Spiderman

Okay, let's see. Contusions, sub-concussive head injuries, broken wrists, broken ribs, and internal bleeding--I guess they're having some technical difficulties over at The Foxwoods Theater.

Let's just say that Spiderman is having far bigger than technical problems. The whole thing is so jaw-droppingly bad it is mystifying. The book goes so wrong it's hard to even know what to say (why did they change it at all?). And the score just doesn't fit the show it was written for. The whole thing is a hot mess. When the curtain came down for intermission my daughter turned to me, her face seemed to have gone numb, "They gotta get somebody in here" she said.

But who are they going to get? Nobody is going to come fix a Julie Taymor production. As they say--not gonna happen. You get a huge talent like that, and you take the good with the bad. They bring us new ways to see. New ways to feel. But they are not typically open to a whole lot of "constructive criticism.".

Hey, I am a huge Julie Taymor fan. I remember hearing she had been given the job directing The Lion King, and thinking what a stroke of genius had hit Disney. And it was. The magic of her daring artistry transformed what would likely have been a bland or crass commercial production into something else, indeed: an immensely enjoyable and accessible work of art.

The opening scene of The Lion King can still bring about that joyful breeze up my spine in the remembering. The residents of the jungle arriving down the aisle to Elton John's soaring score heralded the arrival of a genuinely new experience. And the puppets. Oh my god, the puppets. Had you ever seen anything like them before? I certainly hadn't.

So when I heard she was doing Spiderman, with music and lyrics by Bono and The Edge, I simply couldn't wait. What magic this time? What new realm of the imagination would she explore for us this go-round? I held my breath and waited. Alan Cumming signed on. Evan Rachel Wood would be MaryJane. All kinds of happy speculation about who would be Spidey.

Then we heard things were going wrong. First was the production cost: scheduled originally at $20 million (already the most expensive Broadway production in history) it headed skyward: $30Million, no $40Million--could it actually become a $50Million Broadway musical? Um, no. It became a $65Million Broadway musical, a sort of money-devouring juggernaut. Well, ok. So they would need to sell out The Foxwoods for three years, every night at full price, to recoup the investment. Not unheard of. Certainly Julie had done that with The Lion King; Wicked makes it look like child's play. But no one in their right mind had ever even come close to spending on a stage production, the phenomenal amounts spent on movies with worldwide reach.

But it was worse than that--we heard it wasn't very good. It wasn't taking shape. And the bloodlust filled the air. Oh, the schadenfaude. Michael Reidel in the Post could not contain himself--his column was giddy with predictions of doom. But I don't know--it's Julie Taymor for god's sake. It must be better than they say.

It isn't. Oh, the sets are sorta great. Really. The lighting is superb. And the flying is pretty damned cool. There's a scene with giant puppet heads and giant comic-style sets that is completely thrilling. In fact, I would say that the mise en scene is one of the best I've ever seen. In the service of nearly nothing.

Just a few notes about things. There is a sort of Greek chorus of comics-loving teens that set the scenes. It doesn't work. Peter Parker is played as a complete nebish rather than the stifled, repressed font of possibility he is. It doesn't work. The goddess Arachne hovers over the proceedings in completely unintelligible ways. When I saw it, in the third week of previews, the whole thing worked so little that the lead producer came out before the opening to tell us they were trying a new ending tonight. What? Three weeks into previews of the most expensive production ever, they were trying out a new ending!?! It didn't work.

Oh, well. Life upon the wicked stage.

Pulino

I know I waxed rhapsodic about Paulie G's. And I want to go on record defending my words. Paulie G's crust is sublime, perhaps without equal.

But Pulino's pizza is better. There, I've said it.

OMG, their polpettine pizza, with bits of small italian meatballs and sprinkled with a sort of pesto of peppers is my new favorite pizza. In fact, my new favorite meal is: their polpettine pizza, with their toasted pumpkin salad (that's right, toasted pumpkin) with the hearty but somehow delicate canneloni. Heaven.

Let me do the rundown. This salad is by far my favorite salad anywhere these days. It is made with shredded red cabbage, frisee, pine nuts, the aforementioned small chunks of toasted pumpkin (ok, toasted pumpkin is seriously delicious) and a deeply felt smattering of pancetta with a light but super-flavorful vinegrait. The canelloni is cheese-rich. The pasta itself seems too delicate for the heft of it, yet somehow works perfectly.

But it is the pizza, the pizza that I dream about. We are talking daydreams and sleeping dreams. Talking driving dreams and walking dreams. I think it’s about he cheese/oil/sauce proportion. It develops a sort of fusion that you rarely see. I, for one, am always hoping for it--the pizza arrives and the air is pregnant with hope: the sum will be greater than its parts. Rarely does it happen. Yes, there is pizza with great crust, artisanal cheese, whatever. But the ethereal pizza born of the massive Italian Pulino ovens has achieved that elusive, elevated thing--it is a thing unto itself . It cannot be deconstructed. However--the oil infuses the crust, the cheese and oil seem to activate each other, the sauce sits with them in what feels like perfect harmony.

Has Keith McNally entered a sort of do-no-wrong zone? He has opened, in rather rapid-fire succession: Minetta Tavern, Morandi, and now Pulino. I should tell you that the place is crowded. All the time. And it's a little expensive for pizza. It's at Houston and Bowery. It attracts: hipsters, seekers of cool new places, art-y downtowners, foodies. It has an eight-top table that seems permanently reserved for groups of girls in their twenties.

Listen, the place is great. Go.

La Bete

Ok, hold on, I may have spoken too soon.

There's still no doubt--Al Pacino is giving one of those performances so powerful that it pins you to your chair, you can't move, then flings you skyward as he takes you soaring. It's utterly amazing.

But wait. You only have to go around the corner, down Shubert Alley to The Music Box, to be enthralled by the next magnificent performance of the season (how much do you love Broadway when it just comes at you like that?). If you haven't heard yet--Mark Rylance is killin' em in La Bete. Killin' em! It is the kind of tour-de-force performance that unearths all your sense of awe and delight at the very craft of acting. His delivery and timing are simply superb.

