Born to be Chet Baker
This is the year for stories about great trumpet players. We saw Satchmo at the Waldorf onstage last month, Miles Ahead (about Miles Davis) just opened, and today Gail and I saw Born to be Blue, a relatively unheralded film about Chet Baker.
Ethan Hawke brings Baker to life in all his insecure, self destructive, yet supremely talented, glory.
Baker was a star of the jazz scene in the 50’s, then spiralled into obscurity with heroin addiction. He was trying to make a comeback when a savage beating, perhaps from his drug dealer, knocked out his front teeth and destroyed his embouchure, the way he could hold his mouth and lips to play the trumpet.
Years later, with incessant painful practice, he was able to make his return to the music scene, with a climactic return to Birdland in New York City. From there, he resumed his career, living and playing in Europe for the remainder of his life until he died in Amsterdam in 1988, jumping, falling or being pushed out his window. There was heroin and cocaine in his system at his death.
The movie concerns itself with the time between the beating and his triumphant return. Like jazz, it improvises. Some of the story is true, some is made up. The main female character, played by Carmen Ejogo, whose love and care are crucial to his recovery, seems to be a made up composite. Events that took 5 years seem to only take a few weeks. It doesn’t matter.
What does matter is how well Ethan Hawke brings the character to life, with all of his faults, flaws, tics, tremors and weaknesses intact but overridden by his talent and singleminded drive to just play music, his way. It’s a breathtaking performance, one that would be a careermaker if Hawke wasn’t already a star.
The cinematography is brilliant, moving from black and white in the scenes set at the beginning of his career, then deep sepia toning as his love affair grows and gets clean, then the bright lights of the recording studio and the nightclub when he returns to the spotlight.
The music is, of course, magnificent.
This is a very good movie. I was surprised to see that it got an 84 rating on the tomatometer, while Miles Away only received a 71% fresh rating. It won’t make a big splash, since there are no car chases or gang wars. It’s that Hollywood rarity, a serious movie for adults. If you’re an adult, get serious and go see it.
Amalfi in Danville
After the big bridge game last Sunday, we went out to dinner with Mike and Linda. Mike headed us to a Greek place in Danville, without realizing that Never on Sunday applied to the restaurant, too. So we walked up the street a few doors and ended up at Locanda Ravello, a wonderful Italian place on Prospect Avenue, just a block off the main drag. You will know you are in the right place when you see a building adorned outside with a bright blue Vespa and two tiny Fiat 500’s.
The best way to get around a city.
The facility is quite attractive, with a large outdoor area and an indoor with so many windows and skylights you feel like you are outside. The owner/host/waiter is a handsome Italian in a killer shirt who keeps everything Italian just like in his hometown of Ravello, a tiny hilltop town between Positano and Amalfi.
Lots of room for dining al fresco.
Just because there is pizza on the menu doesn’t make this place an upscale Pizza Hut. Locanda Ravello serves the real thing–a thin slab of bread topped with an interesting variety of fresh veggies and meat and most likely no sweet tomato sauce. Not a ton of cheese, either. This is what you get when you order pizza in Italy, and it’s nothing like the classic American gut bomb.
My first dish was the brussels sprouts (Mike always notes that I don’t eat mushrooms but thinks it’s normal to hate the “little green things” as Dad used to call them. So I love to order them when we’re out together). Lightly sauteed brussels sprouts with cranberries (!) and guanciale, which is an Italian cured meat only an expert can tell from pancetta, Italian cured bacon, which is definitely different from American smoked bacon. I made sure to share with Linda, who never gets any brussels sprouts at home.
I then ordered the strozzapretti, pasta with sausage and peas (hold the mushrooms, of course). It was phenomenal. Fantastic. Perfectly balanced–these things are often drowned in sauce, so that you can’t really enjoy the pasta. The simplest meals are often the hardest to execute perfectly, because there is no where to hide with just a few basic ingredients. Locanda Ravello showed their expertise with this dish.
Expert and inventive presentation of Scialtelli, linguine with clams
Mike’s entreé came to the table in the pan it was cooked in, or so they would have us believe. He had a plate (pan?) of linguini with clams, cherry tomatoes and white wine sauce. It looked good, it smelled good, and since Mike cleaned his plate I think it tasted great.
Linda had a lasagna that she said was very good. Lasagna isn’t photogenic.
The service was simple and professional. Nothing special to report, they just did their jobs well. Prices are what you would expect in the upscale ‘burbs.
I like this place. I like the look of it, I like the menu, and I sure like the food. What more is there?
I think Mike could carry this car in his pocket for a spare.
Ringing in the new club
The lease is almost up on the Diablo Valley Bridge Center, and the move to the new Contra Costa Bridge Center is well underway. Today there was a big fundraiser for the new club.
