Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom
O-T Fabenle as Levee, with Giles Terera as Slow Drag CREDIT: ALASTAIR MUIR
O-T Fabenle as Levee, with Giles Terera as Slow Drag CREDIT: ALASTAIR MUIR
We saw two plays yesterday. This was the good one.
The Lyttleton Theater is part of the National Theater complex, which seem to house at least 3 theaters. And no place to get a taxi, but that’s London for you. After the show I had to ask the police where I could get a cab, and the answer was more than two long blocks away. Strange city planning.
But on to the play. Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom is one of a series of 10 plays written by August Wilson chronicling the Black experience in the US. I hope to find the other 9.
Set in Chicago in 1927, the play is an exposition of the realities of life for black musicians. Ma Rainey is a major black star, but it treated shabbily by her agent and her music producer. Only by standing her ground and using her power as the talent that cannot be replaced can she get treated as she deserves to be.
Her band, however, have no power, and it shatters their lives. They are continually at the mercy of the white men who run things, and their undeniable talent isn’t enough to get them any respect.
The set reflects the theme marvelously. The producers office is suspended over the stage, connected by a stairway with a conspicuous “No Admission” sign the white producer is careful to keep chained across.
The recording area is the ground level, where Ma Rainey interacts with her agent and the producer. The band room is on a lower level, raised and lowered to stage level as needed. It’s an impressive representation of the status of the races in this time and place.
I could rave on for quite a while about this production. The costumes were perfect. The acting was perfect. The writing created from sodapdf editor was astounding. It was the best thing we saw out of 5 productions on this trip to London. If it comes to where you are, go see it.
On to London
We had all the fun we could in Israel, then it was time to leave.
The much vaunted security at Ben Gurion airport was no problem at all–when your name is “Chris” they don’t think you’re likely to be a Muslim terrorist. Or maybe I’m just too old to be dangerous.
Beth, the Travel Goddess™ got us a room in One Aldwych, a very modern upscale hotel right in the heart of the West End. We’re here to see theater, might as well be close to the action.
Denise Gough stars in People, Places and Things at the Wyndham in London
There was a movie by the same name last year, a romantic comedy. This isn’t the same thing.
This is a play about addiction, not a subject I have much sympathy for. The protagonist is a not quite so young woman who is incapable of telling the truth or facing the realities of her situation. She is an actress, and attempts to draw parallels between her work and the process of rehabilitation, but I’m not buying it. If she was as phony and irresponsible as an actress as she is as a patient she’d never work.
The play itself goes along with this theory, however, in that the set is designed to be the back of a stage–there is even an audience seated upstage behind the actors–which is also a clever way to increase the size of the house by 66 seats.
In her first interview with the therapist, the actress raises some of the major objections to 12 step programs, and I had hope that they would be seriously and intelligently addressed. Not to be. The play toes the line on following all the “steps” slavishly as though they were a miracle cure, even though the overall success rate of such programs is 5-15%. Just a little aside from the not unbiased blogger.
The set itself is brilliantly designed, converting effortlessly from stage to office to house to dorm room.
The best part of the play are the scenes where our heroine is having the DT’s or seizures or withdrawal or just general madness. The staging here is magnificent and innovative, with half a dozen actresses at one time playing the same part.
The worst part are the scene changes that are accompanied by insanely loud noise. Louder does not mean it’s more important.
Barbara Marten plays both the solid, consistent therapist and the worn down harpy of a mother. As one she is the emotional anchor, as the other she is an anchor dragging her daughter down.
The acting and directing of People, Places and Things are excellent. I know that most people will have sympathy for our poor little shattered actress, I’m just not one of them.
Real fast food
Toby, Gail and a friend
Friday, the day before the big surprise, Toby rented a car and we drove up the coast sightseeing.
The first stop was Caesarea, which seems mostly like Carmel by Mediterranean on a smaller scale. There are 2 or 3 blocks you can walk full of little art galleries, curio shops and lovely places to eat.
Further up the coast, we came to Acre, or Akko, or Acco, depending on which sign you were looking at. The British called it Acre when they owned it before WWI, and it was they who built the walls around the city. These days it’s mostly knows as Akko.
The city is very mixed, roughly 70% Arab and 30% Jewish, with tiny streets crammed with cars slowly creeping around looking for parking. We enjoyed the stroll through the market to where we planned to have lunch.
The marketplace is vibrant and colorful.
It’s easy to be a travel photographer here, hard to cut down to just a couple of photos.
The rows of spices are like the paints in a watercolor kit.
In the midst of the crowded hustle of the street, we came upon “Hummus Said”, a restaurant experience to remember.
