New York Interlude: Can’t trust that day…

So it’s Monday. I'm looking back at the things that occupied my hours (if not my thoughts) today and I've come up with a short list of five:

1. I looked for a summer purse. Anyone who has been to my house lately knows the saga of the summer purse -- I talk freely (and constantly) about it. And if you don’t know the saga of the summer purse, consider yourself lucky. It is the most indescribably boring story on earth, en par with reading a detailed account of the decision-making process involved in choosing the color of towels for your bathroom (spare yourself the tedium there: white always works). Suffice it to say that the summer purse issue remains unresolved.

2. I shopped for a Picasso. An original. To hang in the bedroom. More on this later.

3. I discovered that green and black/gray go well together. See photos below of black-clad park-goers.

4. I went grocery shopping and stood in line that was some 60 people deep at the checkout. Whole Foods is doing well in NY.

5. I read seminar papers.

About the Picasso. It’s brutally simple: I walked over to a small gallery on 79th that was displaying privately owned paintings by Picasso. (I sort of came across it by chance.) Thirteen canvases – none of them familiar to me nor probably to the general public, as most likely they had been hanging in various homes, only now the owners have keeled over and the next generation is lusciously picking through the riches and putting them up for sale in order to rake in some cash.

There were only three people in the gallery: a woman my age but way more polished and coiffed than I and her entourage of two: one gallery rep and one advisor.

The woman was deciding if she should purchase the biggest canvas of the lot – a nice blue and yellow rendition (Ocean perks up here) of people in some macabre poses. It was Picasso’s later work – maybe from the fifties – where the limbs and torsos were beginning to look….distorted.

I hung next to the little party of three (I’m sure they loved that) and listened to the back and forth, having never myself had the problem of laying out millions for a canvas for my bedroom. I was intrigued as to what would be the tipping point.

It seems that the gallery rep hit the right tone. He explained to her that the reason she (rather than me perhaps?) deserved that particular canvas was because she had enough Picassos to make her home a place where you could appreciate the progression of his work. He told her: you have a whole story of the artist… simply replace that painting you have in your bedroom (he knows her bedroom?) with this one (is it fair to the public at large to hide a huge Picasso canvas in a rich lady’s upper-eastside bedroom where presumably only her lovers enter?).

I left before she gave the final nod, but I could tell she was going to go for it. I would have taken a photo of the canvas – the last glimpse of a piece of art that would now be displayed only at the whim of just this one person – but I’ve been scolded so many times now for dangling a camera in private galleries that I no longer bother. It hurts each time.

Fascinating. Spending millions is actually quite easy. It works pretty much the same as handing $3 across the counter for a latte.

Central Park: a mom and her little girl, on a hill. 

Central Park: a stroller, entranced?  

Central Park: two boys in gray 

Central Park: a kiss is just a kiss... 

New Haven Interlude

If I could change the way roles were cast among strangers and friends, I would insist on balance. I would insist that no one gave more, no one gave less of themselves. I would ask that each listened to the other’s requests and, in friendship, gave of her or himself fully, with no excuse, no dishonesty.

I thought of this today as I walked the blocks of New Haven and looked up at the dazzling petals framing the spires and the buildings of Yale.

A Yale date 

A bridge of sighs? a clock? a flower or two, cheering the passerby. 

detail: flowers reaching up to ... a beautiful form 

Spring blooms and foliage almost obliterate an Ivy Tower. 

a recorder tells it like it is: simple and sad 

late afternoon: translucent leaves 

New York Interlude: if you cannot deal with rejection, you might as well pack your bags and go home

Save spontaneity for Madison. Here, in the big league land, you need to have A Plan, and That Plan better be made and hatched early, before you set out.

Last night it did not strike me until significantly into the evening that it would be cool to do something so New Yorkish as to be completely in the realm of the impossible back in Madison. I noted that Mstislav Rostropovich was conducting the NY Philharmonic in a program of Shostakovich and Prokofiev piano concertos. I wanted to be there! Suddenly, I knew, that more than anything, I wanted to lose myself in these works, looking up at a musical giant (how old is he now anyway?), taking it all in the gorgeous space of Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center.

So I called and I begged to have one of the return tickets set aside (there are always at least two or three returns). I literally offered up my wealth and my labors for a chance at a seat. No luck.

In the alternative, I thought I’d walk to the NBC Tower to see if anyone was feeling sick and incapable of sitting through the live performance of SNL. Surely in this weather one person would be feeling sick and miserable enough to hand over their ticket to me. No. Throw up in the aisles why don’t you, but don’t give me your precious ticket. Fine. I wouldn’t either.

Perhaps drowning my disappointment up in the Rainbow Room would be the way to go? I mean, one drink, beautiful view (even if it was foggy, it’s always grand up there) – good plan! Except for the jeans. I hardly ever wear jeans back home (jeans capital of the world). I don’t even typically pack jeans when I go places (well, okay, as a standby for the mountains). But this time, I was on my way to SNL – how jeansy is that? Plus I put on my 70%-off-but-still-a-fortune Cambio jeans (never heard of them? neither have I, but the saleslady at Sassafras said they would put me in with the cooler if not totally coolest set). The elevator man took one look at my dangling from underneath the coat denim and pointed the elevator down, showing me the nearest exit sign.

