCrady's. I was given a prime table on a banquette overlooking the room. I was at a comfortable space between two couples who were all sitting on the banquette. Both couples were around my age. One couple was eyeing me in a friendly and kind way. One couple was making out.
I was treated in a dismissive fashion by the waiter who did not introduce himself or make eye contact and acted as if he would prefer that I was dining at the Wreck of Richard and Charlene. On his second pass, I made the point--somewhat tactfully, I hope--that I am a big fan of the James Beard winners and try to get to as many of their restaurants as I can. I hated to be so potentially pretentious, but I wanted him to know that he was dealing with a neophyte who would not know a ramp from a shallot. Twenty minutes go by and all I have is ice water. In the meantime, he has served four tables and brought cocktails to a fifth.
I catch his eye and he frowns as he comes over to the table. "Sir, I find it bordering on disrespectful that you have not even taken my drink order after the amount of time that I have been sitting here. Is there an issue because I am here alone? Because I am feeling that there is something slightly hostile going on here."
Christ on a crutch, I hated to be so blunt, but I had time to think through what I was going to say and the letter that I would write to Sean Brock. Does winning a James Beard award give you the leeway to make your guests feel so badly? The waiter did not seem perturbed; however, within about five minutes, I was approached by a warm and kind waiter with the most appealing demeanor.
"Hello, Mrs. Southern," he greeted me. "May I call you by your first name?" I was so stunned by this turn of events that I could only nod. "OK, I will call you Miss Jo," he rather somberly stated. "Well," I said, "that is not really my name, but if you want to call me that, it's fine". And, indeed, I liked the idea of being called Miss Jo--it had a rather jaunty ring.
Ross and I very quickly established that I was thrilled to be in the restaurant and wanted to try as many flavors as possible, so we set up a mini-tasting. In the meantime, the couple on my right had become very engaged with my efforts to receive service and I ended up having the most delightful time with the Kellys from Minneapolis who were celebrating their 25th anniversary. We were laughing! We were screaming! We were discussing how to get to the aforementioned Wreck of Richard and Charlene! I was as happy as Bo Diddley.
And, when the food started coming, I was very happy that I had stayed--
***yellow squash bisque with wild ramps from West Virginia-lovely with a delightful lemon undertone
***Special of the Day which was a warm vegetable salad with the most vibrantly tasty, interesting array of vegetables with four or five dollops of various sauces (I actually replicated this at home with moderate success)
***Kimberly's stone crab with strawberry gazpacho, green strawberries, and wood sorrel which was one of the best things that I have eaten all year and for which I told them that need to charge at least five more dollars
***Country friend sweetbreads with Sea Island red peas and Wadmalaw onions
The dessert was one of the most interesting presentations, if not tastes, that I have ever seen (and that is saying a lot)--10 different flavors of sorbet about the size of a marble on ten petite ice cream cones and standing up in an especially made holder. There was coconut and basil thyme and blueberries and cream. . .frankly, the sorbet was not as memorable as the presentation, but it was a fabulous way to end the meal.
Ross and I continued to have a wonderful time and I asked him what had been going on that I had been treated so dismissively. He said that JJ had gotten a whole bunch of tables at once and just got overwhelmed. Then, when he got off to such a bad start with me, he just decided to have as little to do with me as possible. I pondered this. I was not happy that things had started out so bumpy and I felt that JJ should have not been afraid to make amends. But, I decided to implement one of my favorite tenets about dining alone--behave as if you are a guest in the chef's dining room, not a customer.
I asked JJ to come over and I told him that since he had been my waiter, I wanted to give him a gratuity and I discreetly handed him a ten-spot. I thanked him for making sure that I was taken care of and we ended up having a very pleasant exchange.
Now,I can hardly wait to go back! And, almost more importantly, it was a valuable reminder to me when dining alone--nothing is about you, but then again, everything is about you, so it is up to you, the guest, to make of the experience what you can.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Family of One Ponders Movie Etiquette
I had one of the most lovely experiences at a Saturday night movie in Miami that I have had in years. Driving home along the leafy, winding roads to Coconut Grove, I thought--why can't all experiences at Miami theaters be like this? The movie that I saw was nothing special---Just Wright--which is a fun little romance with Queen Latifah, plenty of NBA action, some jazz, and some stunning shots of NYC. What was best about the movie was the audience--about 50% of the theater full of folks of all ages including one whole row of teenage girls. No one kept their blackberry on, issuing that annoying light. No one talked on the phone. No one screamed out or talked incessantly. And, here is the part where I felt like I was in a dual reality--folks were shouting at the scream, en masse, "kiss her" and hissing at the villianess and breaking into applause at the appropriate times. There was--and I hate to use this cliched phrase-such a wonderful energy that I left the theater so in love with Miami.
