September 15 – Day 9: Eat at Dave’s
Didn’t have too much on the schedule for Saturday. I was supposed to start with an early lunch with Leah (the co-founder and outgoing co-artistic director at Custom Made and the producer of Mother Night) at a place uptown (way, way uptown; in the 150s uptown). It was also the day that John (remember him? The guy I’m renting this room from?) was going to change my towels and sheets. He’d written me Friday night to ask what time on Saturday was good. I told him that, since I had to be uptown by 1:00, I’d be gone by noon. He said that was fine, but just as I was about to leave, I got a text from Leah asking if I could postpone by a half-hour. I said sure, and didn’t think anything of it.
John showed up at noon, and was surprised by my being here. I explained that I wouldn’t be leaving until 12:30, but he could go ahead. He replied that it would be too much to do with two people here, so he’d come back. I said fine and plopped myself on the bed and felt sleepy. I’d set my alarm, but the next thing I knew, it was 12:40, John was back, and I was late. I put on my shoes and headed for the subway.
On the way, I got another text from Leah asking if we could switch restaurants. One was just the same as another to me, since both are equally far from the subway, so I said fine. As I neared the place, I passed a place that was advertising a “drag brunch,” which (apparently) came equipped with shrieking patrons and/or performers. Since I can think of few things more annoying than a drag brunch, I was glad this wasn’t the place I was heading, although my place was just a couple of doors away. I walked in, sat down, and looked at the menu, which was full of brunch items and nothing else. I’m not a big brunch person, but if Leah had decided she wanted to stay, I would have found something. Because the kitchen was set up for only brunch, we left, and after a stop at the post office, ended up at the first place after all, a little Italian restaurant that turned out to be quite good. We split a coal-fired pizza and an arugula salad and hashed over some stuff, a good portion of which involved our still needing to raise funds for Mother Night. (If you’re in a position to donate anything, here’s the link. I’d appreciate it.)
We must have sat in the place for a couple of hours, and I suppose the staff was fed up with our being there, but there weren’t many other people and they didn’t need the table, so there was no real reason to leave. We finally did, and I went south while she went back north.
Friday night, going through my Facebook memories, I was reminded that September 15 is the birthday of my hero, Robert Benchley, so I resolved to head back to the Algonquin and have a cocktail in his honor. On the subway, I did a search to find out if Benchley had a favorite beverage. (I assumed it was a martini, and despite my dislike of martinis, I was willing to [literally] suck it up.) I couldn’t find that information, but did run across a couple of stories about Benchley, who had been a teetotaler, finally taking a drink at a party in the middle of Prohibition. He picked up an Orange Blossom, took a sip, said, “This place ought to be closed down by law,” and set it down. Over the rest of his life, he’d set down few other glasses that weren’t empty.
That's Mr. Benchley in the upper left.
With that in mind, I determined I was going to have an Orange Blossom. Fortunately, the recipe was included in one of the tellings of the story, so I knew what to ask for. I had assumed that, in a place as old-school as the Algonquin, either the bartenders would know how to make an Orange Blossom, or would at least have a recipe book, but I assumed incorrectly. Armed with my knowledge, though, I was able to describe the drink to the waiter (it’s basically a gin screwdriver with some sugar added). He came back moments later with a delicious-looking drink. I toasted the painting of the Round Table nearby, took a sip, repeated Benchley’s wisecrack, then set it down. I finished it, though, and was delighted to have done so, as it was actually pretty tasty. I’d happily order one again.
Refreshing!
I’d mentioned that I’d ordered a new phone on Friday, and decided that, even though it’s brand new, I’ve gotten used to having a battery case that pretty much ensures I won’t run out of power. I’ve used a Mophie in the past, and decided I wanted a new one. Unsure of where to buy one (and knowing that I can’t get mail right now), I did a search on the Best Buy website and saw that the store less than two blocks away (on 5th Avenue) had them in stock, so once my drink was finished, I set off for the store.
I should have mentioned earlier that, although the initial walk from the subway to the restaurant was a little too warm, the walk back was absolutely delightful. It finally wasn’t too humid or warm, and there was a nice breeze. It was a perfect late-summer afternoon, a state that continued on my way to the store.
I walked in and was surprised to find the cell phone section near the entrance and the “Juice Pack” readily available. (I usually find the layout of Best Buys to be chaotic, at best.) I bought it and left, was briefly tempted to walk the 37 blocks back home, but knew I had a show that night, and wanted to be ready.
