A Very Reggie New York Day

While I adore Darlington, I also like taking a break from it every now and then to stay in New York for the weekend.  I particularly enjoy doing so during the winter months, when I happily play tourist in my own city.

This past weekend we decided to do just that.  Rather than rushing up to Darlington House on Friday as we normally do, we stayed in town to take in some shows, eat out, and do some holiday shopping.  On Friday night we (somewhat improbably) attended a rock-n-roll concert performed at the Bitter End in Greenwich Village by a friend and former business colleague of mine.  Although I felt a decided fish out of water at such a venue and event, I had a remarkably good time of it, all things considered.  I congratulated myself that I could even enjoy singing along to "Glory Days" as performed at the conclusion of the evening, despite it being a complete charade on my part in pretending to do so.  All I can say is thank goodness my friend Paul A. was also in the audience and handed me some earplugs at the outset of the show, or my ears would still be ringing as I write this, given the punishing amplification of the evening's entertainment.

The Bitter End: New York's oldest running rock club
Image courtesy of same

Having fulfilled that particular obligation, we crawled back to our apartment with the plan to sleep in the next morning.  We lounged around the apartment for a couple of hours on Saturday morning reading the paper and chatting, and then made our way over to our most adored Swifty's for a leisurely, boozy brunch of the famed restaurant's spot-hitting, delicious, comforting food.

Swifty's was all decked out for the Holidays

Well fortified by doing so, we strolled about the neighborhood afterwards, stopping in at some of our favorite shops nearby, including the exquisite Lexington Gardens, where we always find something pretty and decorative to buy.

Conveniently located next door to Swifty's,
Lexington Gardens is a visual treat and sensory overload

Their windows were particularly festive and fun this year.

I particularly loved this window's
display of nut arrangements

Our next stop was Treillage, one of a number of the inestimable Bunny Williams' retail outposts in the city.

Treillage is just up the street
and full of temptations

Our "real" mission for the day was to attend an exhibition at Hirschl & Adler featuring the works of Duncan Phyfe and his contemporaries, which the gallery had just put up in connection with the Duncan Phyfe show that opened at the Metropolitan Museum yesterday.

The Crown Building at 57th and Fifth,
home of the Hirschl & Adler Galleries

While we were at Hirschl & Adler we spoke with the ever-charming and lovely Elizabeth Feld, who curated the show.  She did a marvelous job of it.  I plan on doing a more detailed review of the exhibition in a future post.

One of the gallery displays at Hirschl & Adler

H&L's galleries have been stunningly arranged for the show by Liz's father, Stuart Feld, who has displayed the furniture, art, and decorative arts on exhibition to its best advantage.  The show is splendid!

Spanierman Gallery sits on a side street across the street
from the Four Seasons Hotel

Afterwards we dropped in at Spanierman Gallery, hoping to meet up with our dear friend Gina (and Boy's representative) there, but learned that she was out that day.

James Robinson sits on the corner of 58th and Park

So we consoled ourselves with a visit to James Robinson, a very dicey proposition indeed.

James Robinson is a rather dangerous store to go into
if one likes pretty and expensive things, as I do

Although we were tempted to buy a set of silver nutcrackers there that Boy admired, we decided against it, since we already have a number of handsome crackers of our own.  And it was a good thing I didn't lose my head and buy the vintage 1950s-era gold, diamond, and sapphire set of studs and links for sale there made by Van Cleef & Arpel that I looked at and admired.  I'm not much for men wearing flashy jewelry, but yours truly would have been quite happy to sport these baubles out one night.  Since they were twenty-eight thousand dollars for the set, though, I was more than happy—sighs permitting—to give them a "pass."

A small selection of temptingly and reasonably priced
cufflinks on display at James Robinson

Not everything at James Robinson is so stratospherically priced, though.  They also have a nice selection of enameled men's cufflinks available at only $295 a pair.

Boy needed to pop in to Karl Kemp on Madison Avenue
to pick up some tearsheets for a client

Our next stop was Karl Kemp Antiques, where Boy showed me a number of pieces he is considering for one of his decorating clients.  It is always such a treat for me to be out with Boy when he visits the Carriage Trade shops, such as Karl Kemp, in his capacity as a decorator to those who have the means and taste to buy from them.

The entry to Ed's Chower House, conveniently located
across from Lincoln Center
Image courtesy of same

After a quick nap back in our apartment to recover from the day's strenuous efforts, we scurried over to the West Side and met up with assorted friends at Ed's Chowder House near Lincoln Center for dinner.  The place was mobbed, but the service was excellent, and the food was too.

