SR squared
If you love a restaurant named SR24, and you love a friend named SR, it’s only natural to get the two together. So last night, that’s just what we did.
Party, party, party
We had all the usual things—tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich, pork belly, chicken pot pie. The food is excellent and the service is just as good.
Then we were off to Zellerbach Hall for the farewell tour of the Merce Cunningham Dance Company. Cunningham died in 2009, at the age of 90, and his troupe is making one least national tour before disbanding. The final performance, in New York, will be priced at only $10/ticket, as specified in his will.
Here’s a paragraph from the program:
Of all his collaborations, Mr. Cunningham’s work with John Cage, his life partner from the 1940’s until Mr. Cage’s death in 1992, had the greatest influence on his practice. Together, Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Cage proposed a number of radical innovations. The most famous and controversial of these concerned the realtionship between dance and music, which they concluded may occur in the same space and time, but should be created independently of one another. The two also made extensive use of chance procedures, abandoning not only musical forms, but narrative and other conventional elements of dance composition—such as cause and effect, and climax and anticlimax. for Mr. Cunningham, the subject of his dances was always dance itself.
What this means is that the dance was too hip for the room–okay, some of the room. Well, us. Beautiful people moving around a stage while Brian Eno’s ambient music was playing, with no plot or purpose. Music with no theme or rhythm. I like modern dance, and it was way too cool for me. We left after the first movement and were home in time to watch Burlesque on the TV–not a good movie, but music and dance you can relate to.
I’m such a hick.
Smart people
Spend your life playing bridge, and you’ll get to know some pretty darned smart people–there are more PhD’s in the room than you can shake a stick at, not that you’d ever know it. I’d guess graduate education is the norm among us, not the exception.
All of which is to say that I’m not too often impressed by the education or the smarts of the people around me–I’m accustomed to it. Yet, last night we went to a small party in Berkeley where the hostess, a longtime friend of Gail’s named Karen McNally, has not one but two doctorates, (seismology and physics). She is a professor at UC Santa Cruz, and also in a university in Costa Rica. She plays the French Horn, rides horses and collects art. This impresses me.
The party was to celebrate the installation of a new work of art, by her friend and ours, Nina Lyons.
Nina in front of the new art
Nina works in both 2 and 3 dimensions–we have a good number of her sculptures, and a few of her drawings. This new work is almost a combination of the two, as she is working on a sheet of copper and drawing/etching/engraving something or another to transfer the image from her mind and heart onto the metal. She has a nice website, too.
Nina and Karen
It was a classic Berkeley party–organic vegetarian food from Saul’s Deli, teachers, actor, art dealers and artists on the guest list.
SR, Demi, Gail and Nina
Kate, Demi and Chloe came over to visit, and pick up their tickets for the Monster Trucks.
So this isn’t perhaps the most important event I’ve ever written about, but we sure had a good time, loved the art, scarfed the tabouli, sloshed down the wine and got to talk with really smart people. What more could you ask?
What I didn’t do last night
Fulfilling a lifelong dream, last night we had ticket to the Monster Trucks show. Massive, noisy, purpose-built behemoth racing around and crushing junk cars, trucks, trailer and even airplanes. Redneck heaven by the bay, and we had good seats.
But then we realized that it wasn’t in the Oakland Oracle Arena, but in the Coliseum. The outdoors, not covered, open to the 40° sky Coliseum.
I would have gone. Gail, not so much. SR, that Florida softened sissy who cries when the house drops under 75, was visibly quaking at the thought of being outside where it was cold enough to see your breath.
So we didn’t go. Daughter Kate and granddaughters Demi and Chloe took their tickets and headed off into the great freeze. Fortunately, Kate uses an iPhone and loves to take photos. Here’s what they saw:
Big trucks flying noisily through the frigid air--what could be better?
One of the trucks didn't make it--lying on its side at the far edge
There's a truck flying through the air in there.
Wanna buy a hat?
They loved it. They are already making plans to go again next year. Can you still buy long underwear? I think I’m going to need some.
Pepsi’s glorification of domestic violence revisited.
I wrote about this commercial right after the Super Bowl, and it seems I’m not the only one who was disgusted with it:
She’s baaaaaaack!
Brace yourselves.
SR Rowley is back in town, and nobody is safe.
Spending the day on a plane makes you look like this.
We picked her up at SFO last night–Gail had been in Louisville, and they arrived on different planes only 5 minutes apart. Further indication that they are twins separated at birth–and I know which one is the evil twin.
