Today is clearly one of the coldest days of the year (it better be, because I can't withstand temperatures much lower than this).
Bitter cold can be a source of grave misery. It ravages the skin, stirs up the static (try walking into a meeting with hair standing on end, makes quite an impression) and serves as too easy an excuse to hit the bottle before dusk (even now when the sun sets by 5pm).
Nonetheless, I was prepared to ignore the cold today. I was going to put my nose to the grindstone and get down to the business of being happy, NYC-style, by being extraordinarily efficient, vigorously checking things off my “to do” list, immersing myself in work and indulging in all the superlatives that NYC has to offer (best shopping, best theatre selection, best gyms, etc). By the end of the day I would be incapacitated with a sense of satisfaction.
And then I opened the newspaper and logged on to the Web:* there it was, we in NY are the unhappiest folks in all the land, 51st out of 50 (they even included Puerto Rico).
And the happiest state? Louisiana. Really? At first I was defensive. Maybe if we had their climate, we’d be happy too.
Besides, people forget the many advantages of unhappiness:
+ In NY, we have free license to complain. Happy people aren't allowed to complain and will elicit no sympathy when doing so. In NY we can complain about the budget, the disproportionate effect that the financial crisis has had on our state, the weather, etc. This may be why we're never lacking for conversation in NY.
+ In NY we're more productive. Angst and depression can be tremendous sources of inspiration, both in finance and the arts. In fact, probably the only reason folks in Louisiana are happy is because of the financial tools invented by NYers, the magazine written by NYers and the clothes designed by NYers. Our productivity is subsidizing their happiness. Maybe we should be getting some sort of a tax credit for this?
And then I looked a bit closer at the criteria for the study and realized the problem with the study. In all their scientific wisdom, the scientists were measuring happiness by asking people if they were happy, a fatal flaw in the study’s design that flies right in the face of the Heisenberg Principle.*
In Louisiana, they don’t actually know what happiness is. How could they? In NY we have more psychiatrists per person and the average literacy rate is much higher.* What with the dearth of psychiatrists in LA and the comparatively low literacy rate, how could they even know if they are happy or not?
Being Southern and all, they were undoubtedly motivated by a sense of politeness in their responses. If you’re Southern, it’s better to confirm your happiness than burden a complete stranger with emotional confessions, especially when the stranger is simply trying to conduct a scientific study for which he or she has already decided the conclusion well in advance of initiating the study.
And then I really got it. The study and its results are part of an elaborate marketing campaign designed to stop the constant flow of people into NY and the potential dilution of our per capita happiness. People in NY are the happiest in America but we rely on studies such as these to ensure the secrecy of our happiness.* Similarly, people in Louisiana need polls like this to persuade them of their sense of contentment (although with the literacy rate in LA what it is, a study published in the Journal of Science may not be the most effective way to spread the message there).
Come to think of it, we're so damned happy that we turn to those sad gits in Louisiana when we need some depressing literature to bring us down a notch (Tennessee Williams comes to mind . . .).. I once had a friend who saw two Tennessee Williams plays in one day. She was so depressed I had to bring her to the ER. Thank goodness we also have some of the best medical care in the nation in New York.
Happy Holidays to everyone in America, no matter what state you inhabit.
Penelope Frost
p.s. I was so happy today that I forgot to have lunch. Cost: $0.
Notes
*The Wall Street Journal, p.1; http://news.yahoo.com/s/livescience/20091217/sc_livescience/happieststatesrevealedbynewresearch
*The popularized version of this principle posits that the act of observing something changes the object of observation.
Another fatal flaw, the study concedes, is that the LA interviews took place before Hurricane Katrina. To be fair, though, the stunning and unexpected victories racked up by the New Orleans Saints in 2009 could very well counter much of the continued emotional effects of Katrina.
*The literacy rate in LA is 28% compared with 50% in NY. This could mean we’re either twice as happy or twice as screwed up but I’m still working on the equation and related algorithms to demonstrate this.*As it turns out, the study was financed largely by capital sourced in NY.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
The Lunch Report: Correction and Addendum to The Breakers
I wanted to share with you all what I learned today in my follow up conversation with Mr. James Augustine Ponce, The Breakers’ official historian and Palm Beach’s only designated living landmark.
Hey, when a 92-year old Palm Beach scholar takes time out of his day to call NYC and educate some corporate lawyer about The Breakers, I think it’s noteworthy.
Italian Inspiration for The Breakers. Because of the conflicting explanations I encountered when researching the architectural inspiration for The Breakers, I omitted this detail from The Lunch Report. The inspiration for The Breakers was in fact the Villa de Medici in Rome. Admit it, you all thought The Breakers in RI was the original inspiration.
That Curious Fountain Out Front. I was misguided by the staff at The Breakers. The fountain featuring the questionable acts among cherubs, alligators and pelicans (they look like swans, I swear) was not inspired by Ovid’s Metamorphoses. It began as a replica of a fountain in the Boboli Gardens in Florence. The animals were then changed to alligators and pelicans to add a southern Floridian touch. Also, the cherubs are “wrestling with,” and not “choking,” the animals. I apologize for my inflammatory suggestion that violence against animals was involved. Obviously, the cherubs (dumbasses that they are) are playing with the alligators (as one does in FL) and not trying to hurt them.
Hotel Nacional in Havana. Based on a recent trip to Havana, Mr. Ponce was able to confirm that Hotel Nacional bears a striking resemblance to The Breakers, from the outside at least. Once inside, he explained, all resemblance stops. We’ll see . . . Mr. Ponce also confirmed my suspicions that the Embargo is the “silliest thing” ever.
Please see the attached link for a fascinating tribute to The Breakers and Mr. Ponce:http://www.newyorksocialdiary.com/node/304524
Hey, when a 92-year old Palm Beach scholar takes time out of his day to call NYC and educate some corporate lawyer about The Breakers, I think it’s noteworthy.
Italian Inspiration for The Breakers. Because of the conflicting explanations I encountered when researching the architectural inspiration for The Breakers, I omitted this detail from The Lunch Report. The inspiration for The Breakers was in fact the Villa de Medici in Rome. Admit it, you all thought The Breakers in RI was the original inspiration.
That Curious Fountain Out Front. I was misguided by the staff at The Breakers. The fountain featuring the questionable acts among cherubs, alligators and pelicans (they look like swans, I swear) was not inspired by Ovid’s Metamorphoses. It began as a replica of a fountain in the Boboli Gardens in Florence. The animals were then changed to alligators and pelicans to add a southern Floridian touch. Also, the cherubs are “wrestling with,” and not “choking,” the animals. I apologize for my inflammatory suggestion that violence against animals was involved. Obviously, the cherubs (dumbasses that they are) are playing with the alligators (as one does in FL) and not trying to hurt them.
Hotel Nacional in Havana. Based on a recent trip to Havana, Mr. Ponce was able to confirm that Hotel Nacional bears a striking resemblance to The Breakers, from the outside at least. Once inside, he explained, all resemblance stops. We’ll see . . . Mr. Ponce also confirmed my suspicions that the Embargo is the “silliest thing” ever.
Please see the attached link for a fascinating tribute to The Breakers and Mr. Ponce:http://www.newyorksocialdiary.com/node/304524
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
The Lunch Report: Lunch at The Breakers, Recession-style
I remember the first time I visited The Breakers (Palm Beach, FL). The castle-like facade overwhelmed me. Royalty must dwell inside, I thought. I didn’t even understand it was a hotel.
As I approached the main entrance, the perfectly parallel palm trees spaced apart with mathematical precision made me feel self-conscious about the symmetry of my gait. Rolls Royces pulled up and tuxedo-ed men and Dior-clad women spilled out. The display of wealth was obvious yet, strangely, not ostentatious—wealth was apparently expected here.
Most are too distracted by the grandeur of The Breakers’ entrance to notice the curious fountain out front. It’s encircled by eight demonically gleeful cherubs choking swans and strangling alligators*—a strange touch, perhaps intended to presage violence or decadence lurking within the castle. I was told it was inspired by Ovid’s Metamorphoses. I recall Persephone being raped in Metamorphoses but I don’t recall anything as disturbing as violence against alligators, do you?
F. Scott Fitzgerald would have felt at home here—as soon you step inside, you know you’re entering some golden age, even if it’s not the 20s. That is, until recently, when the “bargain” was introduced.
I was there the day the “bargain” was posted on The Breakers’ website. Half-price rooms and unlimited golf (no greens fees). It was the same day I saw an employee post a sign for half-price drinks during the Tapestry Bar “happy hour,” where cocktail hour had never been called “happy hour.” I swear I saw him cringe.
The Tapestry Bar, which houses a collection of 16th-18th century tapestries,* is where one has a warm up drink (or three) before heading to dinner or one of the many benefits the hotel may be hosting.
This week was my first time back in a while and the “bargain” has been in full swing for months now.
Last night I showed up for my pre-prandial cocktail in well-fitted slacks and a tunic top with a soupcon of sequins around the neck and cuffs. My sequins almost fell off when we entered the 33-foot-ceilinged room. We were accosted by denim and polyester, rather than welcomed by the silks and cashmeres we’d been accustomed to seeing here. Shirts weren’t tucked in and belt loops hung listlessly, beltless. We even saw flip flops—nothing but a thin slab of rubber separating feet from carpet.
I wandered out, disappointed, and headed towards the Seafood Bar. On the way, I caught Henry Flagler’s* eye, his look decidedly more severe than usual. Even he was horrified by the “bargain.”
Today I woke with fresh resolve to admire The Breakers. A day of golf at Breakers West, my golf Brigadoon, is usually my favorite part of any Breakers visit. Just 10 miles west of the main Breakers palace, Breakers West offers nothing but golf and tennis, a haven of purity compared to the baroque materialism that permeates the main palace, where Worth Avenue* peddlers, such as Ralph Lauren and Burberry’s, line the halls.
The pro’s eyes lit up when I walked into the pro shop. He’s always glad when I visit but there was a certain desperation to his greeting today. After a short conversation about the new “clientele” the bargain had ushered in, I understood why. Tears came to his eyes as he described the divots and ball marks these bargain hunters were leaving in their wake. Apparently Breakers West was under siege as well.
He explained that my presence was a reminder to him of another era (ironic when you consider how much hotel shampoo I’ve pilfered over the years). He saw in me a golfer who would treat the course with tenderness and respect. I may steal shampoo but, for God’s sakes, I repair my ball marks and replace my divots!
My usual lunch routine here is to grab some complimentary pastries at the pro shop so I can play golf all day without stopping for lunch. There were no pastries in the pro shop. Were they that expensive to provide or did they fear guests might break into a fist fight over the pastry? The latter, no doubt.
Fortunately, with the help of my friends in the pro shop and the grill room, I was able to create a sanctuary overlooking the 9th green. Today I had for lunch:
*One BLT on toast with an abundance of mayonnaise.
*One diet coke
*Saltine crackers
Cost: $0. The lunch was on the house (probably in recognition of my loyalty—they knew it wasn’t the “bargain” that lured me here and no matter how much I have to scrimp to spend another weekend at The Breakers (post-“bargain”), I will do it).
It may be a while until The Breakers has been fully restored and the bargains hunters have dispersed. In fact, for now I may have more luck recapturing The Breakers I miss at Hotel Nacional in Havana.*
__________________________________________
*The tapestries were a gift by Dr. Owen Kenan, Mrs. Flagler’s (see below) cousin. Dr. Kenan boarded RMS Lusitania in 1915 to rescue his art collection (including the tapestries) from his apartment in Paris. As legend has it, Kenan survived thanks to a life jacket provided by the valet to Alfred Vanderbilt, who sank with the ship.
*Henry Flagler Morrison (1830-1913), photos of whom populate the East Wing, is credited with the development of south east Florida. He had The Palm Beach Inn built in 1895. By 1901 it had tripled in size and had been renamed The Breakers. It would burn to the ground twice before being resurrected in its current form designed by Leonard Schulz, also The Waldorf-Astoria’s architect.
*Worth Avenue, the Rodeo Drive of Florida, features Cartier, Valentino and Hermes, among other luxury goods stores.
*Hotel Nacional, a McKim Mead and White creation, was designed as a replica of The Breakers.
As I approached the main entrance, the perfectly parallel palm trees spaced apart with mathematical precision made me feel self-conscious about the symmetry of my gait. Rolls Royces pulled up and tuxedo-ed men and Dior-clad women spilled out. The display of wealth was obvious yet, strangely, not ostentatious—wealth was apparently expected here.
Most are too distracted by the grandeur of The Breakers’ entrance to notice the curious fountain out front. It’s encircled by eight demonically gleeful cherubs choking swans and strangling alligators*—a strange touch, perhaps intended to presage violence or decadence lurking within the castle. I was told it was inspired by Ovid’s Metamorphoses. I recall Persephone being raped in Metamorphoses but I don’t recall anything as disturbing as violence against alligators, do you?
F. Scott Fitzgerald would have felt at home here—as soon you step inside, you know you’re entering some golden age, even if it’s not the 20s. That is, until recently, when the “bargain” was introduced.
I was there the day the “bargain” was posted on The Breakers’ website. Half-price rooms and unlimited golf (no greens fees). It was the same day I saw an employee post a sign for half-price drinks during the Tapestry Bar “happy hour,” where cocktail hour had never been called “happy hour.” I swear I saw him cringe.
The Tapestry Bar, which houses a collection of 16th-18th century tapestries,* is where one has a warm up drink (or three) before heading to dinner or one of the many benefits the hotel may be hosting.