The program for the concert we attended

Our reason for meeting up with our friends was to attend a Holiday Jamboree concert at Alice Tully Hall of the Yale Whiffenpoofs, the Harvard Krokodiloes, and the Princeton Nassoons, along with a guest appearance by Darren Chris of Glee, where he plays Blaine Anderson, formerly of the Warblers a cappella group.

The Whiffenpoofs assembling on stage

The concert was well-attended, with most of the seats in Alice Tully filled with the type of people you'd expect at such an Ivy League gathering, and those that weren't were occupied with ardent young female admirers of Mr. Criss, who were more than happy to fill the air with their trilling appreciation whenever he spoke or sang.

The Whiffs were joined by Darren Criss, singing
his hit cover of Katy Perry's Teenage Dream

It was a delightful concert and a lovely way to cap off a most pleasant day and evening of what New York offers best—fun, food, shopping, and entertainment.  The contrasts between the concerts we attended at The Bitter End on Friday and at Alice Tully Hall on Saturday were not lost on either me or Boy.  Nor did they detract from the pleasure we took in them individually, I might add.  Variety is, indeed, the spice of life, Dear Reader.

I had an absolutely lovely time.

Only in New York, kids, only in New York!

Unless noted, all photographs taken by Boy Fenwick on his iPhone

Dinner and a Show at the Café Carlyle

After our miserable experience attending A Little Night Music on Broadway, about which I wrote in “The Theatuh, the Theatuh . . .” and posted January 12th, I vowed to be more selective in the entertainment venues I frequent. A number of the readers who commented on that post suggested that I consider attending performances at the Metropolitan Opera or Carnegie Hall, where the experience can be counted on as being far more pleasant than the one I had at the Walter Kerr Theater where my Broadway night was, in my view, more akin to being assaulted on a crowded carnival midway than what I expected of a legitimate theater on the Great White Way.

The entry to the Carlyle Hotel, photo courtesy of same

While I plan on checking out the city’s more refined venues, when it comes to seeking out entertainment I am, at heart, more a fan of the American Songbook than of the Well-Tempered Clavier. Don’t misunderstand me: I adore classical music (or, as some say, “serious music”), and my radio dial is always tuned to the classical stations in both the city and the country. But when it comes to attending a live performance my tastes run to the more quotidian – I would much rather attend an evening of Dawn Upshaw singing popular standards than of her performing classical song cycles (which I have, by the way, and memorably so).

When I moved to New York after college I fell in with a rather louche set that would frequently wind up an evening at some of the city’s seedier piano bars, drunkenly shouting along to songs, much to the exasperation of the put-upon songster/piano players and other patrons. When such evenings became less than appealing to me (almost immediately) I pulled back, not just from the piano bars, but also from that crowd, since most of them appeared to be on a bullet train to a stint in rehab, and I didn’t want to join them there. But I quickly learned that what I liked about performances in such intimate spaces was entirely out of my budget when transferred to the city’s more upscale rooms, such as the Algonquin’s Oak Room or the Café Carlyle. The cost of dinner and a show at one of these uptown hotels was punishing on my junior banker’s income, and, besides, the patrons in such places were generally at least as old as my parents, if not my grandparents. It was all rather too grownup for my age or wallet. Fortunately I soon found other, more affordable and age-appropriate pursuits . . . but that’s a subject for another post.

This album got a lot of play in my house growing up

Anyway, fast-forward to this past October when Boy and I found ourselves at the Café Carlyle, where we met up with friends for dinner and a show featuring the very talented husband-and-wife team of John Pizzarelli and Jessica Molaskey. I had not been to the Café Carlyle for several decades, when I was last taken there to see the legendary Bobby Short, but I decided to book a table there when I learned that the Pizzarelli/Molaskeys would be settled in for a run of performances ahead of the holidays. I am a big fan of their radio show, “Radio Deluxe,” broadcast on public radio stations, supposedly from their living room “high atop Lexington Avenue on the fashionable Upper East Side.” In the show they play an eclectic mix of recordings of American standards (and not-so-standards), interspersed with clever patter, and feature interesting guests drawn from the world of music and entertainment. The couple is immensely talented and amusing (they describe themselves as “the von Trapps on martinis”), and I make a point of listening to “Radio Deluxe” whenever I am at Darlington on Saturday afternoons.

John Pizzarelli and Jessica Molaskey perform at the Cafe Carlyle

photo by Julieta Cervantes of the New York Times

When I learned they would be appearing in a run at the Café Carlyle I immediately decided to book a table, and roped several like-minded friends into joining us. We all had a lovely time that evening, and the Pizzarelli/Molaskeys put on a swinging, highly entertaining show. While an evening at the Café Carlyle doesn’t come cheaply (the Carlyle is, after all, one of the most expensive hotels in the world), the all-in cost per person for dinner, drinks, and the cover to see the show came in at less than the per-ticket price Boy and I subsequently paid to see A Little Night Music. There is absolutely no contest in my mind as to which was the better value.

