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New York, New York and Other Cultural Myths
originally posted: March 1, 2007
My agent, Nancy Ellis, a Californian, is in New York the first two weeks of March, pitching my second novel. I learned also today that a friend had moved to New York to take over a public relations firm. The combination of these two migrations sent me reeling back through my New York Memories.
A couple of decades ago I was in New York for a dinner meeting with the Food and Beverage Director of a potential airline client for my airline catering business. I finished dressing early and picked up a “what’s happening in NY” kind of magazine in the room. A piece on cozy little New York bars talked about Chumley’s 86 in Greenwich Village. The writer pointed out Chumley’s was called the “no name bar” because it didn’t have an exterior sign – a holdover from it’s speakeasy days. Still with time to spare, I went downstairs and out on the sidewalk to “New York up,” so to speak.
Note: There’s no time here to philosophize about the love/hate New York syndrome that bothers both New Yorkers and outlanders. I’ve just never bought into all that “if you can make it here, you can make anywhere” New York stuff.
I stepped into a cool, clear January, Manhattan evening. Standing toes-to-curb, I was captivated by a city sparkling as gloriously as its post cards. A man like myself, standing curbside in an out-of-style overcoat, looking up at the buildings is a beacon to any alert New Yorker. I barely noticed the approach of the battleship class limousine. Purring noiselessly, it docked curbside with the driver’s window squarely abeam.
"Need a lift, sir?" asked the driver in full dress chauffeur's uniform.
Under normal circumstances I would answer in one word, but the enormity of this situation was too much for an outlander. "Well, I didn't set out to get a limo." I said with as much poise as I could muster.
"Be glad to take you anywhere." The accent was Caribbean, the smile genuine.
"You're kidding of course," I replied, "limos don't cruise for rides— do they?"
"Sure do," the smile was infectious.
"Most cities require 24 hour notice for a limo to keep them from competing with cabs."
"City likes us to cruise during rush hours – not enough cabs, ya know.” I doubted it was true, but that’s ok.
At that moment my guests walked up behind me, "Well, are you ready for a big night, Bill?"
"Sure thing, hop in." I smiled and gestured toward the limo. They froze in there tracks. It was oneupmanship of prodigious proportions. The driver was already opening the door to a cavernous luxury seldom afforded the common taxi rider.
"You’re kidding, right?"
"Not at all." I smiled. “I’d like you to meet my driver . . .”
“Your driver?
“Of Course.”
"Neville. Neville Comma, sir." Flawless timing as the driver bowed slightly to my guests.
Ensconced in the luxury of the limo, I caught Neville’ s eye in the rearview mirror. “Neville, would you confirm our reservations with Tre Scalini.” He nodded, picked up the phone, and instead, quietly called to get directions to Tre Scalini.
“Tre Scalini! That’s one of my favorite restaurants,” exclaimed my guest’s wife. He had the questioning look of a man wondering when we had discussed favorite New York restaurants.
Exiting the limo, I hung back from my guests. “Neville, I’m a poor man, what is this costing me?”
“Tell you what. I’ll go cruise for some more rides and come back about 10:45 to pick you up.” He grinned that big Caribbean grin. “I’ll just charge you $125.00 for the whole evening.”
“Done.”
After a gastronomic extravaganza and an expense account debacle, we were once again enjoying the limo life. “It seems early. How about having a drink at Chumley’s 86 down in the village.” I nodded to Neville who instantly grabbed up the phone, asking for directions in hushed tones.
“Chumley’s 86?” My guest and his wife looked at each other and shrugged.
“Yeah. It’s a cozy little place with a fireplace. Kind of interesting, really. It’s called the No Name Bar because they have no street sign – a holdover from it’s speakeasy days.”
Now they looked at each other with that “how does he know so much about New York” look.
When we later closed Chumley’s, our table had grown to include my two guests, Neville, three ex-Bostonite young lion investment bankers who complained from the next table that there were no girls in New York, and the six lovely young ladies I had invited to join us, proving there actually are girls/women in New York.
Did I get the contract? Of course. So what’s so tough about New York?
Epilogue
Neville it turned out was a wonderful person and a down home philosopher of some note. I always looked him up on subsequent New York Trips. On one occasion I was seated with Neville and two Texas friends at the front window table of a small deli. The sidewalk was packed with people hurrying in both directions.
I pointed out at the crowded sidewalk. “Neville, look at all those people. Why don’t they get out of here, go somewhere, and get a life?”
He leaned back, looking at the ceiling. “New York is a pretty easy place to be. You can always make somethin’ off a somebody.” He paused for a moment. “Actually, New York is like a giant University. Folks come here and learn stuff, then they get on back to where they come from. But they gotta be careful, ‘cause New York’ll getcha if ya don’t watch out.”