This week was my first time back in a while and the “bargain” has been in full swing for months now.
Last night I showed up for my pre-prandial cocktail in well-fitted slacks and a tunic top with a soupcon of sequins around the neck and cuffs. My sequins almost fell off when we entered the 33-foot-ceilinged room. We were accosted by denim and polyester, rather than welcomed by the silks and cashmeres we’d been accustomed to seeing here. Shirts weren’t tucked in and belt loops hung listlessly, beltless. We even saw flip flops—nothing but a thin slab of rubber separating feet from carpet.
I wandered out, disappointed, and headed towards the Seafood Bar. On the way, I caught Henry Flagler’s* eye, his look decidedly more severe than usual. Even he was horrified by the “bargain.”
Today I woke with fresh resolve to admire The Breakers. A day of golf at Breakers West, my golf Brigadoon, is usually my favorite part of any Breakers visit. Just 10 miles west of the main Breakers palace, Breakers West offers nothing but golf and tennis, a haven of purity compared to the baroque materialism that permeates the main palace, where Worth Avenue* peddlers, such as Ralph Lauren and Burberry’s, line the halls.
The pro’s eyes lit up when I walked into the pro shop. He’s always glad when I visit but there was a certain desperation to his greeting today. After a short conversation about the new “clientele” the bargain had ushered in, I understood why. Tears came to his eyes as he described the divots and ball marks these bargain hunters were leaving in their wake. Apparently Breakers West was under siege as well.
He explained that my presence was a reminder to him of another era (ironic when you consider how much hotel shampoo I’ve pilfered over the years). He saw in me a golfer who would treat the course with tenderness and respect. I may steal shampoo but, for God’s sakes, I repair my ball marks and replace my divots!
My usual lunch routine here is to grab some complimentary pastries at the pro shop so I can play golf all day without stopping for lunch. There were no pastries in the pro shop. Were they that expensive to provide or did they fear guests might break into a fist fight over the pastry? The latter, no doubt.
Fortunately, with the help of my friends in the pro shop and the grill room, I was able to create a sanctuary overlooking the 9th green. Today I had for lunch:
*One BLT on toast with an abundance of mayonnaise.
*One diet coke
*Saltine crackers
Cost: $0. The lunch was on the house (probably in recognition of my loyalty—they knew it wasn’t the “bargain” that lured me here and no matter how much I have to scrimp to spend another weekend at The Breakers (post-“bargain”), I will do it).
It may be a while until The Breakers has been fully restored and the bargains hunters have dispersed. In fact, for now I may have more luck recapturing The Breakers I miss at Hotel Nacional in Havana.*
__________________________________________
*The tapestries were a gift by Dr. Owen Kenan, Mrs. Flagler’s (see below) cousin. Dr. Kenan boarded RMS Lusitania in 1915 to rescue his art collection (including the tapestries) from his apartment in Paris. As legend has it, Kenan survived thanks to a life jacket provided by the valet to Alfred Vanderbilt, who sank with the ship.
*Henry Flagler Morrison (1830-1913), photos of whom populate the East Wing, is credited with the development of south east Florida. He had The Palm Beach Inn built in 1895. By 1901 it had tripled in size and had been renamed The Breakers. It would burn to the ground twice before being resurrected in its current form designed by Leonard Schulz, also The Waldorf-Astoria’s architect.
*Worth Avenue, the Rodeo Drive of Florida, features Cartier, Valentino and Hermes, among other luxury goods stores.
*Hotel Nacional, a McKim Mead and White creation, was designed as a replica of The Breakers.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
The Lunch Report: My Lunch with Tiger Woods
Given the continued coverage of Tiger Woods’ non-golfing activities, I thought I should come clean with my readership. I had lunch with Tiger Woods.
It all took place at Sawgrass in 2003.* Elin and he were not married at the time so, technically, it wasn’t a "transgression." I was a guest speaker at a conference hosted by UBS, which was also sponsoring the PGA event taking place at the same time, and so was generously provided with courtesy tickets to the golf tournament.
Tiger’s and my meeting was completely accidental and perhaps a result of a breach in Tiger’s security protocol and my innate disrespect for boundaries. I remain bound by various confidentiality agreements and cannot elaborate much on our meeting. Suffice it to say, he extended a very private lunch invitation.
Given our age difference, I suppose it was more of a cougar-cub thing than anything else (although at 27 Tiger was an aging cub and I, at 35, was just a baby cougar, if even).*
So why aren’t I one of the Tiger Tramps* named by the media in Tiger-gate? I think you know why. If there is a Tiger tramp, she must be a busty model of Amazonian height with the finest features this side of the Atlantic (or the Pacific, given Tiger's birthplace in CA)—not a bespectacled corporate lawyer of modest bosom and height with a quirky nose, like Penelope Frost.
Real stories about real relationships are complicated, messy and not easily summed up in 3-word titles with pithy 4-word subtitles and borderline porn photos. Reality is in fact much more nuanced and requires many more words and much more time to adequately discuss, which is exactly why most of us don’t want to read about it.
There's been a lot of talk about Tiger being "human" in the news coverage but in fact the media has taken Tiger's alleged escapades well beyond "human" and well into the realm of super human. If there were infidelity, surely it would not have been any ordinary indiscretion. Tiger must have broken a record.
At this point we're all tired of the coverage and amateur analogies and metaphors cropping up, including the "the fairways of his life," how many "birdies" (women) he "scored" (bedded) on "the back nine" and triple-entendred references to his "swing" (sorry, Yahoo internet policies prevent me from translating these last two).
But there is no longer any point in asking "Who cares?" Apparently everyone does and no one believes he is human, even if he is. I’m afraid we can expect the media to ride the Tiger* a bit longer as Tiger’s closeted tendency to "be human" takes on more epic and outlandish proportions every day.
Penelope
P.S. As I am sure you have divined by now (and if you have not, The Lunch Report is probably over your head and you may want to stick with the NY Post), I did not in fact have lunch, or anything else, with Tiger Woods. Don't think I haven't contemplated it—what female hasn't contemplated it, at least once, as she watches Tiger stride up the 18th fairway on a Sunday afternoon with a double digit lead—it’s only "human."
Notes____________
*The Stadium Course at TPC Sawgrass (Jacksonville, FL) is the site of an annual PGA event.
*According to the New York Times, cubs range in age from 23-31 and cougars range in age from 35-56. See "In Cougar Territory, Cubs Take the Lead," New York Times, November 14, 2009.
*"N. ‘ty-gur tramp. Any of the comely participants involved in the extraordinary romps of the formerly inscrutable golf superstar Tiger Woods. Usage: As news of the Tiger Woods scandal spread, one "other woman" after another emerged with a love story to tell or sell. Within a week, more than ten Tiger tramps had revealed themselves, and it became clear that the taciturn, no-show golf pro had set himself quite a tiger trap." Source: http://wordbirds.tumblr.com/
*"V. ryd thu ty-gur. To report or to track the evolving Tiger Woods scandal as zestfully, tenaciously, and as often as possible. Usage: Journalists on every news station rode the Tiger all week long, rushing to communicate every bit of gossip or scandal to their viewers as soon as it emerged, as if they were reporting on a war, flood, earthquake, or other issue of unquestioned human relevance." Source: http://wordbirds.tumblr.com.
It all took place at Sawgrass in 2003.* Elin and he were not married at the time so, technically, it wasn’t a "transgression." I was a guest speaker at a conference hosted by UBS, which was also sponsoring the PGA event taking place at the same time, and so was generously provided with courtesy tickets to the golf tournament.
Tiger’s and my meeting was completely accidental and perhaps a result of a breach in Tiger’s security protocol and my innate disrespect for boundaries. I remain bound by various confidentiality agreements and cannot elaborate much on our meeting. Suffice it to say, he extended a very private lunch invitation.
Given our age difference, I suppose it was more of a cougar-cub thing than anything else (although at 27 Tiger was an aging cub and I, at 35, was just a baby cougar, if even).*
So why aren’t I one of the Tiger Tramps* named by the media in Tiger-gate? I think you know why. If there is a Tiger tramp, she must be a busty model of Amazonian height with the finest features this side of the Atlantic (or the Pacific, given Tiger's birthplace in CA)—not a bespectacled corporate lawyer of modest bosom and height with a quirky nose, like Penelope Frost.
Real stories about real relationships are complicated, messy and not easily summed up in 3-word titles with pithy 4-word subtitles and borderline porn photos. Reality is in fact much more nuanced and requires many more words and much more time to adequately discuss, which is exactly why most of us don’t want to read about it.
There's been a lot of talk about Tiger being "human" in the news coverage but in fact the media has taken Tiger's alleged escapades well beyond "human" and well into the realm of super human. If there were infidelity, surely it would not have been any ordinary indiscretion. Tiger must have broken a record.
At this point we're all tired of the coverage and amateur analogies and metaphors cropping up, including the "the fairways of his life," how many "birdies" (women) he "scored" (bedded) on "the back nine" and triple-entendred references to his "swing" (sorry, Yahoo internet policies prevent me from translating these last two).
But there is no longer any point in asking "Who cares?" Apparently everyone does and no one believes he is human, even if he is. I’m afraid we can expect the media to ride the Tiger* a bit longer as Tiger’s closeted tendency to "be human" takes on more epic and outlandish proportions every day.
Penelope
P.S. As I am sure you have divined by now (and if you have not, The Lunch Report is probably over your head and you may want to stick with the NY Post), I did not in fact have lunch, or anything else, with Tiger Woods. Don't think I haven't contemplated it—what female hasn't contemplated it, at least once, as she watches Tiger stride up the 18th fairway on a Sunday afternoon with a double digit lead—it’s only "human."
Notes____________
*The Stadium Course at TPC Sawgrass (Jacksonville, FL) is the site of an annual PGA event.
*According to the New York Times, cubs range in age from 23-31 and cougars range in age from 35-56. See "In Cougar Territory, Cubs Take the Lead," New York Times, November 14, 2009.
*"N. ‘ty-gur tramp. Any of the comely participants involved in the extraordinary romps of the formerly inscrutable golf superstar Tiger Woods. Usage: As news of the Tiger Woods scandal spread, one "other woman" after another emerged with a love story to tell or sell. Within a week, more than ten Tiger tramps had revealed themselves, and it became clear that the taciturn, no-show golf pro had set himself quite a tiger trap." Source: http://wordbirds.tumblr.com/
*"V. ryd thu ty-gur. To report or to track the evolving Tiger Woods scandal as zestfully, tenaciously, and as often as possible. Usage: Journalists on every news station rode the Tiger all week long, rushing to communicate every bit of gossip or scandal to their viewers as soon as it emerged, as if they were reporting on a war, flood, earthquake, or other issue of unquestioned human relevance." Source: http://wordbirds.tumblr.com.
Friday, December 4, 2009
The Lunch Report: Lunch in Little WASP Town
Today I accidentally lunched at The River Club, tucked inconspicuously at the eastern most extremity of the Beekman neighborhood, 447 East 52nd. I say "accidentally" because I had forgotten that the club is practically "in" the East River, a good two miles east of my office, an impossibly long walk in heels and simply uncab-able during midday midtown traffic.
The River Club distinguishes itself among its “peer” clubs, such as the Links and the Knick, by its original aspiration to serve as both a country club as well as a living cooperative (through its neighboring River House). Housing its own pool, tennis and squash courts, some say it succeeded.
Chartered in 1930, members could moor their yachts at the club's strictly private, block-long pier and enter the club without ever sullying their shoes on 52nd street. Perhaps the unfettered water access was intended to simulate the experience of stepping off a gondola in Venice straight into a palazzo (albeit an Art Deco one).
Like many UES cooperatives, the River Club maintained its cultural integrity (ie, WASPs only, not even Mackerel Snappers* allowed originally) until unseemly financial needs supposedly forced it to modify its admissions policy—financial needs have often prompted a love of diversity. At lunch I was told the club now, proudly, admits Jews. Looking around, I suspected this might be a rumor circulated by politically correct members ashamed of the club’s historic associations with anti-Semitism and Nazi sympathizing.* According to one source, no Jews were admitted until the mid 50s.
I was struck by my fellow lunchers’ ethnic uniformity (or lack of “ethnicity,” because in America, WASPs (or WASCs*) are not ethnic). I could size them up immediately by their teeth. Many of these teeth summer on Fisher's,* I'm sure. These teeth are not the fluorescent white teeth one sees nowadays on the finance crowd and their well-heeled spouses. At the River Club, people know that glow-in-the-dark teeth mean you and your teeth are trying too hard. No orthodontic excesses here, just good genes and the faintest hint of ochre that occurs naturally with age.
The food was appropriately bland, as club food should be—exotic tastes are a creature comfort of the nouveau cultured—their taste buds so finely tuned that they can no longer appreciate the elegant simplicity of a grilled cheese sandwich or chicken noodle soup—American staples that may soon disappear amidst “fusion cuisine,” whereby the fusion of two unrelated cuisines (think Japanese-Mexican) is meant to be superior to either individually, yet often results in gustatory discord.
Cost: $0 (like all good clubs, one pays with a membership number, to avoid the vulgarity of cash or credit cards)
I know I was supposed to hate this lunch and feel stifled by this club, yet, with great shame, I admit that I was relieved to spend 90 minutes in a strangely familiar atmosphere where I did not need to explain anything about my background or why I enjoyed squash—you’d think I told people I beat disabled Mexican children with polo mallets when I see the reaction to this “confession.”