In rhyming verse, his opening 25 minute monologue is a thing so precise, yet so daringly vertiginous, that I dare say, it approaches perfection. Making his Moliere-esque entrance, Valere (Rylance) is immediately disgusting. He's still carrying two quartered slices of melon from dinner, and spits all too large chunks of it with his first words. Not allowing you to even have your laugh yet, he spits more word-born melon only moments later, more still a few words on. It seems he's always spitting something with his long-winded pronouncements. You can't believe the scatological things he does, quite blithely, without a moment's pause in his discourse. It's really quite amazing--you cannot believe he is even doing these things.

How is it possible to not only keep your attention during a 25 minute monologue--but for it to grow ever rapt as you are drawn powerless to the end? I don't know. One thing I do know is that David Hyde Pierce has to be the best listener on Broadway. How in the world does he listen so eloquently? It is enthralling to watch these two masters of their craft stand in such equipoise.

Not that they quite needed it, but Joanna Lumley brightens further the proceedings. She's terrific as the annoyed queen, sitting and judging the players as they don their masks.

All I can say is: get Yee to The Music Box theater. You don't see a thing like this everyday.

The Merchant of Venice

I'm going to go on record early. The Tony for Best Actor in a Play goes to Al Pacino.

I think we can just give it to him now. His portrayal of Shylock is not only the best I've ever seen--it is one of the finest performances I have ever seen on the boards. Period.

That means I am ranking it up there, way up there, with Janet McTeer's Norah in A Doll's House, with Denzel Washington in the recent revival of Fences, Brian Dennehy in Death of a Salesman, Zero Mostel in Fiddler on the Roof, Jason Robards in Long Days' Journey into Night. Oh, yeah--that's what I'm doing.

Pacino gets this so right it's breathtaking. Yes, the production is nearly flawless, his supporting cast is as fluid as anyone could hope for, and the set is a sort of magical erector kit of moving steel. But it is Pacino's Shylock that is the spellbinding center of this near-perfect production.

To marvel at his posture, to watch him wear his ancient feelings on the sleeve of his Jewish prayer clothes, to behold the essence of his Jewish heritage conveyed in one shrug--this is the kind of magic you only catch on the stage every once in a rare while. "I want my bond," he shouts, refusing even triple the original debt, "I want my bond," with the plaintive cry of desperate revenge.

How often do you get to watch a master at the peak of his powers? How often do you have a chance to hang onto his coattails as he takes you soaring above the stage? Not very often I'm afraid.

Hey Lily Rabe is turning in her Portia with gusto and David Harbour's Bassanio feels like a warm chocolate cake of a guy. They're just right. And Daniel Sullivan's deft directorial hand is nowhere as well-suited, nor as well-used as it is here.

But, hey, go see Pacino. You will regret it when we are discussing the greatest performances ever some years from now if you don't. It is happening right now at the Broadhurst theater--in what may be the high-water mark for Shakespearean productions on Broadway. It is here for a brief, all too brief, 78 performances--still, let us be thankful.

Bay Burger

Look, in case you haven't heard--Bay Burger in Sag Harbor is seriously terrific.

Hey, I've been waiting for a good burger in the Hamptons for a long time. Sometimes I get my hopes up--only to have them dashed again. Yes, I remember the glory days of O Malley's in the alley. I remember the high hopes we shared for the the short-lived Grand Cafe replacement. But nothing endures. And the Corner Bar, the Corner Bar, for all it's vaunted praise, truly makes an inferior burger. Even the new LT Burger is only adequate, burger-wise (the Dreamsicle shake, however, is a blast!).

But Bay Burger? Bay Burger is the real deal. An honest-to-goodness burger place you can rely on and hang out at into the foreseeable future. Thank god for Joe and Liza. He used to run the Burger Joint at the Parker Meridien. She made serious desserts for a living. So who's surprised that their place knocks the thing out of the park. He's at the grill and she's cranking out the homemade ice cream.

Bay Burger is in it's third summer of making the best burger on the east end. Hey, let's just say it--Joe knows his way around a burger. The roll is right. The grill is hot. And the burger itself is simply delicious! Charred beautifully, seared and juicy. What can I say? Bay Burger is a smash!

My meal: a cheeseburger, tater tots, and a diet coke. I'll bet you can guess whether I have ice cream too.

And what ice cream! The ice cream may actually be better than the burgers (gasp!). Liza keeps a few flavors at all times, and some in heavy rotation, but mixes it up with the others every few days. All I know is: don't miss the Hostess Cupcake or the Cookie Monster. Or the black cherry. The black cherry is way better than black cherry ever had any right to be. Hey, I haven't encountered a night when black cherry and Hostess cupcake were both available--and I'm not sure I want to ever be in that tight a spot!

Listen, just go. You'll be glad you did. And if you like being a regular, like me, this is a helluva place to call home.

Steak au Poivre: My Night at Raoul's

My friend Kristy and I were at Balthazar when we began the steak au poivre discussion. There was tension in the air anyway that night. A thousand dollar bet was even proffered by her regarding the authorship of Homebody/Kabul (Is she nuts betting me about that?). But when I announced that Balthazar had surprisingly yummy steak au poivre, she became sort of implacable, indignant almost.

She was like, "Yeah, ok." I could see about the look on her face. It's true, I wasn't quite sure if she was underscoring her already clear message to me, that our relationship should stay on platonic terms, or merely demonstrating her extreme exception with anything I might say that night. Look, she made no bones about it though, "Raoul's has the best steak au poivre in New York."

Although Kristy allowed that her steak was better than expected--our evening at Balthazar was eventually revealed to be about the creme brulee. Hey, if you are a creme brulee fan, do not miss Balthazar's. The thing is not just caramelized; it is hardened by the torch to an almost peanut-brittle consistency. The traditional tapping of the spoon on the surface does not break through with merely modest force. It just begins to sound like the tap-tap-tapping of the wood of the toe-shoes during a sweep across the stage of the corps de ballet. And the custard is super-vanilla with a confounding but satisfying combination of velvety with stiffened texture.

