For the past few years, I have been journeying to places in Europe during the fall of the year. This has been very important because, believe it or not, until five years ago, I refused to get on a plane that crossed the ocean and the thought of dealing with learning a foreign country was anathema to me. So, just like I made myself move to Miami where I knew no one in order to learn how to build a life, I decided to start with Paris and then go from there. Mother and Dad took me to Europe when I was in college, so I was familiar with most places. But, going there on my own has been one of the great joys of my life. I needed a break, though, from the thought and studying that go into my trips and from spending twelve or so days with no real companionship. I decided to return to a place that I had dearly loved in the 90s—Santa Monica with a side trip to Ventura to see one of my most beloved friends and her spouse whom I also adore. I also had made some new friends with whom I wanted to spend time and so I planned a delightful sojourn trip to SoCal, complete with Mustang convertible for traversing PCH.
But, before my trip to Los Angeles, I made a weekend trip to Philadelphia, a place that I had been meaning to visit on my own for years. I had been there on many worktrips, but never had any time to just explore and enjoy the city. I had connected with several folks on facebook who lived in the PHL area, so it made sense to plan a weekend there. I was delighted to discover yet another place where I have my very own PHL family.
I enjoyed talking to J about food and family and we had long plotted a food lover excursion through Philly. So, when I told him I would be coming to town, he pulled out all the stops and arranged a dinner at Vetri for us. But, first, we had cocktails at the Ritz-Carlton. Well, to be truthful, we had a cocktail, then tequila. We headed for Vetri, which is a very small and rustic place that is known for its outstanding Italian cooking. We were handed a menu and told that we would be served from the items listed there. We put ourselves in the hands of the staff and proceeded to enjoy golden onion crepes, the most tasty and luscious pastas, a whole cooked fish, and, our favorite, apple/bacon napoleon. We were satiated from food and wine, but we still tramped over to the Capital Grill for a grappa to finish off the evening.
When I met my best friend from junior high at Parc, a delightful bistro fronting Rittenhouse Square, I will confess to being just a bit hungover. But, that didn’t stop me from reveling in AD’s presence—her loveliness, her way with language, her wonderful laugh. She was stunning in a green suede jacket, sexy boots, and gorgeous jewelry. While I basically threw back Cokes with lemon and nibbled on mussels frites, we chatted about all matter of things and then strolled to a bench in Rittenhouse Square on an absolutely perfect autumn afternoon and talked and laughed some more.
A lovely dinner at Fountain at the Four Seasons hotel with a nice veal chop and a glass of wine was sufficient for the evening hours while I read Gail Collins’ When Everything Changed, a wonderful history of women’s progress from the 1950s to the present.
I was meeting R for brunch on Sunday at the much touted Le Croix at The Rittenhouse hotel. R and I had an interesting history. We started at the same major publisher at the exact same time and were in the same training class; however, we did not get to know each other until we both ended up in junior executive positions in Boston in the early 90s. That phrase “junior executives” is making me giggle because it sounds like something out of a Joan Crawford/Susan Hayward NYC-based movie from the 1950s. Anyway, we became good friends and shared lots in common including complicated fiancées. R ended up moving back to Philly and there our lives diverged. She married a wonderful man and is raising two delightful, kind, lovely children. I, as we know, am single. BUT, we both work for the same company yet again, basically the same company of 1980 when we met. Within seconds, we were laughing and pouring out our hearts. In between, we feasted on fabulous hors d’oeuvres including caviar and delightful little doodads that were my favorite part of the meal. Later, we were invited into the kitchen for the traditional laying on of breakfast meats and way-too-sweet waffles and pancakes. We both agreed that we liked the idea of going into the kitchen, but that the food was way too heavy. But, who cared? We were in a beautiful place and time had both stood still and was moving us quickly forward to what we would like to with our lives. At one point, R said, “what the hell were we doing in our 30s?” And we had a good laugh about how far we have come—a bit rueful, but a laugh, nonetheless. After brunch, we strolled across Rittenhouse Square in a haze of good feeling and I sat down to listen to my iPod and savor my fabulous weekend.
I must tell you that I was getting a bit weary on Sunday night, but I journeyed to Tinto for a few tapas. A delightful place where I enjoyed cod, roast pork, a little jamon Serrano and the conversation of two lovely pharmacists from Haverhill, MA in town for a convention.
I finished off my weekend with the only sensible choice---Dinic’s roasted pork with provolone and greens at the Reading Terminal, truly one of the outstanding sandwiches in the universe. And then grabbed a sub for the flight home.
I adored this weekend getaway with wonderful time spent with friends old and new and, once again, I couldn’t help but wonder—couldn’t there be just one person like this in the greater Miami area? But, who’s complaining. These delightful folks and the Dinic’s are but a plane ride away.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Family of One Celebrates Christmas in New York, 2010
As I looked forward to my annual New York trip to celebrate Christmas, I realized that I needed some serious downtime without my usual spreadsheet approach to the city wherein every hour is filled in with some fun activity. I decided to do something unprecedented and just go where I felt like going at the time. I made a couple of restaurant reservations, made an appointment with my beloved Meme at Think Pink for mani, made plans to see a new friend, and anticipated a few days at a brand new hotel, the Gansevoort Park.
I am happy to report that this approach was a great success.
When I travel alone overseas, I always make sure that I have something planned every day lest I end up lolling the day away over espresso in the hotel dining room. And, now, I think, what exactly would be wrong with that?
But, I digress. The New York trip was filled, of course, with fabulous meals at places new like db moderne where I loved the energy and the coq au vin and Oceana where I had the delight of having the same wonderful waiter that I had met at Toqueville earlier this year and where I had the pleasure of a perfect, if simple, meal—exquisite East Coast oysters, Maine lobster, striped bass, and housemade gnocchi—in a bustling, but warm, atmosphere. I saw the tree at the Met, I reflected at the stately Temple of Dendur, I shopped, I had a mid-morning Coke at the newly-revamped Plaza Hotel, I drank fabulous champagne sent over by the manager at the Modern bar where I have enjoyed so many wonderful meals this year. I had a memorable meal at Eleven Madison Park, prepared for me by Chef Humm, and was given a most marvelous gift by my friends there—the largest bottle possible of Woodford Reserve.
But, I must share with you two of the four days which were so remarkable, one in its almost magical connection with a great love and one in its almost magical connection to new adventures.
Just before coming to NYC, I heard from my former partner, G, with whom I have had sporadic communication for the past year. He was going to be in New York where he lives part-time, so we agreed to have dinner on Sunday evening after I arrived there in morning. I called him when I got to NYC to confirm our dinner date and he asked if I would like to join him for brunch at one of our old favorites, EJ’s Luncheonette. At first, I demurred, but then I rethought it—what would be the harm in having brunch? I jumped in a cab and headed to his Park Avenue address. In the taxi, I reminded myself to stay in the moment and just go with whatever was presented to me. There would be time later to think over what happened and I had three more wonderful days to explore NYC.