I am as big a fan of diversity as the next person. I’ve visited Little Italy, Little India, and Little Brazil, none of which would have been created were it not for some Italians, Indians and Brazilians wanting to create a cultural enclave within a bigger culture. I’ve indulged in so much diversity that I may have forgotten what really feels like home to me and forgotten that there is no shame in feeling at home.
So, as I lift my gin and tonic this evening and reflect on my lunch, I would like to toast all of the cultural enclaves of NYC, including Little WASP Town at Beekman Place.*
Cheers,
Penelope
_______________________________________________
*”Mackerel Snapper,” which refers to the pre-Vatican II custom of Friday abstinence from meat, is a derogatory term for Roman Catholics which became popular in the 1800s as a means of distinguishing Catholics from Protestants in America.
*The club’s members included, most famously, Charles Lindbergh, long accused of Nazi anti-Semitism and Nazi sympathies.
*Let’s not forget that prior to Hank’s divorce from Catherine of Aragon and his subsequent separation from the Church of Rome in 1533, Catholics were very much establishment creatures.
*Fisher’s Island (named Visher’s in 1614), has been a popular summer destination for well established and old money families since the turn of the 20th century. Situated approximately 7 miles southeast of New London, CT and 11 miles north of Long Island, Fisher’s is part of Suffolk County, New York.
*Ironically, Beekman Place passed through a slum phase after the wealthy Beekman family left the area in 1854 and before its revival by the Morgan banking family in the early 1920s.
The River Club distinguishes itself among its “peer” clubs, such as the Links and the Knick, by its original aspiration to serve as both a country club as well as a living cooperative (through its neighboring River House). Housing its own pool, tennis and squash courts, some say it succeeded.
Chartered in 1930, members could moor their yachts at the club's strictly private, block-long pier and enter the club without ever sullying their shoes on 52nd street. Perhaps the unfettered water access was intended to simulate the experience of stepping off a gondola in Venice straight into a palazzo (albeit an Art Deco one).
Like many UES cooperatives, the River Club maintained its cultural integrity (ie, WASPs only, not even Mackerel Snappers* allowed originally) until unseemly financial needs supposedly forced it to modify its admissions policy—financial needs have often prompted a love of diversity. At lunch I was told the club now, proudly, admits Jews. Looking around, I suspected this might be a rumor circulated by politically correct members ashamed of the club’s historic associations with anti-Semitism and Nazi sympathizing.* According to one source, no Jews were admitted until the mid 50s.
I was struck by my fellow lunchers’ ethnic uniformity (or lack of “ethnicity,” because in America, WASPs (or WASCs*) are not ethnic). I could size them up immediately by their teeth. Many of these teeth summer on Fisher's,* I'm sure. These teeth are not the fluorescent white teeth one sees nowadays on the finance crowd and their well-heeled spouses. At the River Club, people know that glow-in-the-dark teeth mean you and your teeth are trying too hard. No orthodontic excesses here, just good genes and the faintest hint of ochre that occurs naturally with age.
The food was appropriately bland, as club food should be—exotic tastes are a creature comfort of the nouveau cultured—their taste buds so finely tuned that they can no longer appreciate the elegant simplicity of a grilled cheese sandwich or chicken noodle soup—American staples that may soon disappear amidst “fusion cuisine,” whereby the fusion of two unrelated cuisines (think Japanese-Mexican) is meant to be superior to either individually, yet often results in gustatory discord.
Cost: $0 (like all good clubs, one pays with a membership number, to avoid the vulgarity of cash or credit cards)
I know I was supposed to hate this lunch and feel stifled by this club, yet, with great shame, I admit that I was relieved to spend 90 minutes in a strangely familiar atmosphere where I did not need to explain anything about my background or why I enjoyed squash—you’d think I told people I beat disabled Mexican children with polo mallets when I see the reaction to this “confession.”
I am as big a fan of diversity as the next person. I’ve visited Little Italy, Little India, and Little Brazil, none of which would have been created were it not for some Italians, Indians and Brazilians wanting to create a cultural enclave within a bigger culture. I’ve indulged in so much diversity that I may have forgotten what really feels like home to me and forgotten that there is no shame in feeling at home.
So, as I lift my gin and tonic this evening and reflect on my lunch, I would like to toast all of the cultural enclaves of NYC, including Little WASP Town at Beekman Place.*
Cheers,
Penelope
_______________________________________________
*”Mackerel Snapper,” which refers to the pre-Vatican II custom of Friday abstinence from meat, is a derogatory term for Roman Catholics which became popular in the 1800s as a means of distinguishing Catholics from Protestants in America.
*The club’s members included, most famously, Charles Lindbergh, long accused of Nazi anti-Semitism and Nazi sympathies.
*Let’s not forget that prior to Hank’s divorce from Catherine of Aragon and his subsequent separation from the Church of Rome in 1533, Catholics were very much establishment creatures.
*Fisher’s Island (named Visher’s in 1614), has been a popular summer destination for well established and old money families since the turn of the 20th century. Situated approximately 7 miles southeast of New London, CT and 11 miles north of Long Island, Fisher’s is part of Suffolk County, New York.
*Ironically, Beekman Place passed through a slum phase after the wealthy Beekman family left the area in 1854 and before its revival by the Morgan banking family in the early 1920s.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
The Lunch Report: The X Lunch
Today I lunched with my romantic past. Yup, I lunched with an ex-boyfriend (“X”), and not even one who had been particularly kind (there’s a reason I nicknamed him the “Evil Englishman”). Feminists across NYC are sighing in disappointment.
The most daring aspect is that I chose to lunch with him when I was not only NOT on top of my game , but well below it (no prospects sniffing around AND I had a bad hair cut last week). I have seen several issues of Cosmopolitan magazine warning against such reckless behavior, but curiosity got the better of me.*
By way of prologue, X and I dated 14 years ago and not for very long (yet still too long). We weren’t very good at the whole moving on thing. So, for at least 10 years, we teased, tortured, and gently manipulated each other when it suited our lonely, malicious, and ambivalent instincts. We acted out anger, projected fantasies and deliberately created discomfort in each other. All in all, it was far more effective than 10 years with any NYC psychiatrist could have been, and it cost less.
During that decade, I limped through various stages of romantic withdrawal and recovery, including fantasizing about his untimely death, daydreaming about our eventual reunion, declaring stoically, if not melodramatically, my acceptance of our inability to ever communicate again, and imagining the award-winning prose that all of the foregoing would inspire. In retrospect, there wasn’t sufficient material for a made-for-TV program.
It has been three years since X and I last lunched. Since then I've “lateraled” to a new firm (particularly apt here, as the change feels more like random sidewise motion than the upward career movement I’d intended) and the Crisis has thwarted his determined ascent to the pinnacle of the Morgan Stanley management hierarchy.*
Would he show up with a ring on his finger? Would he make a pass at me? Would I want him to? As it turns out, no, no and another no.
When organizing lunch, I’d anticipated a cataclysmic encounter—a lunch that would immediately illuminate for me what a dysfunctional person I’d grown to be, galvanize me from my underachieving stupor and prompt me to make something of myself. Or a lunch that would remind me with brutally fresh evidence what a malevolent ne'er do well he had always been.
I must have ordered the wrong thing on the menu, either today or 14 years ago, because I got none of that. I had a pleasant lunch with an agreeable Englishman. I basked slightly in X’s compliments, but there was no drama, not even an inkling of dramatic tension.
With mild irony I realized that X, the same quietly ambitious guy who lectured me 14 years ago that a man defines himself exclusively through his career achievements, was now telling me that he was not where he wanted to be professionally, this was okay, and one should never assess oneself solely from the narrow perspective of career success. By his account, X is in a good relationship, which has either matured his perspective or dulled his ambition (I used to think the two were the same).
After his conversational effort—a marked improvement from the grunts of 14 years ago (with the British accent, the grunts sounded melodic back then)—I obediently chattered about myself. We debated whether I should pour all my energy into furthering my career/ financial provider status and whether I could ever have borne a full time schedule of "domestic shit" (his sarcastic parlance for being a wife and mother). Apparently he didn’t see many other life possibilities.
We agreed I could never have done the domestic shit full time, nor could I have been fulfilled squeezing my entire identity into a provider role. Based on various hopelessly tangible criteria (current job, past schooling, golf handicap and weight) he insisted my life was great. I protested. There had to be something much more than the tasks and interactions that defined my current life. He agreed. We decided we would have drinks again in 10 years (no compelling need, from my perspective, to meet any sooner).
I pray by then I have found much more, and that by then my portfolio of ex- (or current) boyfriends reflects a bit more imagination and insight.
Cost: $0. When learning I earned approximately one fifth of what X earns in a year, X could not bear making the working poor contribute a dime. What a great guy.
Notes
*I also ignored the myriad websites offering guidance on what to wear when seeing an ex-boyfriend. See, eg, What to Wear to See Your Ex-Boyfriend, http://www.marieclaire.com/fashion/tips/what-to-wear/fashion-ex
*Although senior managing director for a decade hardly suggests a stalled career, it’s not enough if you are eyeing John Mack’s job. Like X, Mack (president and CEO at various points in MS’s history) started as a bond trader.
The most daring aspect is that I chose to lunch with him when I was not only NOT on top of my game , but well below it (no prospects sniffing around AND I had a bad hair cut last week). I have seen several issues of Cosmopolitan magazine warning against such reckless behavior, but curiosity got the better of me.*
By way of prologue, X and I dated 14 years ago and not for very long (yet still too long). We weren’t very good at the whole moving on thing. So, for at least 10 years, we teased, tortured, and gently manipulated each other when it suited our lonely, malicious, and ambivalent instincts. We acted out anger, projected fantasies and deliberately created discomfort in each other. All in all, it was far more effective than 10 years with any NYC psychiatrist could have been, and it cost less.
During that decade, I limped through various stages of romantic withdrawal and recovery, including fantasizing about his untimely death, daydreaming about our eventual reunion, declaring stoically, if not melodramatically, my acceptance of our inability to ever communicate again, and imagining the award-winning prose that all of the foregoing would inspire. In retrospect, there wasn’t sufficient material for a made-for-TV program.
It has been three years since X and I last lunched. Since then I've “lateraled” to a new firm (particularly apt here, as the change feels more like random sidewise motion than the upward career movement I’d intended) and the Crisis has thwarted his determined ascent to the pinnacle of the Morgan Stanley management hierarchy.*
Would he show up with a ring on his finger? Would he make a pass at me? Would I want him to? As it turns out, no, no and another no.
When organizing lunch, I’d anticipated a cataclysmic encounter—a lunch that would immediately illuminate for me what a dysfunctional person I’d grown to be, galvanize me from my underachieving stupor and prompt me to make something of myself. Or a lunch that would remind me with brutally fresh evidence what a malevolent ne'er do well he had always been.
I must have ordered the wrong thing on the menu, either today or 14 years ago, because I got none of that. I had a pleasant lunch with an agreeable Englishman. I basked slightly in X’s compliments, but there was no drama, not even an inkling of dramatic tension.
With mild irony I realized that X, the same quietly ambitious guy who lectured me 14 years ago that a man defines himself exclusively through his career achievements, was now telling me that he was not where he wanted to be professionally, this was okay, and one should never assess oneself solely from the narrow perspective of career success. By his account, X is in a good relationship, which has either matured his perspective or dulled his ambition (I used to think the two were the same).
After his conversational effort—a marked improvement from the grunts of 14 years ago (with the British accent, the grunts sounded melodic back then)—I obediently chattered about myself. We debated whether I should pour all my energy into furthering my career/ financial provider status and whether I could ever have borne a full time schedule of "domestic shit" (his sarcastic parlance for being a wife and mother). Apparently he didn’t see many other life possibilities.
We agreed I could never have done the domestic shit full time, nor could I have been fulfilled squeezing my entire identity into a provider role. Based on various hopelessly tangible criteria (current job, past schooling, golf handicap and weight) he insisted my life was great. I protested. There had to be something much more than the tasks and interactions that defined my current life. He agreed. We decided we would have drinks again in 10 years (no compelling need, from my perspective, to meet any sooner).
I pray by then I have found much more, and that by then my portfolio of ex- (or current) boyfriends reflects a bit more imagination and insight.
Cost: $0. When learning I earned approximately one fifth of what X earns in a year, X could not bear making the working poor contribute a dime. What a great guy.
Notes
*I also ignored the myriad websites offering guidance on what to wear when seeing an ex-boyfriend. See, eg, What to Wear to See Your Ex-Boyfriend, http://www.marieclaire.com/fashion/tips/what-to-wear/fashion-ex
*Although senior managing director for a decade hardly suggests a stalled career, it’s not enough if you are eyeing John Mack’s job. Like X, Mack (president and CEO at various points in MS’s history) started as a bond trader.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
The Lunch Report: My Kingdom for a Saltine
Rarely is the Editor in Chief requested to cover a specific topic, but a number of you have questioned the significance and symbolism of the saltine cracker in The Lunch Report. Together with despair and redemption, the saltine is a recurring theme in TLR. So, because you asked, today I share the story of the saltine.
As a child, I developed a special relationship with saltines. Born with a fragile constitution, I was often subjected to a recovery regime consisting of time home from school, my favorite books, abundant maternal attention, flat ginger ale, and saltines.
