There is a famous saying something to the effect of the fact that 90% of life is showing up. As I have pointed out many times- step outside- here, and life happens. Showing up for work means an offer comes in via e-mail, go see a Broadway play- sit in the orchestra (row H- as in "Happy to be Here") and by the way did we mention the play won 5 Tony's last year? So the gods of ephemera washed up this lovely pair of tickets for "The Drowsy Chaperone" on my e-mail beach. In the interest of fairness (and the fact that he is good company) I called the poor soul who endured the goat seats for "Gypsy" with me. "Where are the seats?" he asked dubiously- "In Manhattan"I said testily ( they were FREE- sheesh).
Since the theater was right near the infamous "Restaurant Row"; 23 restaurants in one city block located between 8th and 9th Avenue on 46th Street. Michael suggested we eat there. I had to sheepishly admit I had never eaten on Restaurant Row- my experiences in dining before the theater being limited to "find" restaurants like the only place for Authentic Ethiopian food in Manhattan- a bargain at under $20 unless you count the cost of the fire extinguisher you will need after the first course- even the water was spicy! Or that all the food in the restaurant is the consistency of baby poop and the only way to get it from the plate to your mouth is using soft pieces of injeera- a limp spongy sourdough flat bread traditional to the region- forks unfortunately are not traditional to the region. It's like trying to eat pea soup using a cloth napkin. Between the firefighting tools, the dry cleaning bills and the antacids- I attend "find" restaurants with extreme prejudice- one way or another- you pay. My other theater district staple- NEW and the OTHER kind of hot- is the kind that is crowded, glass-enclosed and features- a 2-story waterfall or fire dancers who cook your food on their faces or portions so tiny they are accompanied by an electron microscope and tweezers. The guarantees here- you will wait, you will leave hungry, the waiter will have more attitude than a society matron at the Walmart AND you won't have to eat here twice- these restaurants usually burn out quicker than a tray of Cherries Jubilee and are generally a lot less fun. The only advantage in this experience is that the day after attending one of these places you can a.) say you've been there and b.) tell everyone how much you hated it.
"Never eaten here?" Michael asked- amazed as he knows I LOVE going to the theater and trying new restaurants. "Too touristy, huh?" he opined. I didn't answer right away- I hadn't thought about WHO eats on Restaurant Row- I just figured in a choice between indigestion and indignation- it was worth a shot.
We walked along the row looking at the different menus encased in acrylic in front of each narrow storefront- Restaurant Row- I would hazard a guess, is the great grandfather of the food court. EVERY cuisine is represented in a series of really teensy spaces. Each doorway housed an inspired little ingenue biding her time until her "big break" by trying to entice walkers-by into her restaurant. I kept waiting for all of them to break into a group chorus of "Hey Big Spender". The overwhelming feeling was that of a limping antelope on the veldt being tracked by leopards. One pause and I was a goner sucked into the wrong regional cuisine with no hope of rescue. A lovely Latina started extolling the virtues of her cafe in lilting lisping Castilian infused Spanish to Michael who had made the error of missing a step in front of her turf. "Oh no", he said smiling conciliatorily "I wanted the French place". She pouted prettily and went back to her post in a saffron scented whiff.
The French place was actually really cute- Le Rivage. Their door person was the ONLY one who could properly pronounce "prix-fixe". The restaurant was hopping- waitresses busily saying "Voila" as they handed you the menu. OUR waitress wasn't French. I could just tell. She had a slight put-upon air as she handed us our menus, her "Voila" terse and clipped. Her accent- German. "You have the show tickets?" she asked- we nodded. Her lips thinned "You're late" she said...only her mouth smiled. It seemed early enough- after all it was only 6:30- we wanted to eat dinner- not catch and kill it. She moved us through the courses like a pro- I ordered the celery root salad in a mustard remoulade- Michael was intent on ordering from the squidgy-squirmy side of the menu and began with sardines- for sardines they looked nice enough- plump and not stinky- Michael liked them fine. I would like to mention here that EVERYTHING was covered in a vinaigrette- I think at night they mopped the floor with it- part salad dressing, part floor wax, in the interest of maintaining an authentic French atmosphere- sharp and a bit acid. The next course, oddly enough was the salad- which USUALLY comes after the main course, with, natch- more vinaigrette. As I was on the verge of acid-reflux brought on prematurely by an excess of salad dressing- I picked at the romaine and raddichio but didn't truly dig in- my friend Gerri named this sort of salad "ear wax salad" when we were still in college- to this day the sight of raddichio or worse- frisee, brings that memory back instantly. With less than optimal results. The waitress stared down at my salad plate "Done?" she said- her tone and single raised eyebrow indicating I was NOT. "Yes, thanks", I smiled. I did not want to look up and see her eyes boring like lasers into the top of my head in disapproval. I just had the feeling- from that ONE WORD, she was remembering her days in Le Resistance when they lived on rats caught in sewers... or something else they could pickle in vinaigrette and eat to stave off starvation. The next course was the entree- I had monkfish in a lobster reduction and from the squidgy side of the menu- Michael had ordered grenouille. What may you ask are grenouille? You will be sorry you asked.