But here's the deal--Kristy was right about Raoul's. I guess I had simply forgotten how fucking delicious the steak au poivre is there. I forgot that it is one of the great standard dishes for me. Forgot that it is a sort of time-honored staple of New York nightlife.

I guess I haven't been there in I-don't-know-how-long because Raoul's always had a certain feel of integral downtown/artworld/hip-ifying of Soho experience. Two of my friends had, in fact, expressed concern that the place might have closed for business. No, we just haven't gone. I, however, will be back very soon. And soon again after that.

Why wouldn't I? The place is still cool, and it still feels great. The crowd: creative, fit, and ready to go out. The real reason though: I am a steak au poivre freak.

Freak! I will travel great distances and suffer the slings and arrows of culinary fate to follow down an au poivre sighting. And the steak au poivre at Raoul's is exactly what I want in the dish. The steak is well-marbled and, thank god, avoids the French cafe curse of toughness. But mostly--come on--the sauce is divine. They accomplish a piquant, slightly complex sauce combined with a richly peppered steak surface beautifully. Inimitably. It is spicy and rich and textured and leaves you in a sort of pepper-induced trance of flavor. I'm telling you--it is good good.

It is now 23 hours since I had my steak there. But I know you're not surprised I want another one--right now. I cannot wait to go back. And neither should you.

Filthy Talk for Troubled Times

Neil Labute's "Filthy Talk for Troubled Times" is being given a staged reading for three benefit performances by MCC at the Lucille Lortel June 3-5. This is the first time the piece has been seen in public since 1990. Interesting as hell though. Here we see Labute's early exploration of his through-themes, well before he burst on the scene with his plays and movies, especially the theme-setting "In the Company of Men (1997)," whose trash-talking guys were an interesting shock to the moviegoing public.

The characters in Filthy Talk certainly deliver on the title's promise. Julia Stiles' (delivering her inimitable stolid but perturbed best) character (Waitress 2) muses, "...wouldn't it be better if we women could just share one Penis? We could keep it in a freezer somewhere..." Waitress 1 (Alice Eve, in a surprisingly nuanced performance for a staged reading) describes her one orgasm, "...I had my orgasm in 2005. Don't get me wrong, I was grateful and I thanked the guy profusely..." She says you could do anything though, and guys just won't go down on you--they don't know how to do it, still she muses, "...but it is just licking, isn't it?"

This in the context of the guys' syncopated machismo. Man 4, in a rant typical of a Labute combatant, swaggers, "...I couldn't believe that gasher...what a cunt." "I know, no slit is worth it," responds Man 3. But we still see their clunky attempts at connection. Many attempts. They just all tend to result in the ennui of filthy-talking accumulated disappointment.

Is that what Labute is telling us? Is all the world-weariness, all the hard-edged battle of his raunchy sexes their natural defense against intimacy, against rejection? Is this just his way of exploring the fundamental story--how do we ever manage to come together? Is this Labute telling us it's all just bluster--these blusterers are really broken-winged birds?

The question of how deeply we can and do hurt each other in the attempt to find romantic connection is always on Labute's mind in his remarkable trilogy. That his characters happen to stumble into their own angry defiance, their elaborate disgusting defenses flown as semaphores, seems inevitable in Labute-world.

Rachel Weisz's chilling performance as the graduate student working on her MFA project in "The Shape of Things (2002)" is a marvel of false bravado. The gauntlet she makes Paul Rudd's character run is brutal: his lonely desire baldly exploited for her sad little narcissistic needs. She's pretty, but she's brutal. Is that why she's brutal? What guy wouldn't come away wary?

I'm a serious fan of the trilogy. Until "Fat Pig (2004)" I wasn't aware it even was a trilogy, a sort of meditation on sexual roles in our "troubled times." When Jeremy Piven falls for the quite overweight but intellectually alluring librarian, he is given to extreme self-doubt and put through the mill by his friends. That we are presented with Kerri Russell, our very own Felicity, as the counterpoint to the librarian--well, it left me, and I'm sure a good part of the men in the audience measuring their own prejudice.

"Reasons to be Pretty (2008),) in rounding out the trilogy, puts two couples into action around each other. Their four monologues, delivered as plaintive missives from beyond the fight, stand for me as the culmination of Labute's message: we're in this together, we haven't the first idea how to connect, and it is easier to hurt you and demean you , than to face my deepest fears.

I for one am grateful that Labute has been given such freewheeling license, as playwright-in-residence of MCC, to send forth his vision. It is a fitting benefit for MCC and a fitting tribute to Labute that we get to see the underpinnings of his piercing characters from this early work. Bravo.

Round Swamp Farm

Memorial Day Weekend. Round Swamp Farm re-opened for the season exactly 21 days ago. 21 blessed days! I don't know about you, but for me it's been a long, cold winter. The wait from Thanksgiving until Round Swamp opens again is a hold-your-breath kind of thing. Who wants to go into a kind of extended withdrawal from every kind of ultimate summer delight? Never mind that--how can a person even tolerate being without their coconut cream pie??? How?

If you are not an initiate, let me give you the low-down. Round Swamp Farm is the farm stand you would expect to find on the road to heaven. It is a marvel--it looks and feels so perfectly as you want it to, that it seems to have materialized through some sort of otherworldly computer-generated holograph.

Let me say that I am very happy when I am there. I am very much aware of being alive at Round Swamp Farm; aware, too, of my proud place, shoulder-to-shoulder, within a community of deeply discriminating devotees.

When I walk in from the gravel parking lot under the widespread shade tree, deep-set off Three Mile Harbor Road in East Hampton--I have a brief moment of feeling like the world is, and always has been, an abundant, loving place to live. I don't know if you noticed, but I'm talking about a farm stand, right? Anyway, in that state of innocence and blessing, I begin. And let's just say this--they do not fuck around at Round Swamp Farm.

