Crème Brûlée

I like culture as well as the next person (actually, probably alotalotalot more than the next person), but I'd be lying if I said the highlight of my recent night at the opera was anything other than the dessert I had at O'Neals' before the performance.

O'Neals' has come by its good reputation honestly. It's been a fixture in the Lincoln Center neighborhood since 1964--almost as long as Lincoln Center itself. Michael O'Neal's motto is "good food at a fair price," and that is indeed what he serves. Yummy stuff like French toast stuffed with brie for brunch, steamed dumplings late at night, or a grilled Black Angus sirloin with Maytag blue cheese mashed potatoes for dinner. (Well, okay, as a vegetarian I'm not drooling over the sirloin, but most people would be.) Last, but certainly not least, the service is good, and the staff can get you in and out in time for your show, no problem.

I had the all-too-infrequent opportunity to choose from among several non-meat dishes: interesting salads, a curry, an unboring pasta. Sometimes I make a meal from three sides; O'Neals' not only sounded delicious, but "Combination of three as entrée" was actually listed as a menu item. Eeny, meeny, miney, mo...which to choose? Dessert, though, was a no-brainer.

Crème brûlée has been my favorite dessert for as long as I can remember. Rich, smooth custard...brittle sugar crust: an inspired combination. O'Neals' was no disappointment when it came. Just as I was savoring a spoonful, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the lady at the next table, back-to-back with me. I noticed you ordered the crème brûlée, she said. How is it?

Scrumptious, I was able to reply. And I'm somewhat of an expert on the subject, I told her. Before I was done with my portion, she was enjoying hers.

I wonder where my next crème brûlée will be? If I'm still blogging, I'll honor it with its own entry, too.

Gorgeous Crystal Chandeliers

Opera is all about spectacle. Listening to a recording, or even a live concert of the music, can never convey the whole multimedia experience of attending an opera. Part of what you're watching is occurring on stage, while another big part is happening all around you.

When you go to the Met, one of the things you see is the hall itself, jewel in the Lincoln Center crown, splendid in its own modern way. Built in the 1960's in the International style, it's all travertine and glass, the largest building in the complex, with seats for almost 4,000 and cavernous storage spaces. The first thing you see as you approach the building, even before you enter, is the glittering expanse of Austrian crystal dripping from the ceilings, mammoth futuristic chandeliers built like Tinkertoys with nickeled brass rods, twinkling lights, and gobs of faceted crystal and crystal pearls.

The opera house chandeliers were designed by Hans Harald Rath and made by Lobmeyr of Austria. The largest one measures over 20 feet across, is lit with 260 bulbs, and weighs one and a half tons. Over three hundred others are scattered throughout the Met. Satellites orbit around the big guy, more large and small chandeliers hang over the orchestra, under a ceiling of gold leaf. Crystal sconces ring the balconies and light you up the curving staircases.

The carpets are crimson. The walls are crimson velvet. The banisters are crimson velvet. The ceilings are gold; the mosaic murals are Chagall. The literati, the glitterati, and lots of poor students from Columbia lounge in the lobbies. Just before the curtain rises, the lower tier of chandeliers in the orchestra rises slowly to the ceiling as the lights dim and finally extinguish. Before the opera even begins, you've gotten your money's worth.

That Vast Louisiana Desert

Last year was the year of jazz for me. This year is the year of opera. I've been listening to recordings, watching televised productions, reading librettos. Tonight I went to New York City to see Manon Lescaut at the Met.

Puccini's opera is taken from a novel by l'Abbé Prévost, volume seven of Mémoires et aventures d’un homme de qualité. It's a popular story which, before Puccini, had been made into an opera by Jules Massenet, and which, after Puccini, had several more incarnations. What's basic to all the versions is the flighty Manon herself, an innocent young girl on her way to a convent when she meets and falls in love with the chevalier des Grieux. The whole story, in its various permutations, results from the tension between her love for the chevalier and her love for all the things money can buy.

In the Puccini libretto, as in the original novel, Manon ends up in New Orleans with her lover, and is eventually banished from the city. This is a French story, remember, originally published in 1731, so New Orleans is where people ended up when they fled or were exiled. The librettist apparently didn't know much about the brave new world and, after all, it's a great love story, so who cares about the geographical details? All the same, it's hard not to laugh when Manon, thrown out of the settlement at New Orleans for reasons unclear, ends up in the "desert" of Louisiana. She sings the magnificent Sola, perduta, abbandonata while her lover throws handfuls of sand around and curses the lack of water for his thirsting, dying love. In this post-Katrina world, a little ironic!