I guess that about sums it up.
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A Waist Is a Terrible Thing to Mind -- "I Shall not Want"
originally posted: January 7, 2007
I started writing about wine, and later about food, for two reasons. The editor of The San Antonio Light, Hearst’s local newspaper, was a regular at my restaurant. He stopped me in the restaurant one night and asked me to consider writing a weekly column about wine.
The second reason was the problem my dad had keeping his ego intact after retiring as the CEO of a sizeable company. I decided this would not happen to me. I would become a writer as a continuing activity to shore up my ego at the end of my commercial life. Wrong! If you’re reading this, you know the horrible rejection an aspiring writer suffers.
Interestingly, when I started writing about wine and food for the newspaper, everybody wanted to be my friend – at least those who sold wine or cooked food. I was a freelance writer with other business endeavors and a limited amount of free time. Still invitations from wine vendors and restaurants inviting me to multi-course meals, served with many extravagant wines, poured in. I found that I could do high-calorie lunches and dinners several times weekly by accepting all the invitations. I owed it to my readers.
My maternal family always carried a lot of weight around, and I was no exception. Ponderousity plagued me from marriage. Factor-in all my newfound friends with their caloric invitations, and my clothes began shrinking. A little bite here, a little sip there, just the tiniest drop more, and – whamo! – I looked like the Michelin Man. Even the most passionate amateur foodies and winos attend extravagant dinners only occasionally.
I found myself chewing my way through two wine-sodden multiple course meals on many days. The lucky professional and amateur gourmands shed their excesses as quickly as they are indulged. My excesses hung around long enough to be assessed ad valorum taxes.
Tired of people asking me the location of nearest Michelin Tire store, I showed up on the doorstep of The Obesity Risk Factor Clinic. With a name like that you leave the place like it was a whorehouse, looking in every direction for anyone who might recognize you. Add to this their pronouncement that I was “morbidly obese.”
The Obesity Risk Factor Clinic had a great weight loss plan; you simply give up eating and drinking. The program is guaranteed. In place of meals they give you three little packets of powder. Three times a day you stir one into a glass of water and drink it. Somehow these miracle powders were supposed to completely satisfy any cravings that arise from not eating and drinking. They needed to rethink this idea, as I started eating the packets after pouring the powders into the water.
Vintner diners, wine tastings, eight course chef’s menu-preview dinners, and such were now out. I would decline these until I fit through a normal width door. My resolve lasted until a friend came to town to show off his new vintage wines in the Four Seasons Hotel restaurant. Today Paul Draper is the big cheese in Ridge Vineyards, but back then he was the winemaker. I respected Paul for his wines, as a person, and as a great storyteller. Ridge’s sales manager and local broker were both good friends, and they convinced me I had to go to Paul’s vintner dinner. Besides it was only going to be eight courses – accompanied by the full line of Ridge wines including the much sought after Ridge Montebello Cabernet Sauvignon.
I called two people before the event. The first was John Indrurie, Food and Beverage Director of the Four Seasons Hotel, and asked that he serve me only a glass of water into which I would pour my packet of powder, and that would be my dinner. Oh, and could he provide me with a dump bucket so I could spit out the wine after tasting it.
The second call was to the Almighty for assurance, strength of will, and succor. For hours before the event I closeted myself and read the 23rd Psalm. "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” Now this is a thought the morbidly obese can hang onto. Armed with a packet of miracle powder and this thought, I sallied forth.
Seated at the table I felt rather self-assured, I had my powder and, as requested, a glass of water. The first course was served before I could pour my powder into the water. I repeated to myself, “The Lord is my Shepard and I shall not want.” Not true! I wanted it all. Even the centerpiece was looking good.
"He maketh me to lie down in green pasta.” Whole shrimp, mussels, and clams in a garlic cream sauce over spinach fettuccini. Give me a break! Well, maybe a little, before my powder.
"He leadeth me beside the still white wine." I really do owe it to my readers to report on Paul’s new creations . . . and spitting them out might be misunderstood. After all, there's only a few hundred calories in a glass of wine, right?
"He restoreth my sole." Unbelievable! Sautéed Dover Sole with Lemon Capers. Get thee behind me Satan.
"He leadeth me in the paths of roast duck." It's common knowledge that oriental dishes like Roast Duck with Stir-Fry Vegetables are very low in calories . . . maybe just a morsel.
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no veal dish." I can't believe this! Medallions of Veal in Morel Sauce . . . of course, veal is noted for its lack of animal fat . . . “Would you pass the veal, please?”
“Thy Lobster Raviolis they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me." Now this is going too far!
"My cup runneth over." What the hell, I might as well have the red wine. “May I have another glass of Montebello, please.”
"Surely gobbiness and morbidity shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the lard forever."
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