You’re The Top

The clock said it was five-something when I awoke for the first time in Turtle Bay; I found a station with a news broadcast on and held out until six-thirty before I used the bathroom, threw on some clothes, and headed out.

I walked to Ess A Bagel.  During my online searches prior to leaving, I read some very encouraging things about this particular bagel shop and hoped they were more reasonably priced than H & H since I planned on stuffing as many as I could in my suitcase when I left.

Eavesdropping, inside Ess A Bagel

Cat Boy: “Plain bagel with a vegetable schmear.”

Uncle Bill (according to his name tag): “You want regular or the low fat tofu-based stuff.”

Cat Boy: “I want cream cheese.”

Uncle Bill: “Where you from?”

Cat Boy: “California.”

Uncle Bill: “Did you get kicked out?”

Cat Boy: “No, I’m allowed back in. I think”

Uncle Bill: “Where? Not L.A., if you were you’d want the tofu.”

Cat Boy: “I live closer to Oakland.”

Uncle Bill: “Oh, Oakland. That’s better.  We ship all over the country; take a card and you can have some sent to Oakland.  If you only get bagels, save yourself some money and get second day shipping.  And do me a favor, when you call to order them, do it on my day off.”

Cat Boy: “I’ll do that.” 

Uncle Bill: “You want coffee, tea or juice?”

Cat Boy: “Nothing to drink.”

Uncle Bill: “I said, do you want coffee, tea or juice?”

Cat Boy: “Juice, whatever kind you think is best.”

Uncle Bill: “Orange.  Now get out of here.”

Cat Boy, to himself: “This one is going on the blog.”

In addition to my ready-to-eat bagel, I bought a few unsliced along with plain cream cheese, to take back to the hotel.  I walked up Fifty-First Street while eating my bagel; cream cheese most likely stuck to my nose or chin and concluded this was the best bagel I had ever had. 

It had a nice crisp outside and the body of the bagel itself was slightly chewy, but not that almost doughy chewiness some have, and it had a lightness to the dough that I can’t really describe.  Bagels are filling no doubt about it, but some taste filling, whereas other simply are—this had the light, clean taste of an especially good pizza crust.

I returned to my hotel with the remaining bagels and while I had tea and my sister ate her first New York bagel, we made a game plan for the day.  After dropping off my laundry, we took the subway to Central Park.  Once there, we walked for at least four hours. 

I showed her my bench, which is not my bench at all but one dedicated to a man named Gordon Hamilton, but as his friends called him “The Cat,” I think he wouldn’t mind my borrowing his bench.  (Anyone who wants to get me a bench better start saving now—they start at ten thousand.)  I showed her my favorite bridge, then we moved west in the park, seeing things that were new to both of us. 

As soon as we were far enough west to see signs of Central Park West, we’d start walking east, and when we could Fifth Avenue, we’d start moving west again.  We saw the famous Bow Bridge which is not as nice as mine, wandered through The Ramble which lives up to its name, past the Great Lawn,  and finally arrived at the Jackie Onassis Resevoir which affords some nice views of the upper-East side.

As far as we had gone, we decided to keep going; we walked all the way to the Garden Conservancy which is at the Harlem end of the park.  It is the hidden gem of the park.  The centerpiece of the garden is an enormous lawn with an adjacent terrace, it leads to a horseshow staircase rising above terraced gardens with impeccably clipped shrubs of yew, privet, and other evergreens.  The stairs are quite wide and have landings every few steps where numerous students and office workers were taking a lunch break.

From the lawn the garden branches out into smaller spaces; some were long, fairly wide, tree-shaded alleys with benches every few feet, while others were small gardens with large flower beds and narrow brick paths with an occasional bench.  When passing an occupied bench, we had to walk close to the planters as not to disturb the person on the bench.

It gave me the feeling of being in someone’s private garden, as I quietly moved past trying not to disturb them with their newspaper or bag lunch.  It was a beautiful spot full of the people who are lucky enough to know about it.  A part of me wants to tell anyone going to New York they should not miss this part of the park, but at the same time, I think those who spend a lot of time there appreciate the fact that it is lesser-known than Bethesda Terrace and Strawberry Fields.  Treasure it, you lucky few.