Hummus Said serves hummus, the ground garbanzo bean that is a staple of this part of the world. That’s all, just hummus.
It is impossibly crowded, with a line out the door. The line moves quickly though, because this is not a place for fine, slow dining. You get to your table, order, eat, pay and get the heck out in very short order.
As soon as we sat down the waiter was there. No menu. You can have hummus, hummus with chickpeas or hummus with brown beans. Order fast, people are waiting. We chose one of each.
30 seconds later we got our bread, fresh baked pita, and plates of pickles, onion, tomato, olives and peppers. Another minute and the hummus hit the table. Time to eat.
Pickles and pita, tomato, olives and onion. All the fixings for a hummus lunch
Hummus with chickpeas, swimming in olive oil.
They brought us forks, although that would embarrass the locals, who expertly swirl the pita in the hummus and eat.
The noise level is enormous because there are so many people eating, so many waiters and runners shouting, a kitchen cranking out dishes endlessly, bussers cleaning the tables to turn them over to new client in seconds after you get up. The energy level is like Grand Central Station on Friday afternoon, and never stops. And yes, it’s really good hummus. You can fool me, but not the locals who live on the stuff. Hummus Said is an experience not to be missed.
After our fine dining, we drove back down the coast, stopping in Haifa to see the home of the Baha’i religion, the newest monotheistic religion in the world, having been formed less than 200 years ago in Persia. It is essentially an offshoot of Islam, recognizing Abraham, Moses, Jesus and Mohammed, among others as messengers of God along with their founder, Bahá’u’lláh. Their religion is very peaceful, and heavy on gardening and human outreach.
Haifi is built where the Carmel Mountains run straight into the Mediterranean. We drove to the top of the mountains to view the city, the bay and the Baha’i gardens. The view was spectacular:
Haifa
The Gardens run all the way down the hill. Believers climb up the 750 steps as a devotion. I’m not that devoted to anything.
The Baha’i Gardens, going down 750 steps
A religion that believes in peace, education and gardening is one I could get behind.
Full of hummus and gentled in our souls by the Baha’is, we drove back to Tel Aviv. That was a good day.
No good deed goes unpunished
Tuesday afternoon, we’re packing for the trip, and Gail gets a call from her friend SR in Orlando. Among the usual things, SR mentions that they are having a birthday party for everyone’s friend Frances on Saturday the 19th. We love Frances, and Gail says she wishes we could be there to celebrate. I’m not allowed to tell you how old Frances is, so let’s just say she’ll be 39 again.
Driving to the airport, I called Beth, the Travel Goddess™, and asked if we could come home from Europe via Orlando. A few calls and texts back and forth, and we were flying from London to Miami to Orlando, partying, then Chicago and home. There was a price for this, in both cash and frequent flyer miles, but it only hurts for a little while. We’re happy.
Then we got to the airport, at 7:05 for an 8:20 flight, and all hell broke loose.
Turns out that when you change a flight, it takes a while to work its way through the system. British Airways said we didn’t have a ticket. Or at least Gail didn’t have a ticket. And we were supposedly very, very late. (still an hour and ten minutes to flight time)
The situation was insane. I made our reservations 6 weeks previously, and a change on the return should have no effect on the outbound leg in any event.
We whined. We yelled. We argued, pleaded and reasoned. We called Beth, who called American (the airline we booked everything through). We were dealing with two intransigent clerks who spent most of their time staring at their computer screens, waiting for the ticket to be issued and show up.
Finally, we asked if we could buy a ticket, expecting that eventually this would all be straightened out. Yes, that could be arranged. So I pulled out the card, promptly charged a full tank of jet fuel for a 747, and we were raced through security and onto a half empty 747 for the long flight to London. The plane left about 10 minutes late, to add to the silliness about how “late” we were.
Landed in London, we faced the dismal prospect of a 7 hour layover, greatly softened by the availability of the British Airways lounge. Free food and drink, good wifi and plenty of electrical connections made the time creep by slightly less slowly, then we were called for the electric cart to take us to our gate.
This was an adventure. The cart leaves the main floor of the terminal and drives into a hidden elevator that requires a key to open. Dropping down 3 floors. we pulled out into a vast system of subterranean tunnels lit and painted in 1960’s purple, devoid of people, to careen 2 miles in a science fiction wonderland until we took another elevator and arrived right in front of the gate. My mind reeled at the cost of designing, constructing, lighting, climate controlling, maintaining, cleaning and securing these hundreds of thousands of square feet of concrete tunnel that so few people even know exist.
Then there was a second overnight flight, arriving in Tel Aviv at 5:15 am. Immigration was easy, but our bags never came off the carousel. Yep, even for a kings ransom and a zillion frequent flyer miles, British Air couldn’t be bothered to load our bags on the plane and they were still in SFO.