The first of three baked-goods areas hits you right as you walk in. There you will behold Lisa's famous "Ultimate Cookies (chocolate chip, raisin, you name it)," and her "Lemon Drops," along with the new "Almond Drops." The drop cookies are tiny round shortbreads. But dare I say--they are so much more. To me, for instance, they are the way to have a soul-warming breakfast. They are the way to have a snack that feels measured by its serenity. But let's not get stuck there--the raspberry-filled cookies are a matter of deep, deep stuff. They come nine to a pack, and they are hard to get home. I have taken a raspberry cookie poll of my Round Swamp brethren, and they agree--hard to get home. Hey, it's not just their cookies--I've been known to finish their macaroni salad in the parking lot (and I don't even like macaroni salad).

And that is just the barest of starts. Five and a half feet further on you encounter a door through which you enter the refrigerated produce room. Come on--shouldn't everyplace have a refrigerated room to choose your produce from in the summer? Well, this one has the best looking basil this side of San Remo, Charlie's arugula, and corn picked fresh all day from their fields out back. But it's not just the incredible herbs, fruits, and amazing swath of lettuce varieties--the room has total magic. Just leave it at that.

Another seven feet and you've encountered the realm of the chicken. Realm of the chicken? Well, yeah. There is no place I know of where I am more inclined to buy so many different forms of chicken! Not even close. Without wanting to reprise the shrimp-list-scene from Forest Gump, herewith a list of my regular chicken purchases: chicken salad (let's not even get into it--it's simply chicken, no gimmicks whatsoever, and better than it ever should be), chicken buffalo balls, roasted chicken (make no mistake--Lisa roasts a mean chicken), chicken skewers, chicken pot pie (I am a serious chicken pot pie man, and this is the very best chicken pot pie in the world), picnic chicken, chicken tenders, chicken wontons (new last year--these things are the most ridiculously addictive pop-ems ever), chicken dumplings...excuse me, I'm entering a sort of Round Swamp Chicken-induced fugue state.

But wait, we haven't even come yet to the thing everyone rhapsodizes about at Round Swamp--their pies! Ok, let us be reverent here. There is nothing here to be taken lightly. These are the most supernal, everlastingly delicious pies that will ever pass your lips. These are not regular pies. I am sure that if I stood with Lisa, in her kitchen, with her ingredients, and she told me exactly what to do and how to do it, correcting technique--whatever she needed--that I could not produce one. The crumbled crust is a thing of wonder, with tendrils that reach down deep. Into your soul. If I ever have to somehow choose the best summer dessert ever--it might be her blueberry-peach crumb pie. Except that it might be her coconut cream pie (also new, two years ago).

Hey, I hadn't had a slice of coconut cream pie until Round Swamp brought it roaring back into my life, since I was a teenager in New Jersey. Why? Well, if you grew up near Verona, NJ, you probably spent a fair amount of time at the Claremont Diner, home of the yummiest possible coconut cream pie. The place was famous for it (it was famous, too, for Frankie Valli, of Four Seasons fame, having his own centrally located, and always reserved for him, table in the "new room" of the place). I never even considered trying a pretender to coconut cream pie after the Claremont. Until Round Swamp--now I dream about it and wonder greatly about how much weight can be gained from it over the course of a summer.

But what about the main counter of baked yumminess? What can I say? By the time you turn the pie corner your basket is usually too full to even manage, let alone open enough for the peach corn muffins or the pecan sticky buns. But you don't have a choice--what are you gonna do? Go home without them? Now you're talking silly. So you join the line and you rush a mexican three-cheese dip, with a baguette and a macaroni salad onto the counter, last-minute kinda thing.

Then Jeannie tells you how the baby's doing (fifteen months now, getting really big), she calls you honey eleven or more times (she once called me honey three times in one sentence--try it), and rings you up with the precision of a genetics engineer. Oh, did I mention that Round Swamp is expensive? I mean really expensive. Hey, it doesn't seem like it--and you don't care. Really--you don't. But they don't even have prices on anything, and I don't know anyone who has ever asked. Well, not anyone who gets to come back anyway. Who would ask? You would be ostracized, persona non grata (as well you should).

But don't go there, please. We regulars do not want you to further crowd our beloved farm stand (and let it be known--regular-hood is not easily earned! I have been going regularly, devotedly, to Round Swamp for more than 25 years. Two years ago was the first time Carolyn (the proprietor) kissed me hello for the season).

If you do go though, if you really must--say hello for me.

Frankie and Johnnie's

I had not thought of going to Frankie and Johnnie’s in quite some time. After all, it is not a hot spot; not a quick bite, neither is it one of the Peter Luger-lineage houses sprouting up about town--not a place you would generally meet your friends. I’ll be back though--it is seriously delicious!

Hey, you can get a darn good steak lots of places. I don’t know if we should get into a whole “exegesis of the steak” right this minute--but maybe a quick review of some on offer may be in order.

Start with the Palm (Westside Palm, 50th between 7/8). Hey, the Palm serves a good steak. But it has become an uneven affair, can even get a little weary at times. Gone are the days you would thrill to their charred crusted steaks, smoking from their 900-degree broilers that flash seared juices in and char out. Gone, too, is your steak’s arrival still sizzling and bristling with just-right texturing, and marbling flavor. I’m not taking anything away from their hash brown potatoes, which are still pretty terrific, nor from the creamed spinach. And I, for one, would never impugn their best-in-show blue cheese salad dressing (I could wear the stuff, it’s so good)--my favorite anywhere. But the steak? These days, it’s just a good steak.