On the surface, it appeared that we had a wonderful late breakfast at EJ’s where the corned beef hash is real corned beef, not from a can; we tried to see a movie, but it was sold out; we had a lovely dinner at Café Boulud; and we savored every second of The King’s Speech.
But, below the surface, the things that I learned were of Christmas gift proportions.
Two things that drove me crazy about G—and him crazy about me—were his penchant for doing last minute doodads that perpetually made us on the cusp of being late and slow response time in conversation. For the former, I would be on the verge of a small stroke by the time we finally left the house to get to dinner or the movie and the number of times that we had to revise our original schedule made me insane. As for the conversation, I was always convinced that what I was saying must not be interesting enough for him, so I would say something, wait about a minute, then try another conversational tangent. Christ, it was exhausting!! Because he would, of course, respond, to what I had originally said.
With no stake in a relationship, it was easy to sit back and observe how this could play out under less pressure-filled circumstances. Sure enough, soon after arriving at his lovely apartment overlooking Park Avenue, the phone was ringing and he was taking the calls and having 20 minute conversations. Today, I just smiled to myself, put my feet up on the couch, and read the NY Times. Soon enough, he was hungry enough to limit the calls. I noticed the conversational lull at dinner more than at brunch in the loud EJ’s, but, sure enough, the same old pattern started up. This time, I just stopped and let him take his time. Even if we sat there for three or four minutes. What did it matter? We were in a lovely place, enjoying world class cuisine (peekytoe crab salad with green apple gelee and crispy cod with Tandoori spices). And, it was just conversation, not earth-shattering confessions.
When we arrived at the afternoon The King’s Speech to discover that it was sold out, I had to suggest that we purchase tickets for the evening show. So, after the perfect amount of time at dinner, we were off for the movie with time to loiter in the lobby and choose seats with no sense of urgency. To me, perfection!
I wonder if you feel this same way about an ex. There are some moments that you long to re-create if only for just a few minutes. To re-experience one or two of the quotidian things that you naturally take for granted would be such a gift, you think. In this case, the moments for which I longed were to sit in a movie theater with G and to hear him call out as he was grading papers on a Sunday afternoon to come into the study with him and watch TV while he graded because he needed my presence in the room with him.
The aforementioned The King’s Speech provided the perfect venue for the movie as G and I were both completely enthralled and immediately fell back into our interpersonal code of raised eyebrows, muted laughs, and various facial expressions to convey our great affection for this wonderful movie. Earlier, I had returned to G’s apartment for a little while before strolling to Café Boulud. He invited me in and, as I headed for “my” sofa in the living room, he whisked me into his study, handed me the TV remote, and said, “now you sit in here with me while I answer some emails”. In a moment, I was back at his apartment in Stoughton on a Sunday afternoon, feeling cherished. But, now, it’s ten years later and we have both lived lifetimes that we could never convey to each other. But, for that hour, I remembered why I loved him so much and how many lovely times we had enjoyed.
I suppose it looks very foolish to admit this, but, I finally realized that, no matter what or who comes into our lives, G and I will always have a place for each that no one else can touch. Would I want him back? Probably not a good idea. But, to know that I can return from time to time to the places with him that were warm and positive is, indeed, a wonderful gift.
Monday was cold and sunny, the perfect day to explore New York. I asked the taxi driver to drop me off at the IFC Center where I was going to see Tiny Furniture. I had envisioned an inexpensive Asian lunch, the movie, coffee at someplace fab, then off to meet JP at the John Dory Oyster Bar. Instead, I spotted one of my perennial favorites, Lupa, from the taxi. Within minutes, I was perched at the bar with a glass of Prosecco, sunchoke soup with truffle oil, those fabulous sardines that Batali does so well, and freshly baked focaccia. And, chatting with an attorney from DC who had been to Lupa the night before, but was returning prior to a court date in Brooklyn, for one more helping of the bucatini.
Amazingly, the theater was about half full and it was divine to sit in an early afternoon movie with other like-minded folks enjoying the quirky and surprisingly heartfelt film.
Afterwards, I got about half a block before spotting the Pearl Oyster Bar where I immediately perched at the bar for a half dozen along with crispy fried shrimp and a glass of Sancerre. This time, I met the editor of the wonderful film The Kids Are All Right and I enjoyed talking movies and LA restaurants with his wife and him. So much fun to hear about the shooting of the film and the work that he did on it and to share that I, too, was an editor, but of a completely different sort.
I met JP at the way-too-hip lobby of the Ace Hotel where every conceivable seat in the lobby was taken by a twenty-something with at least two wires/machines attached in some way to his/her body. I barely had time to get out my blackberry and iPod when JP came over to escort me to the John Dory Oyster Bar, a nicely cavernous space with floor to ceiling windows looking out on the slightly seedy atmosphere of Broadway at 29th. We shared lobster chowder, Parker House rolls, littleneck clams, and mussels stuffed with chorizo and marvelous conversation about the professional, the personal, our dreams, our regrets. Off with JP with his brand-new iPad and I to my next stop.
I finished the evening at the Mandarin Oriental lobby bar where I always go for not only the pink cosmos and the stunning view of the East Side of Manhattan, but the company of my friends C and F who take very good care of me. On this night, F revealed that his best friend and new beau were also in the house. I smiled and continued pushing shuffle on my iPod. Suddenly, there appeared before me John Travolta’s doppelganger and a lovely Filipino fellow. The former kissed my hand with great authority and introduced himself as T, F’s best friend along with B, the dentist beau. They asked to join me. In minutes, we were laughing and screaming in the way that always annoys me when other tables are doing it.
I finished off my pumpkin spice cocktail and returned to my dream room at the Gansevoort Park South with its huge space, its Juliet balcony overlooking Les Halles as well as a huge swath of sky, its brand new bathroom with soaking tub and splendid shower, its sitting area, its giant TV. And, all within a walk of Madison Park and a quick, accessible cab ride to anyplace in the World’s Greatest City. What a fantastic day I had to savor!
Merry Christmas, 2010!!
I am happy to report that this approach was a great success.
When I travel alone overseas, I always make sure that I have something planned every day lest I end up lolling the day away over espresso in the hotel dining room. And, now, I think, what exactly would be wrong with that?
But, I digress. The New York trip was filled, of course, with fabulous meals at places new like db moderne where I loved the energy and the coq au vin and Oceana where I had the delight of having the same wonderful waiter that I had met at Toqueville earlier this year and where I had the pleasure of a perfect, if simple, meal—exquisite East Coast oysters, Maine lobster, striped bass, and housemade gnocchi—in a bustling, but warm, atmosphere. I saw the tree at the Met, I reflected at the stately Temple of Dendur, I shopped, I had a mid-morning Coke at the newly-revamped Plaza Hotel, I drank fabulous champagne sent over by the manager at the Modern bar where I have enjoyed so many wonderful meals this year. I had a memorable meal at Eleven Madison Park, prepared for me by Chef Humm, and was given a most marvelous gift by my friends there—the largest bottle possible of Woodford Reserve.
