On my last trip to High Point, I took Mother and Dad to the Blue Ridge Parkway for the day. This was a momentous occasion as both had determined that they would never again get to visit one of their favorite places in the world. They had made this decision based on the fact that they are 88 and 91, respectively, and that they probably shouldn’t travel too far from home base. Many a time in recent years, I have gotten them situated in my rental vehicle and we have made it as far as the outskirts of Winston-Salem which is maybe 20 miles from High Point and it is then determined that we need to turn back because “something could happen”.
I had made up my mind that, given only the smallest encouragement, I was going to get them to the Parkway. On this particular Friday, the sun was bright, the trees while not at the height of their fall foliage were still lush in their greenery, and the temperature was pleasant. I piled Mother and Dad in the motorized vehicle and off we went to the bank as a first stop. I pulled up to the bank, intending to assist Dad into the bank lobby, but leaving the car running to keep the radio and AC on for Mother. She was aghast. “You turn that car off now,” she said with alacrity. “A running car outside a bank is an open invitation for a robbery”. I pointed out that anyone robbing the bank would probably have his own motorized vehicle, but she was not convinced. “This is a perfect set up,” she retorted. “Here I am, the ideal hostage”. Shades of the O. Henry story, “Ransom of Red Chief” came to mind. But, I turned off the engine.
When Dad and I returned to the car, she was calmer, having not been approached by any would-be hostage takers. I decided to take the most direct route to Winston-Salem rather than the more scenic one that I usually took. In less than thirty minutes, we were zooming along on the “superhighway” as Mother and Dad referred to it. Mother announced that we would go as far as Mt. Airy (renowned as the “real” Mayberry as portrayed in TV’s Andy Griffith Show). Mother made for an excellent companion as she offered commentary on every restaurant, store, and other place of business that we passed as we drove past Mt.Airy and on to Hillsville, VA. “There’s no way we can make it to the Parkway,” she announced. But, suddenly, there was a sign indicating there were only 20 more miles to go. My father was all for it. Mother said, “Let’s not push our luck”. But, I was driving.
Within thirty minutes, we were driving along one of the prettiest roads in the country. The speed limit is something like 40 MPH, so one is forced to sit back and enjoy the ride, as it were. The sun dappled through the leafy trees; split rail fences and beautiful green pastures were omnipresent; and the views of the Blue Ridge Mountains were breath-taking. I quietly observed, “Isn’t it amazing how people go all over the world to find beautiful sights when one of the most splendid is right in our back yard?” Mother replied, “Well, some people have to be big shots—like the person driving this car—and can’t stop to appreciate what is right in front of them”. But, for the most part, our exchanges were kind and considerate.
Dad was determined that we make it as far as Doughton Park where there is a nice diner-like restaurant run by the National Park Service and The Bluffs lodge where Mother and he spent their honeymoon. In an amazing piece of luck, there were no cars at all on the Parkway, so we meandered along with it all to ourselves. Mother would become somewhat distraught when we passed through a grove of trees casting dark shadows. “Evening shadows fall,” she sang quietly. “Now the day is over,” I sang calmly. “Thanks a lot, “she said, “I was almost calm and now you have reminded me of the shadow of death”.
We made it to Doughton Park for an early supper. I helped my parents in and we all ordered some iteration of country ham—Mother, country ham and biscuits, my father and I, the country ham platter which came with salad and potato. I asked if there were housemade dressings. Mother told me she was ashamed of me and not to ask such things in a restaurant run by the National Park Service. I became obsessed if my father’s mashed potatoes could possibly be the real thing. All three of us drifted in our own little worlds. Mother was becoming snappish, my dad more removed. It occurred to me that they were thinking this would probably be the last time that we sat there together. And, how miraculous it was that we were there at all.
We quickly finished up our meal and I helped them back to the car. Once traveling along the Parkway, the good spirits returned and Mother and Dad reminisced about their wedding and their courtship and the trips that they had made to the Parkway. The sun was still bright, but twilight was definitely approaching. I asked my parents how they would like to get back to High Point. They had no particular way, so I followed the setting sun and took us through some delightful little towns like Elkin and North Wilkesboro. Mother and I conversed quietly while Dad just gazed out the window. Some of her musings—
***On Hillary Clinton---I can’t stand Old Lady Clinton, but, compared to Sarah Palin, she is like George Washington
***On Mike Huckabee—he has too many stringed instruments going on that TV show. Who is going to take him seriously as a presidential candidate when he’s either playing the fiddle or the banjo?
***On water towers—when I was a little girl, I thought that water towers were hospitals and I was deathly afraid of them. You know, isn’t it interesting how children get these ideas?
Just as it became dark, we arrived back at home. It had been a lovely and memorable day.
A couple of days later, I was preparing to leave to return to Miami and sat down on the sofa next to Mother while she read the High Point Enterprise. I said, “Mother, I know we laugh a lot about when you will be in Heaven, but the fact is that it will be very sad for me because no matter how good a spin we put on it, I will be alone, despite having so many wonderful friends. I will be a family of one”. She rattled the paper in irritation. “What are you saying? Don’t you realize that I have a reservation in a place called Heaven and that I cannot be late?” “Yes,” I told her, “I do realize that, but isn’t there some sort of code we could set up so that I will know when you are around?” (I had asked Aunt Louise something similar and had been told in no uncertain terms to never ask anything so foolish again; hence, I feel no connection to Aunt Louise, gone since March).
She continued rattling the paper, but with less ferocity. With a very uncommon catch in her voice, she replied from behind the paper, “I will be with you always. Always. And you will have so many wonderful surprises waiting for you, things you never imagined, that it will be OK”. We both sat silently, not wanting to break our connection.
In an interesting coda, I was seated next to a lovely lady on my flight from Greensboro to Charlotte. We talked about our weekends and she told me that she was headed to Rochester to see her parents who were the same age and state of mind as mine. Now on the verge of tears, I told Laurie about what had happened with Mother and she, too, became teary. And, we both agreed that we had been brought together to share a moment of happy reflection about our parents.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
Family of One Takes a Day Off
How many times do we say I am going to take a day off? And, then, what do we do? We stay on our computer, we can’t let go of the blackberry, we multitask as much as ever. You know. When I went to NYC for my annual Labor Day fiesta, I decided that it was the ideal time to take a day off, so I added on an extra day. My colleges had been in session for two weeks, so most of the start-up drama was over. I had another big push looming with submissions of manuscripts for spring semester due in a couple of weeks. It seemed like the ideal time to take a deep breath. And, so I did.
I started the day with something that I always say I am going to do, but then I never get around to it. I strolled through Central Park on a cloudless, sunny day and enjoyed all of the various sights—for God’s sake, I have even lived in New York and I had never stopped to look at that charming clock with the animals on it that is at the gate to the Central Park Zoo. Frederick Olmstead must have been so ashamed of me. I strolled all around and savored the lovely day and finally plopped down on a bench around Fifth and 70th. I read my Andre Agassiz autobio, I listened to my iPod, I did check my blackberry. But, I mainly thought about the wonderful moments I had experienced during this weekend.
Every trip to NYC has its own personality and, for this one, I had made it a point to try new restaurants and to reach out to fellow dining patrons that I might find annoying in places where the tables are too close together (read, Marea). I had a wonderful Saturday lunch at a charming Austrian place called Seasonal very close to my hotel—outstanding wiener schnitzel. I had my usual beauty maintenance from my dear MeMe at Think Pink where I am now ensconced as one of the regulars. I had a delightful conversation while there with an Australian fellow getting a pedicure who wanted to discuss the Agassiz book with me. I had a lovely meal, especially the sea bass crudo and the spaghetti with crab and sea urchin at Marea; I bonded with a delightful British couple trying to have a night on the town while there three daughters kept phoning them to come home. On Sunday, I started the day with breakfast at Sarabeth’s Kitchen where I perched at the bar and next to a lovely family from DC who just happened to hail from South Carolina. Laughs and charming conversation all around, with special emphasis on restaurant choices. Then, as the patriarch of the group passed by, he said, “how many times do fellow Southerners meet up in New York? I paid for your breakfast”. I was completely stunned as was the waitress. Then, two stylish ladies came up to the bar and asked if I were leaving. I told them that I wanted to read one more chapter and they could have my seat. But, we ended up chatting and have a date for coffee (at the very least) on my next visit. They were smart and witty and I hated to say goodbye. Later, I had an enchanting lunch at a vegan restaurant called Pure next to Gramercy Park where I met with dear friend R with whom I connected over our mutual love for EMP. We sat in the breezy garden and drank concoction of kale and cucumber which were delicious and had one of the best salads that I have ever tasted. And, it was all so good for me!