On the other hand, the other of the chain experts, del Frisco, is doing it right, over at 6th Ave and 49th street, with their rib-eye and bone-in cuts. Like the Palm, they’ve been uncannily successful at replicating their distinctive flavors, across their wide chain. The place is always bustling with business types and their dates (illicit and otherwise), and it can get a bit frisky in there. But here is the deal—they serve an incredibly yummy rib eye, charred beautifully, with marbled integrity, and bursting with that closest-to-rib-flavor. To top it off, their au poivre sauce, especially with the tender filet, is just as yummy, and just-right spicy.

I think we need speak, too, of the Peter Luger offshoots (offspring?), even as none are quite in the theater district. One’s pretty close (44^th between 2/3) and Ben and Jack’s is essentially the same as Wolfgang’s to my taste. Ok, I will admit it—Peter Luger is a great steakhouse, but not always my favorite. Yes, they serve an incredible porterhouse. And they use butter very, very well--very well indeed. The au jus mixed with butter that is there for the yummiest of dipping is the hallmark of Peter Luger steak eating for me. But the hallmark of the entire Luger experience is their amazing, no--supernal, Canadian bacon--served, of course, by the slice (how many pre-steak slices a person can down without branding themselves a forever glutton is open to debate). I’m pretty sure I could eat myself into a Canadian bacon-induced stupor, or, at the very least, a gallbladder emergency--if left to my own devices. So, come on, you join that dipping with that bacon? You have one primo steak experience.

My nod now for a theater steak, though, has to go to Frankie and Johnnie’s. Their sirloin is charred to perfection. And it is a marvel for a sirloin, which is not known for its abundant marbling, to burst with so much flavor and consistency. I’m always so disappointed at the cut when I work my way toward the bone of a sirloin, and the meat gets less and less lively. Not to worry--not here anyway. This thing is super-good all the way home. Of course they have the requisite side dishes (none are as exceptional as specific counterparts) and they acquit themselves well. Finally, I think you will hear me on this—their steaks are super-steak-flavored!

Hey, I’m sure that my triumphant return to Frankie and Johnnie’s’ sirloin is at least a little colored by one of the fundamental stories of my theater youth. I went there for the first time when I was 11 years old, with my parents, after a play. We sat by the window, at the table second closest to the kitchen. Next to us, at the table in the middle of the place, were—Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward. Maybe you didn’t get that—Joanne Woodward, and, Paul Fucking Newman. My mother nearly had a fit! Apparently, they were appearing together on Broadway, the only time they did, in Baby Want a Kiss. It was 1964. Anyway, my mother sends me over to their table, with the menu, paper at that time, to ask Mr. Newman, Paul, for his autograph. You know, for me. (are you kidding me? she couldn’t wait to get her grubby little hands on it—all I know is I never saw it again)

So there they were. We were riveted. He had a headache. He was out of sorts. Not himself. He asked for two aspirin. The waiter brought the salad. “Get this out of here,” Newman ordered. “Bring me the lettuce and bring me the salad dressing makings,” his annoyed demand followed, “I will make the salad dressing!”

I know, I know. It sounds like bullshit. But it’s not--I swear it. Way before anyone ever heard of Newman’s Own, before anyone knew Paul Newman would go on to greater culinary/philanthropic glories—we knew. I know—it’s a ridiculous apocryphal story I heard and made my own, a child’s silly conflation. But it’s not.

And the steaks are delicious

This Year's Tonys

Here we go. It's Tony time, and as always--it's a mixed season. It's certainly been a killer season for leading male performances, shorter on thrilling female performances. New musicals have been anemic for a long time. But who cares? The thrills were all over the boards, and there's still nothing like it.

Herewith, my picks.

Best Play

Will win--Red

Should win--Next Fall

Criminally ignored--A Behanding in Spokane

Best Musical

Will win--American Idiot

Should win--Fela

Best Book of a Musical

Will win--Fela

Should win--Everyday Rapture

Best Original Score

Will win--Memphis

Should win--None

Best Revival of a Play

Will win--Fences

Should win--Fences

Best Revival of a Musical

Will win--La Cage Aux Folles

Should win--La Cage Aux Folles

Best Performance by a Leading Actor in a Play

Will win--Denzel Washington (Fences)

Should win--Denzel Washington

Should have been nominated--James Spader (Red)

Gave incredible, bravura performances--Denzel Washington, Liev Screiber, Christopher Walken

Gave really terrific performance--Alfred Molina

Most thrilling category competition in a while!

Best Performance by a Leading Actress in a Play

Will win--Viola Davis (Fences)

Should win--Viola Davis

Um, no contest

Best Performance by a Leading Actor in a Musical

Will win--Douglas Hodge (La Cage Aux Folles)

Should win--Douglas Hodge

Should have been nominated: John Gallagher, Jr. (American Idiot)

Best Performance by a Leading Actress in a Musical

Will win--Catherine Zeta-Jones (A Little Night Music)

Should win--Sherie Renee Scott (Everyday Rapture)

Best Performance by a Featured Actor in a Play

Will Win--John Michael Hill (Superior Donuts)

Should win--Stephen McKinley Henderson (Fences)

God, this one's close--I loved JMH only about 3 hundredths of a point less

Another thrilling category this season

Best Performance by a Featured Actress in a Play

Will win--Scarlett Johansson (A View From the Bridge)

Should win--Scarlett Johansson

Who knew she had these kind of chops (we knew she had the other kind)

Best Direction of a Play

Will win--Gregory Mosher (A View From the Bridge)

Should win--Kenny Leon (Fences)

Best Direction of a Musical

Will win--Bill T. Jones (Fela)

Should win--Terry Johnson (La Cage Aux Folles)

Should have been nominated--Michael Mayer (American Idiot)

There it is!

Luscious Theater Bits

Ok. Where should I stop for an entirely luscious little something near the theater? This is not a question I ask lightly. Nor should you. I really need a hot list of locked-and-loaded desirables at the ready for such purposes. You know--a place to get a longed-for thing, not a whole meal situation. Herewith, my current favorites.