But, I must share with you two of the four days which were so remarkable, one in its almost magical connection with a great love and one in its almost magical connection to new adventures.
Just before coming to NYC, I heard from my former partner, G, with whom I have had sporadic communication for the past year. He was going to be in New York where he lives part-time, so we agreed to have dinner on Sunday evening after I arrived there in morning. I called him when I got to NYC to confirm our dinner date and he asked if I would like to join him for brunch at one of our old favorites, EJ’s Luncheonette. At first, I demurred, but then I rethought it—what would be the harm in having brunch? I jumped in a cab and headed to his Park Avenue address. In the taxi, I reminded myself to stay in the moment and just go with whatever was presented to me. There would be time later to think over what happened and I had three more wonderful days to explore NYC.
On the surface, it appeared that we had a wonderful late breakfast at EJ’s where the corned beef hash is real corned beef, not from a can; we tried to see a movie, but it was sold out; we had a lovely dinner at Café Boulud; and we savored every second of The King’s Speech.
But, below the surface, the things that I learned were of Christmas gift proportions.
Two things that drove me crazy about G—and him crazy about me—were his penchant for doing last minute doodads that perpetually made us on the cusp of being late and slow response time in conversation. For the former, I would be on the verge of a small stroke by the time we finally left the house to get to dinner or the movie and the number of times that we had to revise our original schedule made me insane. As for the conversation, I was always convinced that what I was saying must not be interesting enough for him, so I would say something, wait about a minute, then try another conversational tangent. Christ, it was exhausting!! Because he would, of course, respond, to what I had originally said.
With no stake in a relationship, it was easy to sit back and observe how this could play out under less pressure-filled circumstances. Sure enough, soon after arriving at his lovely apartment overlooking Park Avenue, the phone was ringing and he was taking the calls and having 20 minute conversations. Today, I just smiled to myself, put my feet up on the couch, and read the NY Times. Soon enough, he was hungry enough to limit the calls. I noticed the conversational lull at dinner more than at brunch in the loud EJ’s, but, sure enough, the same old pattern started up. This time, I just stopped and let him take his time. Even if we sat there for three or four minutes. What did it matter? We were in a lovely place, enjoying world class cuisine (peekytoe crab salad with green apple gelee and crispy cod with Tandoori spices). And, it was just conversation, not earth-shattering confessions.
When we arrived at the afternoon The King’s Speech to discover that it was sold out, I had to suggest that we purchase tickets for the evening show. So, after the perfect amount of time at dinner, we were off for the movie with time to loiter in the lobby and choose seats with no sense of urgency. To me, perfection!
I wonder if you feel this same way about an ex. There are some moments that you long to re-create if only for just a few minutes. To re-experience one or two of the quotidian things that you naturally take for granted would be such a gift, you think. In this case, the moments for which I longed were to sit in a movie theater with G and to hear him call out as he was grading papers on a Sunday afternoon to come into the study with him and watch TV while he graded because he needed my presence in the room with him.
The aforementioned The King’s Speech provided the perfect venue for the movie as G and I were both completely enthralled and immediately fell back into our interpersonal code of raised eyebrows, muted laughs, and various facial expressions to convey our great affection for this wonderful movie. Earlier, I had returned to G’s apartment for a little while before strolling to Café Boulud. He invited me in and, as I headed for “my” sofa in the living room, he whisked me into his study, handed me the TV remote, and said, “now you sit in here with me while I answer some emails”. In a moment, I was back at his apartment in Stoughton on a Sunday afternoon, feeling cherished. But, now, it’s ten years later and we have both lived lifetimes that we could never convey to each other. But, for that hour, I remembered why I loved him so much and how many lovely times we had enjoyed.
I suppose it looks very foolish to admit this, but, I finally realized that, no matter what or who comes into our lives, G and I will always have a place for each that no one else can touch. Would I want him back? Probably not a good idea. But, to know that I can return from time to time to the places with him that were warm and positive is, indeed, a wonderful gift.
Monday was cold and sunny, the perfect day to explore New York. I asked the taxi driver to drop me off at the IFC Center where I was going to see Tiny Furniture. I had envisioned an inexpensive Asian lunch, the movie, coffee at someplace fab, then off to meet JP at the John Dory Oyster Bar. Instead, I spotted one of my perennial favorites, Lupa, from the taxi. Within minutes, I was perched at the bar with a glass of Prosecco, sunchoke soup with truffle oil, those fabulous sardines that Batali does so well, and freshly baked focaccia. And, chatting with an attorney from DC who had been to Lupa the night before, but was returning prior to a court date in Brooklyn, for one more helping of the bucatini.
Amazingly, the theater was about half full and it was divine to sit in an early afternoon movie with other like-minded folks enjoying the quirky and surprisingly heartfelt film.
Afterwards, I got about half a block before spotting the Pearl Oyster Bar where I immediately perched at the bar for a half dozen along with crispy fried shrimp and a glass of Sancerre. This time, I met the editor of the wonderful film The Kids Are All Right and I enjoyed talking movies and LA restaurants with his wife and him. So much fun to hear about the shooting of the film and the work that he did on it and to share that I, too, was an editor, but of a completely different sort.
I met JP at the way-too-hip lobby of the Ace Hotel where every conceivable seat in the lobby was taken by a twenty-something with at least two wires/machines attached in some way to his/her body. I barely had time to get out my blackberry and iPod when JP came over to escort me to the John Dory Oyster Bar, a nicely cavernous space with floor to ceiling windows looking out on the slightly seedy atmosphere of Broadway at 29th. We shared lobster chowder, Parker House rolls, littleneck clams, and mussels stuffed with chorizo and marvelous conversation about the professional, the personal, our dreams, our regrets. Off with JP with his brand-new iPad and I to my next stop.
I finished the evening at the Mandarin Oriental lobby bar where I always go for not only the pink cosmos and the stunning view of the East Side of Manhattan, but the company of my friends C and F who take very good care of me. On this night, F revealed that his best friend and new beau were also in the house. I smiled and continued pushing shuffle on my iPod. Suddenly, there appeared before me John Travolta’s doppelganger and a lovely Filipino fellow. The former kissed my hand with great authority and introduced himself as T, F’s best friend along with B, the dentist beau. They asked to join me. In minutes, we were laughing and screaming in the way that always annoys me when other tables are doing it.
I finished off my pumpkin spice cocktail and returned to my dream room at the Gansevoort Park South with its huge space, its Juliet balcony overlooking Les Halles as well as a huge swath of sky, its brand new bathroom with soaking tub and splendid shower, its sitting area, its giant TV. And, all within a walk of Madison Park and a quick, accessible cab ride to anyplace in the World’s Greatest City. What a fantastic day I had to savor!
Merry Christmas, 2010!!