What else to ponder? I visited my old neighborhood for the first time in 11 years, strolling down East 49th Street and on Beekman Place, ending up at one of my favorite refuges, the park at the end of 57th Street, overlooking the East River. I saw a poignant movie, Cairo Time. I had a fabulous, laughter-filled lunch on the sunny patio at Bar Boulud with my dear friend Cristana and her baby son Aidan who slept like a prince while we threw back champagne cocktails and chowed down on charcuterie and floating island. I had the Moderne bratwurst and tuna tartare and sweetbreads at the Moderne bar room while talking to a delightful couple about dining in Philadelphia. But, one of the most interesting things that happened was that I got the most spacious, lovely room overlooking Central Park at the Park Lane hotel for the unheard-of price at $228. I had booked it on quikbook and thought, “Christ, the room must be horrible, but how bad can it be with a view of Central Park?” When I checked in, my reservation slip from the front desk said $350. I asked if that was a mistake and was told that park view rooms were $550. I showed the clerk my confirmation from quikbook and the hotel determined that an interfacing glitch (an exact quote) had given me the wrong price. They cheerfully honored it and so I was all in a beautiful room that would have made Leona Helmsley proud and a stunning view of the park.
But, my day is drifting away and it’s time to proceed to Esca for lunch. Esca is the kind of place where I always say I am gong to go, but then I get caught up going to my favorites or I forget about it until it’s too late. Even though it is in the theater district, it feels like more of a restaurant that one would find in Rome or Lisbon. The chef, Dave Pasternack, is well-known for his way with a fish and I was so happy with my meal-oysters from Maine, a variety of crudo, spaghetti with crab (a very spicy tang to this one), and a grape sorbet complemented with vanilla ice cream. I read, I looked out the beautiful plate glass windows at the skyscrapers, I enjoyed the murmurs of the businessmen around me. It was divine.
I glanced at my watch and realized that since I had a 7:00 curtain for Promises, Promises, I needed to get along with my afternoon, so returned to my palatial room for a savoring of the fabulous view and a quick check of email. Nothing urgent, so I headed for my front row seat, excited about seeing Sean Hayes and Kristin Chenoweth up close. As I sat down, the announcer said, “there will be a special guest star in the show tonight”. The people close to me asked me, “who do you think it will be?” Perplexed as to why they thought I had the answer, I took them seriously anyway. “I’ll go with Rosie O’Donnell”. There were less than positive murmurs. “Or, for my second choice, I’ll go with Donald Trump”. The murmurs become disappointed. The accountant from Chagrin Falls, Ohio seated next to me says, “My money is on Al Pacino”. I am screaming with laughter. The murmurs take on a disgusted tone.
The show is very engaging with outstanding dancing and costumes. Some of the songs are a little weak and I find the story line challenging to embrace, but what the hay? There’s Sean and Kristin right in front of me and everyone is at the top of his/her game. And, then, without warning, Ellen DeGeneres appears in the role of The Nurse. The theater goes wild! She is so terrible!! She is ghastly! But, there is so much warm feeling towards her that everyone is laughing and screaming, even the stars. It is a very nice moment. At intermission, several people say to me, “Well, you were not far off in your prediction”. One of the things I liked best about my front row seat was that I could watch the conductor as he mouthed the words to every song. Like a prompter from days of old! I also liked hearing strains of Satin Doll played by the trombone during intermission and peering into the orchestra pit to see a lone player having a little fun.
I raced out of the theater and into a waiting cab (and how many times can you say that?) which took me to my beloved Eleven Madison Park. But, not just any night at EMP. This was the opening of their newly renovated room and menu which you might have read about in the NYT. Chef Humm and Will, the manager, are trying to do something unique at EMP by having a menu that gives only the basics of the dish on the menu, sort of like a bingo card. The customer is then encouraged to interact with the server to select his dish prepared exactly as he would like it. Chef and Will want the dining experience to be more about the interaction between restaurant and customer and less about being entertained by the chef. Of course, I knew none of this only that I would have a lovely evening. I was met at the door with a glass of champagne and escorted to a sitting area to visit with my favorites. I knew this was because my usual table wasn’t ready, but I loved the aperitif in a different location and, of course, it was wonderful to chat with everyone.
Since I usually just ask Chef Humm to cook for me, I didn’t care what the bingo card said, but I played along and chose four dishes which were, of course, exquisite. There were several courses of amuse bouches and lovely preparations of foie gras, tomato, and lobster. For dessert, I chose, well, I can’t remember now, and they didn’t have menus for me to take home that night. But, it was absolutely awful and looked like someone had dropped it on the way to the table. I tried very hard to be a good sport and get it down, but my server, the inimitable Kevin, took pity on me. He said, “please pick something else”. It was late and I was getting tired, so I said “chocolate” which turned out to be a bit of a misnomer as it was more of a mint, but it was delicious with an ice cream and a little dessert which tasted fabulous.
I am reserving judgment about what I think about the new EMP until I return at Christmas because, after all, it was their first night. I loved being part of the excitement, of course. But, I was not fond of having the kitchen staff serve me. I tried to start a conversation with one fellow by asking him his name. When he told me, I said, “oh, I think I saw that on the bus station wall last week” a line that usually slays them at, say, DBGB or the Moderne. He stared at the floor and I felt absolutely horrible. Later, I pondered that I should not be made to feel horrible at a fine dining place. Of course, I shouldn’t have been so flippant, but part of the fun of EMP for me is the wonderful exchanges that I have with the captains and the managers. As more kitchen staff served my dinner, I sat quietly and mumbled kind things, but it took a lot of the fun out of the dinner. But, all of this is nothing compared to the horror that I expressed when Kevin said that there is no cheese cart. I love cheese carts. The one at EMP may have gotten my prize for the best one ever. And, now it is no more, gone the way of desserts flambé and lobster thermidor.
But, what am I squawking for? For God’s sake, I am at EMP, my NYC dining family. We are laughing and screaming and talking and Megan, the service director, brings out a printed copy of the article that will be in the Food Section of the NYT the next day about the changes. Everyone is in high spirits and, so, around 1:30, I leap into a cab and go back to my Central Park South lair with a day and an evening to remember.
I started the day with something that I always say I am going to do, but then I never get around to it. I strolled through Central Park on a cloudless, sunny day and enjoyed all of the various sights—for God’s sake, I have even lived in New York and I had never stopped to look at that charming clock with the animals on it that is at the gate to the Central Park Zoo. Frederick Olmstead must have been so ashamed of me. I strolled all around and savored the lovely day and finally plopped down on a bench around Fifth and 70th. I read my Andre Agassiz autobio, I listened to my iPod, I did check my blackberry. But, I mainly thought about the wonderful moments I had experienced during this weekend.
Every trip to NYC has its own personality and, for this one, I had made it a point to try new restaurants and to reach out to fellow dining patrons that I might find annoying in places where the tables are too close together (read, Marea). I had a wonderful Saturday lunch at a charming Austrian place called Seasonal very close to my hotel—outstanding wiener schnitzel. I had my usual beauty maintenance from my dear MeMe at Think Pink where I am now ensconced as one of the regulars. I had a delightful conversation while there with an Australian fellow getting a pedicure who wanted to discuss the Agassiz book with me. I had a lovely meal, especially the sea bass crudo and the spaghetti with crab and sea urchin at Marea; I bonded with a delightful British couple trying to have a night on the town while there three daughters kept phoning them to come home. On Sunday, I started the day with breakfast at Sarabeth’s Kitchen where I perched at the bar and next to a lovely family from DC who just happened to hail from South Carolina. Laughs and charming conversation all around, with special emphasis on restaurant choices. Then, as the patriarch of the group passed by, he said, “how many times do fellow Southerners meet up in New York? I paid for your breakfast”. I was completely stunned as was the waitress. Then, two stylish ladies came up to the bar and asked if I were leaving. I told them that I wanted to read one more chapter and they could have my seat. But, we ended up chatting and have a date for coffee (at the very least) on my next visit. They were smart and witty and I hated to say goodbye. Later, I had an enchanting lunch at a vegan restaurant called Pure next to Gramercy Park where I met with dear friend R with whom I connected over our mutual love for EMP. We sat in the breezy garden and drank concoction of kale and cucumber which were delicious and had one of the best salads that I have ever tasted. And, it was all so good for me!
What else to ponder? I visited my old neighborhood for the first time in 11 years, strolling down East 49th Street and on Beekman Place, ending up at one of my favorite refuges, the park at the end of 57th Street, overlooking the East River. I saw a poignant movie, Cairo Time. I had a fabulous, laughter-filled lunch on the sunny patio at Bar Boulud with my dear friend Cristana and her baby son Aidan who slept like a prince while we threw back champagne cocktails and chowed down on charcuterie and floating island. I had the Moderne bratwurst and tuna tartare and sweetbreads at the Moderne bar room while talking to a delightful couple about dining in Philadelphia. But, one of the most interesting things that happened was that I got the most spacious, lovely room overlooking Central Park at the Park Lane hotel for the unheard-of price at $228. I had booked it on quikbook and thought, “Christ, the room must be horrible, but how bad can it be with a view of Central Park?” When I checked in, my reservation slip from the front desk said $350. I asked if that was a mistake and was told that park view rooms were $550. I showed the clerk my confirmation from quikbook and the hotel determined that an interfacing glitch (an exact quote) had given me the wrong price. They cheerfully honored it and so I was all in a beautiful room that would have made Leona Helmsley proud and a stunning view of the park.
