We decided to try our luck at TKTS Saturday morning, but they only had extreme side seats available. Even at half price (actually 40% off this particular performance), I’m not spending three hours watching bored chorus girls yawn in the stage right wing. If that makes me a theatre snob, so be it. No matter, like any true addict, I was determined to find a way to get my Follies fix even if it meant resorting to theft, murder or even - gasp! - prostitution. Well, maybe not murder.
We detoured a few blocks south to the Marquis Theatre and asked the box office attendant if there were any full-priced seats available for the matinee. “Row F, center orchestra,” he smiled seductively, dangling that Follies crack pipe in my face. Crap. If he had said ‘last row mezzanine,’ I could walk away. But my addict instinct kicked in. My hands started itching and my forehead broke out in a cold sweat, paranoid that I’d never get to experience that Sondheim high again. The desire was too strong. I blindly handed over my credit card. Like any junkie, I promised myself this would be the last time.
We had a few hours to kill before the performance so we decided to try Shake Shack’s new midtown location. It was still before noon so surely we’d beat the regular lunch time mob. The line didn’t snake out the door and down the block as it usual does, but the dining room was standing room only prompting my newest pet peeve - people who refuse to give up their table after they’ve finished eating, laughing and lazily lounging as if they’re out at a fucking Hampton's country club, ignoring the hungry, tray-clutching throngs standing around them. I can understand not wanting to eat and run, but sitting and nursing your empty cups after the dining room attendant has already completely cleared and wiped down your table is a little ridiculous. Thankfully, a vacationing Australian couple graciously offered to share their table with us.
This was my first Shake Shack burger and I must admit the burger lives up to the hype. With one bite, my pent up rage aimed at those selfish table-hoggers subsided, replaced by the obscene pleasure - and accompanying grunts and sighs - that only a perfectly cooked bovine patty can produce. We topped off our perfect burger with peanut butter milkshakes made with Shake Shack’s famous frozen custard. Heart attack be damned!
We still had some time to kill, so we took a leisurely walk up to Worldwide Plaza Chelsea
I won’t go into too much detail since I just reviewed Follies a couple of weeks ago. It really is just sensational, with every performance heartbreakingly honest. Bernadette was in excellent voice (she seemed vocally tired on last viewing) and it seems she’s learned to maneuver through her break. Jan Maxwell’s Phyllis remains the steely core of this production, her cathartic “Could I Leave You?” one of many highlights in the second act. Ron Raines’ sumptuous baritone is like a little slice of vocal heaven. Danny Burstein is so charming and sympathetic that you actually root for his adulterous husband. And Rosalind Elias’ duet with her younger self evokes tears and an instant, wild ovation from the audience. Imagine that - nearly stopping a show with an operetta-inspired aria. Maybe Broadway audiences aren’t as stupidly puerile as I thought. Then again, Mamma Mia! is still packing ‘em in at the Winter Garden.
But perhaps the most moving part of the show? Experiencing this production with the weepy, emotional (and I think drunk) older gay gentleman sitting next to us. In charming jacket and bow-tie, Charles (yes, that was his name, he introduced himself) wept, laughed, muttered “divine” and “brilliant” under his breath, screamed “brava” at every possible opportunity and generally had the time of his life. Literally. With tears streaming down his face in an almost instant standing ovation he exclaimed, “This is the greatest thing I’ve seen in my entire life.” I know, he sounds like he would be totally annoying, but he was so genuinely moved that you couldn’t help but smile and be charmed.
How do you top an afternoon of Follies and Shake Shack? With an uplifting movie about cancer, of course! We met Trish’s friend, Billy, after the show and headed to the Regal E-Walk on 42nd Street to see “50/50”. You should all buy your tickets now. I won’t spoil it, but by the end, all three of us were reaching for a Kleenex - simply divine, as Charles would say.
Billy came over after the movie and stayed until 3 AM obsessing over his newest beau, a handsome young doctor. Some people have all the luck. Doc is apparently “the One,” so what can you do but nod your head and pretend to listen while you’re actually jealously fantasizing about the millionaire Abercrombie & Fitch model/helicopter pilot you’ll meet on the subway platform on the way to work on Monday morning when you drop your newspaper and he drops his portfolio and you accidentally bump your foreheads causing you to fall into each others arms, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, instantly falling in love, get married on a beach in Positano, buy a weekend home in Colorado and adopt two labradoodle puppies named Dolce and Gabbana. Yes, I have a vivid fantasy life. Anyway…
After a Sunday morning spent dozing in bed, Trish and I got our lazy asses up and headed to Harlem for a garden party. The first thing you think of when you hear “Harlem” is likely not “garden party,” but the nabe’s cleaned up since the 80s and the white faces you see uptown aren’t necessarily lost tourists or drug addicts (though they might be).
Jill, a family friend who also happens to manage opera singers, rented an apartment in a Harlem brownstone for the week while in NYC attending some seminars at the Met. Guests have access to a private garden in the back. The party was supposed to have been a networking event for Jill’s clients, but they all canceled at the last minute. I’m not surprised. Opera singers are some flaky individuals. Must be all those vibrating sound waves shaking up the cerebrum. Val and Juan drove in from NJ for the “event” so at least there was a group of us on hand to take back all the left over wine and cheese.
A block from Jill’s apartment and just down the street from Red Rooster, we noticed the signage for Sylvia’s, the famous soul food restaurant. In an effort to salvage our little Harlem field trip, Trish and I decided to stop for some southern treats before jumping the M60 bus back to Queens . The temperature was still hanging in the mid-70s so we grabbed a table out front and dined al fresco on fried chicken, BBQ ribs, collard greens, garlic mashed potatoes, mac and cheese and fried catfish fingers. You know, just something light and healthy. Incidentally, Sylvia's serves real southern sweet tea, made with simple syrup - not that tasteless brown water NYC restaurants pass off as iced tea.
Collard greens, Bernadette Peters, drunk gays, cancer and Harlem garden parties - just your typicalNew York
Collard greens, Bernadette Peters, drunk gays, cancer and Harlem garden parties - just your typical
No comments:
Post a Comment