For years, the saltine remained as emotionally charged for me as the madeleine was for Proust. Yet by college I had learned to look down on saltines. By the time I passed the bar, it had been years since I’d sunk my teeth into a dry salty wafer. By then, I was too sophisticated to be caught ripping open plastic packets and nibbling on saltines.
As I look back over the years though, I realize the saltine was always there, albeit in disguised forms. In Paris it was the crust of the bread I craved. In England, plain toast filled the void. On safari in Africa I developed a hankering for dry rusks.
Although I took basic health precautions when traveling (including anti-malarial medication that left me with visions of tie-dyed kudu salsa-dancing while vervet monkeys sipped scotch nearby),* I wasn’t too fussed about water or food. I horrified one travel buddy in Harare by purchasing an apple on the street and eating it after only a cursory rubdown (I wanted to wash it properly, but his criticism of my purchasing street fruit prompted me to defy his cautions). Sure, I suffered a bit, but 3 pounds later and 2 doses of high octane antibiotics, I was fine.
In 2000, I embarked on my fifth safari. Neither I nor any part of my delicate intestinal system was prepared for whatever was lurking in the tap water at a certain high-end safari camp in the Sabi Sand Reserve in South Africa. Although I had stuck to bottled water, I accidentally used tap water when brushing my teeth.
Upon returning to Jo’burg, my temporary home then, I noticed nothing. This could be because I was suffering so acutely from tick bite fever that my entire focus was on the crippling pain in my joints, which eventually made walking difficult. Another course of antibiotics, a few days of dizzy spells and vomiting and the fever was extinguished and the pain in my joints gone.
The tick bite episode had distracted me enough that when I returned to the United States, I didn’t immediately realize that I had brought home a friend with me, an intestinal parasite. He had as much difficulty with the repatriation process as I did (of course it would be a "he"—“he” and conflict often go together).
I enlisted one of the best infectious disease specialists in NYC to kill my parasite. The doctor explained that his prescribed treatment worked in 80-90% of cases. I have always wanted to be in the top percentile, and, once again, I was. When it comes down to it, they don't know their African parasites in NYC like they do in London or Jo’burg, and the antibiotics available here are downright lame.
American medicine had let me down, so I was left to my own to figure out things that both my parasite and I could eat. We had a tough time negotiating a resolution at first. I got thinner and weaker in the struggle as he made it clear that red wine, Reese’s cups (my sole source of protein throughout law school) and other cornerstones of my diet were no longer on the menu.
And then, purely by chance, I reached deep into my past and pulled out some saltines. Finally, we had reached a digestive détente.
We were all fine in the end. The Park Avenue doctor, who of course accepted no form of insurance, was paid handsomely for not curing me. My parasite came to love pinot grigio and saltines and today even allows me the occasional fried goody or piece of meat in gratitude. And I remain deeply indebted to the thousands of saltines that have helped me arbitrate a successful cohabitation arrangement with my parasite (who seems to sleep more peacefully every year).
So, in their honor, today I had a variety of saltine preparations for lunch:
*Saltines with olive oil and sundried tomatoes for an amuse bouche
*Saltines with gruyere cheese and marmite for my main course
*Saltines with grapes, strawberries and whipped cream for dessert
Notes
*According to wafer lore, saltines originated in 1876 in Missouri. Although the word “saltine” was originally a registered trademark of Nabisco, Nabisco lost its protection and today “saltine” refers generically to various brands of soda crackers.
*Although no longer as frequently prescribed, Mefloquine has historically been prescribed as an anti-malarial. First developed during the Vietnam War for American troops, Mefloquine (marketed as “Lariam”) boasts many side effects, including hallucinations.
As a child, I developed a special relationship with saltines. Born with a fragile constitution, I was often subjected to a recovery regime consisting of time home from school, my favorite books, abundant maternal attention, flat ginger ale, and saltines.
For years, the saltine remained as emotionally charged for me as the madeleine was for Proust. Yet by college I had learned to look down on saltines. By the time I passed the bar, it had been years since I’d sunk my teeth into a dry salty wafer. By then, I was too sophisticated to be caught ripping open plastic packets and nibbling on saltines.
As I look back over the years though, I realize the saltine was always there, albeit in disguised forms. In Paris it was the crust of the bread I craved. In England, plain toast filled the void. On safari in Africa I developed a hankering for dry rusks.
Although I took basic health precautions when traveling (including anti-malarial medication that left me with visions of tie-dyed kudu salsa-dancing while vervet monkeys sipped scotch nearby),* I wasn’t too fussed about water or food. I horrified one travel buddy in Harare by purchasing an apple on the street and eating it after only a cursory rubdown (I wanted to wash it properly, but his criticism of my purchasing street fruit prompted me to defy his cautions). Sure, I suffered a bit, but 3 pounds later and 2 doses of high octane antibiotics, I was fine.
In 2000, I embarked on my fifth safari. Neither I nor any part of my delicate intestinal system was prepared for whatever was lurking in the tap water at a certain high-end safari camp in the Sabi Sand Reserve in South Africa. Although I had stuck to bottled water, I accidentally used tap water when brushing my teeth.
Upon returning to Jo’burg, my temporary home then, I noticed nothing. This could be because I was suffering so acutely from tick bite fever that my entire focus was on the crippling pain in my joints, which eventually made walking difficult. Another course of antibiotics, a few days of dizzy spells and vomiting and the fever was extinguished and the pain in my joints gone.
The tick bite episode had distracted me enough that when I returned to the United States, I didn’t immediately realize that I had brought home a friend with me, an intestinal parasite. He had as much difficulty with the repatriation process as I did (of course it would be a "he"—“he” and conflict often go together).
I enlisted one of the best infectious disease specialists in NYC to kill my parasite. The doctor explained that his prescribed treatment worked in 80-90% of cases. I have always wanted to be in the top percentile, and, once again, I was. When it comes down to it, they don't know their African parasites in NYC like they do in London or Jo’burg, and the antibiotics available here are downright lame.
American medicine had let me down, so I was left to my own to figure out things that both my parasite and I could eat. We had a tough time negotiating a resolution at first. I got thinner and weaker in the struggle as he made it clear that red wine, Reese’s cups (my sole source of protein throughout law school) and other cornerstones of my diet were no longer on the menu.
And then, purely by chance, I reached deep into my past and pulled out some saltines. Finally, we had reached a digestive détente.
We were all fine in the end. The Park Avenue doctor, who of course accepted no form of insurance, was paid handsomely for not curing me. My parasite came to love pinot grigio and saltines and today even allows me the occasional fried goody or piece of meat in gratitude. And I remain deeply indebted to the thousands of saltines that have helped me arbitrate a successful cohabitation arrangement with my parasite (who seems to sleep more peacefully every year).
So, in their honor, today I had a variety of saltine preparations for lunch:
*Saltines with olive oil and sundried tomatoes for an amuse bouche
*Saltines with gruyere cheese and marmite for my main course
*Saltines with grapes, strawberries and whipped cream for dessert
Notes
*According to wafer lore, saltines originated in 1876 in Missouri. Although the word “saltine” was originally a registered trademark of Nabisco, Nabisco lost its protection and today “saltine” refers generically to various brands of soda crackers.
*Although no longer as frequently prescribed, Mefloquine has historically been prescribed as an anti-malarial. First developed during the Vietnam War for American troops, Mefloquine (marketed as “Lariam”) boasts many side effects, including hallucinations.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
The Lunch Report: Women Who Stare at Goat Cheese
Around 11:30am today, I was distracted by hunger pangs. Given that I’d be on conference calls through 1pm, I had too long to anticipate lunch.
By 12:40pm my stomach had settled on the perfect lunch: a salade de chevre chaude prepared by that petit bistro on rue Saint-Louis-en-l’Ile on Ile St. Louis in Paris. The goat cheese patty would be dusted with bread crumbs and herbs before being sautéed in brown butter just long enough for the bread and butter to form a thin crust around the warm and softened cheese. I would wash it down with a petit chablis and top it off with Maison de Berthillon* cinnamon ice cream.
I had had this lunch before and it had cheered me on a rainy day in Paris right after a brutal negotiation session. By 12:55pm I knew that no other lunch could satisfy me. Tough realization when you're on the 23rd floor of an office building in NYC, 3600+ miles from Ile St. Louis, and so low down in the corporate ranks that you don't even have access to a private plane.
Goat cheese salad is a staple in many NYC restaurants, but why order one here? The cheese—probably Alouette "cheese product" whose consistency can’t withstand sautéeing—would remind me how superior goat cheese is in Paris. That Parisian lunch and its lingering memory had spoiled me.
Permit me a fairly abrupt and gratuitous tangent, but all of this made me consider the frustrations of any long distance relationship ("LDR") whether with food, people or climates (trust me, I have LDR experiences spanning England, Portugal, France, various African countries and certain of the United States—I know my stuff).
Modern technology—email, IM, texts, Bloombergs, tweets—has the power to transform an LDR into a seemingly present relationship. Yet just as often, even in the most well-intentioned LDR, all that texting begets no more than additional texting. So query whether the R in LDR is real, virtual or imaginary.
*Your LDR is only as good as your last email. If it was a bad email, or the sarcasm didn’t translate (like light refracted through water, sarcasm never comes out the same on the other side), life will be flatter until a better email comes along.
*An LDR steals you away from your present and carries you to a promised land, where life could be or was (at least the last time you were together) better, but possibly never will be again—“The Past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.”*
*Being casual is not an option in an LDR. Casually texting, sure, but casually stopping by Boston? I don’t think so.
*An LDR infects your own city with memories of the object of the LDR, like that restaurant that you shared. If you're lucky, you'll go back and forget how much fun you had together giggling at the waiter's open fly or savoring the plat du jour. But maybe you won't. Maybe when you return, even if you order a different dish from a different waiter, your present will compete with the past or an illusory future, and lose.
By the time I followed this tangent to exhaustion, I was even hungrier, yet strangely wiser (studies have shown that fasting can sharpen concentration). Fixating on my goat cheese salad was a capitulation to the grim and pessimistic conclusion that life insists on a preferred path to fulfillment.*
That just can’t be. So, in the spirit of “love the one you're with,” I put the goat cheese salad right out of my head, marched myself to a local diner and ordered something that NYC does better than any Parisian bistro: a grilled cheese,* followed by a diet coke chaser (aspartame, yum!) and saltines (manna).
Ironically, a slim, distinguished and altogether delicious gentleman was seated in the booth next to me. An obvious melancholy clouded his eyes as he gazed at his gyros. Maybe there was a Greek lover he couldn’t shake? Poor thing. He probably should have ordered a peanut butter and jelly and sat with me, but maybe he wasn't ready yet.
Penelope Frost
Notes
*As Parisophiles amongst us know, Maison Berthillon ice cream is made only on Ile St. Louis, although, as a result of certain corruptions in its distribution system, it is now offered “hors île” (off the island) in other parts of Paris.
*The opening sentence of Leslie Poles Hartley’s most famous work, The Go-Between (1953).
*Note that I am far too PC to suggest that happiness or fulfillment should be a life goal. For a compelling discussion of the tyranny of happiness in modern American culture, please see Barbara Ehrenreich’s Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America (2009).
*Critics would be misguided to compare the grilled cheese with the Croque Monsieur, also a byproduct of cheese mating with bread, which is more properly placed within the toasted (and not grilled) cheese genus.
By 12:40pm my stomach had settled on the perfect lunch: a salade de chevre chaude prepared by that petit bistro on rue Saint-Louis-en-l’Ile on Ile St. Louis in Paris. The goat cheese patty would be dusted with bread crumbs and herbs before being sautéed in brown butter just long enough for the bread and butter to form a thin crust around the warm and softened cheese. I would wash it down with a petit chablis and top it off with Maison de Berthillon* cinnamon ice cream.
I had had this lunch before and it had cheered me on a rainy day in Paris right after a brutal negotiation session. By 12:55pm I knew that no other lunch could satisfy me. Tough realization when you're on the 23rd floor of an office building in NYC, 3600+ miles from Ile St. Louis, and so low down in the corporate ranks that you don't even have access to a private plane.
Goat cheese salad is a staple in many NYC restaurants, but why order one here? The cheese—probably Alouette "cheese product" whose consistency can’t withstand sautéeing—would remind me how superior goat cheese is in Paris. That Parisian lunch and its lingering memory had spoiled me.
Permit me a fairly abrupt and gratuitous tangent, but all of this made me consider the frustrations of any long distance relationship ("LDR") whether with food, people or climates (trust me, I have LDR experiences spanning England, Portugal, France, various African countries and certain of the United States—I know my stuff).
Modern technology—email, IM, texts, Bloombergs, tweets—has the power to transform an LDR into a seemingly present relationship. Yet just as often, even in the most well-intentioned LDR, all that texting begets no more than additional texting. So query whether the R in LDR is real, virtual or imaginary.
*Your LDR is only as good as your last email. If it was a bad email, or the sarcasm didn’t translate (like light refracted through water, sarcasm never comes out the same on the other side), life will be flatter until a better email comes along.
*An LDR steals you away from your present and carries you to a promised land, where life could be or was (at least the last time you were together) better, but possibly never will be again—“The Past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.”*
*Being casual is not an option in an LDR. Casually texting, sure, but casually stopping by Boston? I don’t think so.
*An LDR infects your own city with memories of the object of the LDR, like that restaurant that you shared. If you're lucky, you'll go back and forget how much fun you had together giggling at the waiter's open fly or savoring the plat du jour. But maybe you won't. Maybe when you return, even if you order a different dish from a different waiter, your present will compete with the past or an illusory future, and lose.