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Family of One Goes to Southern California
I am looking forward to a few days in the greater Southern California area, specifically Santa Monica and Ventura. I went to Philadelphia for a weekend recently and it was just wonderful to visit a place where I got to see old friends, new friends, eat wonderfully, and just stroll around. I am looking forward to much of the same in an extended format--oceanview suite, Mustang convertible, seeing a young friend whom I have not seen she was 11 (and is now 28), seeing new friends and their adorable 3 year old daughter, and, seeing my beloved friends M and C for the first time in nine years.
In fact, it has been nine years since I visited Santa Monica a place that I tried to get to at least once a year. It was a tossup as to whether I would move from Boston to Santa Monica or Miami, but being close to the parental units tipped the scale to Miami. The last time I was there, I had a most interesting experience at the counter at the Broadway Deli.
I had not been apart from G for very long and had not thought about dating or meeting anyone. A nice enough man struck up a conversation with me, tearing me away from my Newsweek which featured Tony Soprano on the cover. We ended up chatting for about an hour and marveled at our similarities--love of NCAA basketball, movies, both only children, he was a pharmacist like my dad--and that he was contemplating ending a longterm relationship. When we started chatting, I said to him, "please don't waste my time if you are really married because that is just silly". And, he insisted that he was as he described. We agreed to stay in touch.
After I got back from Boston, I had a fairly innocuous email from him and responded in kind.I had another one, then one sent right after that--another innocuous one, then one from someone who said that she was his wife and asking me not to contact him again. She said that her husband had the habit of meeting people and becoming inappropriately close and she wanted to spare me that pain. All of the emails were sent from the same address which she said was their family email. She signed it "Sincerely, Mrs. D.W. Crosby".
I responded to her and told her that I had no reason to believe her, but since I had recently been in a situation where an aggressive woman let it be known that she would not be happy until she had destroyed my nine-year relationship, I understood and I would back off when I had confirmation from her "husband". I then forwarded the whole email chain to Don, the gentleman in question.
A couple of days later, I received an email from the "wife". This time, she said that she would not put up with my attempts to woo her husband. She wrote about how I should find my own man, etc. She wrote that he had three children and seven grandchildren that were the light of his life. And, she made a list of about 25 women who had tried to break up their marriage including the gifts that they had sent him. "You, my dear, have a long way to go to compete with them," she wrote. This time, she signed it "Sylvia".
I was caught between horror and amusement. But, without a second thought, I wrote to her, "My dear Sylvia, I feel so lucky to be on my own. I have no desire to even know people like Mr. Crosby and you. Your relationship sounds like one that could benefit from therapy and it is definitely one about which I do not want to hear another word. Please do not contact me again and I am removing your contact information from my address book. Sincerely, Mary Jo Southern".
Some people have wondered if Don and Sylvia Crosby were one and the same person. Some people were disappointed that I cut off the correspondence wondering what wild concoction I would have received if I had kept it going. But, out of all the things that made me know I would be OK in the dating world after I was ignominiously dumped back into it, this was the one that gave me the most confidence. If I could take on Mrs. D.W. Crosby, I would be fine and, one day, maybe there would be a man seated next to me at a counter or on a plane or at Eleven Madison Park who would turn out to be exactly who he said.
I'll be back in touch after my Santa Monica/Ventura adventure.
In fact, it has been nine years since I visited Santa Monica a place that I tried to get to at least once a year. It was a tossup as to whether I would move from Boston to Santa Monica or Miami, but being close to the parental units tipped the scale to Miami. The last time I was there, I had a most interesting experience at the counter at the Broadway Deli.
I had not been apart from G for very long and had not thought about dating or meeting anyone. A nice enough man struck up a conversation with me, tearing me away from my Newsweek which featured Tony Soprano on the cover. We ended up chatting for about an hour and marveled at our similarities--love of NCAA basketball, movies, both only children, he was a pharmacist like my dad--and that he was contemplating ending a longterm relationship. When we started chatting, I said to him, "please don't waste my time if you are really married because that is just silly". And, he insisted that he was as he described. We agreed to stay in touch.
After I got back from Boston, I had a fairly innocuous email from him and responded in kind.I had another one, then one sent right after that--another innocuous one, then one from someone who said that she was his wife and asking me not to contact him again. She said that her husband had the habit of meeting people and becoming inappropriately close and she wanted to spare me that pain. All of the emails were sent from the same address which she said was their family email. She signed it "Sincerely, Mrs. D.W. Crosby".
I responded to her and told her that I had no reason to believe her, but since I had recently been in a situation where an aggressive woman let it be known that she would not be happy until she had destroyed my nine-year relationship, I understood and I would back off when I had confirmation from her "husband". I then forwarded the whole email chain to Don, the gentleman in question.
A couple of days later, I received an email from the "wife". This time, she said that she would not put up with my attempts to woo her husband. She wrote about how I should find my own man, etc. She wrote that he had three children and seven grandchildren that were the light of his life. And, she made a list of about 25 women who had tried to break up their marriage including the gifts that they had sent him. "You, my dear, have a long way to go to compete with them," she wrote. This time, she signed it "Sylvia".
I was caught between horror and amusement. But, without a second thought, I wrote to her, "My dear Sylvia, I feel so lucky to be on my own. I have no desire to even know people like Mr. Crosby and you. Your relationship sounds like one that could benefit from therapy and it is definitely one about which I do not want to hear another word. Please do not contact me again and I am removing your contact information from my address book. Sincerely, Mary Jo Southern".
Some people have wondered if Don and Sylvia Crosby were one and the same person. Some people were disappointed that I cut off the correspondence wondering what wild concoction I would have received if I had kept it going. But, out of all the things that made me know I would be OK in the dating world after I was ignominiously dumped back into it, this was the one that gave me the most confidence. If I could take on Mrs. D.W. Crosby, I would be fine and, one day, maybe there would be a man seated next to me at a counter or on a plane or at Eleven Madison Park who would turn out to be exactly who he said.
I'll be back in touch after my Santa Monica/Ventura adventure.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Family of One Goes to the Blue Ridge Parkway
On my last trip to High Point, I took Mother and Dad to the Blue Ridge Parkway for the day. This was a momentous occasion as both had determined that they would never again get to visit one of their favorite places in the world. They had made this decision based on the fact that they are 88 and 91, respectively, and that they probably shouldn’t travel too far from home base. Many a time in recent years, I have gotten them situated in my rental vehicle and we have made it as far as the outskirts of Winston-Salem which is maybe 20 miles from High Point and it is then determined that we need to turn back because “something could happen”.
I had made up my mind that, given only the smallest encouragement, I was going to get them to the Parkway. On this particular Friday, the sun was bright, the trees while not at the height of their fall foliage were still lush in their greenery, and the temperature was pleasant. I piled Mother and Dad in the motorized vehicle and off we went to the bank as a first stop. I pulled up to the bank, intending to assist Dad into the bank lobby, but leaving the car running to keep the radio and AC on for Mother. She was aghast. “You turn that car off now,” she said with alacrity. “A running car outside a bank is an open invitation for a robbery”. I pointed out that anyone robbing the bank would probably have his own motorized vehicle, but she was not convinced. “This is a perfect set up,” she retorted. “Here I am, the ideal hostage”. Shades of the O. Henry story, “Ransom of Red Chief” came to mind. But, I turned off the engine.
