If the round of Christmas parties with friends and neighbors wasn’t enough, we decided to gild the lily by heading off to New York for a few days as well. And with the super convenient Amtrak connection in nearby Culpeper, we just drove a 30 minutes to the train station, parked for free, and hopped on a Manhattan bound train. It was the lap of luxury sitting at our own table and watching the world go by.
I’d not been to the city since well before the pandemic, so it was great seeing all the Christmas lights and the throngs of happy people enjoying it all – tripledemic be damned. Keith and I had planned the trip around three things; 1) catching up with friends; 2) looking at the Metropolitan Museum’s American Rooms; and 3) visiting one of New York’s legendary steakhouses. One of these was a huge success and the other two big disappointments. The first was Keen’s Steakhouse. Supposedly the oldest and best in the city, we were told it was miles better than competitor Peter Lugar. So we booked a table and anticipated the best. Our reservation wasn’t til 9:45 pm that evening, so we spent much of the night traversing the island with Keith’s fellow sommelier Melanie. Luckily she likes to walk, so we worked up a good appetite dashing from Chelsea to Rockefeller Center and everywhere in between (not to be missed – Bryant Park’s Christmas Market and ice rink). Everywhere we went there were crowds of people, and every bar was filled to the brim with Christmas parties and people 4-5 deep at the bar. It was all very festive and everyone was in a great mood, but a bit annoying when even your favorite secret spots (Campbell Apartment) are mobbed and there’s no place to sit, but we finally found a nearly empty Karaoke bar for Japanese businessmen that served us some great Japanese whiskey and the bartender even gave us a round on the house. Tired and hungry (and a bit overserved drink-wise) we were delighted to enter into the historic steakhouse. It was as packed and festive as anywhere else in the city, but the mood fizzled when we were led up two floors on a narrow staircase to a small room with five other tables. A nice couple from Boston, a table of dude-bros from Jersey, a wildly vulgar family from Denmark, and us. We’d been exiled to tourist Siberia. It would seem our out-of-state phone number required during the online reservation must have slotted us here. Not so bad, as they were all filled with the Christmas spirit and the Danes were amusing to watch as they preened in their New York regalia and pretended they were Gotham insiders. We ordered a porterhouse for two and sat back in anticipation. What arrived was a steak alright, but clearly something that had been sitting in the kitchen several floors below and had taken its time getting up four flights of stairs before someone thought to bring it to our table. Cold steak isn’t that bad, but what was supposed to be sizzling fat, was now just greasy tallow. A total disappointment.
The next day was a rainy one, but we had checked the weather before heading up and had dressed accordingly, and indeed had planned to spend the entire day in the Met, touring their recently renovated British rooms and the American Wing’s period rooms. It’s a hefty entrance fee and thus we were absolutely flabbergasted to be told (once we had already paid for our tickets) that there was no coat check available at all and that we’d have to carry our heavy winter coats and umbrellas everywhere we went – all day. What kind of museum does that? Especially when there were four – count ‘em – four empty coat check rooms clearly visible from where we stood. Thousands of people wandering around lugging huge piles of outerwear. It was insane. Poor tourist youths with backpacks being admonished by the guards that they wear them in front and not on their backs so that they didn’t turn around and sideswipe a work of art with their pack. Why not put those guards on coat rack duty instead? Problem solved. I mean, really!
After figuring out the very convoluted gallery arrangement we came to the American wing only to find all the period rooms were closed. No reason given. Just closed. No entry. When queried, the guard nearby could only offer “well, they were open on Tuesday.” And I had planned the trip specifically to see those rooms. Now how will I ever know how to furnish our new house? I guess I’ll have to content myself by looking at them online (at least I don’t need to lug around my overcoat to do so). The annoyance and disappointment was only partially salved by an excellent lunch at the Museum restaurant. Keith had luckily called to make a reservation. In a room with a glass wall overlooking a rainy Central Park we were offered a terrific four course luncheon and a bottle of wine to wash it down. It was a great mood adjuster. And they graciously agreed to take our coats and umbrellas for the rest of the afternoon. But it did underscore a sad truth – people with money don’t have to suffer the indignities imposed on the rest of us. It’s enough to make me want to become a rich person myself – or perhaps a socialist revolutionary.
At any rate, fortified by food and wine, I was able to once again cast a critical eye on the museum. My anger had mellowed, but then slowly gave way to amused bemusement. The museum, like every other institution in this era of diversity, equity, and inclusion, had clearly rushed to incorporate more African and African-American content in its displays. Yet these efforts were all pretty ham-fisted. An African wood carved sculpture doesn’t really belong in a gallery devoted to European religious painting, does it? Also, what idiot’s idea of appropriateness led them to hang a painting of black boys eating watermelon next to a painting showing John Brown on his way to being hanged? I may have a hometown bias, but give me Washington’s collection of museums and galleries any day. For one, they’re free, and two, they have functioning coat checks. And for an extra added bonus, they often have free concerts. Very civilized.
But all frustration was washed away that evening. I’d told some friends we’d be in the city and would love to catch up in person if they could spare the time. Could we do dinner? Someplace cheap, quaint, cozy, and local was the request. “We’d be delighted” came the swift reply, and “We’ll take you to a Christmas concert first and then dinner around the corner afterwards.” So, a few short hours after the museum debacle found us at the Church of the Ascension’s annual Christmas Concert. I immediately forgave the City for all its disappointments earlier in the day. The concert was everything you’ve every wished a Christmas choral event to be. A gorgeous nave lit by candlelight, ethereal voices, thundering organ, and well behaved children and adults enjoying every note. Perfection.
But the evening didn’t end there. For just a block away stood Gene’s Restaurant. It was a cold and rainy winter evening, but as we entered the warm glow of this basement dining room, it was a lovely blast of nostalgia that hit us. The bar was right at the narrow entrance and as the barman greeted us and asked what we’d have, it was impossible not to order a martini right then and there. Impossible.
Gene’s was such a perfect, old school, New York corner restaurant from a time long gone. The platonic ideal of a “regular place” and exactly what I had requested. Warm, friendly, cozy-as-hell, and filled with local families and friends out for nice unpretentious evening meal. No sooner than we were seated at our corner round table a waiter plopped down two relish trays of celery, carrots, and radishes as a clue as to what I’d find in the menu. Sure enough, both shrimp cocktail and wedge salads made an appearance. The rest of the night was spent eating old school Italian, reminiscing about our wonderfully miss-spent youth, and washing it all down with carafes of the house red. We closed the place down and walked back through the rainy streets to the hotel. We have the best friends. You really couldn’t have choreographed a more perfect evening.
Keith is very excited about the trip
