Hello, muffin

There’s nothing new about put-ting cranberries in English muffins; Wolferman’s has been doing it for as long as I can remem-ber. But, as much as I like Wolferman’s products, when it comes down to a basic muffin I still prefer the nooks and crannies provided by the common (and well-advertised) Thomas’ English Muffins. Unless I’m totally out of it, which is not unlikely, I never noticed any sort of berry appearing in a Thomas’ muffin before last week. I love cranberries and all of the products thereof, so I was pleased to pick up some Thomas’ “Limited Edition Seasonal Favorites” at my local Key Food (right up the block!). Fresh out of the package, toasted and crowned with a spot of jam I got an immediate case of the mmms, followed by an articulated yum! I hope Thomas’ decides to extend its cranberry “season” year ‘round for this product. Tip: also delicious with peanut butter.

*burp*

A week ago yesterday I suffered the horror of drinking a glass of incredibly over-priced Samuel Adams tap beer at Chelsea Piers in Manhattan. At least I sipped at it a little bit and abandoned the effort soon after; leaving it’s bitterness sitting on the counter.

Last Wednesday I had the occasion to be in the East Village and decided I needed to refresh my memory of good tap beer and headed for McSorely’s on East 7th which I’ve been to several times so I know they always have a nice variety of beer and ale on tap. On the way I happened to pass three small taverns on the same block and was intrigued to notice the middle one was named Burp Castle. “McSorley’s be gone,” thinks I; I had to see what lay beyond that name.

Burp Castle is a nice little place with lots of small tables, faux medieval décor and lavishly painted murals on the walls, mostly of drunken, robed monks cavorting about; sometimes with wanton bare-chested women. Since it was only about 3:45 the place was almost empty and I sat at the bar and consulted the menu of brews available…a VERY long list; I would guess 300 at least. The tap handles erupt along the bar and there must be 15 or 20 to choose from. A pleasant dilemma. The exceptionally cool bartender offered to help and asked me if I liked any special cocktail and when I told her I have recently reverted back to manhattans from a foray into cosmopolitans, she suggested a (a what?…oh, gawd, I’ve forgotten) and let me test this selection along with two others she thought I might like. How cool is that? I ordered a tall glass of her first suggestion, savoring its flavor and tartness and retired to the privacy of my NY Times for any tidbits of wisdom I could add to my half-vast storage area of useless information or, conversely, universal faults and schisms I might immediately resolve if I chose to do so. Whatever, I was feeling one with the world.

The only other people in the place were a group of five youngish (30’s) men sitting at tables in the back, obviously having a good time and also obviously playing hooky from their office which, from their chatter, I gleaned was nearby. At one point the bartender loudly shushed them and their decibel volume lowered at bit but, naturally, soon returned…it’s a bar for goodness sake…and people are drinking beer! But she shushed them again and then again. Since I was the only other customer I told her their talk didn’t bother me in the least and she said it’s part of the policy to try to keep things relatively quiet and that this “shushing” had become engrained in the ambience of the place. When Burp Castle opened in 1992 this behavior became a running joke, is now expected and it’s almost a point of pride with some customers to be told to shut up.

In the meantime other people wandered in (and out) and I noticed that she used a walkie talkie to order up some special beer/ale selections from the basement (dungeon?). A good-sized Igor would appear from below with the orders and I only wished he was wearing one of those brown monk robes that were hung in an alcove near the door. The bartender said that, yes, on busy nights the robes were indeed utilized by the staff. I guess she thought I looked sufficiently monkish tonsorial-wise and with the proper paunchiness because she offered to buy my beer if I would wear one. I was tempted because these special bubbles are not cheap, but I demurred since my dignity is such a precious thing ever since I became an adult (it's been at least five years now) and, besides, I didn’t want to be part of the entertainment. And I only wanted the one beer, anyway, good as it was.

They don’t serve food at Burp Castle but I did notice a stack of take-out menus on the counter and you can have anything you want delivered, probably a good thing if you plan on making a night of it there.

