vip in the city

New Year’s Eve travels

This morning, we received an early New Year’s gift from the City of Boston when the parking enforcement officer, instead of issuing us a parking ticket, alerted us to the sign near our car indicating that the street on which we had parked was reserved for Bay Village residents only. Oops. I had to suppress a smile when, as if on cue, she advised us in strong nonrhotic tones to “pahk the cah” not in “Hahvahd Yahd,” but on “Chahles.”

After services, JE and JC showed me to a Chinatown bánh mì shop, where I picked up some reinforcements for the Greyhound bus ride back to the city. After bidding adieu to the family, I was off.

I pulled into Port Authority in the midst of where the New Year Eve festivities were just beginning. The ambitious first wave of the expected million spectators had already arrived, securing their spots along the streets for the 100th midnight dropping of the ball in Times Square.

But not for me. First stop: the (farther) Upper West Side for DB and JS‘s party, where there was an open fire crackling on the garden patio and balls aplenty: risotto, meat, rice krispy, popcorn and donkey. (Well, the last was part of a party game.)

Some fruity champagne cocktails and vanilla bean-and-anise-infused vodkas later, we wished our hosts and new friends well, and set out once more into the night.

Migrations by Christopher Wynter (1999) at the 110th Street/Cathedral Parkway subway station. According to the artist, “the panels represent the ideas of uprooting, migration, and progress.”

In this spirit: onward, onward… to Chelsea!

On the ride downtown, we met this hardy couple — one veteran and one newbie — all geared up to hit 2007 running at the Emerald Nuts Midnight Run in Central Park. This New Year’s Eve 4-miler has been a city tradition since the first running in 1979. The New York Road Runners Club hosts the late-night gathering of sneakers and sweat, which begins at the Central Park Naumburg Bandshell. The event is co-sponsored by Emerald Nuts and also features activities for non-runners: champagne toasts, a costume parade and contest, a live DJ spinning dance tunes, and finally, fireworks timed to launch precisely at midnight to kick off the start of the race. The event helps raise money for the NYRR’s community services programs.

We arrived at JK’s to find the party in full swing. Lots of familiar faces, and soon enough, MB, LW, AC, DF and E bounced in. What youthful exhuberance! With mere minutes to spare before the stroke of midnight, there was little time to mourn missed connections before we had to make our way through winding hallways, packed elevators and a final flight of stairs to the rooftop of The Chelsea Mercantile.

10… 9… 8…

Except not really. Nobody has a watch with a seconds reading anymore! Staring at a cellphone, waiting for “11:59” to become “12:00” isn’t quite the same. But then suddenly, the streets below erupted into cheers, and brilliant fireworks from Times Square lit up the sky. From our vantage point, we had a clear view of similar displays launched from downtown and in Jersey. I popped the cork on the bottle of Veuve JK had pushed into my hands downstairs, and among friends old and new, we toasted to a new year and new possibilities.

Happy 2007, everyone!

Out and about in Beantown

New York City’s unseasonably warm winter — with its longest snowless streak since 1878 — almost made me forget how icy late December can be in the Northeast. That night in Cambridge, the mercury dipped to the upper 20’s. Luckily we had our very own drill sergeant vigilantly monitoring that we all were properly geared for the wind and cold at all times.

After assessing some of our options, we decided on a trip to Quincy Market for a little shopping among the post-Christmas lights. I like how the small, white bulbs delineate the outlines of the Greek Revival rotunda. The area has come a long way since its 19th century origins as a market for produce and freshly butchered meats — though the detritus of the nearby Haymarket manages to bring some of the gritty tradition back downtown on Fridays and Saturdays.

Mare in the North End was suspiciously devoid of diners, so JC suggested Giacomo’s Ristorante as an alternative. I later learned that the restaurant is something of a Boston institution for authentic Italian fare. Despite the early-ish dinner hour, we came upon a line of diners, huddling for warmth and stamping their feet in the biting cold, patiently waiting on Hanover Street for an opening inside the tiny, no-reservations dining room. We decided to brave it out, at one point seeking brief respite in hot coffee (no sfogliatelle this time) from Mike’s Pastry Shop down the block.

JC pointed out to me the sign in the restaurant window, touting Giacomo’s appearance on Rachael Ray’s $40 a Day. Ray had the Pumpkin Tortellini, after which she no doubt left the server with one of her customary paltry tips.