When Dad and I returned to the car, she was calmer, having not been approached by any would-be hostage takers. I decided to take the most direct route to Winston-Salem rather than the more scenic one that I usually took. In less than thirty minutes, we were zooming along on the “superhighway” as Mother and Dad referred to it. Mother announced that we would go as far as Mt. Airy (renowned as the “real” Mayberry as portrayed in TV’s Andy Griffith Show). Mother made for an excellent companion as she offered commentary on every restaurant, store, and other place of business that we passed as we drove past Mt.Airy and on to Hillsville, VA. “There’s no way we can make it to the Parkway,” she announced. But, suddenly, there was a sign indicating there were only 20 more miles to go. My father was all for it. Mother said, “Let’s not push our luck”. But, I was driving.
Within thirty minutes, we were driving along one of the prettiest roads in the country. The speed limit is something like 40 MPH, so one is forced to sit back and enjoy the ride, as it were. The sun dappled through the leafy trees; split rail fences and beautiful green pastures were omnipresent; and the views of the Blue Ridge Mountains were breath-taking. I quietly observed, “Isn’t it amazing how people go all over the world to find beautiful sights when one of the most splendid is right in our back yard?” Mother replied, “Well, some people have to be big shots—like the person driving this car—and can’t stop to appreciate what is right in front of them”. But, for the most part, our exchanges were kind and considerate.
Dad was determined that we make it as far as Doughton Park where there is a nice diner-like restaurant run by the National Park Service and The Bluffs lodge where Mother and he spent their honeymoon. In an amazing piece of luck, there were no cars at all on the Parkway, so we meandered along with it all to ourselves. Mother would become somewhat distraught when we passed through a grove of trees casting dark shadows. “Evening shadows fall,” she sang quietly. “Now the day is over,” I sang calmly. “Thanks a lot, “she said, “I was almost calm and now you have reminded me of the shadow of death”.
We made it to Doughton Park for an early supper. I helped my parents in and we all ordered some iteration of country ham—Mother, country ham and biscuits, my father and I, the country ham platter which came with salad and potato. I asked if there were housemade dressings. Mother told me she was ashamed of me and not to ask such things in a restaurant run by the National Park Service. I became obsessed if my father’s mashed potatoes could possibly be the real thing. All three of us drifted in our own little worlds. Mother was becoming snappish, my dad more removed. It occurred to me that they were thinking this would probably be the last time that we sat there together. And, how miraculous it was that we were there at all.
We quickly finished up our meal and I helped them back to the car. Once traveling along the Parkway, the good spirits returned and Mother and Dad reminisced about their wedding and their courtship and the trips that they had made to the Parkway. The sun was still bright, but twilight was definitely approaching. I asked my parents how they would like to get back to High Point. They had no particular way, so I followed the setting sun and took us through some delightful little towns like Elkin and North Wilkesboro. Mother and I conversed quietly while Dad just gazed out the window. Some of her musings—
***On Hillary Clinton---I can’t stand Old Lady Clinton, but, compared to Sarah Palin, she is like George Washington
***On Mike Huckabee—he has too many stringed instruments going on that TV show. Who is going to take him seriously as a presidential candidate when he’s either playing the fiddle or the banjo?
***On water towers—when I was a little girl, I thought that water towers were hospitals and I was deathly afraid of them. You know, isn’t it interesting how children get these ideas?
Just as it became dark, we arrived back at home. It had been a lovely and memorable day.
A couple of days later, I was preparing to leave to return to Miami and sat down on the sofa next to Mother while she read the High Point Enterprise. I said, “Mother, I know we laugh a lot about when you will be in Heaven, but the fact is that it will be very sad for me because no matter how good a spin we put on it, I will be alone, despite having so many wonderful friends. I will be a family of one”. She rattled the paper in irritation. “What are you saying? Don’t you realize that I have a reservation in a place called Heaven and that I cannot be late?” “Yes,” I told her, “I do realize that, but isn’t there some sort of code we could set up so that I will know when you are around?” (I had asked Aunt Louise something similar and had been told in no uncertain terms to never ask anything so foolish again; hence, I feel no connection to Aunt Louise, gone since March).
She continued rattling the paper, but with less ferocity. With a very uncommon catch in her voice, she replied from behind the paper, “I will be with you always. Always. And you will have so many wonderful surprises waiting for you, things you never imagined, that it will be OK”. We both sat silently, not wanting to break our connection.
In an interesting coda, I was seated next to a lovely lady on my flight from Greensboro to Charlotte. We talked about our weekends and she told me that she was headed to Rochester to see her parents who were the same age and state of mind as mine. Now on the verge of tears, I told Laurie about what had happened with Mother and she, too, became teary. And, we both agreed that we had been brought together to share a moment of happy reflection about our parents.
I had made up my mind that, given only the smallest encouragement, I was going to get them to the Parkway. On this particular Friday, the sun was bright, the trees while not at the height of their fall foliage were still lush in their greenery, and the temperature was pleasant. I piled Mother and Dad in the motorized vehicle and off we went to the bank as a first stop. I pulled up to the bank, intending to assist Dad into the bank lobby, but leaving the car running to keep the radio and AC on for Mother. She was aghast. “You turn that car off now,” she said with alacrity. “A running car outside a bank is an open invitation for a robbery”. I pointed out that anyone robbing the bank would probably have his own motorized vehicle, but she was not convinced. “This is a perfect set up,” she retorted. “Here I am, the ideal hostage”. Shades of the O. Henry story, “Ransom of Red Chief” came to mind. But, I turned off the engine.
When Dad and I returned to the car, she was calmer, having not been approached by any would-be hostage takers. I decided to take the most direct route to Winston-Salem rather than the more scenic one that I usually took. In less than thirty minutes, we were zooming along on the “superhighway” as Mother and Dad referred to it. Mother announced that we would go as far as Mt. Airy (renowned as the “real” Mayberry as portrayed in TV’s Andy Griffith Show). Mother made for an excellent companion as she offered commentary on every restaurant, store, and other place of business that we passed as we drove past Mt.Airy and on to Hillsville, VA. “There’s no way we can make it to the Parkway,” she announced. But, suddenly, there was a sign indicating there were only 20 more miles to go. My father was all for it. Mother said, “Let’s not push our luck”. But, I was driving.
Within thirty minutes, we were driving along one of the prettiest roads in the country. The speed limit is something like 40 MPH, so one is forced to sit back and enjoy the ride, as it were. The sun dappled through the leafy trees; split rail fences and beautiful green pastures were omnipresent; and the views of the Blue Ridge Mountains were breath-taking. I quietly observed, “Isn’t it amazing how people go all over the world to find beautiful sights when one of the most splendid is right in our back yard?” Mother replied, “Well, some people have to be big shots—like the person driving this car—and can’t stop to appreciate what is right in front of them”. But, for the most part, our exchanges were kind and considerate.
