There is no drunken, old chap in your typical Manila beerhouse who is not familiar with the following verses: “Start spreading the news, I’m leaving today, I want to be a part of it...” Frank Sinatra was on to something when he sang the first few lines of this classic tune. Everyone wants to be a part of NYC, or at least take a bite of the delicious, delectable, magical fruit that awakens even the sleepiest. It’s a fruit so special that it begs a certain mystique, fantasy, and irreverence from the young and ambitious man about town — a fruit otherwise known as the Big Apple.
With an umbilical chord fueled by everything arts and anything culture, New York plays home to the ebullient 42nd street where the crème de la crème of theater crust together to delight audiences eight days a week. It is also home to the snazzy SoHo District where arts, fashion and culture meet and make wonderful offspring in the form of vintage apparel brands like Seven, Cheap Jack’s and Alice Underground. There are also home furnishing boutique like Jonathan Adler’s flagship store and C.I.T.E. Design. Uptown, there’s the Lincoln Center where the phenomenal revival of South Pacific is currently playing, 30 Rockefeller Center, home to NBC Studios and Tina Fey’s 30 Rock, an army of big yellow taxis that “takes your breath away,” and a panoply of avant-garde habituations such as the Whitney, the Museum of Modern Art, the Metropolitan Opera House, the New York City Ballet, and something as cultic as Chicken Rice — yes, a 53rd and 5th Persian al fresco eatery that everyone is just bananas about. Do I hear $6 bells-a-ringing? Top it off with a vanilla cupcake and a Snickers pie from Magnolia Bakery a few blocks up, dashed with sanguine spirits and wicked company, and you’re good to go.
Fortunately, I was ushered in for two rounds of New York merriment, one in mid-November for a vocational sojourn and titillating exploitation of post-College freedom, and another in early December as part of JDV’s controversial yet highly anticipated US book tour. Brett Decker, former editor of the Wall Street Journal, weaves the definitive chapters in the life and times of Jose de Venecia, five-time Speaker of the Philippine House of Representatives, in his authorized biography, Global Filipino. Call it his moral, political and transcendental tour de force — a surefire sensation that will rock the nation, not least, the fallen elf, ailing Santa, and their laughable ministrations. Better not cry, citizens!
As for the Big Apple, there seems no better complement to a Broadway marathon than to uncover New York’s arsenal of culinary gems. Carnegie Deli, located in Midtown Manhattan, boasts of a simple yet salivating menu showcasing the best kosher food on this side of continent. From corned beef brisket to the humongous pastrami roll, everyone between The Rock and Barack must have dined with that same gleeful satiation and excitement that comes with each mouthwatering bite. On average, one spends about $15 a person — a moderate sum in exchange for a satisfied customer and some doggie bags on the way out.
At nightfall, another gastronomic galleon awaits. From the proprietor of Wallsé in West Village, Thor, located along Rivington Street in Manhattan’s Lower East Side, speaks posh and chic as one of the area’s more popular restaurant-bar destinations. I stumbled upon the hip establishment while scouring the area with my pals Macky and Jared from the Big Apple. Thor’s offerings include a side of truffle fries that proved orgasmic with every handful, and potato gnocchi topped with wild mushrooms and slices of prosciutto. Best enjoyed with a glass of sparkling, a meal costs about $25 a person with emphasis on the mystifying $6 truffle fries. Operative word: truffle. Post-operative word: nirvana.
Then, finally, the namesake of restaurateur and award-winning host of Hell’s Kitchen, Gordon Ramsay, located at the London Hotel, along 53rd St. between 4th and 5th Ave. It was by far the most memorable and noteworthy of my culinary indulgences. With the aim of experiencing an emotional and palatable fete through the chef’s world-renowned cuisine, my cousin Ajja and I ventured into the gastronomic unknown: a hefty la dolorosa in exchange for some freshly-baked parmesan-encrusted bread; a light yet ambrosial rainbow trout served with avocado; sauce mousseline and fennel crisps; a trio of scallops in bacon vinaigrette; a selection of farmhouse cheeses with fig jam; a carnaroli risotto with light truffle shavings; and a Valrhona chocolate fondant with almond ice cream — all of which sings “Hail Mary”s on the palate. A three-course meal costs about $35 a person, with our overly enthusiastic selves earning us a sneak peek at Ramsay’s happening kitchen and wine cellar, courtesy of our very hospitable Filipino waiter. Signed, sealed and delivered, Gordon sure did sprinkle our road to Hell with good confections.
On a romantic New York evening in the Big Apple, armed with a Gingerbread or Eggnog Latte from Starbucks and a flair for adventure, the air seemed more magical when this Broadway baby touched base with the Mecca of his aspirations. The lights were just as neon, the sights as vivid, the sidewalk kebab and roasted peanuts as savory — Papaya Dog is queer-sounding but utterly delectable, and Virgin Records, still the perfect escape from the hustle and bustle of Times Square. It has now expanded to include a Rockband Station for its “trysumer” clientele — a neat pastime in between matinee and night shows. And of course, Midtown Comics on 40th and Broadway, a two-tiered establishment that brings out the inner geek, even within the most cynical of corporate heads.
While the Great White Way was heavily replete with celebrity (Katie Holmes in All My Sons, Daniel Radcliffe in Equus, and Jeremy Piven in Speed the Plow), captivating revivals like Pal Joey, American Buffalo and Irvin Berlin’s White Christmas — the whole shebang — I was quite flummoxed to be at the receiving end of both Broadway hits and Broadway misses, placing my thespian home team a little off center for this last quarter of 2008. That there was a worldwide recession and people were no longer as forgiving when it comes to not getting their money’s worth set too high an expectation of the theatrical talent pool. Sometimes, the pressure of crafting the next Wicked, Hairspray or Avenue Q is just too much to handle.