By the time I followed this tangent to exhaustion, I was even hungrier, yet strangely wiser (studies have shown that fasting can sharpen concentration). Fixating on my goat cheese salad was a capitulation to the grim and pessimistic conclusion that life insists on a preferred path to fulfillment.*
That just can’t be. So, in the spirit of “love the one you're with,” I put the goat cheese salad right out of my head, marched myself to a local diner and ordered something that NYC does better than any Parisian bistro: a grilled cheese,* followed by a diet coke chaser (aspartame, yum!) and saltines (manna).
Ironically, a slim, distinguished and altogether delicious gentleman was seated in the booth next to me. An obvious melancholy clouded his eyes as he gazed at his gyros. Maybe there was a Greek lover he couldn’t shake? Poor thing. He probably should have ordered a peanut butter and jelly and sat with me, but maybe he wasn't ready yet.
Penelope Frost
Notes
*As Parisophiles amongst us know, Maison Berthillon ice cream is made only on Ile St. Louis, although, as a result of certain corruptions in its distribution system, it is now offered “hors île” (off the island) in other parts of Paris.
*The opening sentence of Leslie Poles Hartley’s most famous work, The Go-Between (1953).
*Note that I am far too PC to suggest that happiness or fulfillment should be a life goal. For a compelling discussion of the tyranny of happiness in modern American culture, please see Barbara Ehrenreich’s Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America (2009).
*Critics would be misguided to compare the grilled cheese with the Croque Monsieur, also a byproduct of cheese mating with bread, which is more properly placed within the toasted (and not grilled) cheese genus.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
The Lunch Report: Take Me Out to the Ball Park and Shut Up
The "season" is upon us. Not quite “the season”* the Vanderbilts and Astors once enjoyed but rather the NFL season and the MLB’s post season tail. Men of all ages develop a spiritual relationship with couches and barstools across the city, transformed into wide-eyed little boys in a trance-like state in front of gargantuan TVs.
Even if you're fortunate enough not to have one of these boys on your couch with a death grip on the remote, every girl is forced to contemplate her status in society during The Season.
So what if we comprise 40% of the MLB fan base and are the primary consumers in the majority of American households, the commercials are still going to be for beer and men’s cologne, neither of which I typically consume.
Who can’t appreciate a 92 mph curve ball that miraculously finds the sweet spot on Damon’s bat? You don’t need testosterone to get an adrenaline rush. Granted, I may not have the same appreciation for all the crotch-fiddling that goes on during these games, but hopefully that’s not why my male friends watch either.
I don’t need facial hair to appreciate the excitement that comes with knowing your team may become the 2009 MLB World Series Champions.
Yet even if we watch enthusiastically in the local pub, no one wants us to talk about it. We’re just necessary décor so that macho men spending several days a week hugging each other in a dark bar are not accused of closeted homosexuality. We’re to be seen (preferably in something resembling a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader outfit) but not heard, even if (maybe especially if) we knows what we’re talking about (yep, some of us know what the infield fly rule is).
Usurping the language of punts, bunts, passes and bases is either an unwelcome invasion of a man’s world or proof that a gal is trying way too hard to be one of the guys. Rest assured, I’m not going to jump on a conference call tomorrow and open up by discussing Girardi’s choice to start Pettitte, no matter what happens tonight.*
Nor am I going to redesign my analogies to incorporate football references: “It’s like when the Giants went down to the Superdome* in New Orleans . . .” Yup, took about one day after the Saints crushed the Giants for this analogy to work its way into NYC corporate speak.
Although the colleague who’d said this hadn’t actually watched the game, the client was easily persuaded by the analogy between the defeat and our current negotiation posture. No matter how confidently I’d uttered the same words, it wouldn’t have worked. Everyone would rather listen to the clichéd and tired language that men use to describe their sports.
I’m not going to try to speak their language. Instead I am going to watch the game my way,* think of it my way and speak about it (or not) my way, even if absolutely no one listens, even you.
In the absence of any socially acceptable custom for a lady to discuss the game and wish her city’s baseball team luck, today I honored the Yankees by savoring the following for lunch:
—One hot dog frosted with a thick layer of French’s mustard and blanketed in a toasted wonder bread hotdog roll.
—One Coors Light® which I smuggled into work (not sure why it was in my fridge though—probably a guy left it there while watching a game Chez Penelope)
—Some cracker jacks (Halloween leftovers)
Cost: $1.20
Notes
*The Season is that period of the year during which the social “elite” hold debutante balls, dinner parties and charity events. In NYC, the “kick off” for The Season is considered to be the opening of the Metropolitan Opera in September. Among other fall events is the Central Park Conservancy’s annual Halloween Benefit Ball in October, at which The Editor-in-Chief of the Lunch Report was photographed while attending: http://www.studiofourb.com/Events/HalloweenBall09/10066919_ynMXg#695474601_6bRRm
*I will not hold back, however, from sharing my impressions of Mr. Girardi, whose sculpted face bears a disturbingly close resemblance to a hairless cat (see for yourself: http://bestiarumvocabulum.files.wordpress.com/2009/03/hairless_cat.jpg).
*As the largest fixed dome structure in the world, the New Orleans Superdome has hosted more Super Bowls than any other stadium. *A few years ago I brought some clients to a Yankees game. They were visibly shaken when I whipped out a pair of opera glasses to sneak a closer peek of Jeter. So what, I did get a close look.
Even if you're fortunate enough not to have one of these boys on your couch with a death grip on the remote, every girl is forced to contemplate her status in society during The Season.
So what if we comprise 40% of the MLB fan base and are the primary consumers in the majority of American households, the commercials are still going to be for beer and men’s cologne, neither of which I typically consume.
Who can’t appreciate a 92 mph curve ball that miraculously finds the sweet spot on Damon’s bat? You don’t need testosterone to get an adrenaline rush. Granted, I may not have the same appreciation for all the crotch-fiddling that goes on during these games, but hopefully that’s not why my male friends watch either.
I don’t need facial hair to appreciate the excitement that comes with knowing your team may become the 2009 MLB World Series Champions.
Yet even if we watch enthusiastically in the local pub, no one wants us to talk about it. We’re just necessary décor so that macho men spending several days a week hugging each other in a dark bar are not accused of closeted homosexuality. We’re to be seen (preferably in something resembling a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader outfit) but not heard, even if (maybe especially if) we knows what we’re talking about (yep, some of us know what the infield fly rule is).
Usurping the language of punts, bunts, passes and bases is either an unwelcome invasion of a man’s world or proof that a gal is trying way too hard to be one of the guys. Rest assured, I’m not going to jump on a conference call tomorrow and open up by discussing Girardi’s choice to start Pettitte, no matter what happens tonight.*
Nor am I going to redesign my analogies to incorporate football references: “It’s like when the Giants went down to the Superdome* in New Orleans . . .” Yup, took about one day after the Saints crushed the Giants for this analogy to work its way into NYC corporate speak.
Although the colleague who’d said this hadn’t actually watched the game, the client was easily persuaded by the analogy between the defeat and our current negotiation posture. No matter how confidently I’d uttered the same words, it wouldn’t have worked. Everyone would rather listen to the clichéd and tired language that men use to describe their sports.
I’m not going to try to speak their language. Instead I am going to watch the game my way,* think of it my way and speak about it (or not) my way, even if absolutely no one listens, even you.
In the absence of any socially acceptable custom for a lady to discuss the game and wish her city’s baseball team luck, today I honored the Yankees by savoring the following for lunch:
—One hot dog frosted with a thick layer of French’s mustard and blanketed in a toasted wonder bread hotdog roll.
—One Coors Light® which I smuggled into work (not sure why it was in my fridge though—probably a guy left it there while watching a game Chez Penelope)
—Some cracker jacks (Halloween leftovers)
Cost: $1.20
Notes
*The Season is that period of the year during which the social “elite” hold debutante balls, dinner parties and charity events. In NYC, the “kick off” for The Season is considered to be the opening of the Metropolitan Opera in September. Among other fall events is the Central Park Conservancy’s annual Halloween Benefit Ball in October, at which The Editor-in-Chief of the Lunch Report was photographed while attending: http://www.studiofourb.com/Events/HalloweenBall09/10066919_ynMXg#695474601_6bRRm
*I will not hold back, however, from sharing my impressions of Mr. Girardi, whose sculpted face bears a disturbingly close resemblance to a hairless cat (see for yourself: http://bestiarumvocabulum.files.wordpress.com/2009/03/hairless_cat.jpg).
*As the largest fixed dome structure in the world, the New Orleans Superdome has hosted more Super Bowls than any other stadium. *A few years ago I brought some clients to a Yankees game. They were visibly shaken when I whipped out a pair of opera glasses to sneak a closer peek of Jeter. So what, I did get a close look.
Friday, October 30, 2009
The Lunch Report: Happy Meals for Sad People
Every year around this time life becomes decidedly sadder. The sunlight dissipates more quickly. Even though daylight hours have been dwindling steadily since June 21st, the longest and happiest day of the year, it seems much more pronounced when Daylight Saving’s Time rolls around (total misnomer—no one is saving daylight, they’re just moving those precious few hours to fill other hours of the day, most of which I sleep through anyway).
Clothes become heavier and more cumbersome, yet no matter how much the layers multiply, I am still cold. As I tuck my chin into my coat to avoid the wind and cold, my focus is shifted down towards the ground and I lose sight of the buildings and people around me. I take less interest in the tidiness of my "home" (ironic that we learn to call 750 square feet or fewer a home in NYC).
I don’t expect any of this elicits much sympathy; Seasonal Affective Disorder rarely does. After all, I could go out and buy a SAD lamp, move to a latitude that guarantees more sunlight or simply pull up my socks and stop being such a wimp. These are among the facile solutions that have historically been offered to those suffering from SAD (and some might even take issue with the participle "suffering" here).
How does one sympathize with SAD people when there are so many others who are far more entitled to sadness (don’t forget: the right to be sad is something we must earn in society). Even putting aside the big name tragedies such as death and divorce, there’s always someone who has more frayed relationships or finances and whose career path is even more dismal than your own. Look at the folks in Iceland for crying out loud. Not only do they have a fraction of the daylight we have this time of year (just try searching on weather.com for the time of sunrise in Reykjavik, you’ll find "N/A" on Dec. 20), but now they don’t even have Happy Meals anymore.*
I have a job; therefore, it’s self-absorbed and inconsiderate of me to even consider experiencing sadness—just take that emotion off the menu altogether. I once told a male friend (one whose work also guarantees certain excesses of solitude) that I often became sad and lonely in my office. He said "That’s crazy." As you can imagine, that cheered me right up. I was practically skipping after that!
We are most partial to sadness only once someone has risen above his or her depressive state (or genes, depending on which theories of depression you accept) and done something great. Look at all the great depressed American writers: William Styron, Sylvia Plath, Tennessee Williams, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, etc. Their writings once comforted me because they convinced me that my crippling blues were a sign I was destined for greatness. But what is depression when not a sign of latent creative genius? It’s just pedestrian, inconvenient and unattractive (unless you’re careful to closet your sadness and stay in your apartment from Thanksgiving straight through Easter so no one can be dragged down by your heavy moods).
Today I was determined to create and consume my own Happy Meal and so I did what any sensible sad person would do. I left work (not that work makes me sad, but sometimes sad people need extra doses of happiness and sunshine before hunkering down for winter) and headed to Westchester to play golf and take one last look at the vibrant leaves before the cooling temperatures and winds pull them right of the trees. My lunch consisted of:
Multiple uplifting views of the Hudson River
Four Pars
Silly banter with the caddie master
One high five with the assistant pro
Notes:
*Forced to concede that the costs of operating in Iceland have become prohibitive, McDonalds will no longer be offering Happy Meals, or any other meals, in Iceland
Clothes become heavier and more cumbersome, yet no matter how much the layers multiply, I am still cold. As I tuck my chin into my coat to avoid the wind and cold, my focus is shifted down towards the ground and I lose sight of the buildings and people around me. I take less interest in the tidiness of my "home" (ironic that we learn to call 750 square feet or fewer a home in NYC).
I don’t expect any of this elicits much sympathy; Seasonal Affective Disorder rarely does. After all, I could go out and buy a SAD lamp, move to a latitude that guarantees more sunlight or simply pull up my socks and stop being such a wimp. These are among the facile solutions that have historically been offered to those suffering from SAD (and some might even take issue with the participle "suffering" here).
How does one sympathize with SAD people when there are so many others who are far more entitled to sadness (don’t forget: the right to be sad is something we must earn in society). Even putting aside the big name tragedies such as death and divorce, there’s always someone who has more frayed relationships or finances and whose career path is even more dismal than your own. Look at the folks in Iceland for crying out loud. Not only do they have a fraction of the daylight we have this time of year (just try searching on weather.com for the time of sunrise in Reykjavik, you’ll find "N/A" on Dec. 20), but now they don’t even have Happy Meals anymore.*
I have a job; therefore, it’s self-absorbed and inconsiderate of me to even consider experiencing sadness—just take that emotion off the menu altogether. I once told a male friend (one whose work also guarantees certain excesses of solitude) that I often became sad and lonely in my office. He said "That’s crazy." As you can imagine, that cheered me right up. I was practically skipping after that!
