Ups and downs and ups and downs

Day 38: Sunday, March 26

This was a long-ass day. Rewarding, and full of emotion, but long.

I started the morning by brushing my teeth. As I was doing so, I suddenly realized I’ve been doing this here for six weeks now, and it feels like we just got here. I can’t even fathom how fast this time has gone.

After that, it was pretty much the usual. It was chilly, so I bundled up a little (my lighter jacket and a sweater) and walked to the theatre. Normally, I’d have stopped for a hot tea, but since I was going to a show after our own and I knew I wouldn’t finish it before I left after our show (I’d gotten a late start), I opted against it.

The walk was uneventful. There had been rain in the early morning hours, so a lot of the remaining snow drifts had melted (though there are still plenty of them) and walking was pleasant. There was much more pedestrian traffic on Park than I expected, though. Guess people were sightseeing or something.

When we came, we had expectations that we might get a review in The Times. There were no guarantees, though, and Brendan and I had even spent some time Saturday afternoon discussing the idea that, with only one week left, we wouldn’t get one. It was disappointing, but I was resigned to it.

I got a text from Cheryl late Saturday night, though, hinting that we might well be getting one, since she saw a woman in the audience Saturday carrying a Times tote bad with a button highlighting their new “Truth” campaign, and she suspected she might be a critic. I was sworn to secrecy, though.

Armed with this knowledge, I went through the performance wondering if we would indeed be getting the review. It was a very good show and a great way to end the week. It was a nearly-full house and they reacted well to everything. Shows like this (and especially Friday’s) are the kinds where I come off and am regretful that it’s all over. The show is exhausting to do, but at times like that, I just want to do it again. There were moments that went off, of course, but, as always, we were the only ones who noticed. (I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it here—I know I have told a couple of people—that, when we start Scene 5, I have no idea how drunk I am as Sam; it’s not until I speak my first line that I realize what the baseline will be for that scene.)

We came down at about 5:00 and headed for the dressing room, just in time to me to get a text that the review had published. It’s, frankly, not as good as I might have hoped (“Critic’s Pick”), but it’s mostly favorable and seemed to like the two of us. My biggest criterion is that it sells tickets, and I think it will do that. We could use some full houses for our final week.

I texted everyone I knew would be interested in the review (the Custom Made folks, Pidge), then posted it on Facebook, then got a chance to really read it rather than skim it. A more-jaded friend of mine wrote me this morning to congratulate me on it, while cautioning me to not give too much weight to either being in New York or having a Times review, but, dammit, it means a lot to me and I’m going to indulge myself in the emotion.

I had a couple hours to kill before the show I was seeing in the evening, and my original plan was to have dinner, then go to the show. I called Pidge to talk over the review, and we both Yelped to see if we could find anything. She found me a good-looking French restaurant (I was desperate for steak frites), but by the time we found anything, it was really too late to go and have supper there.

I was right outside the Plaza, though, so I decided to see if I could re-create one of the great afternoons of my life, sitting in the Oak Room (virtually by myself) while a veteran bartender showed how skilled he was. (I especially enjoyed the afternoon because, for a while, a nouveau riche couple from Santa Barbara sat next to me at the bar and were determined to show off how sophisticated they were. Oscar the bartender and I kept exchanging knowing glances and side-eyes at them.) It turned out the Oak Room was closed for a “Private Event” (or so the poorly-lettered signed on the door said), so I went into the Palm Court, sat at the bar, had a very good rye Manhattan, and let it all hit me, I posted a photo of the cocktail and thanked everyone who’s supported me through this, all the while realizing both how lucky I am to have it happen and how I’m really not worthy of all the attention (I’ll take it, though; and frankly hope someone recognizes me from the photo in the Times).

 What else should you drink in Manhattan?

My cocktail finished, I walked the three blocks down to City Center, where Encores was presenting the final night of the 1930 Cole Porter musical, The New Yorkers. Despite the guy sitting next to me (who seemed as big as Andre, but to whom I was able to supply the title of the Irving Berlin/Moss Hart musical Face the Music—if only because Pidge had been in the show in San Francisco), it was exactly what I wanted: a big, stupid musical with terrible jokes, great songs, and skilled actors making material work because of their Garbage Theatre skills.