Dad was determined that we make it as far as Doughton Park where there is a nice diner-like restaurant run by the National Park Service and The Bluffs lodge where Mother and he spent their honeymoon. In an amazing piece of luck, there were no cars at all on the Parkway, so we meandered along with it all to ourselves. Mother would become somewhat distraught when we passed through a grove of trees casting dark shadows. “Evening shadows fall,” she sang quietly. “Now the day is over,” I sang calmly. “Thanks a lot, “she said, “I was almost calm and now you have reminded me of the shadow of death”.
We made it to Doughton Park for an early supper. I helped my parents in and we all ordered some iteration of country ham—Mother, country ham and biscuits, my father and I, the country ham platter which came with salad and potato. I asked if there were housemade dressings. Mother told me she was ashamed of me and not to ask such things in a restaurant run by the National Park Service. I became obsessed if my father’s mashed potatoes could possibly be the real thing. All three of us drifted in our own little worlds. Mother was becoming snappish, my dad more removed. It occurred to me that they were thinking this would probably be the last time that we sat there together. And, how miraculous it was that we were there at all.
We quickly finished up our meal and I helped them back to the car. Once traveling along the Parkway, the good spirits returned and Mother and Dad reminisced about their wedding and their courtship and the trips that they had made to the Parkway. The sun was still bright, but twilight was definitely approaching. I asked my parents how they would like to get back to High Point. They had no particular way, so I followed the setting sun and took us through some delightful little towns like Elkin and North Wilkesboro. Mother and I conversed quietly while Dad just gazed out the window. Some of her musings—
***On Hillary Clinton---I can’t stand Old Lady Clinton, but, compared to Sarah Palin, she is like George Washington
***On Mike Huckabee—he has too many stringed instruments going on that TV show. Who is going to take him seriously as a presidential candidate when he’s either playing the fiddle or the banjo?
***On water towers—when I was a little girl, I thought that water towers were hospitals and I was deathly afraid of them. You know, isn’t it interesting how children get these ideas?
Just as it became dark, we arrived back at home. It had been a lovely and memorable day.
A couple of days later, I was preparing to leave to return to Miami and sat down on the sofa next to Mother while she read the High Point Enterprise. I said, “Mother, I know we laugh a lot about when you will be in Heaven, but the fact is that it will be very sad for me because no matter how good a spin we put on it, I will be alone, despite having so many wonderful friends. I will be a family of one”. She rattled the paper in irritation. “What are you saying? Don’t you realize that I have a reservation in a place called Heaven and that I cannot be late?” “Yes,” I told her, “I do realize that, but isn’t there some sort of code we could set up so that I will know when you are around?” (I had asked Aunt Louise something similar and had been told in no uncertain terms to never ask anything so foolish again; hence, I feel no connection to Aunt Louise, gone since March).
She continued rattling the paper, but with less ferocity. With a very uncommon catch in her voice, she replied from behind the paper, “I will be with you always. Always. And you will have so many wonderful surprises waiting for you, things you never imagined, that it will be OK”. We both sat silently, not wanting to break our connection.
In an interesting coda, I was seated next to a lovely lady on my flight from Greensboro to Charlotte. We talked about our weekends and she told me that she was headed to Rochester to see her parents who were the same age and state of mind as mine. Now on the verge of tears, I told Laurie about what had happened with Mother and she, too, became teary. And, we both agreed that we had been brought together to share a moment of happy reflection about our parents.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Family of One Takes a Day Off
How many times do we say I am going to take a day off? And, then, what do we do? We stay on our computer, we can’t let go of the blackberry, we multitask as much as ever. You know. When I went to NYC for my annual Labor Day fiesta, I decided that it was the ideal time to take a day off, so I added on an extra day. My colleges had been in session for two weeks, so most of the start-up drama was over. I had another big push looming with submissions of manuscripts for spring semester due in a couple of weeks. It seemed like the ideal time to take a deep breath. And, so I did.
I started the day with something that I always say I am going to do, but then I never get around to it. I strolled through Central Park on a cloudless, sunny day and enjoyed all of the various sights—for God’s sake, I have even lived in New York and I had never stopped to look at that charming clock with the animals on it that is at the gate to the Central Park Zoo. Frederick Olmstead must have been so ashamed of me. I strolled all around and savored the lovely day and finally plopped down on a bench around Fifth and 70th. I read my Andre Agassiz autobio, I listened to my iPod, I did check my blackberry. But, I mainly thought about the wonderful moments I had experienced during this weekend.
Every trip to NYC has its own personality and, for this one, I had made it a point to try new restaurants and to reach out to fellow dining patrons that I might find annoying in places where the tables are too close together (read, Marea). I had a wonderful Saturday lunch at a charming Austrian place called Seasonal very close to my hotel—outstanding wiener schnitzel. I had my usual beauty maintenance from my dear MeMe at Think Pink where I am now ensconced as one of the regulars. I had a delightful conversation while there with an Australian fellow getting a pedicure who wanted to discuss the Agassiz book with me. I had a lovely meal, especially the sea bass crudo and the spaghetti with crab and sea urchin at Marea; I bonded with a delightful British couple trying to have a night on the town while there three daughters kept phoning them to come home. On Sunday, I started the day with breakfast at Sarabeth’s Kitchen where I perched at the bar and next to a lovely family from DC who just happened to hail from South Carolina. Laughs and charming conversation all around, with special emphasis on restaurant choices. Then, as the patriarch of the group passed by, he said, “how many times do fellow Southerners meet up in New York? I paid for your breakfast”. I was completely stunned as was the waitress. Then, two stylish ladies came up to the bar and asked if I were leaving. I told them that I wanted to read one more chapter and they could have my seat. But, we ended up chatting and have a date for coffee (at the very least) on my next visit. They were smart and witty and I hated to say goodbye. Later, I had an enchanting lunch at a vegan restaurant called Pure next to Gramercy Park where I met with dear friend R with whom I connected over our mutual love for EMP. We sat in the breezy garden and drank concoction of kale and cucumber which were delicious and had one of the best salads that I have ever tasted. And, it was all so good for me!
What else to ponder? I visited my old neighborhood for the first time in 11 years, strolling down East 49th Street and on Beekman Place, ending up at one of my favorite refuges, the park at the end of 57th Street, overlooking the East River. I saw a poignant movie, Cairo Time. I had a fabulous, laughter-filled lunch on the sunny patio at Bar Boulud with my dear friend Cristana and her baby son Aidan who slept like a prince while we threw back champagne cocktails and chowed down on charcuterie and floating island. I had the Moderne bratwurst and tuna tartare and sweetbreads at the Moderne bar room while talking to a delightful couple about dining in Philadelphia. But, one of the most interesting things that happened was that I got the most spacious, lovely room overlooking Central Park at the Park Lane hotel for the unheard-of price at $228. I had booked it on quikbook and thought, “Christ, the room must be horrible, but how bad can it be with a view of Central Park?” When I checked in, my reservation slip from the front desk said $350. I asked if that was a mistake and was told that park view rooms were $550. I showed the clerk my confirmation from quikbook and the hotel determined that an interfacing glitch (an exact quote) had given me the wrong price. They cheerfully honored it and so I was all in a beautiful room that would have made Leona Helmsley proud and a stunning view of the park.