But, my day is drifting away and it’s time to proceed to Esca for lunch. Esca is the kind of place where I always say I am gong to go, but then I get caught up going to my favorites or I forget about it until it’s too late. Even though it is in the theater district, it feels like more of a restaurant that one would find in Rome or Lisbon. The chef, Dave Pasternack, is well-known for his way with a fish and I was so happy with my meal-oysters from Maine, a variety of crudo, spaghetti with crab (a very spicy tang to this one), and a grape sorbet complemented with vanilla ice cream. I read, I looked out the beautiful plate glass windows at the skyscrapers, I enjoyed the murmurs of the businessmen around me. It was divine.
I glanced at my watch and realized that since I had a 7:00 curtain for Promises, Promises, I needed to get along with my afternoon, so returned to my palatial room for a savoring of the fabulous view and a quick check of email. Nothing urgent, so I headed for my front row seat, excited about seeing Sean Hayes and Kristin Chenoweth up close. As I sat down, the announcer said, “there will be a special guest star in the show tonight”. The people close to me asked me, “who do you think it will be?” Perplexed as to why they thought I had the answer, I took them seriously anyway. “I’ll go with Rosie O’Donnell”. There were less than positive murmurs. “Or, for my second choice, I’ll go with Donald Trump”. The murmurs become disappointed. The accountant from Chagrin Falls, Ohio seated next to me says, “My money is on Al Pacino”. I am screaming with laughter. The murmurs take on a disgusted tone.
The show is very engaging with outstanding dancing and costumes. Some of the songs are a little weak and I find the story line challenging to embrace, but what the hay? There’s Sean and Kristin right in front of me and everyone is at the top of his/her game. And, then, without warning, Ellen DeGeneres appears in the role of The Nurse. The theater goes wild! She is so terrible!! She is ghastly! But, there is so much warm feeling towards her that everyone is laughing and screaming, even the stars. It is a very nice moment. At intermission, several people say to me, “Well, you were not far off in your prediction”. One of the things I liked best about my front row seat was that I could watch the conductor as he mouthed the words to every song. Like a prompter from days of old! I also liked hearing strains of Satin Doll played by the trombone during intermission and peering into the orchestra pit to see a lone player having a little fun.
I raced out of the theater and into a waiting cab (and how many times can you say that?) which took me to my beloved Eleven Madison Park. But, not just any night at EMP. This was the opening of their newly renovated room and menu which you might have read about in the NYT. Chef Humm and Will, the manager, are trying to do something unique at EMP by having a menu that gives only the basics of the dish on the menu, sort of like a bingo card. The customer is then encouraged to interact with the server to select his dish prepared exactly as he would like it. Chef and Will want the dining experience to be more about the interaction between restaurant and customer and less about being entertained by the chef. Of course, I knew none of this only that I would have a lovely evening. I was met at the door with a glass of champagne and escorted to a sitting area to visit with my favorites. I knew this was because my usual table wasn’t ready, but I loved the aperitif in a different location and, of course, it was wonderful to chat with everyone.
Since I usually just ask Chef Humm to cook for me, I didn’t care what the bingo card said, but I played along and chose four dishes which were, of course, exquisite. There were several courses of amuse bouches and lovely preparations of foie gras, tomato, and lobster. For dessert, I chose, well, I can’t remember now, and they didn’t have menus for me to take home that night. But, it was absolutely awful and looked like someone had dropped it on the way to the table. I tried very hard to be a good sport and get it down, but my server, the inimitable Kevin, took pity on me. He said, “please pick something else”. It was late and I was getting tired, so I said “chocolate” which turned out to be a bit of a misnomer as it was more of a mint, but it was delicious with an ice cream and a little dessert which tasted fabulous.
I am reserving judgment about what I think about the new EMP until I return at Christmas because, after all, it was their first night. I loved being part of the excitement, of course. But, I was not fond of having the kitchen staff serve me. I tried to start a conversation with one fellow by asking him his name. When he told me, I said, “oh, I think I saw that on the bus station wall last week” a line that usually slays them at, say, DBGB or the Moderne. He stared at the floor and I felt absolutely horrible. Later, I pondered that I should not be made to feel horrible at a fine dining place. Of course, I shouldn’t have been so flippant, but part of the fun of EMP for me is the wonderful exchanges that I have with the captains and the managers. As more kitchen staff served my dinner, I sat quietly and mumbled kind things, but it took a lot of the fun out of the dinner. But, all of this is nothing compared to the horror that I expressed when Kevin said that there is no cheese cart. I love cheese carts. The one at EMP may have gotten my prize for the best one ever. And, now it is no more, gone the way of desserts flambé and lobster thermidor.
But, what am I squawking for? For God’s sake, I am at EMP, my NYC dining family. We are laughing and screaming and talking and Megan, the service director, brings out a printed copy of the article that will be in the Food Section of the NYT the next day about the changes. Everyone is in high spirits and, so, around 1:30, I leap into a cab and go back to my Central Park South lair with a day and an evening to remember.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Family of One Has a Medical Procedure
The doctor told me that the lump, while definitely benign and of no great significance, would need to come out eventually because it could lead to big problems down the road. I filed this information away under things to do (along with reading Crime and Punishment, learning to make the perfect roast chicken, etc), but as I watched the lump grow from the size of a pea to the size of an egg over a year and a half, I decided to be proactive and have the lump removed on my terms, rather than waiting for an emergency.
The surgeon that I visited told me that I would need to assure him that I would have someone to bring me to the hospital for the out-patient surgery, stay there during the surgery, take me home, and stay with me while I got settled. I told him that I preferred to take a taxi. I am, after all, a Family of One. He replied that he could not allow me to leave the hospital under my own duress and would keep me in the hospital until I showed that I could take care of myself.
This prompted much soul searching. My beloved K, of course, said that she fly down from the greater Hudson Valley area to stay with me, but the procedure did not seem that it warranted such energy. I considered having the procedure done in any number of places throughout the United States where I would have any number of delightful friends to go with me. I pondered why I enjoy living in a place where I have so few folks to call on, let alone hang out with. I pondered postponing the procedure until the year 2025. But, I finally decided to ask one of my colleagues, the lovely L, because we happened to be chatting about her family and I realized what a caring heart she had. I asked her if she would help and she said that she would be honored.
Having never had surgery of any sort, I was somewhat anxious about being anesthized as well as having to deal with pain that I had voted to have. The lump was on my belly button which would make sitting and standing very difficult for a few days. I was, of course, forbidden to drive for several days because of the anesthesia. I also could not attend my beloved Biltmore gym for several weeks and had to proceed with great caution in terms of my usual energetic schedule.
The day before, I went for the pre-op interview which was conducted by a vivacious woman who asked very earnestly—“I see that you live alone. Do you like it?” Inwardly sighing, I gave a pat answer. While she was looking through my file, I tried to think of something pleasant, so decided to ponder Paris. She asked me why I seemed so far away and I told her that I was thinking about my upcoming trip.. She said, “oh, you will feel just fine by the time you go to Paris in January.” I sighed and said, “well, before then, I have three trips to Charleston, three trips to see my parents, a trip to Philadelphia, a trip to Los Angeles, and a trip to New York”. She was very quiet. Then she said, “are you going on these trips by yourself?” I explained that I was although some of them were for business. She said, “do you ever stop and remember how lucky you are to have this time to yourself? I have never been anywhere by myself, not even out of the city of Miami”. So we worked on a day trip to Palm Beach for her. And, I was reminded again that being a Family of One is not so bad.
I know you are wondering if I told Mother. I had very mixed feelings about telling her. It was like it was something horrible that she would need to accept. On the other hand, I would be out of commission for a few days and, if she should need me, that would not be the time to tell her. She counts on my being available 24/7, so I decided it was best to just let her know that I was having a minor procedure and she should plan to count on the housekeeper for a few days. She was fine at first, but then lashed out at me, saying how selfish and heartless it was for me to tell her because I knew that they count on me and what were they supposed to do if I couldn’t get to North Carolina if they needed me? There was a time that her outrage would have really stung, but I realized that she was scared and cornered and that was just her way of releasing her fear. I listened and tried not to take her words to heart.
On the day of the surgery, I called her before I left the triplex. She was almost jaunty, but then said, “I want you to pretend like you are holding my right hand. Here it is, take it.” I went along with her. Then, she said, “now, I want you to hold out your left hand and feel who is holding it. That’s God”. I was incredibly touched. I had actually thought she was going to say my father. She said, “God and I are holding on to you and you are going to be fine”.
I also spoke to my dad who said, “I have had very similar procedures done, but it’s different when I have to live through your having the procedure. It’s not so bad when I am the one having it”. An interesting perspective.
And, with that, L picked me up. She turned out to be the ideal companion for a medical experience. L did not natter on mindlessly while we waited. She worked on her computer and I worked on my blackberry and we occasionally exchange work stories. After two hours, I finally picked up the book that I had brought. L said, without glancing up from her computer, “you better start reading because you have not read one word. I am watching you and you look at the page and then stare off into space. You are going to drive yourself crazy”. I laughed sheepishly.
I was frightened and anxious because I had absolutely no idea what to expect. I have probably experienced most feelings—broken heart, badly sprained ankle, family death, emergency landing on a plane—but I had never experienced being put to sleep and I was very nervous. Not terrified, just concerned.