The baggage agent, a delightful young woman with a prodigious underbite, promised that we would have the bags in our hotel by 11am the next day. Sure, I’ve heard that before.
The limousine I had booked failed to arrive.
The cab I hired took us to the wrong hotel, but I noticed that before we got out and made him find the right one. In a world with a GPS in every phone, how do you get lost?
Of course, he overcharged me about $10, but that’s the least bad thing that happened on this trip of horrors.
More to come.
Shalom
Gail and I are in Israel, sitting in a hotel overlooking the beach in Tel Aviv. There has been radio silence around here because this trip was a big secret, and now I can tell.
Micky and Linda told us they were coming here for the Bar Mitzvah of their grandson, and had arranged to have dinner with Gail’s son Toby and his new girlfriend, who we have not yet met.
Hell not having frozen over, Gail wasn’t about to let our friends meet the young woman, Lea, before she did. So we decided to sneak over here and surprise Mike and Linda at the restaurant.
A gobsmacked Micky realizes that it’s really me he’s seeing 7500 miles from where I am supposed to be
Tonight was the big night. We drove the 45 minutes from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, navigated the tiny streets, found parking and walked to where Toby and Lea were to meet our friends. The kids walked ahead, then Gail and I followed. Linda was the first to recognize Gail, then Micky joined in, looking considerably more puzzled than usual.
Toby, Lea, Aaron, Linda and Gail
We were shortly joined by Mike’s niece Shoshana and her daughter Naomi and ambled off through the cobbled streets to a kosher restaurant that was just opening at 8 pm because they can’t start preparing the food until sundown on Shabbos (Saturday).
The nine of us had a wonderful meal, spirits buoyed by the excitement of our surprise. Two quick photos:
Duck breast with chestnut gnocchi.
The little red spirals are the gnocchi, made from chestnut flour, colored by a berry sauce. The orange blob is mashed white and sweet potatoes. I enjoyed the duck, the other items were pretty bland.
Salmon tartare
Linda had this as her starter. The salmon was just fine, but the diced Israeli cucumber and red onion made the dish special. Neither of us had ever tasted a red onion that hot. The cucumber is a part of almost everything here, always diced rather than the cucumber slices we are accustomed to in California. I enjoyed as much of it as I could steal from her.
Dinner savored, we motored back to the beach city to fall into bed so we can have more fun tomorrow. Now that I can stop lying to everyone about what I am doing this week, I’ll be able to post more about this amazing trip. Stay tuned.
Something Great Happened
The young Master with his mom in the background.
When I met Gail, she came with a passel of grandkids, now 8 of them.
When Kate married Brad, he had two of his own. Now Brad’s daughter, Brittnee, has had a son, Braden.
Which makes me, kinda-sort, in a way, -ish, a great grandfather. I can definitely dig it. Nice to be ahead of Micky once in a while.
Last weekend, just for the heck of it, the entire menage decamped for Seattle. to visit granddaughter Chloe and he boyfriend, Brien. Gail and I went up for Saturday night dinner and lots of baby snuggling.
His Nibs and grandpa Brad
The Seattle Waterfront Marriott has a side room of the lobby with a fireplace and huge sofa. We claimed it for ourselves and that’s where we hung out between meals, just chatting and playing with the baby as he crawled around exploring.
Saturday lunch we went to Ivar’s, an excellent local seafood chain. I like what they call this particular branch, right on the waterfront.
Makes me envision a farm with rows of clam plants.
Gail likes to be busy, so she found something to do while we were sitting there. Chloe found the children’s amusement pack, and Gail wanted one too.
Staying between the line, for a rare change.
Seattle is famous for raising the minimum wage to $15, which doesn’t seem to have caused any catastrophic crash in employment or corporate profits. In fact, when we got the bill this was printed on the bottom:
I think this is the wave of the future.
Back at the hotel, more playing in front of the fire. Kate is reveling in being ‘Nana”
Why do all babies love to eat glasses?
The previous week, I had emailed the concierge at the Marriott to arrange a table for 8 1/2 someplace nice, modern and not heavily meat-centric, as we had a couple of vegan/vegetarians with us. We ended up at Wild Ginger, a massive, 400 seat, Asian-fusion place in the downtown area. Uber got us a big SUV to pile into and we were off for an enjoyable meal with an incredible waiter.
Sunday we slept in while the others made an early flight home. There was a late breakfast with Chloe and Brien (the hotel overcooked the poached eggs in my crab benedict) and we were home in time for the Oscars.
