1) My purpose in swooping down on mad Manhattan a second time this November was to attend the opening night Monday of A Sherlock Carol starring my high school friend Drew. Thank goodness I rechecked the times of everything #dangeroustoassume. My train left two hours earlier than I thought I’d reserved, and the curtain time was one hour earlier than expected!
Le smize sur le train.
2) My train trip down was punctuated by the occasional whimpering of a dog a few rows down. This made me feel alternately sympathetic and irritated.
3) On arrival, my first stop was the Algonquin, where I had not stayed since January, 2020. Previously I have mentioned that the Algonk is my spiritual home in New York. Ever since I discovered Margaret Case Harriman’s Blessed Are the Debonair on one of the discount racks at Brattle Books, I have just loved the saga of Frank Case, his hotel, and its theatrical residents. Margaret brought that whole world and period to life so vividly in her book, and in his way, so did her father in his books Tales of a Wayward Inn and Do Not Disturb. To sit in its lounge and order a drink was always to recall the story of Patrick Dennis taking Agnes Gooch there on Christmas Night after seeing the Radio City Christmas spectacular. I just loved it.
That big table is round, but it is not the Round Table.
3a) When I walked through both sets of double doors, I stopped in shock, stunned. The Algonquin had been redecorated!
3b) My poor, sweet, beautiful, loving, patient, and long-suffering friends have heard me go through this before. They might as well quote Fred MacMurray in Double Indemnity saying to Edward G. Robinson, “OK, let’s turn the record over and hear the other side.” They heard my volcanic rage when First Methodist “remodeled” the sanctuary in the early 1990s so that it looked more interior-decorated and less dignified (and eliminated both aisles because of unimaginative brides and their mothers who could only envision a triumphant entrance and exit on one center aisle). They did not hear (but may have felt) my sadness and disappointment when my high school tore down Grunow Theatre to expand the Dance Building. Sure, it had been condemned for years and was even falling down and infested with skunks when I was a student, but a) that isn’t my fault, and b) it was a chalice for my youth. I am absolutely sure that there have been other occasions, and someone is likely to pop off and remind me about it/them in pointed detail. I deserve it. I recognize my insufferability.
3c) But . . . the Algonquin Hotel is — WAS — a landmark of a Great Era in New York Theatre and Literature, beyond what I feel about it myself. Frank Case and his indulgence of the characters who became known as the Algonquin Round Table made the Algonquin a place. NOW . . . all that beautiful dark paneling has been painted white, the furnishings were stolen from a 1960s airport, and some truly atrocious light fixtures have been installed. Everything that made the Algonquin charming, historic, individual, has been erased to leave it just like any other Marriott Hotel.
3d) They even got rid of the Round Table!
Margaret Case Harriman opens Blessed Are the Debonair with a remembrance of this clock.
3e) At least they kept the tall case grandfather clock and four or six of the original dining room sconces. Barely a ghost whispering into a modern void.
4) Enough of that. After I checked in and dropped my bags, I sallied forth for a late lunch and then to explore the Diamond District on 47th Street. An Instagram merchant from whom I purchased something earlier this year was only a couple blocks from the Algonk, so I thought I’d check in. The atmosphere — of the street and the storefront where this merchant had a booth — was too active and brightly lit for me to be able to concentrate. Homeless, Hasidim, tourists, natives, people of all kinds bustling and hustling about over these Gorgeous Little Bits. Truly, I found it overwhelming.
5) After some minor plastic surgery in my room, I suited up for the theatre. Because this was a show about Sherlock Holmes, I’d worn my cape from Venice, and if I do say so myself, I looked quite nice. Between getting my ticket and heading in for the show, I lingered in a small bar near the theatre . . . that hadn’t yet received its liquor license. The owner was most obliging, but the experience was, shall we say, lacking.
6) At the theatre, I cast about for examples of the “festive attire” we’d all been encouraged to wear. This trip decided me that from now on, my answer to the dress code “festive attire” will be to wear one (or both) of my Gramma’s Mexican silver filigree brooches. Early on it was mostly flannel shirts and down jackets, which made me feel overdressed and confirmed my opinion at that the middle class has just given up. But later, I saw some sparkly dresses, one very thin gentleman in a suit of shiny winter white, and some other “deft and tasteful suggestions.” The whole affair definitely felt like an occasion — which is what one wants on opening night!
7) I knew no one in a theatre full of people who already knew each other, but did have a delightful exchange with the woman sitting one seat away from me when we realized that no one would be sitting between us and we could use that seat for our belongings. I was so happy not to have to sit through the show with a five-pound black wool cape in my lap!
8) A Sherlock Carol, to be clear, was an absolute triumph on all counts. Having attended the first preview November 11, I could see where things had been tightened, brightened, enhanced, smoothed out, polished — all to magnificent effect. Particularly the Blue Carbuncle, an important plot element. It was very easy to stand for an ovation at the curtain call; what a great night of theatre!
9) But with no after party due to COVID, I was left to myself to figure out dinner. Remembering our lovely dinner at Russian Samovar two blocks away, I thought to dine at the bar. On arriving, I couldn’t even enter the restaurant without the Nice Young Woman outside the entrance asking “Oh, the Etiquetteer! Are you here for the memorial service?” Oopsie, private party! I pressed on down 52nd Street with that awkward feeling of awkwardness averted and ended up at Gallagher’s, a restaurant with a large meat room visible from the street. I sat at the curve of the bar and had a very gentlemanly dinner of 120 years ago: wedge salad, filet mignon with mushroom garlic butter, a pie-sized plate of hash browns, and profiteroles. No wonder the twins are due any day now!
10) In the morning, I drifted down 6th Avenue and Broadway to 28th Street, and over to 5th Avenue with a length of fabric from Liberty’s in my gloved hand, rediscovered thanks to Marie Kondo. And so I was fitted for my first-ever custom shirt by a man who looked very much like Al Franken, especially around the eyeglasses, and kept talking about off-topic topics like the theatre, restaurants, New York, specific Broadway productions, not my shirt. But I enjoyed the experience of this active theatrical atelier (they also do a lot of theatre work), and I’m afraid I left with a few swatches of some exquisite pale grey shirting that just make my mouth water.
11) Afterward I continued drifting to Union Square, in spite of my first resolve not to visit a bookstore this trip*. Their Christmas Market was going on, which led me to a) purchase a couple gifts for family members, and b) have such happy memories of Mother that I called my sister and we talked for quite awhile. Mother, as Empress of the church craft fair, would have loved so much about almost every booth I saw. Some of the offerings were so much in her style! It was pleasant to remember her in this context, and to share that with my sister just before Thanksgiving.
12) Later in the afternoon I met with an etiquette colleague in the lobby of the Ace Hotel — coincidentally, just around the corner from where I was fitted for my shirt. We had a wide-ranging conversation over coffee in deep armchairs, touching on issues light and heavy.
13) At this moment I am on the train, barreling through the black night toward home, near the end of my second bourbon and water, occasionally seeing the waning moon glowing in the night, listening to my latest musical obsession (from Grouplove in 2011), grateful and a little wistful for all the experiences I’ve just had.
14) How on earth can Thanksgiving be less than 48 hours away?!
*Union Square is perilously close to Strand Bookstore.