Finally, I was called back to a room where I put on the ubiquitous hospital gown and laid down on the bed. Within minutes, a very nice nurse came in and said, “For goodness sake, you don’t even have a pillow—didn’t you know to ask for one?” I said, “No because I thought you just had a lot of cost-saving measures in place”. Indeed, I was lying flat on my back holding my book up over my eyes—tres uncomfortable.
The surgeon came in for last minute questions. I asked, “can I have sex?” His reply, “can you?” My retort—“I am not asking for a recommendation, but an authorization”. But, I did confess how frightened I felt. I heard him say to someone, “Please make sure that you really knock her out because this is her first time and I don’t want her to be scared at all”.
I remember a couple of exchanges with the ever faithful L who was sitting by my side, then the next thing I remember is one of the ten worst moments of my life---the coming to. I guess no one can explain to you how horrible it is to slowly awaken with terrible shooting pains and no idea where you are. Unless, of course, you have attended a sales meeting in college publishing and stayed out too late after the awards banquet. Nah, this was much worse. I felt like my brain was stuttering and why did it hurt so much when I had been promised all this wonderful drugs?
The nurse came over and smiled, “oh, you’re finally coming to”. I bleated out, “have I suffered brain damage?” She turned away, her shoulders heaving. Christ, this was worse than anyone had told me. She couldn’t even face me. She looked at me and I tried to smile in a way that showed I could take any news, but my mouth wouldn’t move. I said, “please just go ahead and tell me because I can’t make a smile, so I know that I have brain damage”. She turned away again. This was worse than a Very Special Episode of Gray’s Anatomy. She walked back to my side and said, “your daughter will be here soon”. Then, I realized that she had been laughing, not crying, so I felt a bit better because surely she wasn’t one of the sadistic nurses that you read about in the New York Post metro section.
L came in and I tried to think of the kindest, dearest thing that I could say that would express my eternal gratitude to her. After all, it was now 8:00 and we had been told that we would be back at the triplex by 5:00. We still had hours to go. “I am going to buy you a television,” I announced.
I had to go through the horror of being moved from one bed to another, possibly one of the most painful moments of my life, but then the drugs started kicking in and I cheered up. Also, it was confirmed that I did not have brain damage and I could start to make a smile.
As we settled into the recovery room, L leaned close to me. “Stop saying that you are going to get me a television. You have said it about ten times. The nurses think that I don’t have a TV and you are making me look bad”. I thought about it for a minute. “OK,” I said, “then I will buy you a radio”. Where in the name of Jack Benny does anyone even get a radio?
After a little while, I called Mother although L had called her when the doctor gave the all clear. I immediately shouted, “please buy L a television” followed by “I have not sustained any brain damage”. The next day, Mother left me a plaintive message asking me to assure her that I had not really had brain surgery and also asked if it would be OK for her to send me the money for the TV for L because she wasn’t sure how to get one delivered to her.
Within two hours, I was walking out of the hospital. I told L just to let me out at the gate of the triplex and to get back to her life. She, wisely, said that she would leave the triplex until she saw that I was in bed. I came out of the bathroom and L had arranged on my nightstand a plethora of things that she thought I might want—Coke, water, blackberry, book, Lance’s crackers, and Reese peanut butter cups. I climbed in bed. L walked over and looked out the sliding glass door at the palm trees. She quietly said, “If I find out that you have walked down those steep steps, I’m not going to say something like I won’t help you again. Because you know I will, but, what I will do is come over and beat you up”. This is the kind of approach that I appreciate—direct and without sentimentality. As she walked down the hall, I called out, “I love you, L”. I heard a soft voice, “Love you, too”.
My recovery was complicated by, of all things, a terrible cold, which left me feeling cranky and tired. It took awhile to get the anesthesia out of my system, but, after 24 hours, I was not in any real pain. And, now I know what to expect from being put under, so I’ll cope better next time. And, as always, the wonderful doors that open when you least expect it reminded me that God or whomever you believe in will always see to it that you have family when you need it.
The surgeon that I visited told me that I would need to assure him that I would have someone to bring me to the hospital for the out-patient surgery, stay there during the surgery, take me home, and stay with me while I got settled. I told him that I preferred to take a taxi. I am, after all, a Family of One. He replied that he could not allow me to leave the hospital under my own duress and would keep me in the hospital until I showed that I could take care of myself.
This prompted much soul searching. My beloved K, of course, said that she fly down from the greater Hudson Valley area to stay with me, but the procedure did not seem that it warranted such energy. I considered having the procedure done in any number of places throughout the United States where I would have any number of delightful friends to go with me. I pondered why I enjoy living in a place where I have so few folks to call on, let alone hang out with. I pondered postponing the procedure until the year 2025. But, I finally decided to ask one of my colleagues, the lovely L, because we happened to be chatting about her family and I realized what a caring heart she had. I asked her if she would help and she said that she would be honored.
Having never had surgery of any sort, I was somewhat anxious about being anesthized as well as having to deal with pain that I had voted to have. The lump was on my belly button which would make sitting and standing very difficult for a few days. I was, of course, forbidden to drive for several days because of the anesthesia. I also could not attend my beloved Biltmore gym for several weeks and had to proceed with great caution in terms of my usual energetic schedule.
The day before, I went for the pre-op interview which was conducted by a vivacious woman who asked very earnestly—“I see that you live alone. Do you like it?” Inwardly sighing, I gave a pat answer. While she was looking through my file, I tried to think of something pleasant, so decided to ponder Paris. She asked me why I seemed so far away and I told her that I was thinking about my upcoming trip.. She said, “oh, you will feel just fine by the time you go to Paris in January.” I sighed and said, “well, before then, I have three trips to Charleston, three trips to see my parents, a trip to Philadelphia, a trip to Los Angeles, and a trip to New York”. She was very quiet. Then she said, “are you going on these trips by yourself?” I explained that I was although some of them were for business. She said, “do you ever stop and remember how lucky you are to have this time to yourself? I have never been anywhere by myself, not even out of the city of Miami”. So we worked on a day trip to Palm Beach for her. And, I was reminded again that being a Family of One is not so bad.
I know you are wondering if I told Mother. I had very mixed feelings about telling her. It was like it was something horrible that she would need to accept. On the other hand, I would be out of commission for a few days and, if she should need me, that would not be the time to tell her. She counts on my being available 24/7, so I decided it was best to just let her know that I was having a minor procedure and she should plan to count on the housekeeper for a few days. She was fine at first, but then lashed out at me, saying how selfish and heartless it was for me to tell her because I knew that they count on me and what were they supposed to do if I couldn’t get to North Carolina if they needed me? There was a time that her outrage would have really stung, but I realized that she was scared and cornered and that was just her way of releasing her fear. I listened and tried not to take her words to heart.
On the day of the surgery, I called her before I left the triplex. She was almost jaunty, but then said, “I want you to pretend like you are holding my right hand. Here it is, take it.” I went along with her. Then, she said, “now, I want you to hold out your left hand and feel who is holding it. That’s God”. I was incredibly touched. I had actually thought she was going to say my father. She said, “God and I are holding on to you and you are going to be fine”.
I also spoke to my dad who said, “I have had very similar procedures done, but it’s different when I have to live through your having the procedure. It’s not so bad when I am the one having it”. An interesting perspective.
And, with that, L picked me up. She turned out to be the ideal companion for a medical experience. L did not natter on mindlessly while we waited. She worked on her computer and I worked on my blackberry and we occasionally exchange work stories. After two hours, I finally picked up the book that I had brought. L said, without glancing up from her computer, “you better start reading because you have not read one word. I am watching you and you look at the page and then stare off into space. You are going to drive yourself crazy”. I laughed sheepishly.
I was frightened and anxious because I had absolutely no idea what to expect. I have probably experienced most feelings—broken heart, badly sprained ankle, family death, emergency landing on a plane—but I had never experienced being put to sleep and I was very nervous. Not terrified, just concerned.
Finally, I was called back to a room where I put on the ubiquitous hospital gown and laid down on the bed. Within minutes, a very nice nurse came in and said, “For goodness sake, you don’t even have a pillow—didn’t you know to ask for one?” I said, “No because I thought you just had a lot of cost-saving measures in place”. Indeed, I was lying flat on my back holding my book up over my eyes—tres uncomfortable.
The surgeon came in for last minute questions. I asked, “can I have sex?” His reply, “can you?” My retort—“I am not asking for a recommendation, but an authorization”. But, I did confess how frightened I felt. I heard him say to someone, “Please make sure that you really knock her out because this is her first time and I don’t want her to be scared at all”.
I remember a couple of exchanges with the ever faithful L who was sitting by my side, then the next thing I remember is one of the ten worst moments of my life---the coming to. I guess no one can explain to you how horrible it is to slowly awaken with terrible shooting pains and no idea where you are. Unless, of course, you have attended a sales meeting in college publishing and stayed out too late after the awards banquet. Nah, this was much worse. I felt like my brain was stuttering and why did it hurt so much when I had been promised all this wonderful drugs?