We are most partial to sadness only once someone has risen above his or her depressive state (or genes, depending on which theories of depression you accept) and done something great. Look at all the great depressed American writers: William Styron, Sylvia Plath, Tennessee Williams, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, etc. Their writings once comforted me because they convinced me that my crippling blues were a sign I was destined for greatness. But what is depression when not a sign of latent creative genius? It’s just pedestrian, inconvenient and unattractive (unless you’re careful to closet your sadness and stay in your apartment from Thanksgiving straight through Easter so no one can be dragged down by your heavy moods).
Today I was determined to create and consume my own Happy Meal and so I did what any sensible sad person would do. I left work (not that work makes me sad, but sometimes sad people need extra doses of happiness and sunshine before hunkering down for winter) and headed to Westchester to play golf and take one last look at the vibrant leaves before the cooling temperatures and winds pull them right of the trees. My lunch consisted of:
Multiple uplifting views of the Hudson River
Four Pars
Silly banter with the caddie master
One high five with the assistant pro
Notes:
*Forced to concede that the costs of operating in Iceland have become prohibitive, McDonalds will no longer be offering Happy Meals, or any other meals, in Iceland
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
The Lunch Report: Lunch with JP Morgan
Today I had lunch with JP Morgan. Not "at" JP Morgan, mind you, but "with" JP Morgan, in the real House of Morgan* (Let’s call him "JP" and pretend we're on nickname bases).
What I am trying to say is that I lunched at The Morgan Library and Museum, my favorite NYC institution.
Lunching in the Dining Room at The Morgan is a rare and coveted benefit of being a Fellow of the Morgan (and, fortunately, gals can be "fellows" as well in the House of Morgan).
Today's lunch consisted of:
Two sips of sherry
Broiled salmon nestled on a bed of quinoa and spinach
Apple raisin cake with a fig glaze
A splash of Bordeaux
Cost: $0, unless you figure in my annual contribution to maintain my Fellowette status, then it was almost 1000 times my daily limit, which I can ill afford).
Typically, I miss these quarterly lunches because either work interferes or I am overcome with ambivalence as to why I should attend. I am not likely to gather any clients there and even less likely to gather some eligible men (Maybe my standards are too high, but I am not yet willing to consider the 65+ age set when it comes to dating). So why is this gal a Fellow?
As the youngest of my class of Fellows (Yes, Fellows have "classes" although I am still not certain what happens when we graduate. Do we get to take home one of our favorite works from the museum?), my participation is unusual, if not odd. I do not have an extensive collection. In fact, I don't really have any collection at all, unless you count the William Kentridge* drypoint hanging proudly above my mantelpiece, the intricate crocodile drawings from an emerging (aka affordable) Brooklyn-based artist and a random assortment of hand me downs and prints that are a cut above those I had in college but do not justify an independent visit to my apartment.
My absence of a collection was a source of grave embarrassment at lunch. I was seated next to the head of the library who, after introducing himself, asked me what I collected. I quickly stuffed some salmon into my mouth to gain time before responding and then washed it down with a swig of Bordeaux (yum, not bad, did that also come from JP’s collection?). I suppose as a Fellow, I am meant to have been hording art works over the last 10 years which some day can be harvested into treasures worthy of The Morgan, instead of pouring my paychecks straight into the coffers of golf resorts (who, by the way, really need the money now, just as badly as museums).
Because my lunch companion had become the Head Morganite after I had been elevated to “Fellow” status, he probably had not read my sponsor's application for my candidacy, which stated quite clearly that I collected men, not art (although query which costs more in the end—it’s just as difficult to buy low, sell high and generate capital gains).
As I formulated my response (pronounced so meekly that Mr. Head of Morgan probably convinced himself I’d said I collected “Caravaggio” rather than “Kentridge”), I suddenly felt very small in the big House of Morgan, especially after having walked through the three story atriumesque Gilbert Court (thanks, Renzo*, well done) to reach the Fellow’s Dining Room.
At this point in life I have come to terms with the fact that I am unlikely to establish a bank of international repute (I’m having enough difficulty at home with the Bank of Frost and its anemic reserves), stave off a liquidity crisis, as JP did in 1907,* or pull together a collection that rivals the diversity of JP's (gotta love a collection that houses Babar the Elephant, William Blake, lyrics of Bob Dylan and some Gutenberg Bibles)..
But still, it all made me think, what is my legacy, to The Morgan, or to anyone else for that matter? Will anyone know I was here when I am gone? There will probably be no children to whom I can pass on my little Kentridge.. (I could give it to The Morgan, if they’ll have it . . .) You will likely never see "Gift from the Penelope Frost Collection” under a work hanging on one of JP's walls.
Maybe my contribution to The Morgan is not as easily measured as others. Yet, hopefully, JP (if not other Morganites) can appreciate my less tangible form of support through the friends I drag to The Morgan in the hopes they may also make a small contribution, triggering some form of never-ending self-reproduction of contributions.
I haven’t decided whether this intangible contribution is enough and I don't even know what I would want my legacy to be if I had the power to shape it. Maybe when I do know, I will be ready to graduate as a Fellow.. Until then, I urge you all to stop by The Morgan, especially following November 4th when a new exhibition opens—“A Woman's Wit: Jane Austen’s Life and Legacy”—which promises to surpass all the rest.
Please also visit: http://www.themorgan.org
Notes
*Not to be confused with Ron Chernow’s book of the same name which brilliantly chronicles the Morgan family’s financial dynasty through the splintering created by the 1933 Glass-Steagall Act into J.P. Morgan & Co. (later Morgan Guaranty Trust), Morgan Stanley and Morgan Grenfell and up until Morgan Stanley’s merger with Dean Witter. The House of Morgan: An American Banking Dynasty and the Rise of Modern Finance (© 1990 Ron Chernow).
*William Kentridge (1962-) is a prominent South African artist best known for his animated films created from drawings and erasures. One of these drawings now sits in the Penelope Frost Collection in NYC.
*The Morgan’s most recent renovation and expansion, designed by world renowned Italian architect Renzo Piano, was completed in 2006.
*JP purportedly resolved the Panic of 1907 by locking his fellow bankers in his library at The Morgan until they reached a resolution. Apparently Secretary Geithner and others have attempted to implement this same crisis resolution technique, but have been unable to agree upon the appropriate library in which to lock in all the bankers.
What I am trying to say is that I lunched at The Morgan Library and Museum, my favorite NYC institution.
Lunching in the Dining Room at The Morgan is a rare and coveted benefit of being a Fellow of the Morgan (and, fortunately, gals can be "fellows" as well in the House of Morgan).
Today's lunch consisted of:
Two sips of sherry
Broiled salmon nestled on a bed of quinoa and spinach
Apple raisin cake with a fig glaze
A splash of Bordeaux
Cost: $0, unless you figure in my annual contribution to maintain my Fellowette status, then it was almost 1000 times my daily limit, which I can ill afford).
Typically, I miss these quarterly lunches because either work interferes or I am overcome with ambivalence as to why I should attend. I am not likely to gather any clients there and even less likely to gather some eligible men (Maybe my standards are too high, but I am not yet willing to consider the 65+ age set when it comes to dating). So why is this gal a Fellow?
As the youngest of my class of Fellows (Yes, Fellows have "classes" although I am still not certain what happens when we graduate. Do we get to take home one of our favorite works from the museum?), my participation is unusual, if not odd. I do not have an extensive collection. In fact, I don't really have any collection at all, unless you count the William Kentridge* drypoint hanging proudly above my mantelpiece, the intricate crocodile drawings from an emerging (aka affordable) Brooklyn-based artist and a random assortment of hand me downs and prints that are a cut above those I had in college but do not justify an independent visit to my apartment.
My absence of a collection was a source of grave embarrassment at lunch. I was seated next to the head of the library who, after introducing himself, asked me what I collected. I quickly stuffed some salmon into my mouth to gain time before responding and then washed it down with a swig of Bordeaux (yum, not bad, did that also come from JP’s collection?). I suppose as a Fellow, I am meant to have been hording art works over the last 10 years which some day can be harvested into treasures worthy of The Morgan, instead of pouring my paychecks straight into the coffers of golf resorts (who, by the way, really need the money now, just as badly as museums).
Because my lunch companion had become the Head Morganite after I had been elevated to “Fellow” status, he probably had not read my sponsor's application for my candidacy, which stated quite clearly that I collected men, not art (although query which costs more in the end—it’s just as difficult to buy low, sell high and generate capital gains).
As I formulated my response (pronounced so meekly that Mr. Head of Morgan probably convinced himself I’d said I collected “Caravaggio” rather than “Kentridge”), I suddenly felt very small in the big House of Morgan, especially after having walked through the three story atriumesque Gilbert Court (thanks, Renzo*, well done) to reach the Fellow’s Dining Room.
At this point in life I have come to terms with the fact that I am unlikely to establish a bank of international repute (I’m having enough difficulty at home with the Bank of Frost and its anemic reserves), stave off a liquidity crisis, as JP did in 1907,* or pull together a collection that rivals the diversity of JP's (gotta love a collection that houses Babar the Elephant, William Blake, lyrics of Bob Dylan and some Gutenberg Bibles)..
But still, it all made me think, what is my legacy, to The Morgan, or to anyone else for that matter? Will anyone know I was here when I am gone? There will probably be no children to whom I can pass on my little Kentridge.. (I could give it to The Morgan, if they’ll have it . . .) You will likely never see "Gift from the Penelope Frost Collection” under a work hanging on one of JP's walls.
Maybe my contribution to The Morgan is not as easily measured as others. Yet, hopefully, JP (if not other Morganites) can appreciate my less tangible form of support through the friends I drag to The Morgan in the hopes they may also make a small contribution, triggering some form of never-ending self-reproduction of contributions.
I haven’t decided whether this intangible contribution is enough and I don't even know what I would want my legacy to be if I had the power to shape it. Maybe when I do know, I will be ready to graduate as a Fellow.. Until then, I urge you all to stop by The Morgan, especially following November 4th when a new exhibition opens—“A Woman's Wit: Jane Austen’s Life and Legacy”—which promises to surpass all the rest.
Please also visit: http://www.themorgan.org
Notes
*Not to be confused with Ron Chernow’s book of the same name which brilliantly chronicles the Morgan family’s financial dynasty through the splintering created by the 1933 Glass-Steagall Act into J.P. Morgan & Co. (later Morgan Guaranty Trust), Morgan Stanley and Morgan Grenfell and up until Morgan Stanley’s merger with Dean Witter. The House of Morgan: An American Banking Dynasty and the Rise of Modern Finance (© 1990 Ron Chernow).
*William Kentridge (1962-) is a prominent South African artist best known for his animated films created from drawings and erasures. One of these drawings now sits in the Penelope Frost Collection in NYC.
*The Morgan’s most recent renovation and expansion, designed by world renowned Italian architect Renzo Piano, was completed in 2006.
*JP purportedly resolved the Panic of 1907 by locking his fellow bankers in his library at The Morgan until they reached a resolution. Apparently Secretary Geithner and others have attempted to implement this same crisis resolution technique, but have been unable to agree upon the appropriate library in which to lock in all the bankers.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
The Lunch Report: A Writer's Lunch
I am not a writer, just a lawyer. But today I had the honor to lunch with a writer imported to NYC for a few days from NOLA. NOLA is short for New Orleans, Louisiana for those who've never hung out "in the Quarter." I can barely describe how different this lunch was from my daily lunch at the office, which is typically spent in the company of crisp, clean and symmetrically stacked documents and people.
Today’s lunch consisted of:
*Some Old Fashioneds (the tricky thing about daytime cocktails—at least for me—is that after half a glass, they defy quantification)
*Several bites of the writer’s no-egg-yolk omelet. What a joy to find a lunch companion who isn't conscious of the conventional boundaries that imprison our daily lives—such as the borders of one's own plate.
*Cost: I don't recall who paid so, in my financially disturbed mind, that means the lunch was free, or at least well in compliance with my $3 lunch limit.
The food was not remarkable but the "focus" or lack thereof left an extraordinary aftertaste. A real writer (or, as I idolize them) lives (and eats) to create dialogue and consume a novel thought for lunch. A real writer is daring enough to eat up a new experience without fear that it may take months to properly digest it and may ultimately defy articulate description.
To be clear, I am aware that writers are in no way a uniform "type" or "breed" who practice a single lunch style or technique. It would be just as easy to lunch with a writer whose anxiety level rivals that of a bond trader than it would be to lunch with a writer who exudes Rastafarian-levels of relaxation. But I got lucky. The writer with whom I lunched conformed to all of the stereotypes of writers we hold dear: charismatic; dissolute; eccentric; intellectual; irreverent; passionate; sensitive; and original. The contrast with my lawyerly lunches was delicious..
Trained and compensated to anticipate and analyze clients’ risks 24/7, the lawyer is at times overpowered by his or her own analytical and risk averse tendencies. They seep into almost every facet of life, inside and outside the office, sometimes leading to a dizzying inward spiral of overanalysis and anxiety.* This must be why lawyers and other professionals have historically been fairly strong supporters of writers and artists—not only does their work inspire us in ways that are refreshingly different from our own discipline, but we really want to BE them.
I look at “them”—those hopelessly creative types who can’t help but spew out original phrases on a daily basis—with great envy. Writers seem liberated from schedule and concern—they eat, drink, write and sleep whenever. They spend as much time as they choose (it’s not like they’re billing by the hour) fondling words, toying with life changing ideas and exploring new people like spelunkers. Very few meetings and no dress code (in fact, clothing optional). Nirvana. I would so like to trade some of my “estoppels,” habeas corpus (corpii?)” and “theretos” for some “bandersnatch,” “contumely,” “peroration” and other words I never get to use at the office.