Frog's legs. They kind of looked fried. And they were so small! I just looked over at the plate and imagined the 8 or so frogs relegated to a life on crutches to make this dish. What could I say but... "Bon Appetit"? I was treated to yet another blast of Teutonic indignation when I did not eat the rice served with the monkfish- I thought about asking for a little vinaigrette on it but thought the better of it. By 7:28 the room had emptied and we were on to coffee and dessert. "Are we late?" I asked "Nah"- said Michael- "its only 7:30." Maybe they were eating dinner and then catching a show back home in Omaha. Why else leave the restuarant for the crowded theater district streets? For me, standing outside the theater sweating until the house opens has lost its lustre- call me cranky. The waitresses began eyeing us with vague hostility as we leisurely sipped our coffee- no doubt all waiting for us to leave to break out in a chorus of the Marsellaise and light up their Gitanes- though I pictured OUR waitress smoking by pinching her cigarette between thumb and forefinger, taking it from her mouth stained with orangey red lipstick and adjusting her beret... ok- maybe I thought about her a little TOO much.
Back on the street and headed for the Marquis theater I saw the tourists in CLUMPS. They travel in packs yanno- like hyena, emerging from stretch town cars with an unlikely number of offspring all of whom are 14 and all wearing too much make-up and clad in wearing something resembling a very short sequined dress or a very long... tube top. And then there were the girls. (no-no... wrong neighborhood). I had celebrated the evening's free tickets by blowing my budget AND what the tickets would have cost on a pair of completely un-corporate red peeky-toe sandals. My shoe shopping preferences having been cruelly squelched for a month's time in my search for a more businessy look these 4" heeled beauties MUGGED me in a weak moment as I passed the shop window on the way to dinner. I squished my sensible flip flops into my purse and donned them on the spot- I wasn't corporate quite yet and as I buttoned the oversized red leather covered button on the ankle strap they made me feel like Betty Grable. Or they did. After trotting around Hell's Kitchen finding a restaurant, locating the theater and then the box office- which inexplicably was located in another building- in another ZIP CODE. I wished I was Betty Grable- dead that is- at least her feet didn't hurt. My blisters had grandchildren- walking was an act of sheer will.
Triumphing over a positively Byzantine set of elevators, escalators and hallways we made our way to the Marquis theater. A doorman assured us as we boarded the escalator- "The Drowsy Chaperone is GUARANTEED not to make you drowsy!" In his jolly red coat wearing a beatific- and slightly waxy smile- like a red delicious apple at the supermarket- he made me believe that maybe, like those apples- perhaps what was beneath the surface- of the coat, and the free tickets, was something bland and mealy and well- meant for tourists. The seats, located exactly one foot farther than I wanted to walk on my injured feet were just 8 rows from the stage. The crowd- which I love to look at before the show starts- glittered- tube tops as mentioned previously, were in attendance, along with as much dress up clothing as the weather would allow. I smiled- I LOVE when people dress for the theater- having been a part of the process backstage I appreciate the effort involved in mounting 8 shows a week- the musicians, the stagehands, the props, the lights, the theater is a lot of people working really hard in black clothing to be invisible- to make it magic and make it real. That deserves a jacket and tie- or pretty red shoes. I settled into my velvety seat and breathed in- waiting for the moment the present world would melt away and then the lights went down. Michael's hand squeezed my knee- he felt it too- the theater is; even BAD theater- a tiny thrill- if you allow it to be. The first day of school and new pencils, the first time you felt an airplane take off- the moment you looked into someone special's eyes and saw that they liked you, too- you know this moment is going to be just a bit better than an every day one. Maybe a lot better.
And it was. The Drowsy Chaperone is a musical inside a comedy and romped and played and poked fun at itself. I do not wish to spoil even one line from it but it manages to be both a modern day world-weary comedy and a 1920's "gay romp". As the narrator of the play states- back when "gay" meant something else entirely. Every un-pc moment- with terrible Latin sterotypes and Asian sterotypes and gangster sterotypes and blonde sterotypes was met with great laughter- what a relief! All the socially unacceptable thoughts each member of the audience never dared utter out loud was presented with a flourish and a look of wide-eyed innocence- and we giggled and guffawed like a bunch of second graders. BIG music and glorious costumes and red coated monkeys and FABULOUS shoes and tap dancing (I LOVE tap dancing) horrible bakery puns made by a pair of houndstooth clad gangsters posing as pastry chefs- can they macaroon another bad joke? We cannoli hope! It was that bad and that good.
Towards the middle of the play- the narrator (played wonderfully by John Glover of "Smallville" fame as well as a slew of stage credits) a musical-theater loving, cardigan-clutching, tea drinking, single gentleman alludes to the fact that he was once married and then looked at the audience and asks- "Are you surprised I was married?" He drew himself up "Well- you shouldn't make assumptions about people" he huffed. "I'm a VERY COMPLICATED person." Tourists. Bikers. Pastry Chefs and Reformed Downtown Girls. We're all pretty complicated and I shouldn't make assumptions- it was a great play- and a lovely dinner and the reformed downtown girl isn't so different from the tourists- we're all just sitting in the darkness looking for a little magic.
:) X
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