An item back from the archives for me lately is the baked mac and cheese at the Brooklyn Diner. If you have never had the dish there, don't be deceived. We're not talking fried mac 'n cheese blobs; we're not even talking a proper mac 'n cheese exactly. This dish is Brooklyn Diner's take on the famous tagliarini con prosciutti al forno, as served at the Cipriani and Harry's Bar in Venice. Cipriani does it here in NY, too, of course--but I would have to call theirs a bit of a translation as well. I remember the first time I bit into the dish at Harry's Bar (It was before the bite that I truly remember most--the way my fork had to break the burnt, crispy, covering-the-whole-top-of-the-thing, crust of cheese). It was heaven. Now Brooklyn Diner's version doesn't compare to Cipriani's in Venice--but whose would?. Theirs has too much cheesy, creamy sauce--it's true. The tagliarini can be a tad overcooked. The prosciutto, but of course, is nowhere near as nutty-good nor as plentiful. And the crust does not typically develop the same amount of burn. But it is good. Delicious, really. If I had never received the original blessing, I'm sure I would rate this even higher. All that said, this version is still deeply satisfying and the crust is still a sort of thrilling thing to contend with.

Ok, can we take a little trip back to my mother's kitchen? Alright, let me get this said--hers was not a horn of plenty kind of kitchen, not a place of deeply delicious memory. It will not become a theme of this column. But honor where honor is due. The old broad could make a serious matzoh brei! She knew to soak the matzo until it was feeble. She knew that the brei should cohere, that it should be at least a little, but not too very, fluffy; she knew well the main Jewish commandment--make it seriously well-done. My mother closed the kitchen years ago; I don't think her Florida home has ever been used for actual cooking. But, alas, the Cafe Edison makes a matzo brei to compete with Mom's. It may even be better. They do under-salt the thing, and it is much better to salt it before it's done, but--you can't have everything. It is a marvel though--a combination of standard with german-type pancake omelet. It has very real architecture, not so dissimilar to a frisbee. And it will take you back to the days when there were more than the maybe three places that even still have it on the menu--when the robust flavors and rib-sticking goodness of a matzo brei were standard New York Jewish fare.

Back from the itunes library and on to my current playlist is John's Pizza's incredibly yummy sausage rolls. Didn't even know John's had such a thing? Well, that's because they don't--not, at least, at their original location on Bleecker they don't. But they do at other locations, including--lucky for us--44th Street, hard by the St. James. These are precious little pizza-dough thingys with cheese, and rolled with what I can only say is very good sausage indeed. Whenever I remember to remember them, I am always so glad I did. You can order them with a side of pizza sauce if you like, but I always go for the straight-up experience--better to take in their utter sausageness. And I like that they're grabbable in no time. Go have an order, let me know what you think.

Last, there is a very serious contender for best dish in the entire Broadway area. The spinach lasagne at Insiemme stands, I think, as New York's current best lasagne. I say this: it is entirely as good as any I have had in Italy, better than most. They make it with a subtle, lighter than you expect, but still robust, bolognese. They melt in the cheese and add the bechamel, to its many-layered goodness, with the calculation of the oldest, most revered, artisanal, lasagne scoula. It is a thing of many splendors. The lightness of texture while keeping along the razor's edge of al dente is a marvel. If Insiemme weren't as fancy feeling as it is, and the bar as intimate as it is with only four seats or so, I would eat this lasagne very frequently. Very very frequently.

La Cage Aux Folles

Add mine to the chorus of voices singing their praise of Douglas Hodge in La Cage Aux Folles. His is by far the tenderest, inner-reaching, portrayal of Albin, the flamboyant star, "Zaza," of the titled review, to date. Yes, Kelsey Grammar acquits himself well as George, Albin's partner and proprietor of the club--he does. But this production from the Menier Chocolate Factory (they of the 15 Tony Award nominations for "La Cage" and "A Little Night Music.") is illumined by the brightness and depth of it's inestimable star--Mr. Hodge.

Much-noted are Mr. Hodge's somewhat loftier portrayals--in Pinter and Chekhov (and that other writer of ribald reviews--better known as Shakespeare). And it always lends a certain deliciousness when a "serious actor" comes over to the musical side of the aisle--but I wouldn't have cared if Mr. Hodge had come from "Banana Shpeel." I have not really seen his work on the London stage, but I am glad he has traveled across both the pond and the musical divide. Welcome.

The genius of this production is how seamlessly it blends the pathos of the shabby nightclub, with the dignity and redemption of its denizens. Every bead and feather left out here lifts the whole thing up, gives rise to that dignity. The guts of the two great songs, "The Best of Times" and the gay anthem "I Am What I Am" become clearer and stronger in the spare light of shab.

Kudos to Terry Johnson for the insight of his direction.

I've always felt that the main story here is really a sort of slight sidebar. Whether George and Albin's son can pull off the ruse to fool his intended in-laws that he was raised in a more traditional home--who cares? We definitely care though about Albin's feelings of betrayal. This time anyway, we care about every twitch and turn Albin struggles with to keep his boy and keep his soul. It is not broad flamboyance Mr. Hodge uses here, it is charm and grace and heartfelt sorrow. Bravo.

Fences

When you enter the Cort theater for the new production of August Wilson's "Fences," the set is in full view. It is an evocative set (another fertile home-setting set by the wonderfully prolific Santo Loquasto). We're in the backyard of a non-descript house in the Hills district of Pittsburgh, the setting for much of Wilson's oeuvre, in his epic 10-play cycle of the black experience in the 2oth Century. This is the one that covers the 50's decade.

As you sit admiring the set, with its wonderfully evocative tree downstage-right, and understanding it will all soon come to life--you are still not ready for the way it happens. All of a sudden (in my memory the lights hadn't even fully dimmed yet) Denzel Washington (Troy) and Stephen Mckinley Henderson (Bono) arrive, as if from nowhere, and fill the stage with life. I'm not talking about within minutes--I'm talking about right then and there, in the very first beats. By the time minutes have elapsed you are so steeped in the lives of these two characters that the broader context and implications you later contemplate (which is inevitable after a Wilson play) are already firmly felt. Viscerally, gladly.