But instead, I content myself, for now, by being a financial provider of sorts (of increasingly modest sorts) for those brave enough to trade the illusion of financial security for creative latitude. Yes, financial providers and creative types seem to complement each other terribly well.
In fact, so well do we complement each other that the financial provider-artist pairing is considered indispensable to the success of any NYC liberal’s dinner party (assuming, of course, a lesbian is already present). Only the pairing of a Goldman Sachs partner, the uber-financial-provider-figure, and his kindergarten school teacher wife (before she stopped working, obviously), the gold standard for the maternal-nurturing-figure, ranks higher than the lawyer-artist pairing.
In these uncertain times, though, the classic symbiotic relationship between artists and their providers is strained. Traditional providers, much like some banks, are failing to provide. They may still look to the arts for inspiration, but the outflow from their wallets has not been particularly inspired, at least where the arts are concerned.**
In a great twist of financial irony, some of society’s traditional providers—lawyers and bankers (and their hedge fund managing cousins)—are now struggling with the financial uncertainties that many writers have wrestled with, yet taken for granted as an occupational hazard, for ages.
What a great character-building exercise awaits us as financial uncertainty sharpens our resolve to design better laws, build better banks and stabilize our economy so we can continue to provide. And, gosh, if none of that works and I still lose my job and can’t pay my rent, maybe the writer from NOLA will let me squat at his place and drink Old Fashioneds with him at lunch? Here’s hoping . . .
Penelope Frost
Notes
*To be fair to lawyers, there is tremendous social and intellectual creativity involved in the lawyering process as we attempt to make parties with widely disparate interests reach agreement. Unfortunately, not a single merger agreement—not even from legendary mergers such as Time Warner-AOL or RJR-Nabisco—has made it on to the NYTimes best sellers’ list. We humbly leave the glory to the writers and artists.
**Charitable donations generally fell by almost 6% in 2008 alone, the sharpest drop in 53 years, with the arts suffering a decline of between 9 and 10%. The Chronicle of Philanthropy, June 9, 2009.
Today’s lunch consisted of:
*Some Old Fashioneds (the tricky thing about daytime cocktails—at least for me—is that after half a glass, they defy quantification)
*Several bites of the writer’s no-egg-yolk omelet. What a joy to find a lunch companion who isn't conscious of the conventional boundaries that imprison our daily lives—such as the borders of one's own plate.
*Cost: I don't recall who paid so, in my financially disturbed mind, that means the lunch was free, or at least well in compliance with my $3 lunch limit.
The food was not remarkable but the "focus" or lack thereof left an extraordinary aftertaste. A real writer (or, as I idolize them) lives (and eats) to create dialogue and consume a novel thought for lunch. A real writer is daring enough to eat up a new experience without fear that it may take months to properly digest it and may ultimately defy articulate description.
To be clear, I am aware that writers are in no way a uniform "type" or "breed" who practice a single lunch style or technique. It would be just as easy to lunch with a writer whose anxiety level rivals that of a bond trader than it would be to lunch with a writer who exudes Rastafarian-levels of relaxation. But I got lucky. The writer with whom I lunched conformed to all of the stereotypes of writers we hold dear: charismatic; dissolute; eccentric; intellectual; irreverent; passionate; sensitive; and original. The contrast with my lawyerly lunches was delicious..
Trained and compensated to anticipate and analyze clients’ risks 24/7, the lawyer is at times overpowered by his or her own analytical and risk averse tendencies. They seep into almost every facet of life, inside and outside the office, sometimes leading to a dizzying inward spiral of overanalysis and anxiety.* This must be why lawyers and other professionals have historically been fairly strong supporters of writers and artists—not only does their work inspire us in ways that are refreshingly different from our own discipline, but we really want to BE them.
I look at “them”—those hopelessly creative types who can’t help but spew out original phrases on a daily basis—with great envy. Writers seem liberated from schedule and concern—they eat, drink, write and sleep whenever. They spend as much time as they choose (it’s not like they’re billing by the hour) fondling words, toying with life changing ideas and exploring new people like spelunkers. Very few meetings and no dress code (in fact, clothing optional). Nirvana. I would so like to trade some of my “estoppels,” habeas corpus (corpii?)” and “theretos” for some “bandersnatch,” “contumely,” “peroration” and other words I never get to use at the office.
But instead, I content myself, for now, by being a financial provider of sorts (of increasingly modest sorts) for those brave enough to trade the illusion of financial security for creative latitude. Yes, financial providers and creative types seem to complement each other terribly well.
In fact, so well do we complement each other that the financial provider-artist pairing is considered indispensable to the success of any NYC liberal’s dinner party (assuming, of course, a lesbian is already present). Only the pairing of a Goldman Sachs partner, the uber-financial-provider-figure, and his kindergarten school teacher wife (before she stopped working, obviously), the gold standard for the maternal-nurturing-figure, ranks higher than the lawyer-artist pairing.
In these uncertain times, though, the classic symbiotic relationship between artists and their providers is strained. Traditional providers, much like some banks, are failing to provide. They may still look to the arts for inspiration, but the outflow from their wallets has not been particularly inspired, at least where the arts are concerned.**
In a great twist of financial irony, some of society’s traditional providers—lawyers and bankers (and their hedge fund managing cousins)—are now struggling with the financial uncertainties that many writers have wrestled with, yet taken for granted as an occupational hazard, for ages.
What a great character-building exercise awaits us as financial uncertainty sharpens our resolve to design better laws, build better banks and stabilize our economy so we can continue to provide. And, gosh, if none of that works and I still lose my job and can’t pay my rent, maybe the writer from NOLA will let me squat at his place and drink Old Fashioneds with him at lunch? Here’s hoping . . .
Penelope Frost
Notes
*To be fair to lawyers, there is tremendous social and intellectual creativity involved in the lawyering process as we attempt to make parties with widely disparate interests reach agreement. Unfortunately, not a single merger agreement—not even from legendary mergers such as Time Warner-AOL or RJR-Nabisco—has made it on to the NYTimes best sellers’ list. We humbly leave the glory to the writers and artists.
**Charitable donations generally fell by almost 6% in 2008 alone, the sharpest drop in 53 years, with the arts suffering a decline of between 9 and 10%. The Chronicle of Philanthropy, June 9, 2009.
Monday, October 5, 2009
The Lunch Report: A Snow Leopard Lunch
For the tech geeks amongst you, the following Lunch Report in no way relates to the next generation Mac upgrade (sorry) but I suggest you read on anyway.
Today’s lunch consisted of:
One small Manhattan chicken chowder (leave it to my cafeteria to get creative with leftovers)
One diet coke
Several saltine crackers
One Snow Leopard (Panthera Uncia for the Latin scholars amongst us)
Cost: $12.20 (Yes, I exceeded my daily budget but there were extenuating Panthera-uncia circumstances)
No, no, no, I did not EAT a snow leopard for lunch. For goodness sakes, they’ve been on the endangered species list for quite a while now. Today, my soup and I slipped out of the office and parked ourselves before the Snow Leopard Exhibit at the Central Park Zoo (entry to which accounts for $10 of my lunch).
This is not the first time my lunch and I have done this. We’ve have been having secret rendez-vous with Bo, the male snow leopard, since last June when he first took up residence in the zoo. However, this is the first time the leopard showed up for one of our dates. Yep, no sooner had he established residence on the UES, then he realized that showing up on a date is actually optional for men in NYC (just ask how often your single female friends have been stood up on a date-the statistic is astounding), even when you're the one paying . . .
Apparently though, the male leopard is far more sensitive to the opposite gender in his native Central Asia. In Tibet, for example, male leopards often show up with fresh kill before thrusting themselves onto a female leopard to mate.* This is in sharp contrast with men in NYC who, while they wouldn't even think of paying the tab when dining with a lady, will lick their chops over their after-dinner drink in full anticipation of being more fully satisfied by their dinner companion later on in the evening. Much like the typical NYC man, after mating, the male leopard plays no other role in the cub rearing process.
I'm not sure what I did different this time to merit the leopard’s attention. In the past I have gone to great lengths to lure him, showing up with scraps of wild boar, marmots, mice and other of his favorite treats (all of which can easily be secured online from FreshDirect.com—just click on meats and then look for the "leopard treats" button). I even once threw some markhor meat (whose odor is often described as Chanel No 5 for leopards) into the front of his cage hoping the smell would draw him near so I could savor his spots and piercing eyes. Nothing.
This time I had no expectations. I had long given up expecting to see him. Instead I sat on a bench engrossed in my chowder--it didn't offer the same thrill as the elusive leopard, but it was reliable and warming me up on this cool fall day. Just as I was on the verge of resolving whether green beans are in fact traditional chowder fare, there he was, staring me down, almost angry that I was ignoring him. His presence may not have been obvious to the untrained eye because of his superior ability to camouflage himself (much like NYC gentlemen—although I have never met one, friends tell me they're ubiquitous and I just haven't learned how to identify them).
My panther's appearance may seem insignificant to my readers but I attribute deep symbolic significance to the fact that he appeared today, of all days. Why? Last night I bumped into a male friend, sort of a scotch-drinking nocturnal leopard himself. For many years, despite myriad devoted girlfriends, he has eluded commitment as successfully as the snow leopard escapes the naked eye. Just when I thought I would have to spend another evening turning a deaf ear to why he wasn't sure whether his current girlfriend--despite her stunning looks, exceptional talent, profound intelligence and obvious adoration for my male leopard-like friend--was "the one", he surprised me by pointing out an engagement ring sitting comfortably on her finger. And it was far more sparkly than the fresh kill that leopards bring their female mates in Tibet. I almost spat out my fourth glass of wine, so stunned was I.
A committed bachelor has decided to make the leap to coupledom. An elusive leopard emerges after months of hide and seek. These cannot be coincidences. There is a message in all of this, a message of hope: A leopard may never change his spots, but maybe as he matures he can learn to use them differently.
*Note, however, that the female leopard must first alert the male leopard that it is mating season (you'd think he could figure that one out on his own), which she does by peeing over nearby rocks and other protruding objects.
Today’s lunch consisted of:
One small Manhattan chicken chowder (leave it to my cafeteria to get creative with leftovers)
One diet coke
Several saltine crackers
One Snow Leopard (Panthera Uncia for the Latin scholars amongst us)
Cost: $12.20 (Yes, I exceeded my daily budget but there were extenuating Panthera-uncia circumstances)
No, no, no, I did not EAT a snow leopard for lunch. For goodness sakes, they’ve been on the endangered species list for quite a while now. Today, my soup and I slipped out of the office and parked ourselves before the Snow Leopard Exhibit at the Central Park Zoo (entry to which accounts for $10 of my lunch).
This is not the first time my lunch and I have done this. We’ve have been having secret rendez-vous with Bo, the male snow leopard, since last June when he first took up residence in the zoo. However, this is the first time the leopard showed up for one of our dates. Yep, no sooner had he established residence on the UES, then he realized that showing up on a date is actually optional for men in NYC (just ask how often your single female friends have been stood up on a date-the statistic is astounding), even when you're the one paying . . .
Apparently though, the male leopard is far more sensitive to the opposite gender in his native Central Asia. In Tibet, for example, male leopards often show up with fresh kill before thrusting themselves onto a female leopard to mate.* This is in sharp contrast with men in NYC who, while they wouldn't even think of paying the tab when dining with a lady, will lick their chops over their after-dinner drink in full anticipation of being more fully satisfied by their dinner companion later on in the evening. Much like the typical NYC man, after mating, the male leopard plays no other role in the cub rearing process.
I'm not sure what I did different this time to merit the leopard’s attention. In the past I have gone to great lengths to lure him, showing up with scraps of wild boar, marmots, mice and other of his favorite treats (all of which can easily be secured online from FreshDirect.com—just click on meats and then look for the "leopard treats" button). I even once threw some markhor meat (whose odor is often described as Chanel No 5 for leopards) into the front of his cage hoping the smell would draw him near so I could savor his spots and piercing eyes. Nothing.
This time I had no expectations. I had long given up expecting to see him. Instead I sat on a bench engrossed in my chowder--it didn't offer the same thrill as the elusive leopard, but it was reliable and warming me up on this cool fall day. Just as I was on the verge of resolving whether green beans are in fact traditional chowder fare, there he was, staring me down, almost angry that I was ignoring him. His presence may not have been obvious to the untrained eye because of his superior ability to camouflage himself (much like NYC gentlemen—although I have never met one, friends tell me they're ubiquitous and I just haven't learned how to identify them).
My panther's appearance may seem insignificant to my readers but I attribute deep symbolic significance to the fact that he appeared today, of all days. Why? Last night I bumped into a male friend, sort of a scotch-drinking nocturnal leopard himself. For many years, despite myriad devoted girlfriends, he has eluded commitment as successfully as the snow leopard escapes the naked eye. Just when I thought I would have to spend another evening turning a deaf ear to why he wasn't sure whether his current girlfriend--despite her stunning looks, exceptional talent, profound intelligence and obvious adoration for my male leopard-like friend--was "the one", he surprised me by pointing out an engagement ring sitting comfortably on her finger. And it was far more sparkly than the fresh kill that leopards bring their female mates in Tibet. I almost spat out my fourth glass of wine, so stunned was I.