This being a grandfather thing is great.
New Girl in Town
In a little local strip mall near us, there is Wences, a restaurant we have liked for years. Also, there is a sushi bar, a Round Table pizza and a little Italian joint we never were interested in enough to check out. Then two days ago I notice that it had become an entirely new bar/restaurant by the name of Wise Girl (feminism having come to the Mob, I guess.) Tonight I took Gail there for dinner.
The site has been completely remodeled, giving an old time feel that my father would have loved–everything is dark, with red leather and heavy wood. The ceiling is gold colored hammered tin, the entryway is decorated with 50 year old photos of the eateries owned by the father and grandfather of the current host, a woman named Angela.
It’s darker than this, but that would make a lousy photo
Seven o’clock tonight the place was about half full, which isn’t bad considering they’ve been open only 2 weeks. There is one big room containing both the dining tables and a full bar, with a couple of big TV’s so you can watch the Warriors game. People were eating at the bar as well as the tables. The south end of the room has two table for 8 and can be curtained off for private parties.
It’s a bar, it’s a local joint, it’s casual. Real napkins, no table linen. The candle on the table is real, not electric. Your server’s name is Barbara.
We started by sharing the butter lettuce salad. The aforementioned lettuce, sliced pears, nuts, cheese, some kind of dressing. A decent, not brilliant, combination. For sharing we each received a huge bowl of salad, we could have shared this thing 4 ways easily.
I had the braciole (pronounced, in my house at least, as “brazzjole”). At Wise Girl, this is a piece of rib steak rolled around cheese and prosciutto and pan fried, served with some properly cooked veggies and a portion of pasta alio y olio, oil and garlic. Sort of an Italian, beef based cordon bleu.
Not the way mother made it, but quite decent.
I should never order this dish, because nothing could possibly measure up to the memory of the way my mother made it. It was always my favorite, and time improves the good things.
Nonetheless, the Wise Girl Braciole was just fine and I loved the pasta. Don’t be thrown off by my nostalgic maunderings.
If there is prime rib on the menu Gail is most likely to order it, and tonight was no exception. Prime rib is on the menu every night after 4 pm. For $26 it’s a hell of a good deal.
That’s a huge slab of beef
Gail ordered her beef “medium” and medium she got. The baked potato was a dud, not hot and topped with cheap cheese and bacon. The portion size was incredible–we’ll have lunch on this for 2 days. The accompanying horse radish was particularly spicy, if you like that sort of thing. Gail had very good things to say about the au jus, which most likely means they actually make it in house and not just serve “Sysco #6 dipping sauce, beef”.
So we’re happy with the new place. The food is all you could want in a local eatery, service was prompt and friendly, they even provide an ice tea spoon to stir with. (I once had to speak to the maitre d’hotel on the Queen Mary II to get an ice tea spoon. These things matter.)
Wise Girl is open 7 days a week from 11 am, serving lunch and dinner, at 1932 Oak Park Blvd in Pleasant Hill.
Good, not fancy
Jig Saw Puzzle Art of the namesake
We go out to eat a lot. Sometimes we get to go to fancy-schmancy joints with tasting menus, sommeliers, and multiple Michelin stars. Sometimes, we just want to eat.
I’ve been eyeing Tahoe Joe’s, across from Sunvalley Mall, for many years now, wondering about what appears to be a cookie-cutter chain steak place. This week I finally broke down and gave it a try.
We went out to dinner with the fabulous Margaret and Reed, the woman who designed our house. The don’t take reservations, per se, but if you call ahead you can get on a list. Which is like a reservation. All of which was really unnecessary because there were plenty of open tables on Sunday night at 6:30.
Tahoe Joe’s is a faux rustic steakhouse, catering to middle America. Lots of wood, no tablecloths, down-home friendly service. Portions are large, prices are very reasonable, the veggies are overcooked and the meat is great. Desserts are huge, rich and excellent.
The ladies began their meals with salads, which were pretty standard. I had the chicken pot pie soup, which was so rich and thick I could only eat half of it. Now I know that it is possible to use too much heavy cream in a soup.
Reed doesn’t eat meat, so she had the bourbon salmon.
Bourbon glazed salmon, baked potato and veggies.
The fish was excellent, highlighted by the bourbon glaze. For a guy who doesn’t drink, I sure love the taste of bourbon. The baked potato, filled with butter and sour cream, was another treat for the “healthy” eater.
I had the rib eye steak:
Rib eye steak, baked potato ad veggies. There may be a trend here.