I was seeing The Bloody Deed of 1857, which promised to be a spook show. I had gotten an email solicitation for it a few weeks ago, and it looked like it’d be a lot of fun. I expected a phony séance, lots of ghostly effects, and an overall creepy time. Part of the reason I wanted to be on time was that I’d read in the email that the show took place in a parlor from roughly the same period as the actual murder (a wealthy dentist had been repeatedly stabbed to death, apparently by his wife) not too far from the murder site. (That building has long since been torn down.) There were going to be no more than 25 people in the audience, and it promised to be a great time.
Unfortunately, what I was expecting was not what I got. The audience members are told to meet “Charlotte” (one of the actors) on a corner in front of a Walgreen’s down the block from the building with the parlor, across the street from the Public Theatre. She checked us in, thanked us for bringing the energy we’d need for the séance, and handed each of us a tiny lantern. When everyone was checked in, another actress, playing an English psychic, joined us (after “clearing our energy” with sage) and repeated the thanks before leading us to the building, but not before “fainting” and claiming she’d been suffering from nightmares lately.
When we reached the building, I should have been tipped off by the signage in the stairwell. There’s a Thai restaurant on the ground floor, and there were angrily-scrawled hand-written signs from the tenants complaining about the restaurant leaving its garbage in the hallway, and from the restaurant complaining about the tenants interfering with the restaurant’s garbage. It was not a good omen.
We got into the parlor, which was decked out with period furnishings (for the most part; for some reason, there was an iPhone propped on a mantle, facing away from the playing area), and after a little focusing ritual, the séance began. We were not seated around a table, though; we were in chairs lining the room. After the few moments, the front door slammed and locked, the theatrical lighting instruments—and the lanterns, which hadn’t appeared to be radio controlled—blacked out, and we were off.
What I hoped for.
As I say, I’d expected a lot of hoodoo spiritualism tricks, but what I got was an extremely talky play drawn mainly from the transcript of the inquest into the dentist’s death, all of which was dedicated to debating whether or not the wife had done it. I have no idea if she did or didn’t, since I lost the thread a number of times. (It all had something to do with one of them arresting the other in order to perform a wedding, and forced abortions, and him having money she didn’t want to give up, and her having social position he didn’t want to give up. There may or may not have been assorted lovers, as well.) Eventually the whole thing ended, and it got a good round of applause, but as things were breaking up, it became apparent that I was one of the few people there who didn’t have friends in the cast.
There was a highlight, though. My ticket included a guided tour of some of the more haunted spots in that part of the Village. It was announced after the curtain call that everyone had bought those tickets, but only four of us made the tour, so it felt very private. While it was a little compromised by it being Saturday night in the Village (with all the loud drunks and partiers that implied), it was a very good tour, and fascinating to hear about the various buildings that are still around from the early- and mid-19th century, and the ghosts that are apparently attached to them. Personally, I don’t believe in ghosts, but I don’t not believe in them. I’ve had a couple of experiences that were enough to make me wonder.
I thought about finishing off the evening with a nightcap, but was a little hungry, so I thought about David’s Café, a place I’d walked by for a couple of days that looked pretty good. Yelp said it was open until 1:00, and it was only about 10:30, but when I went in, it was pretty empty. I asked the host/waiter if they were still serving, but he replied in a thick French accent that they weren’t. I asked how late they’d be open Sunday, but he didn’t seem to understand me or I didn’t understand him, so I left, kind of saying I’d be back soon.
As I’d walked there, though, I’d passed a literal hole in the wall, which was selling Feltman’s hot dogs. A guy (who turned out to be the cook) was standing outside, offering free samples, but I passed. Since I was hungry, though, and it was hot dogs, I went back. I took a sample, found them to be extremely good, and verified that the price was $5.00. He told me, though, that while that was the price for the regular size, the mini-dogs were a buck each. Suffice it to say that I ordered three of the minis (two with kraut and mustard, one with just mustard), and, reader, I ate them all. They were delicious and perfect hot dogs. There was also a neat little former speakeasy behind the black door in the photo below. It's a tiny little dive, and was virtually empty when I arrived at Feltman's. By the time I finished, though, it was full (of ghosts?). I'll go back eventually.
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