After walking a good seven miles, you can eat a lot of fat and not feel guilty about it—right? Well, that was our theory.  We took the subway from Harlem (boy, my gansta nephew was mad we went to Harlem without him) down to Thirty-Third Street and found the world-famous Second Avenue Deli.

It really is world-famous, but it’s not on Second Avenue anymore.  They lost their original building (condos or some such crap) but eventually reopened.  This was one of my sister’s absolute must-dos since it is probably the best deli in New York according to the opinions of those that count (Tony Bordain, Ruth Reichl, Julia Child, etc.).  

We ordered chopped liver, matzo ball soup, pastrami, and corned beef.  The chopped liver arrived with rye bread, cucumber and onion slices, and a bowl of crispy chicken skin with slivers of onion—this is what is left after they render their own chicken fat (schmaltz) for use in cooking.  I limited myself to the onion slivers since I knew my system could only handle so much cholesterol in one sitting.

The liver was rich and smooth, and the crisp watery-ness of raw cucumber helped to temper that richness and make it a treat—albeit one that is best in small quantities.  That was followed by the current favorite matzo ball soup.  The bowl arrived with carrot slices, a sprinkling of tiny square pasta, and a single plump matzo ball in it; the broth was in a spouted-saucepan and added to the bowl at the table. 

It was a touch of panache, and it also makes it easier for servers to carry a bowl of soup. The broth was golden and tasted like a chicken, celery and dill, and not much more; the matzo ball was delicate and light, the whole thing was alchemic.  We could not quite get through the sandwiches, but we gave it a hell of a try. 

I never order pastrami since I live in California; it is regional to a great extent and what you get here is not what pastrami is meant to be—somewhat thickly sliced, glistening with its juices, and falling apart when you try to eat it.  The pastrami on my plate was all of that and it was smoked the way it should be, so that it enhances not masks the flavor of the meat. (Whoever invented the home smoker and turned it loose on people like me who get invited to dinners where the meat tastes like an ashtray—a former cigarette smoker saying this—should be beaten with a piece of hickory or mesquite.)

As cooks strive to be innovative with new ingredients and new techniques, it’s nice to know there are those striving to retain the quality of the old stand-bys; and as deli food goes, this was first rate.

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Win, Place, or Show

That evening, we took the subway to Times Square and walked to the St. James Theater.  My sister had never seen Patti LuPone perform live and I had never seen Gypsy performed live, so we were both in for a treat. 

We took our seats in the second row and I immediately noticed the group in front of us:  All young, all good-looking, and all dressed to the teeth; whether casual or dressed-up, you could see the care that went into their selection of clothing. They were students who got those very expensive seats for a fraction of the price and that pleased me. 

The front row should be filled with young energetic people who can jump up and cheer if it’s called for, not a bunch of stuffed shirts with deep pockets. (By the way, if any of you students should happen to read this, tell the one in the rose-printed black dress that she looks like a young Ashley Judd.) 

As we waited for the show to begin, I was looking around the theater and was convinced someone trying to find his seat was an actor, an English actor whose name escaped me.  I turned to my sister and said “That guy behind us trying to find his seat, doesn’t he look familiar?”

“You mean Jesus?”

I looked again and I too saw Jesus, or at least the most recent guy to play him—Jim Caviziel.  “Yeah, that is Jesus, but I was talking about the guy with Jesus, who’s that?”

“Dougray Scott.”

“Oh, that’s too bad; it would make a better blog if it were Clive Owen or Gerard Butler.”

“Well, there are still a few empty seats, maybe they’re outside having a smoke.”

Clive and Gerard never did show up.

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Eavesdropping, at the Saint James Theater

Seventy-something woman: “With seats this close to the stage, we won’t be near the speakers; I hope we can hear everything.”