Okay, plan number 4: stand around and look at Rockefeller Plaza at night. It’s campy. It’s touristy. It’s fun. Except when it is entirely covered by a huge tent for a private wedding function. Who the hell has the cash to rent the entire Rockefeller Plaza for a wedding??

Walking home I thought – there’s always Borders. In Madison, Saturdays are good Borders nights: the store is open, and it may be the only place outside of State Street where there are people mingling about. Take that image back to Madison. The NY Borders closes at 8 on the weekend. Of course. Who wants to sit at Borders when there are exciting things to do like the Philharmonic or SNL?

Of course, sitting at a bar, any old cheesy bar is always an option. Or getting out of the blasted Midtown. Spontaneity is more of a SoHo & Village thing. I should have known better.

Okay, but if I were the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia, I’d keep my hands to the side when walking with Rumsfeld.

On why Bush was found walking hand-in-hand with Crown Prince Abdullah at the Crawford Ranch, see NYTimes story here.

New York Interlude: city mice

If you’re a suburban mouse, you have it made: fields of greens, open spaces, and a nice warm spot in a house to nest in for the winter.

But what of city mice? Do they trade in the open spaces, the clean feel of growing things for this?
 

Would they?

How can you mark seasons if you are a downtown kind of a mouse? Sure, there are the strips of land snaking through the boulevards and avenues. Like this one: can’t you tell what season we’re in now?
 

And even though some would not regard pigeons as good company, still, the city mouse need not feel that she is without playmates.
 

Mostly, the city mouse has traded in all that vast peace and quiet, the fresh smells of soil and flowers and young buds and pine needles for the company of strangers. But company it is nonetheless, so that when a city mouse digs herself out of her hole late at night, just to shake her mousy thoughts loose, even in the rain, even in the windy, breezy night, she will be able to cavort with the shadows and forms of people out and about, mysterious and fascinating strangers, hurrying, with secrets and twisted plots guiding them through the maze of city streets.
 

New York Interlude: Bouley’s

In truth, I am not easily won over by restaurants. I mean, I like a lot of presentations at a lot of eating establishments, but mostly I think they are less splendiferous than the hype around them would suggest.

Still, through odd and fortuitous circumstances, even though I do not run with the crowd that routinely plunks down wads of cash for dinners out, I have been fortunate, through sometimes devious and sometimes insane methods, to eat at some pretty extraordinary places. And I have paid my share of cash to try to get near a chef whose food I have read about. I am willing to take out a second, third, sometimes fourth mortgage to chase down a meal someone tells me is worth the gold needed to pay for it. I have also scraped the bottom far more often than I care to remember, with dishes and dining experiences that are worth writing about because they have been so unbelievably bad.

Mostly, I like the middle range. I like family run places outside metropolitan areas. Places with a regular clientele of locals. Places where waiters complain if you leave something on the plate. Places where the diners’ ages run from 3 to 93. Where people dress up slightly, but not too much. Where the food is good and honest and fresh and flavorful.

But every once in a while I will come across a star that is listed as a superstar and it winds up having enough shine and glimmer to light up a whole galaxy with its radiance. Bouley was it. Truly one of the best ever. Because every dish was a surprise and nothing was less than it could be.

I went for a late lunch and chose the tasting menu – six sampling courses, plus three others thrown in by Chef Bouley, possibly because he likes to be generous, possibly because I was assiduously taking notes and photographing everything. As if I were writing a story. Which I am. Because Ocean is as good as an NYT review, right?

I really cannot list everything -- too tedious and dull to read, especially if you can’t run your fingers across the words and lick them in appreciation. Okay, just a smattering: a tomato gazpacho over shredded grilled shrimp, served in a martini glass; the phyllo crusted Florida shrimp, Cape Cod Bay Squid, Scuba Dived Sea scallop, Sweet Maryland Crabmeat in an Ocean Herbal Broth; the baby skate with capers and baby greens with pineapple vinaigrette; the Nova Scotia Halibut with fresh porcini mushrooms, Georgia corn, Asparagus and a Corn Shoot Sauce; the Venison with poached Bartlett pear, Swiss chard and chocolate sauce (you heard it here); the white chocolate flan with green tea glaze; the fresh chilled Rhubarb soup with cassis sorbet, sour cream ice and Beaujolais granite; the hot Valrhona soufflé with maple, chocolate and vanilla ice cream; the chocolates and cookies and espresso – they were all over the top fabulous.

Complaints? None. Oh, alright: I could have kicked the waiter’s shins a few times for the poised manner with which he delivered wrong info when pressed on some of the dishes. Advice to all the waiters who have pesky diners bugging them with Qs: go back to the kitchen and get it right, from the cooks that know what they’re plating. Please please please don’t bluff it. Cassis and sour cream do not taste, look or smell the same and they cannot be folded together and come out looking white. It just can’t be done.

But the Russian runner was disarming, and Mr. Bouley was awe-inspiring. I wish I could shine his shoes daily, just so the glow of stardom would rub off onto my fingers and everything I thereafter touched in the kitchen would have his magic.

I do fall in love with good cooks and good writers, I admit it.

Okay, a few of the pictures. Apologies for the quality. This was not a place where I could take time, sit still and fiddle with the composition. Surreptitious clicking typically means you’re going to come home, download the photos and hit delete 99% of the time. Still, I promised food – here’s food. And thank you, gorgeous and brilliant daughters, for a magnificent birthday meal.