The nurse came over and smiled, “oh, you’re finally coming to”. I bleated out, “have I suffered brain damage?” She turned away, her shoulders heaving. Christ, this was worse than anyone had told me. She couldn’t even face me. She looked at me and I tried to smile in a way that showed I could take any news, but my mouth wouldn’t move. I said, “please just go ahead and tell me because I can’t make a smile, so I know that I have brain damage”. She turned away again. This was worse than a Very Special Episode of Gray’s Anatomy. She walked back to my side and said, “your daughter will be here soon”. Then, I realized that she had been laughing, not crying, so I felt a bit better because surely she wasn’t one of the sadistic nurses that you read about in the New York Post metro section.
L came in and I tried to think of the kindest, dearest thing that I could say that would express my eternal gratitude to her. After all, it was now 8:00 and we had been told that we would be back at the triplex by 5:00. We still had hours to go. “I am going to buy you a television,” I announced.
I had to go through the horror of being moved from one bed to another, possibly one of the most painful moments of my life, but then the drugs started kicking in and I cheered up. Also, it was confirmed that I did not have brain damage and I could start to make a smile.
As we settled into the recovery room, L leaned close to me. “Stop saying that you are going to get me a television. You have said it about ten times. The nurses think that I don’t have a TV and you are making me look bad”. I thought about it for a minute. “OK,” I said, “then I will buy you a radio”. Where in the name of Jack Benny does anyone even get a radio?
After a little while, I called Mother although L had called her when the doctor gave the all clear. I immediately shouted, “please buy L a television” followed by “I have not sustained any brain damage”. The next day, Mother left me a plaintive message asking me to assure her that I had not really had brain surgery and also asked if it would be OK for her to send me the money for the TV for L because she wasn’t sure how to get one delivered to her.
Within two hours, I was walking out of the hospital. I told L just to let me out at the gate of the triplex and to get back to her life. She, wisely, said that she would leave the triplex until she saw that I was in bed. I came out of the bathroom and L had arranged on my nightstand a plethora of things that she thought I might want—Coke, water, blackberry, book, Lance’s crackers, and Reese peanut butter cups. I climbed in bed. L walked over and looked out the sliding glass door at the palm trees. She quietly said, “If I find out that you have walked down those steep steps, I’m not going to say something like I won’t help you again. Because you know I will, but, what I will do is come over and beat you up”. This is the kind of approach that I appreciate—direct and without sentimentality. As she walked down the hall, I called out, “I love you, L”. I heard a soft voice, “Love you, too”.
My recovery was complicated by, of all things, a terrible cold, which left me feeling cranky and tired. It took awhile to get the anesthesia out of my system, but, after 24 hours, I was not in any real pain. And, now I know what to expect from being put under, so I’ll cope better next time. And, as always, the wonderful doors that open when you least expect it reminded me that God or whomever you believe in will always see to it that you have family when you need it.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Family of One Finds a New Dining Mecca Part II
As I checked out of the Peninsula Hotel on Monday, I mentioned to the concierge that my meal at Avenues was less than stellar and I would be warning folks not to try to the restaurant. He insisted that I meet with one of the managers, an idea that was well worth the time. Jisoo Chon, the assistant general manager for all of the Peninsula restaurants, helped to restore my faith in fine dining by taking my comments seriously and helping me to understand what had gone wrong. For example, the menu that I selected was Vegan which I should have been told. I should also have been informed that each course was available for $18, so that one could mix and match from each side of the menu. I shook my head in dismay. As he so nicely put it, “you chose our restaurant for your special Saturday night dinner and we completely ruined it for you”. He insisted that I come back for a do-over and, at some point, I probably will. I did read many rave reviews of Chef Curtis Duffy, so I should probably give it another try.
Now, on to other Chicago delights!
Gene and Georgettt---I heard mostly enthusiastic cries of YES when I said I was going there with the occasional “Why are you going to that dump?” It turned out be fabulous, not only a quintessential Chicago steakhouse experience, but one that also featured delectable Italian dishes that I am still thinking about. I went with a group of four, but am wondering if I could go there alone and devour the fried ravioli, shrimp de jonghe, and garbage salad on my own. The meat sauce for the fried ravioli was robust, but not overwhelming; the scampi-like flavor of the shrimp de jonghe was filled with citrus and just enough garlic; and the garbage salad, comprised of “whatever is left over in the kitchen” was glorious, but made magnificent by the best thousand island dressing that I have ever, ever tasted. Interestingly, my bone-in ribeye was my least favorite of the dishes, but it was still wonderful. The accompanying cottage fries truly tasted like potatoes with just enough crispness to make a perfect accompaniment to the steaks we ordered, along with sautéed mushrooms and creamed spinach. I wish that at this very moment I had the spumoni, clearly separated into four distinct flavors of vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, and pistachio, each rich and flavorful. The service was crisp, but wonderful. When I dribbled some of the meat sauce from the fried ravioli on the pristine white tablecloth, the waiter came over with a napkin to place expertly over it and murmured, “I shouldn’t have done that—please accept my apologies”. The atmosphere was just what we wanted—bustling, energetic, but not clamorous.
Province—This is exactly the kind of restaurant that we all want in our neighborhoods where we can get anything from a few light bites to ten hour BBQ’d lamb with potatoes frites and house made ketchup. A wonderful space with lots of light coming in from the floor to ceiling windows, the restaurant is a truly green space, awarded Gold Level LEED certification. The floors and tables are made from sustainably harvested cork. The banquettes are covered with recycled material. But, the food is the most happy combination of interesting, familiar, and flavorful—just like we all long for. I put myself into Chef Randy Zweiban’s hands with only three requests from the menu—the house cured and smoked arctic char ceviche, the roasted and pulled Indiana duck with seedling farms BBQ sauce and smoked slaw, and the buttermilk whipped potatoes. Chef Randy supplemented my choices beautifully with an heirloom tomato salad and an delightfully unexpected version of shrimp and grits featuring farm raised shrimp, Anson Mills grits, and manchego cheese, all coming together with a POW of flavor unlike the more sweet/salty combination that I have in my dear Charleston where shrimp and grits are more ubiquitous than cheeseburgers. The aforementioned duck was superb, but not nearly as stellar as the smoked slaw which I will always remember. I also enjoyed every bite of the buttermilk whipped potatoes—peppery, robust, and creamy—just like a Southern girl likes. After this meal, I was happy to enjoy the housemade goat milk ice cream and sit back to savor the evening. Interestingly, I heard a lovely woman across the restaurant talking about developmental math, a phrase that I think is only used by folks in educational publishing and education in general. I yelled in a most unlady-like way across the room—as there was no one left but us—if she worked in college publishing and, indeed, she was attending the same sales conference as I was, but our paths had never crossed. We discovered that we had worked with the same author—nearly 30 years apart—a nice touch of serendipity for what was a lovely exhale of an evening. Chef Randy was an attentive and spot-on host and I very sadly departed, wishing that I could have my own Province in the heart of my beloved Grove. PS. Chef Randy had actually lived in Miami and worked with Norman Van Aken, another delightful coincidence.
Blackbird—I was greeted with a welcoming glass of champagne as I entered yet another bright and airy spot. My new friend, Donnie, came over to greet me and we chatted about my range of experiences in the various Chicago restaurants I had frequented. A quick glance at the menu—appetizers only—and I was in heaven as several of my very favorite foods were represented: sweetbreads, duck liver pate, softshell crab, and foie gras. I explained my dilemma to Donnie who helped me figure out a menu—
Coffee-scented fluke tartare with lemon cucumber, saffron, and bread sauce
Salad of endives with crispy potatoes, basil, Dijon, pancetta, and fried egg (Donnie explained that this had been on the menu since the start of Blackbird—and it looked fabulous with its potato nest--)
Crispy Maryland soft shell crab with honey custard, edamame, yuba, and soy caramel (Donnie surprised me with this course)
Glazed veal sweetbreads with lime onions, tamarind, bee pollen, and fried chocolate
Roasted Hudson Valley foie gras with charred green garlic, black garlic, green strawberries, and shrimp salt
Every course was delectable with tastes that worked perfectly and, even after a delightful dacquoise, I did not fill overstuffed or ill. Just good. And happy.
It turned out that I was sitting next to a stunning couple around my age who was visiting from NYC. They work in the art world and were interesting and dynamic and we discussed our mutual love of travel and food and NYC and we were laughing and screaming like old friends, so Donnie brought over a complimentary dessert for them. After they departed, I chatted with a young couple from Kansas City and our conversation revolved around Roy Williams (friend or foe?) and, of course, North Carolina barbecue. We also laughed and screamed like old friends.
Being at Blackbird was like sitting in this bubble of wonderful energy. I talked books with the lovely Brittney, NYC restaurants with my server, Chicago observations with Donnie, I met interesting people, I savored so many foods that I love and wonderful wines to accompany them.
All of my dinners in Chicago were memorable—but the ones at Blackbird, Province, NoMi, and Spiaggia reminded me of why I am so passionate about dining and the incredible joy that it gives me. Which I hope I pass on to you! Now, how soon can I go back?