Twenty four tables came out to support the new endeavor. Micky and Linda hosted the catered food and drink.
The tables were decorated by Bruce Johnsonbaugh’s wife with tablecloths, runners and party favors for all.
Tiny boxes full of chocolate make every party perfect.
The three men who put it all together spoke, telling us what the plans are and how they are coming along. I only got a photo of two of them.
Mike Bandler and Mark Humphrey, dressed up and looking fine.
The room was full, with 16 tables in the A flight and 8 in the B’s. Grant did a solid job of directing despite serious problems with the Bridge pads. He admirably kept his cool in the face of three sections all screaming “director” at once.
The bridge community has contributed in the vicinity of $50,000 towards the new bridge center, money which is needed both for equipment and tables and also to make capital improvements in the new facility–there is no air conditioning and that just won’t do, so we’re investing quite a bit to make the room more habitable.
Mike, Mark and Bruce have gone above and beyond in every possible way to bring this about, for no personal benefit, just the love of the game. We are all very fortunate that they stepped to the challenge of finding and creating a new place for us to play bridge. They looked at over 100 locations before securing the one we now have. Today was a fund raiser, but should also be looked at as a celebration in honor of the guys who have made it possible.
Mother didn’t make it like this
The best of all canned soups on the stove.
We had a simple dinner one night last week. Soup and sandwiches.
The sandwiches came from the grocery store deli. Too much meat, too much mayo, we each at only half and had the rest for lunch.
But what causes me to write about this pedestrian meal was the soup. We had the king of all soups, the greatest store-bought soup, the utterly iconic Campbell’s Tomato Soup. I think you can tell the difference between a grocery store and a specialty food store by this simple test: if they don’t have Campbell’s Tomato soup they’re a specialty store. You can’t call yourself a grocery if you don’t stock the most basic of all pantry needs.
I grew up on the stuff, as did we all. Cooking this dinner, I got to thinking about how things have changed.
The price is up, of course. I remember getting two cans for a quarter–now it’s $1.25 a can. The label is the same–I just looked it up and the original colors in 1897 were orange and white, but one of the founders went to a Cornell football game and was so impressed by the team colors they have been red and white ever since. Micky will like that. I think the can used to be 12 oz, now it’s 10.75 oz. Wish I could confirm that.
The big change I noticed is this: mother used whole milk, added a big chunk of butter and a bit of sugar. I use 1% milk, no butter and no sugar. I guess I understand the sugar–mom had two small boys to feed. The whole milk and extra butter were just to insure that I’d be heavy for the rest of my natural life. It may not have been healthy, but it sure tasted good.
The pleasures of life keep getting diminished. We have to wear seat belts. Kids need helmets on bikes. No sugar or butter in my tomato soup. Life is hardly worth living anymore.
Fear the Beard No More
Okay, so I grew a goatee sort of thing starting when I didn’t shave for 4 days on our last trip with the delayed luggage. I had a Mustache all through my 20’s, 30’s and early 40’s, back then I found the best way to make it grow fast. In grad school I had a full beard. I thought this would be a fun change, and maybe make me look a little more rakish.
The beard in all its glory
Unfortunately, Gail hated it.
To be fair, when I was young my beard came in soft and flexible, but now it is stiff and prickly. I kept waiting for it to soften, and that didn’t happen. So today, I indulged in one of the great male pleasures, the barbershop shave. My electric razor does an excellent job day in and day out, but it isn’t the right tool to take off a beard. That takes a cutthroat razor and a skilled hand.
I get my haircut in an old fashioned shop in the local shopping center. My barber is Patrick, a guy who loves his work and is one of the few still willing to give a shave–most shops won’t do it anymore.
Patrick
Patrick say that after a while barbering is just hanging out with your friends while cutting and styling their hair. Life is good when that’s your outlook.
The shave is an old ritual, starting with the application of shaving foam, then hot towels to soften the beard, stropping the straight razor, first shave, more foam, more hot towels, second shave, cold towels, astringent, a touch of Bay Rum and out the door. In the old days a man would get a barber shop shave often, even keeping his own mug, brush and shave soap in the local shop, but those days are long gone.
When a man has a straight razor to your neck, it’s best to sit still. Fortunately there was an idle barber who turns out to be an excellent photographer, so here is the work of Vincent:
The process is exotic to a modern man, and as sybaritic as any spa day you could imagine. It also provides an incredibly close shave–11 hours later and my face is still smoother than I can get it by myself.
Life’s pleasures don’t come cheap, of course. A haircut costs me $17 (now that I’m 65), but a shave is $25, and the wise man gives a good tip.
Here’s what I look like now:
My face is smooth as a baby’s butt, and Gail will kiss me again. I guess that’s a good trade.
What the heck is this?
This what a can of Diet Coke looks like these days. Why?