When I left I paid more attention to the bars on either side of Burp Castle. The three entrances are huddled together, sort-of, and it occurred to me that this could all be somewhat of a minor sham. I would bet dollars to an order of pomme frites they all share the brew basement, and maybe even the shambling Igor. Next time I’ll ask and maybe even remember the name of the beer I imbibed--it had a whisper and a whiff of raspberries that pleased the palate with no residual bitterness. And maybe I’ll just slip into one of those robes to get freebies. Well, probably not, it’s that dignity thing again.

Who put the ick in limerick?

You think a man dressed like a turkey
And gobbles his meal, might look jerky?
Do not be begrudgin’
A grouchy curmudgeon
His chance to be festive, but quirky!

bloomin' miracle

The common holiday cacti is a native of southeastern Brazil (where it is called the “May” cactus) and propagated in Britain 150 years ago. Somehow it has become attached to the holiday season and is known variously as the Christmas cactus, the Thanksgiving cactus and the Easter cactus, depending on who owns any particular plant and, thus, has the naming rights. It’s not normally a particularly attractive plant but it’s one of those fool-proof bits of greenery that is good to have about the house along with your ficus tree and snake plant. But unlike those two stalwarts, this time of year your schlumbergera truncata can reward your lack-of-attention with a spectacular gift of beauty. In the past mine has been a Christmas cactus but this year it is starting to bloom now; and it looks like it could very well peak on Thanksgiving, November 22. It’s gorgeous and a bloomin’ miracle!

Troubled Waters; Furrowed Brow

I know this blog is not as timely as it could have been. It’s just that I don’t want to do a whole lot of whining on here; or bitch at or bully an audience who might not give a hoot about the subject at hand. But this one has gotten to me and I had better get it out of my system or sink into a slough of despond, dragging those about me down into the dark and dreadful with my own tortured soul. Well, I guess I could shut up and bash my head against the wall.

But, well, ahem…

Last week the container ship Cosco Busan bashed into the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge and spilled an estimated 58,000 gallons of “bunker” fuel into San Francisco bay which then, as is the nature of oil spills, began its insidious spread across the troubled waters.

Environmentalists have been on the case of bunker fuel for decades because it’s literally a bottom-of-the-barrel type of oil that is 1,000 times dirtier than the diesel oil used in trucks and buses and is an “asphalt-like” substance that pollutes the air, endangers marine life and threatens human health. Although a clean-up effort is in the works, it is likely that this poison will remain in the Bay for many years.

Of course, the usual scenario, everybody is pointing fingers at everybody else and the legal profession has already jumped to the rescue, laying a defensive bank of rhetorical fog over the entire tragedy. Although I agree that placing blame is important in the scheme of things (yes, I vindictively want somebody to fork over a whole lot of money and maybe even go to jail); but a lot of good that does the dead and dying birds, animals and plants in the path of this spill.

I guess I’m especially incensed because I’ve recently been tempting the fates by writing paeans of appreciation to the bay area beaches, including Crissy Field, Cronkite (Rodeo) Beach, Ocean Beach and, last year, Stinson Beach, all of which are included in the list of 25 beaches that have been closed to the public because of this tragedy. Praising something to the gods, even on a blog, only seems to rile ‘em up. I think there are words for when you question this phenomenon. Oh, yeah, I remember: “Because you piss me off!”

Harry Potter's Penis

Last year the star of the Harry Potter movies, Daniel Radcliffe, took to the stage in London for a revival of Peter Shaffer’s wonderful play Equus. He was 17. The show packed ‘em in. Not surprising, I guess, since Mr. Radcliffe played the role that required a spot of nudity and I understand the bleachers were filled with bevies of pre and post-pubescent Muggle girls who somehow beat out the hordes of pedophiles of London society vying for the same on-stage seats.

Seriously, though, let us get real here. The one and only reason behind this revival, no matter how good it might have been, was Harry Potter's penis.