But, my day is drifting away and it’s time to proceed to Esca for lunch. Esca is the kind of place where I always say I am gong to go, but then I get caught up going to my favorites or I forget about it until it’s too late. Even though it is in the theater district, it feels like more of a restaurant that one would find in Rome or Lisbon. The chef, Dave Pasternack, is well-known for his way with a fish and I was so happy with my meal-oysters from Maine, a variety of crudo, spaghetti with crab (a very spicy tang to this one), and a grape sorbet complemented with vanilla ice cream. I read, I looked out the beautiful plate glass windows at the skyscrapers, I enjoyed the murmurs of the businessmen around me. It was divine.
I glanced at my watch and realized that since I had a 7:00 curtain for Promises, Promises, I needed to get along with my afternoon, so returned to my palatial room for a savoring of the fabulous view and a quick check of email. Nothing urgent, so I headed for my front row seat, excited about seeing Sean Hayes and Kristin Chenoweth up close. As I sat down, the announcer said, “there will be a special guest star in the show tonight”. The people close to me asked me, “who do you think it will be?” Perplexed as to why they thought I had the answer, I took them seriously anyway. “I’ll go with Rosie O’Donnell”. There were less than positive murmurs. “Or, for my second choice, I’ll go with Donald Trump”. The murmurs become disappointed. The accountant from Chagrin Falls, Ohio seated next to me says, “My money is on Al Pacino”. I am screaming with laughter. The murmurs take on a disgusted tone.
The show is very engaging with outstanding dancing and costumes. Some of the songs are a little weak and I find the story line challenging to embrace, but what the hay? There’s Sean and Kristin right in front of me and everyone is at the top of his/her game. And, then, without warning, Ellen DeGeneres appears in the role of The Nurse. The theater goes wild! She is so terrible!! She is ghastly! But, there is so much warm feeling towards her that everyone is laughing and screaming, even the stars. It is a very nice moment. At intermission, several people say to me, “Well, you were not far off in your prediction”. One of the things I liked best about my front row seat was that I could watch the conductor as he mouthed the words to every song. Like a prompter from days of old! I also liked hearing strains of Satin Doll played by the trombone during intermission and peering into the orchestra pit to see a lone player having a little fun.
I raced out of the theater and into a waiting cab (and how many times can you say that?) which took me to my beloved Eleven Madison Park. But, not just any night at EMP. This was the opening of their newly renovated room and menu which you might have read about in the NYT. Chef Humm and Will, the manager, are trying to do something unique at EMP by having a menu that gives only the basics of the dish on the menu, sort of like a bingo card. The customer is then encouraged to interact with the server to select his dish prepared exactly as he would like it. Chef and Will want the dining experience to be more about the interaction between restaurant and customer and less about being entertained by the chef. Of course, I knew none of this only that I would have a lovely evening. I was met at the door with a glass of champagne and escorted to a sitting area to visit with my favorites. I knew this was because my usual table wasn’t ready, but I loved the aperitif in a different location and, of course, it was wonderful to chat with everyone.
Since I usually just ask Chef Humm to cook for me, I didn’t care what the bingo card said, but I played along and chose four dishes which were, of course, exquisite. There were several courses of amuse bouches and lovely preparations of foie gras, tomato, and lobster. For dessert, I chose, well, I can’t remember now, and they didn’t have menus for me to take home that night. But, it was absolutely awful and looked like someone had dropped it on the way to the table. I tried very hard to be a good sport and get it down, but my server, the inimitable Kevin, took pity on me. He said, “please pick something else”. It was late and I was getting tired, so I said “chocolate” which turned out to be a bit of a misnomer as it was more of a mint, but it was delicious with an ice cream and a little dessert which tasted fabulous.
I am reserving judgment about what I think about the new EMP until I return at Christmas because, after all, it was their first night. I loved being part of the excitement, of course. But, I was not fond of having the kitchen staff serve me. I tried to start a conversation with one fellow by asking him his name. When he told me, I said, “oh, I think I saw that on the bus station wall last week” a line that usually slays them at, say, DBGB or the Moderne. He stared at the floor and I felt absolutely horrible. Later, I pondered that I should not be made to feel horrible at a fine dining place. Of course, I shouldn’t have been so flippant, but part of the fun of EMP for me is the wonderful exchanges that I have with the captains and the managers. As more kitchen staff served my dinner, I sat quietly and mumbled kind things, but it took a lot of the fun out of the dinner. But, all of this is nothing compared to the horror that I expressed when Kevin said that there is no cheese cart. I love cheese carts. The one at EMP may have gotten my prize for the best one ever. And, now it is no more, gone the way of desserts flambé and lobster thermidor.
But, what am I squawking for? For God’s sake, I am at EMP, my NYC dining family. We are laughing and screaming and talking and Megan, the service director, brings out a printed copy of the article that will be in the Food Section of the NYT the next day about the changes. Everyone is in high spirits and, so, around 1:30, I leap into a cab and go back to my Central Park South lair with a day and an evening to remember.
I started the day with something that I always say I am going to do, but then I never get around to it. I strolled through Central Park on a cloudless, sunny day and enjoyed all of the various sights—for God’s sake, I have even lived in New York and I had never stopped to look at that charming clock with the animals on it that is at the gate to the Central Park Zoo. Frederick Olmstead must have been so ashamed of me. I strolled all around and savored the lovely day and finally plopped down on a bench around Fifth and 70th. I read my Andre Agassiz autobio, I listened to my iPod, I did check my blackberry. But, I mainly thought about the wonderful moments I had experienced during this weekend.
Every trip to NYC has its own personality and, for this one, I had made it a point to try new restaurants and to reach out to fellow dining patrons that I might find annoying in places where the tables are too close together (read, Marea). I had a wonderful Saturday lunch at a charming Austrian place called Seasonal very close to my hotel—outstanding wiener schnitzel. I had my usual beauty maintenance from my dear MeMe at Think Pink where I am now ensconced as one of the regulars. I had a delightful conversation while there with an Australian fellow getting a pedicure who wanted to discuss the Agassiz book with me. I had a lovely meal, especially the sea bass crudo and the spaghetti with crab and sea urchin at Marea; I bonded with a delightful British couple trying to have a night on the town while there three daughters kept phoning them to come home. On Sunday, I started the day with breakfast at Sarabeth’s Kitchen where I perched at the bar and next to a lovely family from DC who just happened to hail from South Carolina. Laughs and charming conversation all around, with special emphasis on restaurant choices. Then, as the patriarch of the group passed by, he said, “how many times do fellow Southerners meet up in New York? I paid for your breakfast”. I was completely stunned as was the waitress. Then, two stylish ladies came up to the bar and asked if I were leaving. I told them that I wanted to read one more chapter and they could have my seat. But, we ended up chatting and have a date for coffee (at the very least) on my next visit. They were smart and witty and I hated to say goodbye. Later, I had an enchanting lunch at a vegan restaurant called Pure next to Gramercy Park where I met with dear friend R with whom I connected over our mutual love for EMP. We sat in the breezy garden and drank concoction of kale and cucumber which were delicious and had one of the best salads that I have ever tasted. And, it was all so good for me!