This is not usually the case, especially on Saturday nights, as moviegoers in Miami tend to be loud, selfish, stupid, and rude. I continually have to play MJ Southern, movie palace policewoman, which distracts from my overall film experience as well as possibly earns me death threats or, at the very least, nails in my Camry tires.
In fact, I try to go to the movies in NYC as much as I can because the audiences there are so respectful. I recently saw The Secret in Their Eyes at the Lincoln Cinema Plaza, an arthouse that could definitely use a sprucing up. But, I loved it because, even though the theater was completely full, there was total silence and no eerie lights emamanting from people's laps. Of course, the median age of attendees was probably 52, but nonetheless, it was refreshing to attend a movie where folks actually wanted to watch it.
I have been grappling with what do about asking folks to shut off their blackberries. I would be very interested in your thoughts on this. Shushing people is not that difficult, but asking them to keep their texting and incessant checking delayed until after the movie is something that I have not mastered. The few times that I have said, "could you turn that off until after the movie?", I only get comments like "this can't be bothering you" or "I'm not talking" or "I can't be out of touch" or "shut your hole, Granny". I made that last one up, but it's pretty close to a real reaction.
Lately, this is what I have been doing. At the sure-to-be-a-classic Hot Tub Time Travel, I was surrounded by folks with their phones glowing merrily and the sound of Chiclets being chewed in SurroundSound. These people were, for the most past, what appeared to be UM students, so I had a real challenge to untether them from their life support. The fellow on my left appeared to be a graduate student, so a little older and hopefully wiser. Every time he lit up his device, I leaned over and said, "who are we texting now?" This, of course, garnered me exasperated and even irritated looks, but I kept this going. Now, people around us were shushing me, but I said, "I am just seeing what my seatmate is texting, so you'll have to forgive us". I stared him straight in the eye and said, "look, I will annoy you to death as long as you are annoying me with your blackberry. Every time you look at it and that light comes on, I want to see what is being written to you. You feel that it is OK to disrupt my viewing experience, so I have the same right to disrupt yours. Don't you agree?"
This actually works, but, Christ Almighty, it is so tiresome! I will look forward to any suggestions you have for ameliorating the Friday/Saturday night viewing experience. Please don't suggest only going on weeknights or waiting for the DVD. Sometimes, there are movies that must be experienced with a crowd on opening weekends and I can't let being a Family of One deprive me of that privilege.
This is not usually the case, especially on Saturday nights, as moviegoers in Miami tend to be loud, selfish, stupid, and rude. I continually have to play MJ Southern, movie palace policewoman, which distracts from my overall film experience as well as possibly earns me death threats or, at the very least, nails in my Camry tires.
In fact, I try to go to the movies in NYC as much as I can because the audiences there are so respectful. I recently saw The Secret in Their Eyes at the Lincoln Cinema Plaza, an arthouse that could definitely use a sprucing up. But, I loved it because, even though the theater was completely full, there was total silence and no eerie lights emamanting from people's laps. Of course, the median age of attendees was probably 52, but nonetheless, it was refreshing to attend a movie where folks actually wanted to watch it.
I have been grappling with what do about asking folks to shut off their blackberries. I would be very interested in your thoughts on this. Shushing people is not that difficult, but asking them to keep their texting and incessant checking delayed until after the movie is something that I have not mastered. The few times that I have said, "could you turn that off until after the movie?", I only get comments like "this can't be bothering you" or "I'm not talking" or "I can't be out of touch" or "shut your hole, Granny". I made that last one up, but it's pretty close to a real reaction.
Lately, this is what I have been doing. At the sure-to-be-a-classic Hot Tub Time Travel, I was surrounded by folks with their phones glowing merrily and the sound of Chiclets being chewed in SurroundSound. These people were, for the most past, what appeared to be UM students, so I had a real challenge to untether them from their life support. The fellow on my left appeared to be a graduate student, so a little older and hopefully wiser. Every time he lit up his device, I leaned over and said, "who are we texting now?" This, of course, garnered me exasperated and even irritated looks, but I kept this going. Now, people around us were shushing me, but I said, "I am just seeing what my seatmate is texting, so you'll have to forgive us". I stared him straight in the eye and said, "look, I will annoy you to death as long as you are annoying me with your blackberry. Every time you look at it and that light comes on, I want to see what is being written to you. You feel that it is OK to disrupt my viewing experience, so I have the same right to disrupt yours. Don't you agree?"
This actually works, but, Christ Almighty, it is so tiresome! I will look forward to any suggestions you have for ameliorating the Friday/Saturday night viewing experience. Please don't suggest only going on weeknights or waiting for the DVD. Sometimes, there are movies that must be experienced with a crowd on opening weekends and I can't let being a Family of One deprive me of that privilege.
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