The anticipation, the imagining of the great actor matched with the great role, that has attended Mr. Washington's starring role in this production still did not, could not really, have prepared us for the exquisite, preternatural way he inhabits the role. It is an ineffable thing, not one, I don't believe, another actor could possibly come to study, and hope to duplicate somehow. No, it is his. In my mind now, forever more. Denzel (come, on--he is Denzel, right; the Times style guide notwithstanding) uses the metaphor of baseball here, of stepping up to the plate to wrestle with his disappointment and resentment, to wrestle with the demons of his youth, to wrestle with death itself really, for all it has ever been worth. All I can say is this is the kind of performance, the kind of production, that comes along once every five or ten years--if that.

And that is saying something. Especially since my memory of the original, 1987, production is suffused with the booming performance of the great James Earl Jones. In fact, his performance, like that of Ethel Merman as Mama Rose in Gypsy, was thought at the time to be definitive (until Patty Lupone came along and snatched the thing away two years ago, and called it her own). So, to have this performance be so integral, so transporting--so knock-down, drag-out defining is beyond thrilling.

And, hey, what about last year's revival of Wilson's "Joe Turner's Come and Gone?" I felt it was better than the original as well. What's happening here? Are we absorbing Wilson as our poet-playwright in some new way? Has his lyrical way with us begun to cohere, to ferment? Has he planted himself, posthumously, in our hearts and in our canon in a deeper-reaching way? Is August Wilson the Shakespeare of our time (with apologies to the incomparable JL)?

I don't know. But I do know it is not Denzel alone who effortlessly gives wings to this production. Viola Davis (as Rose, his wife) is standing toe-to-toe with Denzel, and calling it even most of the time. Her natural swoon in the arms of her admiring husband in the first act holds only the slightest hint of any trouble that might inhibit it in the second. But the slightest hint is there for us to register. Come, on. I would be thankful for just that. But I needn't be--the delivery of her cathartic Act II speech has a power that seems to roil up from the depths of all despair. And Mr. Henderson, the Wilson veteran whose work in Ma Rainey's Black Bottom, and especially Jitney, is so seemless, so vital, provides a dimension of knowing in his lilting patois that feels like that of Wilson's very own sensitivity.

But it's Denzel's show. He is by turns irresistibly magnetic, forbidding and menacing--he fools us into accepting his defenses. He saves and ruins his son. And you are by the end bursting at the standing ovation seems to honor him for it.

Mile End Deli

If you're like me, you took note (took extreme note?) of the tantalizing, lusciously alluring photo of a smoked meat on rye, in New York Magazine a few months ago, in advance of the opening of what promised to be New York's first purveyor of real Montreal smoked meat sandwiches.

Well, Mile End is open, and it is a smash! This is the real deal, we are talking some serious smoked meat here.

Hey, I had told myself after I saw the advance photo, that they had doctored it--it couldn't look or taste that good in person. I knew they probably used the best looking possible sandwich worth of meat from the mile of meat they must have smoked to get it. I told myself, "Don't Ron, don't do it--don't expect it to look or taste like that. You always get so disappointed."

Let me tell you--the sandwich looked precisely like the one in the picture!! And it tasted like the best smoked meat I ever had in Montreal. OMG!!

They are hand-carving the meat (a kind of brown/black/burgundy affair), and it is lean, and it is thick, and it is full of smoky/nutty/pastrami/jewish/heaven-ness. The last time I saw meat hand-sliced this beautifully, and tasting this good was when Pastrami King was still open in Kew Gardens.

The place is cute-cute. It is so far open only for lunch (till 4PM), but they promise to be open for dinner by summer. It is crowded and only has four tables and a small counter. That they have a take-out window on the street is a joke--they're not even close to keeping up with the orders inside. Hey, I know this is Boerum Hill and not Times Square, but they gotta get a coupla experienced deli men in there to accompany the slackers from the neighborhood behind the counter. I'm worried somebody might get killed from the frustration of those waiting for their sandwiches. Listen, the guy carving the smoked meat looks like he's playing with an erector kit, and hasn't quite learned the architecture yet.

But don't let that daunt you--this is one of the best sandwiches in the city, and rivaling the greats of the deli world. Rush out to Hoyt Street, just off Atlantic Ave, and welcome the arrival of an honest-to-goodness, take-you-back-to-the-old-days deli sandwich. And thank g-d for it.

A Behanding in Spokane

I saw "A Behanding in Spokane" for the third time last night. I am scheduled for my fourth visit this coming Wednesday. This is that very rare instance when a play gets under my skin the way a powerful musical score more regularly does.

I do think they are different things. Yes, they both happen in the theater, of course. But a musical has moments of deliberately soaring feelings. Hey, why do they dim the lights, someone steps downstage, and begins to sing instead of continuing speaking, in the first place? Because the feelings are supposedly too powerful to be contained within the spoken discourse anymore--the character is overcome, and must express the hopefully soaring (or diving) feelings in song (well, that's the theory, anyway)! Think "Les Miserables." Think about Jean Valjean learning that a case of mistaken identity is leading to someone going to jail for his crime, and he is tortured, tormented by the prospect of it. He tears at himself, he looks within, and begins, "Who Am I? Can I condemn this man to slavery? Pretend I do not see his agony? This innocent who bears my face, who goes to judgment in my place. Who Am I..."

Of course we know how it ends. By song's end Valjean has found Javert and has declared finally, with the dignity of resolve, "Who Am I?...2-4-6-0-1!!" Bliss. I saw "Les Miserbles" 11 times. (Ok, I know. Victor Hugo did just fine with the thing without bursting into song, but come on--you know what I mean). 11 times! I could not get the score out of my head. And I could not keep the characters from my heart--not that I wanted to. I wait years for this sort of shit!