Recently I learned that the very talented Christine Ebersole, star of Broadway, television, motion pictures, and the long-playing LP, was scheduled for a run at the Café Carlyle this February, so I immediately grabbed the phone and booked a table. Several years ago we were enchanted by Ms. Ebersole’s performance in the Broadway musical Grey Gardens, where she brought down the house (and won her second Tony) with her mesmerizing performance as both Big and Little Edie Beale. The New York Times gave her show at the Café a glowing review, describing her as “a goddess formed…in screwball heaven.”

We arrived at the Café Carlyle this past Thursday looking forward to another wonderful evening in its comfortable, swank room, and were welcomed by its gracious manager, Tony Skrelja, who led us to a table just a few feet from the stage. One of the pleasures of the Café, aside from its intimacy (it seats only 70 for dinner), is walls decorated with lovely murals of pretty girls, musicians, and harlequins painted in high Gigi-style (with more than a smattering of Picasso) in the late 1940s by the French artist Andre Vertes. The murals have recently been restored and cleaned and are attractively up-lighted so that the room has a flattering glow. The small lamp-shade-covered candles on each table help, too. Everyone looks marvelous under these conditions!

Photo courtsey of the Carlyle Hotel

One of the sideways pleasure of going someplace like the Café Carlyle is seeing who else is there. That night, our counterparts ran the gamut from elderly couples, who barely spoke to one other, to young couples with stars in their eyes; there were several tables of giddy bachelors having a lovely time, and there was a smattering of show-people of a “certain age” (Regis and Joy Philbin were at one table and Leslie Uggams and her husband at another). Plus there were the various types one sees in expensive hotels the world over: designer-label-smothered Russians; conservatively dressed Asians; and expensively-attired, shady looking people of indeterminate origin. The Café has a dress code (men must wear jackets), and everyone was dressed up for a swell night out.

Detail of the Vertes murals, image courtesy of the Carlyle Hotel

Ms. Ebersole’s performance that evening was a delight. She is a lovely woman of delicate beauty. She wore a retro—and elegant—taffeta and velvet cocktail dress, and her luxuriant blonde mane was pulled up, revealing sparkling diamond chandelier earrings. She is a skilled vocal chameleon with a phenomenal range and pitch-perfect voice. She trilled, she wailed, she growled, she moaned, she was happy, she was sad – in short, she was glorious! She was backed by a marvelous quartet led by John Oddo, that supported her with finesse. In between songs she shared amusing anecdotes, all delivered with a charming self-deprecating sense of humor, about life in show business and at home in suburban Maplewood, New Jersey, where she lives with three rambunctious teenagers and a loving husband. The room adored her and demanded she hit the stage for an encore, and she was more than happy to oblige. After the show I introduced myself to Ms. Ebersole and told her how much I enjoyed her performance. She couldn’t have been nicer.

A view towards the bar, featuring the recent addition of Bobby Short to the murals

Photo courtesy of the Carlyle Hotel

So here I am, all these years later, back again at the Café Carlyle. And yes, I am old enough to be the father of that boy who was scared away, way back when. But I can tell you, it’s a lot of fun to go there now and comfortably fit in with the place and the crowd. Now that I think of it, I've had such a grand time my last two visits at the Café Carlyle that I just might become something of a regular there – that is, if I haven’t started to become one already . . .

Christine Ebersole will be appearing nightly at the Café Carlyle through February 20th. More can be found out about her on her website: http://www.christineebersole.com/

More can be found out about John Pizzarelli and Jessica Molaskey at their websites: http://www.johnpizzarelli.com/, and http://www.jessicamolaskey.com/

The Café Carlyle
The Carlyle Hotel
Madison Avenue at 76th Street
New York, New York
(212) 744-1600
www.thecarlyle.com/entertainment

Please note: Reggie has received nothing from the Cafe Carlyle in return for this review. He is sharing it with his readers solely out of the kindness of his heart, and expects nothing in return for it, except his readers' pleasure.

"The Theatuh, the Theatuh, What's Happened to the Theatuh?"*

Or, an Open Letter to the Producers of “A Little Night Music” and the Management of the Jujamcyn Amusement Corporation

* With apologies to Mr. Irving Berlin

Last week Boy and I had the pleasure of attending a Broadway show for the first time in many months. I say “pleasure” because the recently-opened revival of A Little Night Music we saw was really quite good, with strong performances by most of its cast, most notably and somewhat to my surprise by Catherine Zeta-Jones. However, while the show was a pleasure, the experience of attending the theater was not.

