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
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*”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.
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