Mahoosive Saturday
Bigly enjoying the last weekend in May
The accordion-pleated blinds cannot keep the sun from brightening my room on Saturday. I am exercising the privilege to sleep in. Tabby, not best pleased, aborts her attempts to roust me out of bed and curls up in the folds of the patchwork quilt.
When I walk out of the bathroom later that morning, the cats are spoiling for a fight on the cozy patchwork quilt, handmade by Indian artisans. The morning unfolds lazily.
A few weeks ago, listening to John Lithgow’s interviews with David Remnick and Dave Davies, I am tempted by his new Broadway show, Giant. I text Lena to see if she’s interested. I can’t think of anyone else around here who might care for this show. She asks if her friend can join us. Of course. She volunteers her husband to buy tickets. We pick a date (matinee, we agree) and approve of the seats Rod recommends. And, now, the day has arrived.
“Going out again?” ask the cats, in tones that imply subversion and insurrection. I remind them they have full bowls, fresh water, treats were dispensed on schedule and litter boxes refreshed.
It’s a sun-filled day, so there is a mass of humanity in New York City. The crowd presses in all directions. At times, the surging tide carries me to mid-town. Like crashing ocean waves, the throng finds its way around the people who stand on the sidewalk taking pictures and selfies or walk in the opposite direction, schlepping unwieldy suitcases.
Looking to grab a quick, light snack, I stop at Schnipper’s on my way to the Music Box. When the buzzer on my table does its thing, a server arrives bearing a better-than-hearty sandwich. The lettuce is fresh and sassy. The tomatoes could do with a pinch of salt and a liberal dash of pepper, but I figure the bacon already exceeds the recommended daily allowance of sodium. The toasted sourdough reaches out and hugs me as I take the first bite. I am smitten. I could (should!) stop after the first half, but I don’t.
“Be there in a few,” I text Lena when she tells me they are in the theater lobby. I get a bag to carry away the packet of crisp, hand-cut chips and slow-jog to 45th St, taking bites of the crisp, don’t-leave-any-traces bacon that escaped the sandwich.
There’s a long line outside the theater. Hands are raised, clicking pictures of the theater and its billboard. I follow suit.
John Lithgow, Aya Cash, Elliot Levey, Rachael Stirling, and Stella Everett stir us up with their powerful performances, and make us think about Roald Dahl’s life and controversial ways, his creative genius, his rancor and hubris. We are quiet for a while as we leave the theater.
Jen, a baker and chef, recommends Don Antonio for an early post-show dinner. The enormous sandwich I ate earlier still fills my belly, but I want to hang out and do the obligatory show autopsy. A bowl of arugula with tomatoes and a simple vinaigrette is all I can manage and it is delicious. The others order arancini, fried mac-and-cheese bites and Neapolitan pizzas.
Lena, Jen and Rod take the subway home. I walk to Penn Station, glad to work off a small percentage of the bacon calories. There’s a sandwich board outside Carve with a picture of juicy strawberries covered in white and dark chocolate. I walk in and ask for a couple. A curly-haired man flashes me a huge grin and hands me a container. He taps it, leans over conspiratorially and says, “Our little secret.” He’s popped a bonus strawberry into the clamshell.
Back home, I find just the right plate for my sweet treat. As I bite into it, the juice oozes down my arm.
I heard the tail end of a commentary about Giant the other day. I had no idea about this side of Roald Dahl. I need to look more closely into that era.