I understand that they change the design of the can with the season. Snowflakes at Christmas. Hearts for Valentine’s Day. Stars and stripes for July 4th. But what season or holiday can this agglomeration of formless blobs possibly represent or honor?
Coca-Cola has lost me. I’m baffled by this bizarre design experience.
Do you have any idea? Concept? Thought ? Feeling, sense, premonition? I’m open to all suggestions and interested in what anybody thinks this design means.
Dreaming of a French Bistro
Balancing on a ladder in Covent Garden
The picture has nothing to do with the subject, I just like it. That’s a juggler balancing himself on top of a ladder doing a street act in Covent Garden.
Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.
There used to be a French restaurant in Lafayette called Le Chevalier. Very popular, and got some recognition from the Michelin people. Eventually, it closed.
Now there is a new French place in its stead, Reve (which is French for dream). We ate there tonight with Mike and Gretchen. I came out speaking French. Incroyable!! Magnifique!! Formidable!! Pretty amazing since I don’t speak French.
The secret is Chef Paul Magu, who has worked for the almost mythical master chef Alain Ducasse and then was chef at the Ritz-Carlton and St. Regis in San Francisco. This man brings some serious chops to the kitchen.
Reve calls itself a “bistro”, a casual, homey sort of place. Don’t believe it. This is a serious joint, with serious high-quality food and prices to match. You won’t pop in here for a sandwich and a cup of soup anytime soon.
The facility has tables both inside and out, much like the Parisian bistros it seeks to emulate. On a warmer evening we would definitely want to sit outdoors in a lovely garden setting hidden back from the street.
You can’t go to opentable.com to make your reservation, you have to call them, not that they answer the phone during the day. Just leave a message and they will call late afternoon when the hostess comes to work. That’s definitely the second best way to do things and I hope they change soon.
I have a theory that the hostess will always try to give you the worst seat in the house, and if you’re silly enough to take it that one problem off her plate. That theory held true as they showed the four of us to a tiny table with only 3 chairs. I’ve seen this gag before, so I refused and they found us a standard four-t0p, eventually getting 4 other suckers to sit at the tiny table they shoved in to squeeze out a few more covers (entrees in restaurant speak) every night.
The menu is French, French, French. It couldn’t get any Frenchier if you were in Paris. Lots of very good things on it. I passed on the foie gras, but had to have the vichyssoise.
An excellent take on a classic.
We’re in California, so Chef Magu has re-imagined the classic cold potato soup with less cream, not pureéing all the vegetables. topping with a hint fresh sprouts and a few drops of truffle oil. It was magnificent and half as rich as the original. The tiny diced potatoes and leeks give it a crunch not often found in cream soups.
Venison isn’t common on menus here in the ‘burbs, so that’s what I ordered, officially the noisettes de biche. I received three perfectly cooked medallions on a plate with pureéd celeriac which was one of the most interesting vegetable treatments I’ve ever seen. You really should try this dish. The venison is like a very fine grained beef, farm raised of course so there is no gamy flavor. The accompanying vegetables were excellent. Don’t overlook it just because it’s different.
Venison medallions with pureed celeriac
Gail had the steak frites to her great satisfaction, and Gretchen tried the special, which was pork tenderloin. I heard nothing but good words about all the food.
I really, really like Reve. It’s an excellent, authentic French restaurant right in the heart of downtown Lafayette. The kind of place you can just pop in for a quick Tuesday night meal or plan a fancy celebratory dinner. Either way you’ll enjoy it.
The Romance of Travel
Having a romantic dinner with my sweetie at Margaritaville in the Miami Airport.
Friday, 5 am. London. My phone rings. It’s American Air, telling me my 12:35 flight will be delayed. Gee, thanks.
9:30. Dressed, packed and ready, I call for an Uber Lux, supposedly a luxury car like a Mercedes S class or big Audi or BMW. The screen says it will be here in 7 minutes, but when I click on it the arrival time instantly goes to 16 minutes–just a little Uber bait and switch. Still, I’m not in a hurry so OK. In the next 8 minutes the car doesn’t move and the arrival time stays at 16 minutes. Not good.
I cancel the ride and try an Uber Select, still a nice car. It say 6 minutes and I see the car moving. I see the car drive right past our hotel and go around the block. The driver works it out on the next pass, we climb into his nice Jaguar sedan and off to the airport.
Often, when a flight is delayed there will be another delay but not today. We takeoff right about when they said we would. I’ve messaged Beth, the Travel Goddess™ to change us to a later flight from Miami to Orlando so everything should be fine.
Lunch is served. Couldn’t get my first choice of entree, settle for the pasta. For the first time, my meal is not hot. Service is not very good on this flight.