Among the promising gems that didn’t make the cut is Shrek: The Musical, starring Academy Award-winner Sutton Foster and Brian d’Arcy James. It follows the story of the first Shrek movie in which the protagonist is tasked by the dastardly Lord Farquaad to rescue Princess Fiona, a necessary component for the royal’s ascendance to the throne. Despite the gargantuan hype and movie studio backing, Shrek didn’t quite live up to the standards set by its Hollywood predecessor and seemed a cruel joke on the average theatergoer. Children became restless and adults painted forced smiles on unsatisfied faces. While one cannot deny Dreamworks Theatrical the merit of production values with scenes that showcased the digital Mirror on the Wall, Shrek just doesn’t readily translate to the theater like its Disney contemporaries. Thankfully, there are hummable tunes like the feel-good Big Bright Beautiful World and the catchy Freak Flag, and showstoppers from Foster who plays Fiona and Christopher Sieber who plays Lord Farquaad. But poor acting beats from Daniel Breaker as the supposedly-funny-but-not-really Donkey and humor that falls short for this Spamalot-meets-Into the Woods train wreck of a musical, made the project a bit too ambitious for what it had hoped to achieve.
On a brighter note, age-old classics made a colossal comeback this season, playing to sold-out crowds and Black Market demand. Gypsy, starring Triple Threat Tony Award winners Patti LuPone, Boyd Gaines and Laura Benanti, is a magnum opus that connects with audiences from Merman, Madonna and Miley’s generations. The set is modern, strategically minimalist, and fantasy-like, capturing the story of Gypsy Rose Lee, a notorious, overbearing stage mother who wants to make stars out of her daughters June, and eventually Louise, at the eclipse of the vaudeville era. The use of set indicators on theater-styled marquees, being constantly rehashed by actors on both sides of the stage, is whimsical and dynamic while the strobe light scene in which the young June and Louise transform into their older selves during a vaudeville number is theater magic at its best. Equally laudable are the metamorphosis of Louise from sweet, innocent girl to va-va-voom vixen Gypsy Rose Lee and just the sheer depth and brilliance of LuPone in Everything’s Coming Up Roses. These elements and many more rally to Gypsy’s inexorable perfection.
Meanwhile, Stephen Sondheim’s off-Broadway production of Road Show, although confused and unfocused at times due to its obscure production design and piecemeal story expositions, was privy again to the brilliant out-of-the-box orchestrations of award-winning director John Doyle. He made musicians out of his actors in the 2006 and 2007 revivals of Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd and The Company, getting stars like Raul Esparza and LuPone to play their own instruments. Where values are questioned and tested in so far as the inalienable pursuit of the American dream is concerned, seasoned Sondheim performers Michael Cerveris and Alexander Gemignani play brothers Willie and Addie Mizner, fellow salesmen who compete in a race to riches. Road Show’s music is prolific and oftentimes haunting, as evident in The Best Thing that Ever Has Happened and the Emerald City-sounding Boca Raton.
But between the classic South Pacific and the West End import Billy Elliot, East beats West in music, story and overall production design. The overture of South Pacific alone captures audiences at hello and is a foreshadowing of the judicious resplendence painted all over the classic Rodgers and Hammerstein musical. The seascape is breathtaking and intelligently done, and the set pieces were colossal proof of the economy and artistry that went into producing the well-loved show. Kelly O’Hara’s Nellie Forbush, a Florence Nightingale from Little Rock who is deployed into to the Pacific region during wartime, is sweet, charming, and delectably funny while Paulo Szot’s voice is deep, powerful and the perfect match for Frenchman Emile de Becque, a foreign inhabitant of the island who sings another Manila beerhouse favorite, Some Enchanted Evening.
Billy Elliot was a close second for its abstract exposition and superb dance sequences. By juxtaposing the protagonist’s struggles to become a ballet dancer with a conventional society about the plight of the middle class during Margaret Thatcher times, the import from the West End was out of the box and surpassed all expectations. With historical references here and there, it was actually the raw, primal passion behind Billy’s dancing that serves as the show’s calcium-fortified backbone. The expressionistic finale of Act One is as poignant and hair-raising as Wicked’s Defying Gravity. Although, the music of Elton John is sloppy and forgettable, unlike his previous theatrical endeavors, the acting, spectacle and brilliant movement of the performers sails through.
It’s midnight in the Big Apple. Looking out from the balcony of our hotel room at 35th and 8th, a cool breeze brushes against my cheek, as though it were a kiss from a one true love who awaits me in my sleep. I kick off my “vagabond shoes” (actually Chucks sullied by the unpredictable New York weather that has made it all the more difficult to traverse Manhattan by foot). One moment rain; the next, primal, unmistakable revelation. The smell of the rain-washed pavement is intoxicating. The air is sexy. The cold, numbing. But the sights and sounds, abso-bloody beautiful. I lie awake, and stare at the ceiling in awe of the chapter that has just closed and simultaneously begun — wondering where the next subway train will take me. You never know what happens next — until dreamland expires and you’re back in reality. If only “to make it there,” again and again and again, close my eyes and be right where I want to be — in the middle of Times Square, in the beautiful City that Never Sleeps, and no place else. If only to make it there, there and there, and not anywhere. Promises to keep, right before I sleep. “It’s up to you, New York, New York…”
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Catch your breath and let me know what you think at imcalledtoffee@mac.com.