You can hardly tell them apart
Life will be hectic and crazy and fun for the next 10 days. I think that’s about all the excitement I can stand.
High, fast and funny
Jessica Lynn Carrol and Liam Vincent re-creating the hilarious sixties
There I was, standing in the bridge club before the game, and Tom J asked me if I could play Sunday. Looking in my datebook, I came to the startling realization that I had theater tickets for tonight. We were supposed to go see Boeing, Boeing at Center Rep with Micky and Linda.
Remembering to go was the first hurdle, but who to go with? Gail is out of town for a couple of days so I asked Iris, who loves the theater as much as we do.
Dinner at Massimo first. Running late because I forgot it was a 6 pm dinner for a 7:30 curtain–whose bright idea was it to have the curtain half an hour earlier than usual? Must be the same bozo who is starting the bridge tournaments early. It’s like a spreading disease, the Spanish Flu of starting times.
But then we got to the theater and everything else just slipped away. Boeing, Boeing is simply hilarious, the most produced French play in history. (It’s in English, of course. But I think it would be cool if they did it in French with supertitles like the opera.)
The story is classic bedroom farce. Bernard has a gorgeous flat in Paris, and 3 fiancées, each an “air hostess” with a schedule that meshes neatly with the others. His friend Robert comes to visit, there are various and sundry interruptions in the air traffic system, and all suddenly he has all three women in the apartment at the same time. Chaos, hysterical chaos, of course ensues.
Center Rep is an equity house–their actors are members of Actors Equity. One of the players, though, is not, and yet she steals the show. Lynda DiVito plays Bertha, the cynical, contemptuous housemaid who keeps the entire menage running. I’ve had harsh words before about non-Equity actors, but DiVito is as capable as anyone on the stage.
The set and costumes are magnificent–I don’t know where they find the period furniture or the solid color polyesters to make the airline uniforms.
So I laughed for over 2 hours. The acting was great, the writing was great, the staging was great. Director Michael Butler has added considerable physical comedy to the already excellent script and keeps the pace moving steadily along to its side-splitting conclusion.
The really good reviewers see a play on opening night–I’m not one of them. You’ll have to hurry, since this play closes Saturday night. If you love to laugh until it hurts, you won’t want to miss it.
Progress at the club
Things are moving along at the bridge club these days–here’s a brief update:
The Bridge Pads have been ordered and should arrive in a week or two. The players all know how to use them, but it will take a few days for the directing staff to get up to speed on the new technology. After that, game results will be instantaneous.
Iris and I went into the city yesterday to Economy Restaurant Supply to look at table bases. Her brother is crafting new table tops, and we purchased 35 pedestal bases to put them on. The new club will have all new tables with padded tops.
The Mike Lawrence seminars are selling out quickly. Mike is coming in June to give 4 days of lessons, and they will be fabulous.
The new location had some tenants who had to move out before renovations could be started, and the last of them is now out, so things are moving along on schedule for an early April move. Stay tuned for more news as it occurs.
At least I liked it
Jeff Bridges as Rooster Cogburn
We have a little difference of opinion here at blog headquarters. I think True Grit , the new version, is one of the greatest movies ever made. Gail thinks it sucks.
Joel and Ethan Coen, writers and directors, have brought a depth and scope to this classic western tale that took my breath away. The movie is a classic tale about revenge and redemption, about keeping to your principles, standing up for yourself and remembering your purpose in life.
The sets and costumes are beautiful–when the opening scene pans wide to show the entire town I just wanted to go there and be part of it.
The acting, though, is what will make this film a classic. Jeff Bridges brings a depth to Rooster Cogburn that John Wayne never attempted. He is a man with no illusions about himself–although he is a Federal Marshall, he “sleeps on a rope bed behind a chinaman’s grocery store”, is an alcoholic and utterly merciless about killing bad guys. This is no romantic, crusty but benign romantic comedy hero, he’s the real deal.
I always like Matt Damon, and his performance as Le Boeuf just reinforces that. His preening, smug, pompous self-righteousness balances his sense of honor and dedication. He isn’t the man Rooster is, but he’ll do in a pinch.
Young star Hailie Steinfeld at a mere fourteen somehow has the acting chops to stand up to her luminous co-stars. It would be easy for her to be overwhelmed by Bridges but she holds her own and makes him respect her.