Nine hours later, we arrive in Miami when they said we would. Except that because we are an hour later than scheduled, there is no gate. We are in a Boeing 777, which can only fit into 5 gates at the huge airport, and they are all full. We sit for 45 minutes, then have to be towed into the gate because the slot is so narrow and the plane is so big. Finally get off, an hour after we touched down. Our time to make the connection is slipping away.
Passport control is in another county, or so it seems. We have to walk 1/2 mile, take an elevator to a train, ride two stops, elevator down and walk another 200 yards. Thanks to Global Entry, we get through control in seconds and go to retrieve our bags.
Bags are up, we go through customs, but the place to re-check them for the next flight is closed for the night. We have to walk another 15 minutes and go upstairs to American Airlines check-in, and by now there is no hope of making the flight to Orlando. It takes another 30 minutes of standing there for the clerk to figure out how to get us a hotel voucher and book our flight for the morning–we aren’t going anywhere tonight.
The airport hotel is OK. Not great, but clean and close. We take the meal voucher they gave us to Margaritaville and have the fish tacos. The dinner bill is $70, the meal voucher is $24. I guess every little bit counts.
The free WiFi in the room doesn’t work.
Saturday morning we get up and get going. We have a handicapped accessible room, for some reason. I notice the seat in the shower says it is safe for people up to 250 pounds–haven’t they noticed that many of the handicapped people are 400 + pounds?
The airport is very busy on the first Saturday of spring break. We aren’t worried about lines because we always get the TSA pre-check (it’s part of Global Entry). Except this security check in a major airport on a busy day doesn’t have a pre-check line. Can’t expect efficiency from the government.
No problem, we get through, sit in the Admirals Club for a bit and fly to Orlando. It’s a 39 minute flight, the seat belt light never goes out. Gail trades seats with a pilot who is flying to work, except he can’t get his tray-table down and needs help. Doesn’t quite instill confidence….
Arrive on time, go for the bags. I watched the agent put big orange PRIORITY tags on them, so this shouldn’t take long.
ALL the regular bags come off the line, then the priority bags arrive. Perhaps the baggage handlers in Orlando don’t quite understand what that word means.
Susan picks us up. I put the bags in the car and she starts to drive off. Without me.
Ain’t travel relaxing and wonderful?
Tinier and tinier
In the Admirals club at Heathrow, waiting for a flight which has been delayed twice this morning already. I have serious doubts about making our connection to Orlando this evening. We may end up in an airport hotel in Miami and have to go to Orlando in the morning. Drat.
I am always amazed at what they put out for the customers in this Admirals club. There is a full open bar Johnnie Walker Scotch, Gordon’s gin, Smirnov vodka, and an unlimited supply of Bailey’s Irish cream.
Nonetheless, they serve the tiniest cans of Coca-Cola I have ever imagined. 150 mL, 5 ounces. The original one small bottles Coke came in were 6 1/2 ounces. These are almost a fourth less.
I suppose it doesn’t really matter; I can have as many of these little cans as I’d like. They just amaze and amuse me.
We’ll get out of here eventually. Big party tomorrow night in Orlando, then home on Sunday.
The Maids
It’s all well and good to have something trenchant and poignant to say, but if your idea of how to get a point across is to have someone scream it loudly for 2 solid hours, perhaps you aren’t as articulate as you think you are.
The very modern and hip presentation of The Maids was just painful to my ears. For 120 minutes without an “interval”, three actresses screamed at the top of their lungs. While that was an impressive display of vocal talent, it was lousy theater.
Jean Genet wrote this play in 1947 about a pair of housemaids who have bizarre sexual fantasies and want to kill their employer, “madame”. The play is loosely based on a famous 1933 murder in France.
The cast is very strong. Madame is played by Laura Carmichael, fresh from Downton Abbey. The two maids are Zawe Ashton, a British sitcom star, and Uzo Aduba, who won an Emmy as Crazy Eyes on Orange is the New Black.
Directing this hot mess is James Lloyd, who apparently has an affinity for difficult plays with unlikeable characters. And these characters are indeed unlikeable, because they never stop shouting. If they would just talk occasionally, perhaps I would understand them and listen to what they have to say. Perhaps I would care. Perhaps I would have a good time.
The set is just a rectangle with no furniture, open front and back because this theater has seating on both sides.
Jean Genet was a playwright from the French avant garde, open about his homosexuality in a time when that was dangerous. He suggested that the two maids might be played by men in drag, to further add to the meaning of the work.
I suppose I should be proud to have been able to see a play by a famous author with a celebrated cast, but that isn’t happening. Maybe the words mean more than I realize, but since I spent half the time with my fingers in my ears to quiet the painful din, I missed a lot of them.
The audience gave a good round of applause, but the now-standard leaping to their feet for a standing ovation was conspicuous by its absence.
Since we’re in England, I guess it’s appropriate to say, regarding The Maids, “We are not amused.”
Totally Unauthorized 