Now, on to other Chicago delights!
Gene and Georgettt---I heard mostly enthusiastic cries of YES when I said I was going there with the occasional “Why are you going to that dump?” It turned out be fabulous, not only a quintessential Chicago steakhouse experience, but one that also featured delectable Italian dishes that I am still thinking about. I went with a group of four, but am wondering if I could go there alone and devour the fried ravioli, shrimp de jonghe, and garbage salad on my own. The meat sauce for the fried ravioli was robust, but not overwhelming; the scampi-like flavor of the shrimp de jonghe was filled with citrus and just enough garlic; and the garbage salad, comprised of “whatever is left over in the kitchen” was glorious, but made magnificent by the best thousand island dressing that I have ever, ever tasted. Interestingly, my bone-in ribeye was my least favorite of the dishes, but it was still wonderful. The accompanying cottage fries truly tasted like potatoes with just enough crispness to make a perfect accompaniment to the steaks we ordered, along with sautéed mushrooms and creamed spinach. I wish that at this very moment I had the spumoni, clearly separated into four distinct flavors of vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, and pistachio, each rich and flavorful. The service was crisp, but wonderful. When I dribbled some of the meat sauce from the fried ravioli on the pristine white tablecloth, the waiter came over with a napkin to place expertly over it and murmured, “I shouldn’t have done that—please accept my apologies”. The atmosphere was just what we wanted—bustling, energetic, but not clamorous.
Province—This is exactly the kind of restaurant that we all want in our neighborhoods where we can get anything from a few light bites to ten hour BBQ’d lamb with potatoes frites and house made ketchup. A wonderful space with lots of light coming in from the floor to ceiling windows, the restaurant is a truly green space, awarded Gold Level LEED certification. The floors and tables are made from sustainably harvested cork. The banquettes are covered with recycled material. But, the food is the most happy combination of interesting, familiar, and flavorful—just like we all long for. I put myself into Chef Randy Zweiban’s hands with only three requests from the menu—the house cured and smoked arctic char ceviche, the roasted and pulled Indiana duck with seedling farms BBQ sauce and smoked slaw, and the buttermilk whipped potatoes. Chef Randy supplemented my choices beautifully with an heirloom tomato salad and an delightfully unexpected version of shrimp and grits featuring farm raised shrimp, Anson Mills grits, and manchego cheese, all coming together with a POW of flavor unlike the more sweet/salty combination that I have in my dear Charleston where shrimp and grits are more ubiquitous than cheeseburgers. The aforementioned duck was superb, but not nearly as stellar as the smoked slaw which I will always remember. I also enjoyed every bite of the buttermilk whipped potatoes—peppery, robust, and creamy—just like a Southern girl likes. After this meal, I was happy to enjoy the housemade goat milk ice cream and sit back to savor the evening. Interestingly, I heard a lovely woman across the restaurant talking about developmental math, a phrase that I think is only used by folks in educational publishing and education in general. I yelled in a most unlady-like way across the room—as there was no one left but us—if she worked in college publishing and, indeed, she was attending the same sales conference as I was, but our paths had never crossed. We discovered that we had worked with the same author—nearly 30 years apart—a nice touch of serendipity for what was a lovely exhale of an evening. Chef Randy was an attentive and spot-on host and I very sadly departed, wishing that I could have my own Province in the heart of my beloved Grove. PS. Chef Randy had actually lived in Miami and worked with Norman Van Aken, another delightful coincidence.
Blackbird—I was greeted with a welcoming glass of champagne as I entered yet another bright and airy spot. My new friend, Donnie, came over to greet me and we chatted about my range of experiences in the various Chicago restaurants I had frequented. A quick glance at the menu—appetizers only—and I was in heaven as several of my very favorite foods were represented: sweetbreads, duck liver pate, softshell crab, and foie gras. I explained my dilemma to Donnie who helped me figure out a menu—
Coffee-scented fluke tartare with lemon cucumber, saffron, and bread sauce
Salad of endives with crispy potatoes, basil, Dijon, pancetta, and fried egg (Donnie explained that this had been on the menu since the start of Blackbird—and it looked fabulous with its potato nest--)
Crispy Maryland soft shell crab with honey custard, edamame, yuba, and soy caramel (Donnie surprised me with this course)
Glazed veal sweetbreads with lime onions, tamarind, bee pollen, and fried chocolate
Roasted Hudson Valley foie gras with charred green garlic, black garlic, green strawberries, and shrimp salt
Every course was delectable with tastes that worked perfectly and, even after a delightful dacquoise, I did not fill overstuffed or ill. Just good. And happy.
It turned out that I was sitting next to a stunning couple around my age who was visiting from NYC. They work in the art world and were interesting and dynamic and we discussed our mutual love of travel and food and NYC and we were laughing and screaming like old friends, so Donnie brought over a complimentary dessert for them. After they departed, I chatted with a young couple from Kansas City and our conversation revolved around Roy Williams (friend or foe?) and, of course, North Carolina barbecue. We also laughed and screamed like old friends.
Being at Blackbird was like sitting in this bubble of wonderful energy. I talked books with the lovely Brittney, NYC restaurants with my server, Chicago observations with Donnie, I met interesting people, I savored so many foods that I love and wonderful wines to accompany them.
All of my dinners in Chicago were memorable—but the ones at Blackbird, Province, NoMi, and Spiaggia reminded me of why I am so passionate about dining and the incredible joy that it gives me. Which I hope I pass on to you! Now, how soon can I go back?
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Family of One Discovers a New Dining Mecca
I was looking forward to a few days in Chicago. I used to spend a lot of time there when I traveled the country as an editor, but hadn’t really savored the city in recent years. I made my restaurant plans accordingly, consulting a variety of friends and restaurant reviews. But, I never imagined that I would fall in love with the Windy City dining scene. Especially when one of my first meals was one of the worst dining experiences of my life. I may write further descriptions of these memorable meals, but, for now, wanted to let you know what I’ve been up to and some great Chicago places to try.
Friday—I had heard great things about NoMi at the Park Hyatt, so headed there for a Friday evening dinner. The restaurant had just received four stars from the Chicago Tribune, so everyone was in a festive mood and Piper Heidsick was served all around. My meal was splendid, selected from a brief array of selections—white asparagus veloute, veal tenderloin with sweetbreads (possibly my very favorite thing in the culinary world) and an apricot/hazelnut dessert. After a slightly bumpy beginning in too close a proximity to a four top of big mouths, I had my own four top and met several delightful folks including Aaron Sherman, the top notch sommelier. He gifted me with sliced black truffles on my veal dish and the server did something very interesting which was give me the last glass of wine that several patrons had remaining in their bottles. A lovely experience and I felt very well cared for.
Saturday—I had been looking forward to my dinner at Avenues with a chef who had worked at Alinea and won a James Beard prize. A glam location at the Peninsula, highly recommended by the folks at Eleven Madison Park as well as the folks at NoMi—sounds wonderful!! It was, unequivocally, the worst fine dining experience I have ever had. Of course, one is bound to have a misfire or two. But, this one was so egregious that I actually went back to my room, sat on my elegant sofa, and thought---why do I enjoy this so much? Is it a waste of my time (and money)? Is there something else that could feed (no pun intended) so much of my soul and energy?
The dining experience was not aided by a drab room, reminiscent of a conference room at the Marriott and techno-jazz blaring reminiscent of a two star Miami Beach hotel. The lovely sommelier from NoMi had made sure that a glass of Taittinger was waiting for me. The server was charming, but neglected to give me key information about the menu which was divided into two columns of eight dishes with names like sweet corn; grains, seeds, nuts; passion fruit. He explained that I could choose one of the two tastings. The one of the left—Light—or the one on the right—Protein. At the time, I thought this was a very odd description of the food served in a very fancy restaurant, but who was I to question it? Since I had enjoyed meat the night before, I went with the Light, thinking it would be seafood focused. What transpired was truly some of the most horrific taste combinations I have ever encountered and pray that I never taste again. The aforementioned sweet corn contained a “dome” of coconut and some other ingredient that I needed to crack which turned the whole dish into nothing but glop. In eight courses, there was not one flavor that I could identify or that tasted good. Period. In addition, there was a bread to accompany every course. The breads were tasteless as well. The servers kept piling them up on top of each other until there were literally four different kinds of bread piled up and toppling on the table. At this point, I called over the server and said, “I am not at Perkins—please take away these runaway pieces of bread”. One of the dessert courses was so acidic that I could not enjoy another meal for a couple of days.
You get the picture. And, so did the assistant general manager when I sat down with him on Monday. But, in the meantime, we end Saturday—for the first time—filled with doubt about why the art of dining is so important.