I think the rib eye is the tastiest cut. Not the most tender, often having some gristle and fat to contend with, but I’ve come to seriously enjoy it. I ordered it rare, and that’s what I got. Baked spud, of course. I got overcooked blue lake beans instead of overcooked broccoli. There isn’t much difference. There seems to be an inverse relationship between the price of the meal and how long they cook the veggies. I’m sure that says something about class differences in America–perhaps someone could write a doctoral thesis on it.
Gail had the prime rib. Gail pretty much always has the prime rib. It was first rate. She chose the mashed potatoes, and some mushy veggies. Come to Tahoe Joe’s, you’re going to get meat and potatoes. Or fish and potatoes. That’s the way western men eat. Or something.
There was a card on the table advertising the apple pie dessert, and marketing works by the indexsy seo company. I had to order it. They bring a very hot frying pan with a sizzling slice of apple pie, topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Then the waiter pours a butter-brandy sauce into the pan which produces a paroxysm of steam, cream and alcohol. Then everyone at the table grabs a spoon and dives in, fighting for the last tiny drop of the sauce, a bit of crust, a slice of apple and some chilling ice cream.
I think we all enjoyed our meal. Tahoe Joe’s isn’t a class joint, you don’t want to celebrate your 35th wedding anniversary there, it will never be mentioned in the Guide Michelin. It’s a good place to get a slab of beef or slice of salmon with a very traditional presentation. Not so good if you want lo-cal, lo-fat, cutting edge dining, but they never pretended to be anything but what they are–an old fashioned middle of the road steakhouse.
Spain comes to Walnut Creek
The new restaurant with its own miniature teleferic
The new kid on the block in Walnut Creek is an authentic Spanish tapas bar named Teleferic Barcelona. So new it doesn’t seem to have a website yet, or a listing on Zomato. On the second floor of a still unfinished buiding smack at the corner of Mt. Diablo and Main, Teleferica has brought genuine tapas and a wide selection of Spanish wines to burbs. The kitchen is open to view, sending the aroma of garlic and olive oil through the dining room.
The large open kitchen
The place is already crowded with the the young and hip. The noise level is loud (although nothing like it would be in Spain, which is totally deafening), the energy level is pulsating, food is coming around on carts like a dim sum joint in the city:
The rolling cart of tapas prepared to circulate
No Spanish restaurant is authentic if it doesn’t serve paella. Teleferic produces one large pan every 30 minutes, your portion will come to your table when it’s good and ready.
The house paella
There are a few larger plates, or rationes , but we didn’t have one, preferring to stick with the basics.
The classic tortilla espagnola
Why tortilla means bread in Mexico and omelet in Spain is a mystery I’ve never solved, but there you have it. This was a slice of egg and potato omelet served on a small piece of toast, just like in Madrid. The topping is a bit of paper thin jamon, the highly prized cured ham of Spain.
A cornucopia of calamari, with squid ink aioli
The black aioli is a visual shock, and the taste is amazing.
I guess everybody needs to serve some kind of burger, and the albondigas sliders here fulfill their social responsibility.
Itty Bitty burger with imported manchego cheese.
In European fashion, our salad came late in the meal. This was the one dish we had that was large enough to share, a salad with fruit.
Salad with mango, papaya and other good things
This plate was enough for the 3 of us, and we enjoyed it completely.
Proper review of a restaurant requires that I order dessert, so I threw myself on the menu and ordered the churros;
Fried dough the Spanish way
Okay, it’s just fried dough and sugar, with a cup of melted chocolate to dip into. Gail thought they were not cooked through, but managed to choke one down anyway.
Teleferic is definitely the hot, hip new place to be in Walnut Creek, and will be even better in warm weather when you can more comfortably sit outside on the deck. Service was excellent, but the wait staff all wear suspenders so they I was clearly a kindred spirit. The food prices are in the middle–not cheap, not ghastly. I thought the bar prices were a bit steep, a glass of wine for Gail and a margarita for Carol set me back $27 without tip.
One interesting thing I noticed is that there are 4 large table that would seat 10 in the center of the room—they plan on having large groups from families or offices or organizations as a common thing. The small plates make it very easy and sociable to have a group here.
Teleferic isn’t much the place for a romantic dinner for two, but it’s a fun place to go with friends and enjoy authentic Spanish foods in a very Madrileño atmosphere. I’ll be back.
One Duck, Two Ducks
Ducks the way they should be in my yard
Linda B. was kind enough to point out that I’m a lousy ornithologist, I can’t tell a hen from a drake. The photo I posted two days ago was Elizabeth, not Frank.
The good news is that Frank showed up this morning, and now we have our lovebirds back in the pool where they belong every February. I don’t know how long a duck lives (if it can avoid the hunters), but I hope these two keep coming back forever.
Totally Unauthorized 