I’ll tell you why . . .

Strike One: The Tickets Were Exorbitantly Expensive

Getting good seats these days to an early-stage run of a hit Broadway show is virtually impossible for mere mortals without going through a ticket broker, and the cost of procuring such seats can be astronomical. I pre-bought our tickets through American Express before the show opened and paid a whopping $277 per seat for our center orchestra seating, or $554 for the two of us. I was surprised to see, however, that this did not include a huge scalping fee as a full $267 of the per-seat cost actually went to the theater, with Amex and Telecharge between them taking only $10 in handling fees per ticket. On the rare occasions that Boy and I attend the theater we are usually willing to spring for seats in the orchestra, preferring to forego the experience altogether if it means being relegated to seats in a nose-bleed balcony or ones with obstructed views. While I recognize that one pays a premium price to sit in the center orchestra, I think having to fork over more than $500 to the house for two seats is exorbitant.

That's right, $277 a seat!

…Particularly when it is obvious that the producers have scrimped on the expenses of mounting the show, which was most definitely the case here.

But we didn’t know that when I ordered the tickets as a Christmas present to us, and–even though expensive–I was more than willing to pay such a price for us to see this show. That's because neither of us had seen it before in other revivals, we both enjoy listening to the original cast recording from time-to-time, and we thought it would be one of our last chances to see Angela Lansbury on stage.

Angela Lansbury as Madame Armfeldt, Catherine Zeta-Jones as her daughter Desiree,

and Keaton Whittaker as her grandaughter Frederika (photo: Joan Marcus)

So we decided to make an evening of it, starting with dinner at “21”. I am going to be posting shortly about having dinner there so I’m not going to say much about that part of our evening for now, except that we both enjoyed it.

Strike Two: The Theater Was Woefully Understaffed

A Little Night Music is playing at the Walter Kerr Theater, a confection of a hall built in 1921 and one of the most intimate theaters on Broadway, seating only 975 patrons. We arrived there approximately ten minutes before curtain to find a scene of utter mayhem outside with people jostling and pushing to get into the sole door that was being used to admit patrons. That was the first thing about the evening that struck me as “off.” In my view, there should have been someone there from the theater to direct the crowd, several more of the six available entry doors should have been opened to admit the crowd, and there should have been more than the two harried ticket takers on hand to process the nearly one thousand people entering the theater. But that would have meant paying wages to such staff, I suppose.

Photo: Playbill

Strike Three: There Were Almost No Ushers

After we made it through the door we then found ourselves in the midst of absolute chaos. There were virtually no ushers to direct ticketholders to their seats or hand out programs (I had to pick mine up from the floor where someone had dropped it), and the aisles were jammed with people bumbling about. There were plenty of theater employees on hand, though, but all of them were busy hawking souvenirs and tee shirts, or pushing their way through the crowd with trays filled with snacks and bottled water for sale. Given how aggressive they were I suspect they are paid on commission, now that I think of it.

Strike Four: No Coat Check!

After vainly searching for the coat check to leave my briefcase, overcoat, and hat before taking my seat I learned from an exasperated theater employee–annoyed because I had interrupted a transaction–that the Walter Kerr doesn’t have one. This struck me as particularly odd. Not only is it my understanding that having a coat check is a standard offering at most theaters, the absence of one is a decided inconvenience for the Walter Kerr’s patrons–particularly during the winter. I suppose that the bean counters at the Jujamcyn Amusement Corporation decided that dispensing with a coat check altogether would help them maximize the theater’s revenue-per-square-inch calculation, since it opened up valuable real estate for more concession opportunities. Furthermore, they no longer have to pay salaries to the benighted lackeys forced to work checking coats. With this running through my mind, and annoyed by the prospect of having to sit buried under a pile of outer garments for the duration of the show, I then started to make my way to my seat.

Boy and I were eventually able to push our way through the hordes of people clogging the aisles and found the row that our seats were in. I was pleased to see that our seats were as billed, right in the center facing the stage, four rows back. All other seats in the row were already occupied so we had to "excuse me" our way past the seated patrons, none of whom bothered to stand up to let us by (as I would have done) despite the fact that the space between rows at the Walter Kerr is extremely tight at best, and far narrower than the stadium-sized seating found in most of the movie cineplexes the audience was likely more accustomed to. Much to my dismay I found that when I arrived at my seat it was next to one occupied by a Jabba the Hutt whose overly ample frame not only engulfed the arm-rest between our seats but also extended into my space, where it remained for the duration of the evening. I was not happy that I had to squeeze my way down into the seat while balling up my overcoat and putting it on my lap with my hat sitting on top of it.

