Whistler’s MILF

& other notes from nyc

1.

The interior of Le Bernadin would be opulent in its sheer square footage, even without the oversized coffered ceiling, the wavy mural flooding its back wall. The tables are of an almost midwestern size, with comfortable berths between them. It’s stately, contemporary; all wood-paneled yet very chic, adhering to the laws of fine design in defying them.

We arrive at 2:30, the last seating for lunch. This is one of our signature moves for storied restaurants—eating a few hours earlier frequently offers the same menu at a significant discount. It’s bustling, but we’re whisked in and seated on the plush perimeter bench, side-by-side. I like this, too; half of the fun of such places is in the people watching. The table to our right is another couple eerily like us, but to our left is an older gentleman on his own with a book (goals) and three half-finished glasses of wine. We surmise he’s a regular.

My elderflower cocktail arrives. There’s salmon crostini; a choice of rolls. But it’s the TUNA-URCHIN I’m after. Three urchins, each nestled onto a little slice of toast, lined atop an oblong bed of hot-pink tuna tartare. The server pours jus de viande around the perimeter. It’s divine, with a little kick of wasabi to it.

The DOVER SOLE is as good, if less flamboyantly pretty. It’s dotted with chunks of morel. I accept more bread (why not) and the sommelier recommends a roussanne/viognier blend—not oaky, but substantial enough for the rich sauce. He’s wearing one of those little silver cups around his neck, so supreme in its officialness as to approximate military regalia.

I go with the STRAWBERRY for dessert, a little meringue number. It’s like the tidiest Eton Mess in culinary history. Architecturally, it reminds me of the Denver airport, though it’s not particularly enigmatic. Dessert is too often associated with moral lassitude; the word I want to use here is pure. Earl Gray, in an absurdly heavy cast-iron teapot, only enhances its purity.

2.

It’s the premiere of the Met’s new production of Die Zauberflöte. The music is sublime, but I have reservations about the new production’s post-modern eccentricities. The floating platform that, at various points, functions as floor and ceiling, ramp and table, isn’t a bad idea on its own, but in concert with the chalkboard video overlay, the paper birds, Papageno’s ubiquitous ladder, the flautist and glockenspielist jumping onstage from the pit?

“It’s kind of gimmicky,” Michael says at intermission, as we look at the red Chagall. He’s right, even if I like the musicians getting some extra attention.

“Mm . . . too many notes.”

The music itself is so good as to forgive pretty much anything, though. The Met’s acoustics are phenomenal, better than the great opera houses of Europe (I’d venture incomparable, except I’ve never been to Sydney). The Queen of the Night’s second-half aria gives me full body chills; its fluttering heights seem physically impossible. They pause the pyrotechnics for it, mercifully, and it doesn’t really matter what it’s all about, that the story’s kind of silly. You don’t go to the opera for narrative—the love and pain is self-evident. You go for Mozart.

3.

I’m still chirping the aria to myself 40 blocks later as I walk into Grimaldi’s. They’ve renovated since I was last here, and the new décor is all burgundy and animal-print velour. It’s frankly incredible, like if Snooki’s hair was a room. I pay $34 cash for a small garlic and anchovy pizza and take it to go.

4.

Nostalgia triumphs and I lure Michael to Café Cluny for brunch. It’s the restaurant on which I based Café Croix in The Portrait of a Mirror, and today, too, it is unseasonably cool with an intermittent light drizzle.

Cluny’s still crownly molded, the waitstaff Parisianly striped. I almost expect to see a portly gentleman out front, teetering in his wellies, rustical tote bag in tow. The party next to us is one he would have thrilled in mocking; they are aggressively soliciting a LinkedIn connection from the distinguished older gentleman another table over.

We dutifully order our bloodys and breakfast club sandwiches. The fries are as thin and delicate and piping hot as ever, but they’ve replaced the club’s crisp white toast with a brioche bun, and alas, it is not a change for the better—the toast having been, it is now clear, critical to the sandwich’s structural integrity.

5.

Emma Cline’s new novel, The Guest, is both terrific (apropos of high low) and the absolute worst thing I could have brought to read on a trip this decadent. I decide to save the rest for the train back to DC and fall asleep doing the crossword.

6.

Rezdôra is on 20th Street, as charmingly cramped as Le Bernadin is charmingly capacious. It’s still drizzling when we arrive, and the elevated room we’re led to in back feels extravagantly cozy.

We order cocktails and the pasta tasting, which likewise seems tailored to the weather, starting with a tortellini soup. Penne with basil and ricotta, truffle-asparagus gnocchi, linguini, ravioli—I began to lose track. Everything is delicious, especially the conversation of the women across from us (the tight quarters make eavesdropping all but impossible), as they conduct a detailed excavation into their joint desire to marry LeBron James, complete with fastidious practical consideration of likely details in the hypothetical prenup.

I order the strawberry dessert again, but steal a bite of Michael’s olive oil cake—confidently, because we don’t have a prenup.

7.

It takes a certain confidence in one’s marriage indeed to see A Doll’s House for your 10th anniversary.

Even before I spy Jessica Chastain on the rotating stage, motionless in her severe black dress, looking like Whistler’s Mother but hot—Whistler’s MILF—there’s the creepy, pulsating music; the sign in the center of the bathroom mirror warning “some may find the subject matter disturbing.”

Jessica Chastain pre-show for A Doll’s House

We take our seats, flip through the program. She spins round and round and round, the other actors beginning to surround her with their backs turned, one by one. It’s more than a little menacing—and a brilliant move, allowing the audience to acclimate slowly to Chastain, to the stunning force of her presence. It neutralizes the perennial risk, with such a big movie star, that the audience will be unable to see her as the character.

No such problem here. Nora is supposed to be beautiful—the casting makes sense—but it’s hard to overstate how fully and convincingly Chastain embodies her. It is an exquisite performance, an impeccable production across the board. The severe minimalism works well here: it has a focusing effect, creating a vicious emotional spotlight. When there’s a brief pause to fix a technical issue with the stage, it takes me a few seconds to register this isn’t part of the play. They resume and again I’m immediately transfixed.

There is no weak link in the cast, and I expect they’ll positively clean up at the Tony awards. But Chastain is not just any star, she’s the sun. The whole thing literally revolves around her. That she’s rooted to her Whistleresque chair for basically the entire performance makes it all the more remarkable what happens when she finally stands up.

Onto other duties,

ANJ

Links & logistics:

• Le Bernadin’s lunch menu; reserve the first day of each month, excluding Sundays, for the entire following month

• Die Zauberflöte is at the Metropolitan Opera through June 10

• Grimaldi’s pizza on 6th Ave is open 11am-5am (sic)

• I did finish The Guest by Emma Cline on the train—it’s horrifying and excellent

• Rezdôra’s dinner menu; reserve 30 days in advance

• A Doll’s House is at the Hudson Theatre through June 10

• We stayed at the Arlo NoMad, which offered stellar views