I liked everything about True Grit. Sitting there in the theater I found myself just smiling watching the story unfold. Whoever did the lighting on this was brilliant–he uses a technique to light up the night that is magical, without looking phony.
It isn’t a fairy tale–they don’t all live happily ever after. It’s reality, some things work out, some don’t, but you can feel the strength of the characters and it ennobles them and you. It’s a great movie, and one we will enjoy for years to come.
GAIL SAYS:
It’s a fairy tale. Fourteen year old girls don’t act that way and Rooster wouldn’t have given her the time of day. I hated it.
When will I learn?
Tom with a collection of edible flowers to adorn his meal
Some days I’m about as bright as Charlie Brown, still thinking that Lucy is really going to hold the football so he can kick it.
Mike and I got our butts kicked by Levin and Weinstein this afternoon, so we were scheduled to play in the loser Swiss teams. It was our turn to sit out, so we didn’t have to be back in until 7:45, meaning we could enjoy a pleasant dinner with our sweeties, who were both playing in the Senior event and wouldn’t finish until just after 6.
(Yes, the rumors are true: our best board against Bobby and Stevie was the hand Mike got confused and passed my 1S opener by accident–everything split badly, I just managed to eke out 7 tricks for +80. They went down 200 at the other table with our cards, so we picked up 7 IMPS.)
Back to the subject of dinner. Mike, Linda, Gail and I, along with Lorin Waxman and Tom Jacobson, headed up the street to the Hilton for dinner. And this is what I should know: every chain hotel has a restaurant, and every damn one of the is mediocre. Not bad, just not really good. You get a decent meal, at a relatively stiff price, but it has no heart, no soul, no elan.
The dining room at the Hilton is called La Fontana. This is what they say about themselves:
La Fontana
Award-winning dining. An exceptional dining experience is created by our Chef includes a refreshing array of California and Mediterranean Riviera inspired selections. Open daily for Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner.
I can’t imagine what “award” this joint has ever won. Note that the Chef is not named–the position changes too often. “Refreshing” is not the term of choice for great food, only for facials and body scrubs. Restaurants that serve Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner are most often in the Denny’s class, not the Guide Michelin.
I had a mediocre onion soup and a so-so pasta dish. Everyone ate their meal, but I didn’t hear any oohing and aahing or “You’ve got to taste this” or even a simple “wow, this is good”.
Presentation is important in all food, but a little variety and imagination is desirable. Every dish except my soup was garnished with an edible flower–that’s why they are all lined up in front of Tom in the photo. I like the idea of edible flowers, but if you put the same one on every plate it is just like a sprig of parsley–boring, boring, boring.
You’d think I’d learn. We travel to tournaments all over the country, eating in different restaurants every night, why don’t I get it that chain hotels just don’t have great food? You want good, interesting, different, prepared with love? Find a place where the chef is the owner, not just employee #38578395756.
Wearing my cranky pants
Okay, so it isn’t all that rare that I wear the cranky pants, but it happened again last night.
When we go to a tournament in Santa Clara, we usually end up eating at Birks at least once. It’s a really nice place, the food and service are first rate and it’s just 2 blocks from the Marriott.
But, like all restaurants, they have to make a profit and so they follow procedures that seem to work out best. One of these, common to many, many restaurants, is to try to fill the worst tables in the house first, because if you can get some sucker to take the one by the kitchen or the one by the front door you don’t have to worry about it anymore.
So last night, we had a 5:15 reservation, courtesy of the idiotic new starting times that force adults to eat dinner in the middle of the afternoon. We (me, Gail and fan-club president Barbara Hanson), arrive to find a virtually empty place, save for a couple of other bridge players hoping to choke down a meal way too early in the day.
So where do they try to seat us?
The worst table in the house. That's Gail in the back, where we insisted on sitting.
At the very first table, right at the top of the stairs. Everybody coming by would be bumping into our chairs, checking out our dinners, making it an uncomfortable and unpleasant experience.
So I said no. The hostess tried to claim it was the only table available, which is difficult in an empty store. We found another table, of course, and said that we would sit there (where you see Gail above).
Dinner was fine. I only eat a rib eye steak about once a year, but last night was the night because Birks does it so well. I tried to show restraint on the the little hot torpedo rolls they bring, but it’s awfully hard not to overeat just on the bread.
Go to Birks during the regional, you’ll like it. But don’t sit at the bad table by the door, they’re just doing business as usual.
Totally Unauthorized 