Sunday—After several Immodiums and some Pepto-Bismol along with a gorgeous summer day awaiting, I decided to keep my reservations for the day—brunch at the Publican and dinner at Spiaggia. After a stroll through Lincoln Park, I found myself at an outdoor table at the Publican with a cool breeze blowing and surrounded by lively, engaged diners like myself. I ordered the Wurstweis with pretzel and hash browns. The latter were among the best I have ever tasted. The Wurstweis was sweet and flavorful, if a bit overwhelming. I ate only a tiny bit, but felt great reading my Scott Turow novel and enjoying the buzz of the restaurant. A nice gray-haired gentleman came over and asked how I was doing. I assumed he was a manager of some sorts, so we exchanged a few pleasantries, then I heard him barking orders to a waiter. In a few minutes, the gentleman passed by me on a Schwinn bike. Our eyes met and I said, “I am so sorry you are leaving. I thought we were just starting to get to know each other”. Much to my surprise, he hopped off the bike and came over sat down with me. I told him that I had heard him chatting with someone he called “Chef” and asked who that might be. He said, “oh, I must introduce you”, and within moments, I had made the acquaintance of Chef Randy Guidara of the fabulous green restaurant Province. As Chef Randy and I chatted, my new friend was scribbling away on a postcard. He handed me the card with both of their cell phones as well as addresses of their restaurants and asked if I would come to visit them in the week ahead. I was seated with Donnie Madia, owner of not only The Publican, but Blackbird and Avec. I mentioned my disappointment of the night before and they assured me that I would be in good hands at their restaurants. The gentlemen excused themselves to continue their afternoons and I sighed contentedly as I recalled what happiness my passion for dining brings me with the unexpected connections that we make at the top of the list.
Although my stomach was still doing jumping jacks, I decided to proceed to Spiaggia. It was a good call. When dining alone, I usually focus on the servers and how I can make their jobs easy because I know how busy they are and I am, after all, only one patron. But, on this night, I shared with the lovely Erin and her colleague Annette my physical distress and they promised that I would leave Spiaggia feeling better. (My only goal was to not feel worse). The chef prepared a special amuse for me—a bomboloni crested with prosciutto—something about the sweetness and saltiness tasted really good. I felt like eating some sort of very light fish as well as some pasta. I ordered crudo of fluke with ossetra caviar (at $58, one of the most expensive appetizers that I have ever had) which was just perfect. And, the chef prepared some housemade pasta with olive oil and cheese. Absolute heaven. By now, Erin, Annette, and I are all great friends. Erin insists on treating me to a glass of an amaro which was powerful and helpful. Annette brought over orange and passion fruit sorbet in addition to the cantaloupe one that I had ordered. The chef came out to make sure that they had not overwhelmed me. The manager came over to make sure we had all hit it off as he thought we would—based on the fact that when I entered the restaurant and he said, “Miss Southern, I presume,” I replied, “who wants to know?” And, as Erin had assured me, I DID feel better. Not great, but good. And, I strolled down Michigan Avenue to my hotel to watch Mad Men in high def , realizing that Avenues had been but a blip in my dining career.
To be continued. . . .
With—what transpired from the meeting with the Avenues manager, dining at a classic Chicago institution, and dining with Chef Randy and Donnie. . . .
Friday—I had heard great things about NoMi at the Park Hyatt, so headed there for a Friday evening dinner. The restaurant had just received four stars from the Chicago Tribune, so everyone was in a festive mood and Piper Heidsick was served all around. My meal was splendid, selected from a brief array of selections—white asparagus veloute, veal tenderloin with sweetbreads (possibly my very favorite thing in the culinary world) and an apricot/hazelnut dessert. After a slightly bumpy beginning in too close a proximity to a four top of big mouths, I had my own four top and met several delightful folks including Aaron Sherman, the top notch sommelier. He gifted me with sliced black truffles on my veal dish and the server did something very interesting which was give me the last glass of wine that several patrons had remaining in their bottles. A lovely experience and I felt very well cared for.
Saturday—I had been looking forward to my dinner at Avenues with a chef who had worked at Alinea and won a James Beard prize. A glam location at the Peninsula, highly recommended by the folks at Eleven Madison Park as well as the folks at NoMi—sounds wonderful!! It was, unequivocally, the worst fine dining experience I have ever had. Of course, one is bound to have a misfire or two. But, this one was so egregious that I actually went back to my room, sat on my elegant sofa, and thought---why do I enjoy this so much? Is it a waste of my time (and money)? Is there something else that could feed (no pun intended) so much of my soul and energy?
The dining experience was not aided by a drab room, reminiscent of a conference room at the Marriott and techno-jazz blaring reminiscent of a two star Miami Beach hotel. The lovely sommelier from NoMi had made sure that a glass of Taittinger was waiting for me. The server was charming, but neglected to give me key information about the menu which was divided into two columns of eight dishes with names like sweet corn; grains, seeds, nuts; passion fruit. He explained that I could choose one of the two tastings. The one of the left—Light—or the one on the right—Protein. At the time, I thought this was a very odd description of the food served in a very fancy restaurant, but who was I to question it? Since I had enjoyed meat the night before, I went with the Light, thinking it would be seafood focused. What transpired was truly some of the most horrific taste combinations I have ever encountered and pray that I never taste again. The aforementioned sweet corn contained a “dome” of coconut and some other ingredient that I needed to crack which turned the whole dish into nothing but glop. In eight courses, there was not one flavor that I could identify or that tasted good. Period. In addition, there was a bread to accompany every course. The breads were tasteless as well. The servers kept piling them up on top of each other until there were literally four different kinds of bread piled up and toppling on the table. At this point, I called over the server and said, “I am not at Perkins—please take away these runaway pieces of bread”. One of the dessert courses was so acidic that I could not enjoy another meal for a couple of days.
You get the picture. And, so did the assistant general manager when I sat down with him on Monday. But, in the meantime, we end Saturday—for the first time—filled with doubt about why the art of dining is so important.
Sunday—After several Immodiums and some Pepto-Bismol along with a gorgeous summer day awaiting, I decided to keep my reservations for the day—brunch at the Publican and dinner at Spiaggia. After a stroll through Lincoln Park, I found myself at an outdoor table at the Publican with a cool breeze blowing and surrounded by lively, engaged diners like myself. I ordered the Wurstweis with pretzel and hash browns. The latter were among the best I have ever tasted. The Wurstweis was sweet and flavorful, if a bit overwhelming. I ate only a tiny bit, but felt great reading my Scott Turow novel and enjoying the buzz of the restaurant. A nice gray-haired gentleman came over and asked how I was doing. I assumed he was a manager of some sorts, so we exchanged a few pleasantries, then I heard him barking orders to a waiter. In a few minutes, the gentleman passed by me on a Schwinn bike. Our eyes met and I said, “I am so sorry you are leaving. I thought we were just starting to get to know each other”. Much to my surprise, he hopped off the bike and came over sat down with me. I told him that I had heard him chatting with someone he called “Chef” and asked who that might be. He said, “oh, I must introduce you”, and within moments, I had made the acquaintance of Chef Randy Guidara of the fabulous green restaurant Province. As Chef Randy and I chatted, my new friend was scribbling away on a postcard. He handed me the card with both of their cell phones as well as addresses of their restaurants and asked if I would come to visit them in the week ahead. I was seated with Donnie Madia, owner of not only The Publican, but Blackbird and Avec. I mentioned my disappointment of the night before and they assured me that I would be in good hands at their restaurants. The gentlemen excused themselves to continue their afternoons and I sighed contentedly as I recalled what happiness my passion for dining brings me with the unexpected connections that we make at the top of the list.
Although my stomach was still doing jumping jacks, I decided to proceed to Spiaggia. It was a good call. When dining alone, I usually focus on the servers and how I can make their jobs easy because I know how busy they are and I am, after all, only one patron. But, on this night, I shared with the lovely Erin and her colleague Annette my physical distress and they promised that I would leave Spiaggia feeling better. (My only goal was to not feel worse). The chef prepared a special amuse for me—a bomboloni crested with prosciutto—something about the sweetness and saltiness tasted really good. I felt like eating some sort of very light fish as well as some pasta. I ordered crudo of fluke with ossetra caviar (at $58, one of the most expensive appetizers that I have ever had) which was just perfect. And, the chef prepared some housemade pasta with olive oil and cheese. Absolute heaven. By now, Erin, Annette, and I are all great friends. Erin insists on treating me to a glass of an amaro which was powerful and helpful. Annette brought over orange and passion fruit sorbet in addition to the cantaloupe one that I had ordered. The chef came out to make sure that they had not overwhelmed me. The manager came over to make sure we had all hit it off as he thought we would—based on the fact that when I entered the restaurant and he said, “Miss Southern, I presume,” I replied, “who wants to know?” And, as Erin had assured me, I DID feel better. Not great, but good. And, I strolled down Michigan Avenue to my hotel to watch Mad Men in high def , realizing that Avenues had been but a blip in my dining career.
To be continued. . . .
With—what transpired from the meeting with the Avenues manager, dining at a classic Chicago institution, and dining with Chef Randy and Donnie. . . .
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Family of One Goes to a Reading
It was with some horror that I realized recently that I have been spending way too much time lounging on the sectional sofa. I believe that is referred to as cocooning and can be very restorative for one's mental health; however, as I noted that I spent every Sunday night and most Saturday nights in the triplex, I realized that it was time to get out a bit more. Trips to NYC and points beyond are wonderful, of course, but one should not ignore the marvelous city just outside the gates of the triplex community.