A committed bachelor has decided to make the leap to coupledom. An elusive leopard emerges after months of hide and seek. These cannot be coincidences. There is a message in all of this, a message of hope: A leopard may never change his spots, but maybe as he matures he can learn to use them differently.
*Note, however, that the female leopard must first alert the male leopard that it is mating season (you'd think he could figure that one out on his own), which she does by peeing over nearby rocks and other protruding objects.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Eating Single in America
As many of you may already know, this week is National Unmarried and Single Americans Week (NUSAW). (1) I celebrated by lunching alone and reflecting on singlehood in America. Today’s lunch consisted of:
One small soup
5 packs of saltines (for obvious reasons, I resent the fact that they are packaged in pairs)
One diet coke
Cost: $1.90. How can I afford more when I have no tax deductions?
While sipping my soup, I did some research on life and lunch in America as a single person. As it turns out, NUSAW has inspired so much more than my solitary lunch time thoughts. NUSAW's recognition that singles in America now compose the majority of American households has been accompanied by a comprehensive agenda for singles reform, vaguely reminiscent of The New Deal. Because discussion of these reforms was deleted from the G-20 agenda (as a result of critics’ claims that the G-20 was not the proper forum for singles issues), the Editorial Staff of TLR would like to describe these initiatives for you below. In the interests of disclosure, I note that several of the editorial staff of TLR are in fact single and unmarried.—Editor in Chief of TLR
Health Care for Singles. Proposed health care reforms include insurance programs that permit single/unmarried individuals to share their employer-sponsored medical benefits with domestic dependent pets (if your shitzapoo is earning his own wages, however, he would be ineligible under the program, even if he lives with you full time).
Single Tax Deductions. Proposed tax reforms include the Single Tax Deduction (referred to as "STD," until a more appropriate acronym has been agreed upon) whereby single persons deduct from their AGI the amount of taxes they have paid for public schooling and other taxpayer-supported programs from which they have derived no benefit because of their singlehood.
Affirmative Action for Singles. Singles rarely have a legitimate excuse to decline work, while their coupled counterparts enjoy a permanent get-out-of-jail (or office)-for-free card, in the form of a spouse. To decline work, married folk need only whine "Sorry, I’m committed to a dinner my wife arranged," and the excuse is respectfully accepted. If singles decline a project (few would be brazen enough to offer a reason), they are said to "lack dedication." Lack of dedication? Singles have for so long been dedicated to picking up the slack for colleagues saddled with "spousal obligations," that they haven’t even taken the time to develop any impediments to work, such as a spouse. Who lacks the dedication now? Affirmative action for singles programs will guarantee paid dating leave, regardless of age.
Restaurant Reform. Most noteworthy and of greatest relevance to TLR are the sweeping restaurant reforms contemplated:
*Swiss restaurants will offer Fondue for One.
*Italian restaurants will serve credible "pizzas for one," rather than large and expensive flying tomato and cheese saucers that can be completed only by one large football player and financed only through at least two contributing bank accounts.
*Food traditions will be reworked. Do I really need another diner by my side to grab hold of one end of a wishbone and break it in two just to determine who gets the wish? Why can't I be both the one who gets the wish and the one who does not? Sort of like a self-contained yin and yang thing.
*Restaurants will allow advance reservations for single people only, while groups and couples can show up and wait for a seat until singles finish their meals.
*Foods will be sold and marketed in single portions while portions for two or more will bear a surcharge. So long, economies of scale—it’s all about economies for singles.
No longer will singles sulk in the corner in that dimly lit section where waiters force them to hide. We/you singles are the majority and it's high time the rest of society caught up with our evolved lifestyles and moved beyond the multi-party paradigm that dominates our dining world.
This week, we urge all singles to take back the restaurants. Go forth and stare down those feeble "group" eaters who can dine only in herds. Cast them a pitying glance and say in a not-so-hushed voice: "Poor things, they can't just sit alone and enjoy a glass of wine.... They have to bring a reluctant spouse and pretend to be amused by their obligatory meal-time conversation.” And, most importantly, don't be afraid to drink alone. If statistics are to be believed, more than half the country is already drinking alone.
The Editorial Staff of The Lunch Report
Notes
(1) http://www.reuters.com/article/pressRelease/idUS131290+21-Sep-2009+BW20090921
One small soup
5 packs of saltines (for obvious reasons, I resent the fact that they are packaged in pairs)
One diet coke
Cost: $1.90. How can I afford more when I have no tax deductions?
While sipping my soup, I did some research on life and lunch in America as a single person. As it turns out, NUSAW has inspired so much more than my solitary lunch time thoughts. NUSAW's recognition that singles in America now compose the majority of American households has been accompanied by a comprehensive agenda for singles reform, vaguely reminiscent of The New Deal. Because discussion of these reforms was deleted from the G-20 agenda (as a result of critics’ claims that the G-20 was not the proper forum for singles issues), the Editorial Staff of TLR would like to describe these initiatives for you below. In the interests of disclosure, I note that several of the editorial staff of TLR are in fact single and unmarried.—Editor in Chief of TLR
Health Care for Singles. Proposed health care reforms include insurance programs that permit single/unmarried individuals to share their employer-sponsored medical benefits with domestic dependent pets (if your shitzapoo is earning his own wages, however, he would be ineligible under the program, even if he lives with you full time).
Single Tax Deductions. Proposed tax reforms include the Single Tax Deduction (referred to as "STD," until a more appropriate acronym has been agreed upon) whereby single persons deduct from their AGI the amount of taxes they have paid for public schooling and other taxpayer-supported programs from which they have derived no benefit because of their singlehood.
Affirmative Action for Singles. Singles rarely have a legitimate excuse to decline work, while their coupled counterparts enjoy a permanent get-out-of-jail (or office)-for-free card, in the form of a spouse. To decline work, married folk need only whine "Sorry, I’m committed to a dinner my wife arranged," and the excuse is respectfully accepted. If singles decline a project (few would be brazen enough to offer a reason), they are said to "lack dedication." Lack of dedication? Singles have for so long been dedicated to picking up the slack for colleagues saddled with "spousal obligations," that they haven’t even taken the time to develop any impediments to work, such as a spouse. Who lacks the dedication now? Affirmative action for singles programs will guarantee paid dating leave, regardless of age.
Restaurant Reform. Most noteworthy and of greatest relevance to TLR are the sweeping restaurant reforms contemplated:
*Swiss restaurants will offer Fondue for One.
*Italian restaurants will serve credible "pizzas for one," rather than large and expensive flying tomato and cheese saucers that can be completed only by one large football player and financed only through at least two contributing bank accounts.
*Food traditions will be reworked. Do I really need another diner by my side to grab hold of one end of a wishbone and break it in two just to determine who gets the wish? Why can't I be both the one who gets the wish and the one who does not? Sort of like a self-contained yin and yang thing.
*Restaurants will allow advance reservations for single people only, while groups and couples can show up and wait for a seat until singles finish their meals.
*Foods will be sold and marketed in single portions while portions for two or more will bear a surcharge. So long, economies of scale—it’s all about economies for singles.
No longer will singles sulk in the corner in that dimly lit section where waiters force them to hide. We/you singles are the majority and it's high time the rest of society caught up with our evolved lifestyles and moved beyond the multi-party paradigm that dominates our dining world.
This week, we urge all singles to take back the restaurants. Go forth and stare down those feeble "group" eaters who can dine only in herds. Cast them a pitying glance and say in a not-so-hushed voice: "Poor things, they can't just sit alone and enjoy a glass of wine.... They have to bring a reluctant spouse and pretend to be amused by their obligatory meal-time conversation.” And, most importantly, don't be afraid to drink alone. If statistics are to be believed, more than half the country is already drinking alone.
The Editorial Staff of The Lunch Report
Notes
(1) http://www.reuters.com/article/pressRelease/idUS131290+21-Sep-2009+BW20090921
Friday, September 4, 2009
The Lunchentach Report: The Meaning of Lunch
Some of you may have noticed that your lunch was different yesterday. Something was missing? Maybe you were craving a Lunch Report that failed to deliver? Like opening the refrigerator in the vain hope that there may be a goody waiting, even though no one in your family (domestic system, whatever) has gone grocery shopping in ages and you know you devoured any goodies in the fridge just the night before?
Well, the Editor of TLR was so deep in thought yesterday that, shamefully, she forgot about lunch altogether. Ironically, what made her forget lunch were her reflective thoughts about lunch itself and what it means to us as individuals, communities, men, women, professionals, non-professionals, and, most importantly, as Americans.
As some of you may already know, "lunch" is an abbreviated form of “Lunchentach,” which, according to an 1850 definition in the OED, meant a meal that was “inserted” between two more substantial meals. For those without an 1850 edition of the OED, Wikipedia’s elucidation of lunch is just as enlightening: “originally intended as a vehicle in which working classes could escape their jobs and purchase alcoholic beverages;” “employees and schools usually provide a lunch break in the middle of the day;” “lunch can function as a form of entertainment . . .” So, according to the authorities, lunch is primarily a “break” or a “diversion” from the rest of the day (even cricket test matches—hardly a form of labor—provide for prolonged lunch breaks).
Yet in most parts of America, lunch (or “Zmittag” as Swiss-Germans like Federer might say), like vacation, is a dying art form. The corporate ranks (memorialized in the movie Wall Street with the line “lunch is for wimps”) are in large part to blame but others have contributed as well. Have you contributed?
Today, I had for lunch:
**A footlong hoagie stuffed with remorse and peppered with shame, because I know I always scurry to the cafeteria, nab my budget meal and run back to my desk without so much as looking up from my environmentally friendly cardboard tray.
**A glass of carbonated regret (I let it sit out a little bit so the regretting bubbles would not give me the hiccups) for every time a colleague or friend has suggested lunch and I have declined in order for a conference call, hair cut or visit to the gym to take priority.
Cost: my pride, which well exceeds my daily $3 budget for lunch.
We're all to blame for the loss of lunch ("LoL" (not to be confused with "LOL," a puerile email or text acronym that boasts an offensive use of ALL CAPS)) in America. Every time you give priority to that meeting , that errand, that hair appointment, that asocial instinct, etc, instead of breaking bread (or sneaking alcohol) with your fellow humankind, you have contributed to LoL in America. Despite government's efforts (let's leave this as a bipartisan issue and not bring up Obama's school lunch plan) to legislate lunch, lunch starts within, within each one of us.
Labor Day weekend is fast approaching. On Labor Day we take a break from labor and reflect on work, this year both the presence and, for a great many, the absence, of work. But maybe every day, even if just for an hour, can be Labor Day (Labor Hour?) and offer the same opportunity to separate ourselves from the rhythym of our labor and work, break bread with friends and maybe even sneak some hooch.
The Editor and Staff of TLR would like to wish you all a wonderful Labor Day weekend filled with long leisurely lunchentachs.
Well, the Editor of TLR was so deep in thought yesterday that, shamefully, she forgot about lunch altogether. Ironically, what made her forget lunch were her reflective thoughts about lunch itself and what it means to us as individuals, communities, men, women, professionals, non-professionals, and, most importantly, as Americans.
As some of you may already know, "lunch" is an abbreviated form of “Lunchentach,” which, according to an 1850 definition in the OED, meant a meal that was “inserted” between two more substantial meals. For those without an 1850 edition of the OED, Wikipedia’s elucidation of lunch is just as enlightening: “originally intended as a vehicle in which working classes could escape their jobs and purchase alcoholic beverages;” “employees and schools usually provide a lunch break in the middle of the day;” “lunch can function as a form of entertainment . . .” So, according to the authorities, lunch is primarily a “break” or a “diversion” from the rest of the day (even cricket test matches—hardly a form of labor—provide for prolonged lunch breaks).
Yet in most parts of America, lunch (or “Zmittag” as Swiss-Germans like Federer might say), like vacation, is a dying art form. The corporate ranks (memorialized in the movie Wall Street with the line “lunch is for wimps”) are in large part to blame but others have contributed as well. Have you contributed?
Today, I had for lunch:
**A footlong hoagie stuffed with remorse and peppered with shame, because I know I always scurry to the cafeteria, nab my budget meal and run back to my desk without so much as looking up from my environmentally friendly cardboard tray.
**A glass of carbonated regret (I let it sit out a little bit so the regretting bubbles would not give me the hiccups) for every time a colleague or friend has suggested lunch and I have declined in order for a conference call, hair cut or visit to the gym to take priority.
Cost: my pride, which well exceeds my daily $3 budget for lunch.
We're all to blame for the loss of lunch ("LoL" (not to be confused with "LOL," a puerile email or text acronym that boasts an offensive use of ALL CAPS)) in America. Every time you give priority to that meeting , that errand, that hair appointment, that asocial instinct, etc, instead of breaking bread (or sneaking alcohol) with your fellow humankind, you have contributed to LoL in America. Despite government's efforts (let's leave this as a bipartisan issue and not bring up Obama's school lunch plan) to legislate lunch, lunch starts within, within each one of us.
Labor Day weekend is fast approaching. On Labor Day we take a break from labor and reflect on work, this year both the presence and, for a great many, the absence, of work. But maybe every day, even if just for an hour, can be Labor Day (Labor Hour?) and offer the same opportunity to separate ourselves from the rhythym of our labor and work, break bread with friends and maybe even sneak some hooch.
The Editor and Staff of TLR would like to wish you all a wonderful Labor Day weekend filled with long leisurely lunchentachs.
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