What else to ponder? I visited my old neighborhood for the first time in 11 years, strolling down East 49th Street and on Beekman Place, ending up at one of my favorite refuges, the park at the end of 57th Street, overlooking the East River. I saw a poignant movie, Cairo Time. I had a fabulous, laughter-filled lunch on the sunny patio at Bar Boulud with my dear friend Cristana and her baby son Aidan who slept like a prince while we threw back champagne cocktails and chowed down on charcuterie and floating island. I had the Moderne bratwurst and tuna tartare and sweetbreads at the Moderne bar room while talking to a delightful couple about dining in Philadelphia. But, one of the most interesting things that happened was that I got the most spacious, lovely room overlooking Central Park at the Park Lane hotel for the unheard-of price at $228. I had booked it on quikbook and thought, “Christ, the room must be horrible, but how bad can it be with a view of Central Park?” When I checked in, my reservation slip from the front desk said $350. I asked if that was a mistake and was told that park view rooms were $550. I showed the clerk my confirmation from quikbook and the hotel determined that an interfacing glitch (an exact quote) had given me the wrong price. They cheerfully honored it and so I was all in a beautiful room that would have made Leona Helmsley proud and a stunning view of the park.
But, my day is drifting away and it’s time to proceed to Esca for lunch. Esca is the kind of place where I always say I am gong to go, but then I get caught up going to my favorites or I forget about it until it’s too late. Even though it is in the theater district, it feels like more of a restaurant that one would find in Rome or Lisbon. The chef, Dave Pasternack, is well-known for his way with a fish and I was so happy with my meal-oysters from Maine, a variety of crudo, spaghetti with crab (a very spicy tang to this one), and a grape sorbet complemented with vanilla ice cream. I read, I looked out the beautiful plate glass windows at the skyscrapers, I enjoyed the murmurs of the businessmen around me. It was divine.
I glanced at my watch and realized that since I had a 7:00 curtain for Promises, Promises, I needed to get along with my afternoon, so returned to my palatial room for a savoring of the fabulous view and a quick check of email. Nothing urgent, so I headed for my front row seat, excited about seeing Sean Hayes and Kristin Chenoweth up close. As I sat down, the announcer said, “there will be a special guest star in the show tonight”. The people close to me asked me, “who do you think it will be?” Perplexed as to why they thought I had the answer, I took them seriously anyway. “I’ll go with Rosie O’Donnell”. There were less than positive murmurs. “Or, for my second choice, I’ll go with Donald Trump”. The murmurs become disappointed. The accountant from Chagrin Falls, Ohio seated next to me says, “My money is on Al Pacino”. I am screaming with laughter. The murmurs take on a disgusted tone.
The show is very engaging with outstanding dancing and costumes. Some of the songs are a little weak and I find the story line challenging to embrace, but what the hay? There’s Sean and Kristin right in front of me and everyone is at the top of his/her game. And, then, without warning, Ellen DeGeneres appears in the role of The Nurse. The theater goes wild! She is so terrible!! She is ghastly! But, there is so much warm feeling towards her that everyone is laughing and screaming, even the stars. It is a very nice moment. At intermission, several people say to me, “Well, you were not far off in your prediction”. One of the things I liked best about my front row seat was that I could watch the conductor as he mouthed the words to every song. Like a prompter from days of old! I also liked hearing strains of Satin Doll played by the trombone during intermission and peering into the orchestra pit to see a lone player having a little fun.
I raced out of the theater and into a waiting cab (and how many times can you say that?) which took me to my beloved Eleven Madison Park. But, not just any night at EMP. This was the opening of their newly renovated room and menu which you might have read about in the NYT. Chef Humm and Will, the manager, are trying to do something unique at EMP by having a menu that gives only the basics of the dish on the menu, sort of like a bingo card. The customer is then encouraged to interact with the server to select his dish prepared exactly as he would like it. Chef and Will want the dining experience to be more about the interaction between restaurant and customer and less about being entertained by the chef. Of course, I knew none of this only that I would have a lovely evening. I was met at the door with a glass of champagne and escorted to a sitting area to visit with my favorites. I knew this was because my usual table wasn’t ready, but I loved the aperitif in a different location and, of course, it was wonderful to chat with everyone.
Since I usually just ask Chef Humm to cook for me, I didn’t care what the bingo card said, but I played along and chose four dishes which were, of course, exquisite. There were several courses of amuse bouches and lovely preparations of foie gras, tomato, and lobster. For dessert, I chose, well, I can’t remember now, and they didn’t have menus for me to take home that night. But, it was absolutely awful and looked like someone had dropped it on the way to the table. I tried very hard to be a good sport and get it down, but my server, the inimitable Kevin, took pity on me. He said, “please pick something else”. It was late and I was getting tired, so I said “chocolate” which turned out to be a bit of a misnomer as it was more of a mint, but it was delicious with an ice cream and a little dessert which tasted fabulous.
I am reserving judgment about what I think about the new EMP until I return at Christmas because, after all, it was their first night. I loved being part of the excitement, of course. But, I was not fond of having the kitchen staff serve me. I tried to start a conversation with one fellow by asking him his name. When he told me, I said, “oh, I think I saw that on the bus station wall last week” a line that usually slays them at, say, DBGB or the Moderne. He stared at the floor and I felt absolutely horrible. Later, I pondered that I should not be made to feel horrible at a fine dining place. Of course, I shouldn’t have been so flippant, but part of the fun of EMP for me is the wonderful exchanges that I have with the captains and the managers. As more kitchen staff served my dinner, I sat quietly and mumbled kind things, but it took a lot of the fun out of the dinner. But, all of this is nothing compared to the horror that I expressed when Kevin said that there is no cheese cart. I love cheese carts. The one at EMP may have gotten my prize for the best one ever. And, now it is no more, gone the way of desserts flambé and lobster thermidor.
But, what am I squawking for? For God’s sake, I am at EMP, my NYC dining family. We are laughing and screaming and talking and Megan, the service director, brings out a printed copy of the article that will be in the Food Section of the NYT the next day about the changes. Everyone is in high spirits and, so, around 1:30, I leap into a cab and go back to my Central Park South lair with a day and an evening to remember.
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?
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