Monday night had been a night for catching up on work and assorted other doodads around the house, but when I saw that Jennifer Weiner was giving a reading at my beloved Books and Books, I decided to make a night of it, complete with dinner in Coral Gables.
I had been abstaining from readings since the the last couple that I attended were either so boring as to be embarrassing or so borderline hostile as to be irritating. Per the latter, I had been very excited about meeting a certain somewhat successful authoress who has written one of my alltime favorite novels. There to tout her latest, I was shocked at her gaunt and spindly appearance, resembling nothing like the lissome creature on her cover photos. She insisted on reading from the book in different voices for each character which I found off-putting. But, not nearly as off-putting as when I approached her to sign my book and said, "I must think about your book xxxxxxxxx every couple of days. What a fascinating world you created". Looking at me in a way that can only be called supercilious, she replied, "Don't you have anything better to do? I don't even think about it like that and I wrote it".
So, an evening with Jennifer Weiner promised to be the antidote to such brittleness. And, indeed, it was. I loved being surrounded in the audience by smart, attractive women talking with each other in an animated way about their latest goings-on. There was a large crowd and the energy in the room was full of happy anticipation. I helped an elderly couple relocate from their cramped seats in front of me and ended up learning all about them, including the fact that rather than get married for the third time for each, they are happy to be companions--at the age of 86. An Asian woman came over to speak to them and told me how familiar I looked to her. It turns out that we worked together 15 years ago at Harper Collins in NYC.
The author has a real gift for making the room a delight. She has written quite a few best sellers and tells a great story as well as creating warm, memorable characters. She was kind, funny, lovely, and passed out huge trays of Misha's cupcakes. I asked a question that elicited lots of supporting murmurs from the people around me and a very kind response from her. Afterwards, as I stood in the long line to have my book signed, I observed how she personally connected with each person and I loved seeing the smiles on thier faces as they walked away from her. I enjoyed my moment with her as well.
Then, the return to another tradition that I had abandoned. At one time, I was journeying to Ruth's Chris (which is in the next block) with much frequency although you will be happy to know that I did not have a steak except once a month. I stopped going because they replaced most of the comfortable club chairs in the bar where I ate with high stools that were not so comfortable. But, I felt like it was a good night to go back. I strode in and there was Mike, my favorite server. "Mary Jo," he calls out, "there is your favorite table". And, indeed, there it was, one of the three surviving tables with "real" chairs. Within minutes, "here's your lemon drop". Sighing with happiness, I settled in with my book, a chopped salad, and a crab-tini (a freshly luscious crab salad) and savored the evening.
Monday night had been a night for catching up on work and assorted other doodads around the house, but when I saw that Jennifer Weiner was giving a reading at my beloved Books and Books, I decided to make a night of it, complete with dinner in Coral Gables.
I had been abstaining from readings since the the last couple that I attended were either so boring as to be embarrassing or so borderline hostile as to be irritating. Per the latter, I had been very excited about meeting a certain somewhat successful authoress who has written one of my alltime favorite novels. There to tout her latest, I was shocked at her gaunt and spindly appearance, resembling nothing like the lissome creature on her cover photos. She insisted on reading from the book in different voices for each character which I found off-putting. But, not nearly as off-putting as when I approached her to sign my book and said, "I must think about your book xxxxxxxxx every couple of days. What a fascinating world you created". Looking at me in a way that can only be called supercilious, she replied, "Don't you have anything better to do? I don't even think about it like that and I wrote it".
So, an evening with Jennifer Weiner promised to be the antidote to such brittleness. And, indeed, it was. I loved being surrounded in the audience by smart, attractive women talking with each other in an animated way about their latest goings-on. There was a large crowd and the energy in the room was full of happy anticipation. I helped an elderly couple relocate from their cramped seats in front of me and ended up learning all about them, including the fact that rather than get married for the third time for each, they are happy to be companions--at the age of 86. An Asian woman came over to speak to them and told me how familiar I looked to her. It turns out that we worked together 15 years ago at Harper Collins in NYC.
The author has a real gift for making the room a delight. She has written quite a few best sellers and tells a great story as well as creating warm, memorable characters. She was kind, funny, lovely, and passed out huge trays of Misha's cupcakes. I asked a question that elicited lots of supporting murmurs from the people around me and a very kind response from her. Afterwards, as I stood in the long line to have my book signed, I observed how she personally connected with each person and I loved seeing the smiles on thier faces as they walked away from her. I enjoyed my moment with her as well.
Then, the return to another tradition that I had abandoned. At one time, I was journeying to Ruth's Chris (which is in the next block) with much frequency although you will be happy to know that I did not have a steak except once a month. I stopped going because they replaced most of the comfortable club chairs in the bar where I ate with high stools that were not so comfortable. But, I felt like it was a good night to go back. I strode in and there was Mike, my favorite server. "Mary Jo," he calls out, "there is your favorite table". And, indeed, there it was, one of the three surviving tables with "real" chairs. Within minutes, "here's your lemon drop". Sighing with happiness, I settled in with my book, a chopped salad, and a crab-tini (a freshly luscious crab salad) and savored the evening.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Family of One Goes to Madrid
In a little while, I will be heading off to Madrid where I plan to do little more than stroll through lovely gardens, seek out cathedrals that I have not visited, sit with my novel for hours in a tapas cafe, and, of course, chow down during the dinner hour. I will be back in ten days. Maybe.
As I prepare to depart, I couldn't help but think about an interesting adventure that I had with Mother. When I was in college, Mother and Dad took me on the Grand Tour of Europe, aka an American Express tour. While in Rome, we had a group dinner at one of the fabulous villas just outside the city and there was dancing to the strains of a local band afterwards. Certain gentlemen had been enlisted to dance with the ladies in the group. The forty-something pseudo-Lothario who danced with me was, shall we say, very excited by this opportunity and he danced me outside the restaurant where we made out frantically. This was all very exciting to a 19 year old.
As we prepared to get on the bus for the ride back to Rome, there was a group of young men--all incredibly handsome--loitering around the bus. I am not sure why because they weren't pan handlers, but, at any rate, they caught site of another young woman on the tour, a lissome, but demure, beauty from Asheville, NC and me. They went crazy whistling and yelling and making the international symbol for I would like to have sex with you. I couldn't help but look over and give a saucy glance or three.
We got on the bus and they went even crazier. Now, they were standing on each other's shoulders and peering in the bus and continuing to make their hand signals accompanied by leers and obscene mouth movements. Mother got wind of this and went into action. She made the international sign for I don't really care for you (third finger erect) and, then, not understanding how truly insulting this was, the Italian sign for get you know what--hand under chin in a dismissive gesture.
The crowd went wild and now started rocking the bus back and forth! This was much more exciting than being thrown out of the Louis XV hotel casino in Monte Carlo because I was underage. They were kissing the windows and giving Mother obscene gestures and almost out of control.
Finally, the bus driver (on whom I had a crush, one of my early brushes with an older man) had to step outside and put a stop to this frivolity. Mother was lecturing everyone around us on the evils of sex and how men should be kept in cages until they were 25. I was trying to get one last peek at the sight of all these adorable men.
I don't plan on taking any bus tours in Madrid, but I shall certainly be on the lookout for any restaurant experiences that include being danced on to a veranda and smooched passionately.
As I prepare to depart, I couldn't help but think about an interesting adventure that I had with Mother. When I was in college, Mother and Dad took me on the Grand Tour of Europe, aka an American Express tour. While in Rome, we had a group dinner at one of the fabulous villas just outside the city and there was dancing to the strains of a local band afterwards. Certain gentlemen had been enlisted to dance with the ladies in the group. The forty-something pseudo-Lothario who danced with me was, shall we say, very excited by this opportunity and he danced me outside the restaurant where we made out frantically. This was all very exciting to a 19 year old.
As we prepared to get on the bus for the ride back to Rome, there was a group of young men--all incredibly handsome--loitering around the bus. I am not sure why because they weren't pan handlers, but, at any rate, they caught site of another young woman on the tour, a lissome, but demure, beauty from Asheville, NC and me. They went crazy whistling and yelling and making the international symbol for I would like to have sex with you. I couldn't help but look over and give a saucy glance or three.
We got on the bus and they went even crazier. Now, they were standing on each other's shoulders and peering in the bus and continuing to make their hand signals accompanied by leers and obscene mouth movements. Mother got wind of this and went into action. She made the international sign for I don't really care for you (third finger erect) and, then, not understanding how truly insulting this was, the Italian sign for get you know what--hand under chin in a dismissive gesture.
The crowd went wild and now started rocking the bus back and forth! This was much more exciting than being thrown out of the Louis XV hotel casino in Monte Carlo because I was underage. They were kissing the windows and giving Mother obscene gestures and almost out of control.
Finally, the bus driver (on whom I had a crush, one of my early brushes with an older man) had to step outside and put a stop to this frivolity. Mother was lecturing everyone around us on the evils of sex and how men should be kept in cages until they were 25. I was trying to get one last peek at the sight of all these adorable men.
I don't plan on taking any bus tours in Madrid, but I shall certainly be on the lookout for any restaurant experiences that include being danced on to a veranda and smooched passionately.
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