Equus was first performed at the Old Vic in London in 1973 and starred Alec McCowen in the lead role of Martin Dysart, a psychiatrist probing the motivations behind the sensational story (based on fact) of the blinding of six horses by a stable boy, Alan Strang. The role of the boy was taken on by Peter Firth, who continued on to the Broadway production in 1975 and the film in 1977. Equus won the Tony for best play in 1975. Anyway, Dysart is a tour de force role and was much sought after, and played by, some high powered A-list actors, including Anthony Hopkins, Richard Burton, Anthony Perkins (and even Leonard Nimoy). The role of Strang was, and is, a supporting role sensationalized by his brief nude scene.

Now comes Mr. Radcliffe with his pants down and, suddenly, the entire focus of the play changes. This includes the publicity for it and Equus becomes a play about full frontal nudity and the interest shifts to purient. Although I'm not a prude; honestly I'm not, I have always thought on-stage (and on-screen for that matter) nudity is gratuitous. This includes well-known theatrical endeavors like Hair and Wit. I'm not saying the sight of pubic hair is a turn-off; I'm just saying it creates an element I don't think is usually intended; that is, vulnerability becomes salacious and frankly, in my opinion, not at all necessary.

The role of the psychiatrist Dysart, played by Richard Griffiths (yes, Uncle Vernon in the Potter movies), is on stage much of the time but is now merely a man-in-waiting for our chance to get a glance at Harry Potter’s dangling participle. Doesn’t this seem a bit skewed to you? Well, it does to me and I won’t be laying out the bucks for this exposure next September when Harry Potter’s penis makes its debut on Broadway.

Dream Cream

Oh, baby, this may be my new ice-cream bar of choice. What genius thought this up? It satisfies the need for dark chocolate yet makes you feel like you’re doing your body a favor with the latest health-approved fruit. And on a stick!

A Saturday in Transylvania (Update Added)

Sometimes I think I’m so clever I outsmart myself. For months we’ve had our tickets for the new Broadway production of Mel Brook’s Young Frankenstein. My friends from Queasy, Mass. drove down specifically to see this show Saturday night. Feeling puckish (I guess) I thought it might be cool to also attend the matinee of the current off-Broadway production of Frankenstein, The Musical; a fully mounted take on the original book by Mary Shelley. I had visions of being able to say, oh, yeah, we had a perfectly MONSTROUS Saturday. So I bought tickets. Puckishly.

I have to admit this was a mistake. Frankenstein, The Musical takes itself so seriously it gives the word “turgid” new meaning. We all know the story: scientist abandons true love to create human life (presumably after having some success with a bird or two), he makes himself a big ol’ monster; the monster doesn’t much like himself or humans in general and badly misbehaves; everybody dies. This production is so misguided it’s hard to explain. Heavy, serious, musical drama about the making of a monster is obviously impossible. Or, at least, in the hands of the creators (cackle) of this particular monster.

However, you’ve got to hand it to this professional cast, they give it their all and the impression is that they believe in the material they are presenting. I don’t know what else they could do, really, besides fall to the floor ruefully laughing hysterically. The show is technically a marvel, which could be one of the problems since the technology overcomes common sense; just like getting the idea you can create life with it (cloning be damned). One of my personal problems was the miscasting of Hunter Foster as Victor Frankenstein, the dude with the deadly dream. Mr. Foster, let’s face it, is a hobbit in stature and demeanor and tends to scamper when the role requires manly strides. His voice is rock-nasal and cannot overcome the demands of the classically-based composition of the score. The man-of-the-hour, however, the creature himself, portrayed by Steve Blanchard (who sings well enough) but, maybe I shouldn’t admit this, his magnificent pectorals, nicely nippled, were horribly distracting. Hairless, glistening, perfect…and, I might add, usually heaving. It makes one wonder where Professor Frankenstein found those particular, and highly attractive, body parts. Surely, even in 1782, they could have cobbled together a comfy 9X shirt for him to wear.

