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Thursday February 22, 2001
"There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born here, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size and its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter--the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out at night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something. Of these three trembling cities the greatest is the last--the city of final destination, the city that is a goal." E.B. White , Here is New York
the natives know
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rubes at the opera We don't rush to an early start. FFP showers while I go down about a half block from the hotel and get a couple of cups of 75 cent coffee in cardboard cups. We have a noon reservation for lunch on the east side. We decide to have a look around Coliseum Books before we head that way. Coliseum Books is pretty much like I remember it from the mid-eighties. Only it seems smaller. Maybe this is because of all the giant Barnes and Noble and Borders chain stores I've seen in the interim. We take a cab to Orsay (76th and Lex for those keeping close tabs). We are early. They do not open until noon. We wander around a look in shop windows. We go inside a tiny book shop (Lenox Hill Books) and browse. We end up buying a Met Mueseum book with snippets of literature about New York and reproductions of ceratin works of art from their collection that connect with the time and history. Also a little book listing the best bookstores in New York. We step into a grocery store up the street and look around at the crowded space. They are pricing products on the street. There are packages for pickup or delivery piled in the front. Orsay is like a high-end Paris bistro, only newly minted. The brass and wood shine. The bistro china looks new. I get oysters and steak tartare. FFP goes for a beautiful composed salad and fish. He loves the pommes frites and French mustard that come with my tartare. We each have a glass of the 'house' Cotes du Rhone. It's stunning. We finish with a cheese plate and espresso. The room has started quiet but ends up in a buzz. Mostly smartly-dressed women. But one woman who is clearly at home here wears a hunting style cap with ear flaps lined with red fur. She keeps it on throughout the meal. She peers over tinted glasses, knowing what she wants from the waiters, getting it and getting out. I love New York for its characters. We have tried to dress smartly for our lunch. Forrest has on a tie and jacket and a yellow cashmere sweater. With a little beret, he would look like one of those regulars in a French place, nursing a sherry or Port or a glass of vin rouge. We wander a bit and walk over to Fifth Avenue to catch a cab. On the way, FFP rings the bell at a toney gallery and we go in and look at early twentieth century paintings. We don't dare ask the prices. We relax. We enjoy reading a bit in the library of the hotel and talking to a graduate student from Chicago who loves New York. She's orginally from Israel but her father was a professor and she grew up here and sounds American. Well, we just assumed. Assumed that people, a lot of them anyway, would dress up for the opera. So we got into black tie garb. Me in tuxedo pants and a black top with shimmering decoration; FFP in tux, vest. Our friends meet us in the lobby. He has on a sport jacket and tie. "He wanted me to call Forrest and see if he was taking a tie and I said, 'How hard is it for you to take a tie?'" she says. They know, of course, what the rubes don't know: no one will be that dressed up. Heck, we saw those movies like Moonstruck. We just assumed that people would look like that. Foolish, I suppose. We walk to Lincoln Center through a heavy snow. People are pushing it aside from various walks but it keeps coming back. We visit the museum shop and then dine at the Grand Tier restaurant under a gigantic Chacgall painting. I have some delicious lamb, but it's hard to finish after the great lunch. Our friend buys a very good French red to go with the food. Monon is a dramatic opera. The soprano falls in love 'at first sight' but later falls prey to her own ambitions. Then she sings beautifully until she dies of TB. It's always hard to understand how one dies of TB just after a lung-bursting aria that flows to the upper reaches of the house without amplification. The opera is long, with two intermissions. The hall reminds me of places I saw in Russia that were built in the fifties or sixties. Only it's not falling down. We walk home in the snow.
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