Sooner than expected, we were ushered in through the set of double doors — open one at a time to keep out the chill! — to a wooden table from which we had a clear view of the open kitchen and the wall-mounted chalkboard menus. The waitstaff was friendly, yet brusquely efficient; we’d barely taken off our coats and listened to descriptions of the five house sauces when our appetizer order (Fried Calamari) was taken and shouted to the kitchen. It hit the table minutes later, piping hot and crisply battered.

The House Special Zuppa di Pesce platter is advertised for two, and features a whole top-split lobster, circled by shrimp, scallops, rings of calamari, whole clams and mussels, tossed in a steaming heap of al dente linguini with our chosen spicy, lobster-based Fra Diavolo sauce. Ha, I’d like to meet the two people who could finish this.

We supplemented the seafood mountain with the waitress-recommended Butternut Squash Ravioli with diced Asparagus in a Prosciutto, Marscapone Cheese Cream Sauce, which was wonderfully sweet and creamy. The Chicken Marsala tasted strongly of sweet wine and was generously studded with mushrooms and pieces of prosciutto. With this meal, I officially joined the ranks of Giacomo’s devotees.

We were about 2/3 of the way through our Zuppa, when the waitress came by to ask nicely, but meaningfully, if our party would be needing anything else that evening. With table space at such a premium — and front windows offering full view to the sidewalk lined with impatient, would-be diners — the staff does not encourage lingering; Giacomo’s doesn’t even offer dessert.

We hastened our exit and with bellies full, drove through wintry streets, taking in the sights of Boston on the eve of First Night. JB had described the annual event, now in its 31st year, as “pretty corny, but sweet in its way.” Beginning the afternoon of New Year’s Eve through the stroke of midnight, the city hosts a large party with cultural activities in venues throughout downtown: live theatre, visual arts, dance and music performances, interactive exhibits and films. The grand finale features fireworks on Boston Harbor, a Mardi-Gras style Grand Procession and a midnight countdown on Boston Common. I alone would be missing out on the festivities this year, while the rest of the family stayed on in Boston to ring in 2007. Maybe someday.

Credit to Dad and his new Christmas camera for the two photos below.

The Massachusetts State House (1798) with flag flown at half-mast. A bit of trivia (via Wikipedia): Highway signs indicating the distance to Boston are measured not to the city limits as is usual, but to this State House dome.

On the drive up to Boston, I told Dad about my neighborhood Blockbuster Video’s recent closing (going the way of so many other video stores) and we got onto the topic of the Netflix business model, which was the subject of recent features on 60 minutes  and in The New York Times. Netflix’s site claims that the company is democratizing movie distribution, promoting small, well-made films as widely as major studio, big-budget films. One of its great success stories surrounds Hotel Rwanda, a small, critically-acclaimed film which made only $23.5 million in theater when it was released in 2004. Netflix subscribers rallied around Hotel Rwanda, rating it highly on the site’s recommendations system, which in turn raised the film’s profile, and launched it into becoming Netflix’s fifth most-rented movie of all time, outperforming such blockbusters as Wedding Crashers and The Bourne Supremacy. (2005’s Crash, which made a middling $54.5 million in the theaters, holds the title of Netflix’s most-rented movie of all time.)

Dad found inspiration in Paul Rusesabagina’s story of one man’s courage in the face of mass slaughter, and as it happened, none of us had yet seen the film either. Off we went to JE & JC’s (still open) local Blockbuster — and its Chagall-inspired murals outside.

Of note… according to the New York Times piece, out of the 60,000 titles in Netflix’s catalog, the number of films that are rented at least once on a typical day is an astounding 35,000 to 40,000. (Most people vastly  underestimate the number to be about 1,000.) “Every day, almost two of every three movies ever put onto DVD are rented by a Netflix customer.” This statistical distribution model is further explored in Chris Anderson’s 2004 Wired  article and 2006 bestselling book, The Long Tail.

Hotel Rwanda  was gut-wrenching as we knew it would be, and Don Cheadle’s Academy Award-nominated performance was powerful and brilliantly understated. I’m convinced he would have taken home the Oscar that year, had he been up against anyone else but Jamie Foxx. Tough break. As the final credits rolled, we were so drained that we couldn’t even bring ourselves to start The Break Up, which we had rented as a palate-cleanser. Perhaps it’s just as well.

To Boston

Good-bye, Whitestone! 

Met Mom and Dad this cloudy morning for the ride North to visit JE & JC in the 02138. Here’s the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge, as seen from our rear view mirror.

Putting our full faith in the GPS system directed us onto an unfamiliar route, through stone tunnels (“Remove sun glasses”) and winding Connecticut roads, lined with snow-dusted trees. The detour ended up shaving about 40 miles off the entire trip. Cheers to Garmin!