Singing Christmas Trees

My son's girlfriend is a dancer, just out of college and looking for a hot job. For the last couple of summers, she worked more than full time at Six Flags. Part of her job involved an endlessly repetitive dance routine. When she wasn't dancing, she was being sawed in half by a magician. The box she had to crawl into was pretty small, and most of the time she had dark bruises on her skin from squeezing into it. I'd have to say she's quite a trouper.



Right now Lindsay's teaching in a dance studio and going to lots of auditions. Her dream job at this point would be working at Disneyworld or on a cruise ship. She usually gets pretty far into the auditions, she says, but invariably gets cut after the singing part.

So I thought of Lindsay when, walking through Macy's the other day, I saw these three young ladies dolled up as Christmas trees. L should be able to handle this job if she wants it next year. Having the nerve to do a song-and-dance routine in the heart of New York city while wearing this getup is apparently key...actual vocal talent a distant second.

White Christmas

I love miniature things, so I surprised myself by finding all the NYC Christmas window dioramas rather boring. Am I getting old and jaded? The period vignettes in Lord and Taylor's were beautifully done, I have to admit. Each window celebrated one sense--"taste" or "touch," for example. The craftsmanship and the detail were astounding, but...

...I much preferred the elegant mannequins in gossamer ivory designer gowns. That's my idea of a white Christmas.

Santa, Are You Listening?

It was so warm this fall that it was hard to believe Christmas was coming. The recent snowstorms have helped me realize that yes, it's definitely December. A visit to New York City this week, combining business with pleasure, provided another means of getting into a holiday mood.

The weather was fine and the streets clear of snow. Perfect for walking. We checked out Rockefeller Center and the windows on Fifth Avenue on the way to the Empire State Building. After lunch with a college friend who works on the 50th floor, we ducked into Macy's, king among department stores for Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrating. We visited kindly, twinkly-eyed Santa, listened to the singing Christmas trees, browsed the winter wonderland of decorated trees, and wandered the aisles of the toy department.

This festively beribboned zebra caught my fancy. I would have loved it as a child. When I was a little girl, I'd never even been near a real horse, but I never gave up hope of owning one. I loved zebras, ponies, and donkeys, too--anything equine.

The best I could do was to collect figurines of horses. Most were made of china, but a few were wood or metal or even stuffed. The little ones were displayed on a mahogany shelf in my bedroom. Periodically, my mother would knock a couple of horses off while vacuuming and break a delicate leg or two.

Every year, I wished for a pony. I had figured out exactly where in the back yard we could keep him. My mother's patient explanations about zoning laws and the cost of upkeep had little effect on my child's mind. I never really gave up hope. Santa, are you listening?

Mission Accomplished

Just back from New York. What a beautiful and productive weekend! Took advantage of the hospitality of Ellen and Matt on Long Island for a couple of days. Anna is more beautiful and ladylike every time I see her....Elijah the applehead Siamese as insistently affectionate. Matt's whistleblowing has already resulted in the firing of one employee, while his job seems safe, so he was mellower than he has been recently...and Ellen, therefore, more relaxed.

Sunday we drove into Forest Hills in the rain to see Ellen's childhood friend Roz, whom I had never met. We had brunch at Rouge, a cheerful "French bistro." Unrelentingly red! Mimosas, naturally--although Matt was happily polishing off French Fischer beers, and Anna of course drinking milk. A delicate velvety sunchoke soup, worth the meal, passable omelet and disappointing galette--dry and hard. (Everyone else was oohing and aahing. They should taste mine.) For dessert, a perfect crème brulée, half of which I had to give away by spoonfuls. Noone else had noticed it on the menu. The bike chained outside the bistro seemed a good symbol of the City.

Monday morning at 9 found me at the Indian consulate. What a zoo! An archaic system of queues, numbers that bore no correspondance to the queues, no forms or information handy. An officious little man, whose smidgen of power had gone to his head, barked and shouted at the little mob of passport and visa applicants, threatening to throw everyone out and close the place if anyone stepped in front of the rope, etc. I guess all this red tape and inefficiency is to prepare you for India itself. But four hours and $60 later, I had a six-month visa properly pasted into my passport. Mumbai, here I come!

While hanging around between the application and the pickup, we wandered around Central Park...the consulate is at 64th almost to Park, near so many of the others. Lunch was at Lindy's. The whole point was to have cheesecake for dessert, but after the nine-inch-high club sandwiches, there was no way. Can I make one as good as theirs? We shall see.

No traffic down or back; no pockets picked; glorious weather on Monday; visa obtained with no hangup. Good food and good company...curled up evenings with two fingers of Johnny Walker Blue. Life doesn't get much better than this!