Seventy-something man: “It’s Patti LuPone, she’s like Merman—they’ll be able to hear her in Brooklyn.”

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The lights dimmed and the curtain rose revealing the orchestra upstage and the overture began with the notes anyone who has ever heard the score knows by heart—“I had a dream, a dream about you.” 

There is nothing like live theater to get the hair on my neck to stand on end, and those first few minutes when anticipation is at its highest are the best.  I leaned forward in my seat and heard all the lyrics running through my head . . . There’s the bell, follow me . . . Everybody give a cheer; Santa Claus is sitting here . . . I had a dream . . .

The orchestra is once again obscured and we are in Seattle; Baby June and Company are auditioning and to my right I hear someone shout “Sing out Louise,” and turn to see Patti running down the aisle past our seats and up onto the stage.  The audience dissolved into applause.

I loved that this was probably hundreds of people’s introduction to Patti; can’t beat having the star of the show make her entrance from the audience.  The first musical number was “Some People” and it set the tone for the show—it was intense and funny, and on the final lyric “But not Rose,” she sung “Rose” as three notes, something I’ve never heard done before.

No matter who is in the cast and how much I may like them, when I go to a theater I try to observe everything and everyone on the stage.  During “Baby June and Her News-Boys,” I couldn’t take my eyes off Emma Rowley who plays the young Louise; as she danced and sang as one of the news-boys, you could see the envy and sadness that it is her sister center stage getting all the attention. 

She was in the play for less than twenty minutes and I’m still thinking about her—that’s the value of acting and direction this play has.  It’s a fairly large cast with the majority of the signature songs performed by a few, but every character was given importance, and the chance to charm the audience even if only briefly. 

Charm me, they did. 

Boyd Gaines is a great Herbie—vocally he holds his own opposite Patti, and he maintains just enough defiance as he allows Rose to manipulate him that we don’t think of him as a fool. And that occasional defiance makes his eventual abandonment seem inevitable. 

Tony Yazbeck (Tulsa), who I had never seen perform before, is a just terrific.  He’s like a metal lunchbox—sturdily built, not overly ornamental, and lasting. He dances with athleticism and enthusiasm, and the contrast between him and Laura Benanti’s willowy, reserved Louise in “All I Need Is The Girl” is striking and sexy.  And he can sing too.

Laura Benanti is outstanding; she rendered the plaintive “Little Lamb” heart-wrenching, and quickly followed it with the humor of “If Momma Was Married.”  Most impressive was her final transformation: In the course of about twenty minutes, she goes from the shy, put-upon daughter to a stripper, a star, and a self-assured woman who has chosen the life she wants, whatever the outcome.  It’s a big jump and she makes it.

Patti LuPone . . . her Rose is completely satisfying.  Throughout the first act, she maneuvers from the sexy, playful, hopeful Rose to a woman on the verge of a breakdown.  But she doesn’t. As the act concludes with “Everything’s Coming up Roses” she maintains her sense of determination—her conviction that she will succeed in spite of all logic.  This is driven home by her emphasis in the final line “. . . for me, and for you.”

The second act is all about her decline and Louise’s rise.  And the finale “Rose’s Turn,” is an anguishing lament of bitterness and blame and regret.  She has done everything she said she would—she made her daughters into stars, but where does that leave her?  As the curtain drops, she stands alone on the stage, her back to the audience, and the answer is plain.

So many shows that followed Gypsy have changed musical theater—Hair, West Side Story and Les Miserable among others have opened the world to a different kind of musical, but there is something to be said for the classic Broadway show.  And this is absolutely classic—it’s a show business story, it’s a rag to riches story, and it’s a story about difficult family relationships.  It has all that and one hell of a great score too.

The production of Sweeney Todd I saw in San Francisco last fall may be the most important show I will ever see—the most affecting show I will ever see, but I doubt that any amount of theater-going could replace Gypsy as the most exciting, entertaining, rousing night I’ve had in a theater.

And if you should happen to see Gypsy–go to the stage door, you might just get an additional performance.