Luckily we saw the two shows in the right order. If we had seen Young Frankenstein first there would have been no way to sit through Frankenstein, The Musical without staggering hysterically up the aisle in mid-tune.

A few seasons back Mr. Brook’s The Producers was a wonderful surprise and got us all on Susan Stroman’s bandwagon for her direction and choreography. She does a similar job in Young Frank except, I think, has the problem of having to top herself. She almost (almost) pulls it off and the evening is full of wonderful stuff, including some dazzling musical numbers (as expected). This makes it easy to recommend, even to the people who never saw or, if they did, are not fans of the movie on which it is based. With the exception of the “Puttin’ on the Ritz” number the movie is not a musical but, nonetheless, it is reproduced faithfully herein and then Stroman takes it into Broadway heaven with a stage full of…well, you’ll see.

The cast of Young Frank is uniformly excellent, with middle-star power whose wattage can be easily matched by the many replacements to come over the next ten years. Maybe Mr. Brooks realized his mistake with The Producers; that is, casting Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick in the leads and then, when these stars left to pursue other aspects of their careers, box office receipts hit the skids.

One thing of interest I had never paid attention to before: The Frankenstein story, in the original book and off-Broadway, takes place in the Bavarian Alps. Somehow or other, even though there seems to be quite a lot of Alp-ish rustics yodeling their lungs out, Mr. Brook’s has placed his story in Transylvania (the movie too). Someone must have pointed out this discrepancy to him so he has Dracula show up to make an offer on the castle in a tiny two-line throwaway scene during the finale. Well, it makes as much sense as the rest of the show. Young Frankenstein is a wonderful mess and I enjoyed it thoroughly. Old Frankenstein, off-Broadway, I can say bye-bye to without regrets except for my innate sorrow when people give a huge creative effort and then have to succumb to unemployment.

Overall, the day was a success…it included a couple of good meals strategically scheduled. Theatrically, even though the appetizer was less than adequate, the main course satisfied the senses. In the future I will attempt to be less puckish.
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Update: Young Frankenstein opened last night, 11/8/07, and Ben Brantley from the New York Times, with a few (very few) compliments essentially dumped all over it. Jeez, what a hard-ass; can't he just sit back and enjoy the silliness and the spectacle? I know sometimes I'm overly critical myself but at least I think I can usually recognize what the creators are aspiring to. To me, Young Frankenstein achieved that.

Canine Indignity

Sometimes Halloween just sucks!

Camping Out with Busch

Die Mommie Die is a revival of an off-Broadway camp-fest written by, and starring, Charles Busch. I suppose it could be considered “new” even though it was first performed in Los Angeles in 1999 and was made into a movie in 2003. It looks like Mr. Busch decided a New York opening was timely. Anyway, it’s fun and mindless and, yes, pretentious…but in a good way. It did, however, leave me wondering if audiences under 40 even remember who Joan Crawford is, much less buy into spoofs of her screen persona. A couple/three years ago Mr. Busch went mainstream with a Broadway show called The Tale of the Allergist’s Wife which I thought sort of bizarre coming from his pen. Was he trying to be Neil Simon?

Whatever, Die Mommie Die is the kind of show he is famous for and the kind of show that is expected of him and the kind of show he should stick to. I thought it bogged down about three-quarters of the way through with some complicated exposition explaining some hairy plot turns but the bog was circumnavigated cleverly if not all that surprisingly. I did, however, love Mr. Busch’s choice of murder weapon.

Since there are two shows scheduled on Saturday nights, 7:00 and 10:00, it was over really early (90-minutes without intermission) and weird to be back out on the street by 8:45 looking for space at a happenin’ restaurant in the theater district. One cool thing is that the Saturday before Halloween there are a large number of adults in costume heading somewhere important. I really should haul out my Captain America outfit; it still fits well and makes me look young and butch if I wear the jowl-covering headgear.