Explanation. “Garbage Theatre” sounds derogatory, but is actually something for which I have incredible respect. The actors who can do garbage credibly and skillfully are some of my favorites. It began in 1979 when I was part of the Southern California Conservatory Theatre’s production of Lerner and Loewe’s Paint Your Wagon. Paint Your Wagon, is, charitably, not a good show, and the only thing that saved it was the entire cast screwing around on stage and having fun. In the process, Garbage Theatre was christened, and I’ve tried to live by its precepts ever since. In short, it takes its metaphor from cartoon cats (like Sylvester) who go through alleys, garbage can lids in hand, picking fish skeletons from trash cans. In the same way, the garbage actor accumulates bits of stupid business to put in a show. If the bits work, you keep them. If they don’t work, you keep them because they might work later.

The New Yorkers was nothing but garbage, and that’s why I loved it. It was nothing if not self-referential. The first act ends with a number that Jimmy Durante, who was in the original production, wrote as a tribute to wood. It had no bearing on anything else in the show. Kevin Chamberlain, who more than lived up to the daunting task of doing Durante’s material while not imitating Durante, left the stage [just before the curtain fell] telling the audience “This is really how they ended the first act in 1930.” In Act Two, two characters swear their friendship to one another, seemingly about to launch into a number. One of the actors, the marvelous Mylinda Hull, turned to the audience and said “We’d sing that, but it’s in another show.”

 Garbage is good

The two things the production pointed out to me were: A) These shows in the 20s and 30s really were intended for sophisticated New York audiences. The references and jokes were all for them, and there was no thought for how they might travel, since that wasn’t the intention. Everyone was there to have fun and listen to some jokes and great songs. B) There’s nothing like hearing a Cole Porter song that lauds New York while hearing it in a show in Manhattan. There were two in The New Yorkers: “Take Me Back to Manhattan”  and “I Happen to Like New York,” which literally ended the show: the last note stopped, and down came the curtain.

I had a whale of a time.

Afterward, though, I still wanted that steak frites, and started walking downtown to get one, despite the freezing temperatures. It had rained during the show and it was cold and wet. My phone said it was about 43, but my breath—especially my nasal breath—doesn’t steam like that at 43. I kept looking at Yelp, and finally found a place that was open and combined ratings with a reasonable price. I got there and discovered that I could hear the crappy band playing there well down the street, and there was no way I was going to subject myself to that willingly.

I called Pidge, we batted some ideas back and forth, and I picked a spot in the Village. I took the train, eventually found the restaurant, and despite its posted hours, found it closed. I searched for another place, and it was closed, too. I realize it was late on a cold Sunday night, but c’mon.

I tried a third place whose website said it was open until 12:00, and after a prolonged search (thanks, city fathers who made the numbering buildings in the Village impossible to decode!), found it closed just after 11:00.

Desperate, I found a fourth place, Boucherie, whose website indicated a 1:00 am closing. After going the wrong way on Seventh Avenue, I finally found it, saw two patrons sitting at a table and one at the bar, and went in. I saw the host way at the back and asked, hopefully, if they were open. No, they’d closed at 11:00. I expressed my disappointment. He asked what I was after, and I told him I was desperate for steak frites. He raised his index finger in a “wait a second” gesture, and told me to wait there. He went back, consulted with the kitchen staff, and came back, telling me to sit at the bar while they made me something.

 Pretty much the view I had

I sat down, freezing (it took a good fifteen minutes to get feeling back in my fingers), ordered a drink and waited. After a little while, he brought me a platter with a perfect steak and marvelous fries.

I didn’t gobble it up, but savored it; it was really one of the best things I’ve eaten here and they went out of their way to make it. (I later gave them five-star ratings on both Yelp and Facebook.)

Sated, I was ready to go home. Given how cold it was, though, I decided to take the bus, which was the fastest way back. As I walked, I had a Chekhovian moment of realizing that, as happy as I was, this was probably the peak of how happy I was going to feel on this trip, and it made me sad to realize it would all soon pass. I am nothing if not a psychological case.

I made it to the bus stop, had to wait only a few minutes (across the street from a French restaurant called, ironically, Bobo), and got on the bus—the only passenger. The driver seemed to be in a great hurry, but that was fine with me. We sped across town, I got off (probably a stop too early), stopped at 7-11, bought the Sunday paper and some extra toilet paper, and walked the last block home, grateful that it was warm.

 I think I need to eat here

I fell asleep soon, but in the knowledge that Monday was our day off.