Strike Five: The Patrons Were Under-Dressed, Ill-Mannered Boors

Once I had collected myself somewhat from this unpleasant experience, though, I was further dismayed when I turned and looked around the theater, taking in the rest of the audience. With few apparent exceptions the vast majority were dressed like slobs, wearing clothes more appropriate for an afternoon spent cleaning out the garage than for attending an evening's performance on the Great White Way. I felt like a decided fish out of water in my suit and tie and a throw-back to a different (and in my view better) era. Does anyone make an effort anymore?

Photo courtesy of Google Images

Not surprisingly once the show started the peanut gallery of the audience commenced a steady stream of comments, coughing, and gurgles, at least that is when their mouths weren't occupied with swilling water from plastic bottles that annoyingly captured the stage lights every time they took a swig. In retrospect I'm surprised I didn't hear someone loudly speaking on a cellphone during the performance giving a blow-by-blow description of what was taking place on stage.

Strike Six: As Little As Possible Was Spent on the Production

Fortunately I was able to block most of this out and enjoy the show, and the first act was quite good. But despite solid, and at times quite wonderful performances, both Boy and I were struck at how stripped down the production was, a view shared by many reviewers. The New York Times noted that there were barely enough musicians hired to constitute a pit orchestra. In my view "orchestra" is a complete misnomer as in reality there were barely enough musicians to constitute a combo, and what few there were were relegated to a mezzanine level on stage left as the pit had long-ago been dispensed with to make room for more lucrative seating.

In addition to an understaffed group of musicians the stage was barely decorated with a virtually nonexistent set, and there was little in the way of scenery changes between acts. Finally, as far as I could tell there was only one full change of costumes for the cast during the entire show. Not even the leading lady got more than two gowns to wear that evening. In some of the articles that I've read the producers apparently claimed that they were aiming to create a concert-like, Chekhovian mood in this production, but I rather think that was merely an excuse for why they invested what appeared to me to be the absolute bare minimum in the show's production.  Forgive me for what I'm missing here, but what do Ingmar Bergman and Stephen Sondheim have to do with Anton Chekhov?

Photo: Charles Sykes/AP

After an intermission that saw the reemergence of the army of hawkers and hucksters shilling souvenirs and tee shirts at every turn we settled (well, in my case squeezed) back into our seats for the second act. It was quite enjoyable, and the highlight was when Ms. Zeta-Jones sang a nuanced "Send In the Clowns," a song that I have heard mutilated by so many bad performers over the years (including Boy's worst nightmare of Bonnie Franklin holding a sheaf of balloons) that I usually start to cringe at the first few notes of its intro. Ms. Zeta-Jones' performance actually brought tears to my eyes (contrary to what my readers may think I am a sentimental fool), and it was the only time during the evening that the audience really quieted down. In my view Angela Lansbury pretty much mailed in her performance that evening as Madame Armfeldt, but I don't begrudge her that since it isn't exactly a toothsome role to begin with, and as far as I'm concerned she has the right to rest on her laurels at this point in her remarkable career.  A letter from Ms. Lansbury is still a treat indeed.

Strike Seven: The Huckstering Never Let Up

Even as we left the theater we were continued to be assaulted by vendors desperately trying to unload more souvenirs, snacks, and memorabilia. Management had even set up another stand outside with a barker urging everyone not to miss their last opportunity to sign up for a pre-sale of the as-yet-to-be-released cast recording. I couldn't wait to get away.

In our apartment Boy and I sat for an hour or so talking about the evening. Although we were both genuinely happy to have seen the show, and enjoyed it, we were both highly irritated by how unpleasant the experience of attending the Walter Kerr Theater had been. We laid most of the blame on the producers and the theater's management, who appeared to us to have done everything in their power to extract as much as possible from the audience while giving as little as possible in return. In the end I do not believe I got anywhere near my "money's worth" for the more than $500 I spent on our tickets--if I had to put a number on it I'd probably appraise the evening's true worth at no more than about half that.

Given our less-than-enjoyable experience in attending A Little Night Music, Boy and I agreed that we won’t be in any hurry to return to the theater to see a Broadway show, and particularly one with the misfortune to be staged at the Walter Kerr. As far as I'm concerned, I'd much rather stay at home and spend my money on something else that would give me lasting pleasure, such as the original cast recording of A Little Night Music--the one with Glynis Johns and Hermione Gingold.  And since I already own it I would have $554 more in my checking account than I do today.