My record for seeing any play, musical or not, is 12 times. Guess as long as you want, you will not likely guess which it was, for this thing does not tend to follow linear pathways. The record of 12 is held by "Bring in da Noise, Bring in da Funk," the rap, tap musical discourse with Savion Glover (I just found him spellbinding). Eleven goes to "Les Miserables," and "A Chorus Line." Just to give you an idea, I even saw "Hello Dolly" three times--and I was 12 years old!" Oh, the Harmonia Gardens.

So it is with great relish that I welcome the urgency to go back, when it comes around in a non-musical. "A Behanding in Spokane" is Martin McDonaugh's new play, he of the Irish noir trilogies Leenane and Inishmaan. It's his first set in America, though following his tradition of dark, gonzo-sort-of Irish tales (gory--dark, gonzo-sort-of-Irish tales). I like McDonaugh and was a big fan of "The Beauty Queen of Leenane."

"A Behanding in Spokane" is a lively entertainment, and I admire the writing. And this brand of dark comedy is right up my alley. But I would have seen it exactly once if it weren't for the incredible--yes, soaring--performance by Christopher Walken. Walken is giving the bravura performance of a lifetime here (and that is saying something!).

In brief, the story follows Walken's character, who lost his hand 47 years ago during the commission of a gruesome crime, and has been obsessed with finding the hand ever since. Walken's character (Mr. Carmichael) lives on the margins of society. I'm talking way out on the margins. The margins not just of society, but of normal human interaction, of any kind of known morality--and any kind of normal sense of humor either. Or timing. Mr. Carmichael says the darkest possible things in a way that not only he, but that only Christopher Walken could ever deliver. He is funny in that way that you can't not laugh, but you are saying, "Oh shit," at the same time. And what about that timing? Mr. Walken is essentially giving a master class in timing and delivery here.

Yes, I am a huge Christopher Walken fan (who isn't?) I can tell you, for instance, that if you want to just skip to the funniest part of the movie, "The Aristocrats," just go the part with Kevin Pollack relating the filthy joke as Christopher Walken had told it to him, claiming that the setup actually happened to his uncle (with Pollack doing an uncanny Walken delivery). So I will not try to inhabit that which is swirling of him in my mind right now, nor to rehash any of the funniest lines in the play, or try to describe their delivery. Suffice it to say that I was under his spell. Suffice it to say that I regaled my date afterward, with my very best Walken voice, with memories of my favorite lines (do we think that endeared me to her, or maybe not?).

More than ably adding to the evening is Sam Rockwell, as the beleaguered and off-the-wall receptionist at the hotel Mr. Carmichael finds himself in. Zoe Kazan gives the thing a bit of spirit too.

I can't recommend this evening enough. The play lasts a brief 90 minutes. And it is brief--because it opens strong, grabs you by the throat, and drags you around for the remaining 89 minutes. And boy are you glad it did.

Everyday Rapture

I now have Sherie Rene Scott's rendition of "Up the Ladder to the Roof," right at the top of my everyday ipod playlist. I saw "Everyday Rapture" last night and downloaded the song from iTunes the minute I got home. I downloaded too, "On the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe," "It's You I Like," and "I Guess the Lord Must be in New York City." It is worthwhile to note, I think, that I had each of these songs already in my iTunes library. I just couldn't wait to have Sherie Rene's Scott's versions from "Everyday Rapture." Couldn't wait to listen today.

This is the Broadway Roundabout transfer to the American Airlines theater of this small play that plays big, due to the force of nature that is Ms. Scott. Now, I am, in fact, predisposed to like a vehicle for Ms. Scott's lavish talents--I like her. But she does something so marvelous here, that is simply nowhere near as easy as it seems--she chooses, and then renders her own perfect version, of the perfect song for the perfect mood. There are more moments here of sheer musicality and resonance than perhaps any one-womanish show has any right to.

I say one-womanish. There are only three others--her terrific duo of backup singers, The Mennonettes, and broadwayislove09@earthlink.net (15 yr. old Eamon Foley in what may well be a star-making turn). Now, don't get me wrong--these three are a smash!

In the book, which is long on analogy and metaphor, Ms. Scott whispers a sort of incantatory wish to be "living in the song," as Judy (Garland) did. Then she steps right in, and lives in 'em! Hey, if you're gonna throw down the gauntlet to a Broadway crowd--you might as well throw the thing way way down, right?

The minimal set is just right here-- it lets the sheer candlepower of the star shine through for every watt it's worth. But wait--we're not talking belting here. Yes, she's got a voice that can open wide. But it's measured here, for maximum emotional connection. At the end of "It's You I Like," the Mister Rogers' Neighborhood ballad (done brilliantly), the follow-spot stays on Ms. Scott three or four beats after the music stops, while she sits with our emotions in her hands and her heart in ours--full of a sort of grace. Those are the moments that define a life in the theater, a devotion to the art form.

It is precisely for moments like that, that a kid from the suburbs took the bus into the city to get a seat for a matinee and sit and wait, sit and hope, one might come along. Ah, but when they did...

99 Miles to Philly

In the great CheesesteakWars of Philadelphia, I say there is no real winner. First, no one even allows that there are other combatants than Pat's and Geno's. And there are, there truly are.

Ok, here it is about Pat's and Geno's, gotta shoot it straight from the hip--they both sorta suck!

Okay, start the ranting, start the condemnation of Ron for saying what has been on the minds of the cognoscenti for eons. Even you Philly Guys gotta know, in your heart-of-hearts, that those places do not sell first-rate sandwiches. First, what is up with the pile of grey meat on the flat top?? It looks and tastes like a pile of grey meat. With an unfortunate amount of, ahem, grizzle. I can't believe I'm about to say this, but here it comes--it's gross. Listen, getting me to say that about street food, any street food (a guy who loves when a place is filthy, cause that seems somehow to enhance flavor) takes some doing. And putting your sacred Cheez Whiz on (cause only Cheez Whiz is allowed to adorn an honest-to-god-cheesesteak) doesn't raise the thing up very much. Hey, you can put lipstick on that pig, but you can't teach it to tango.

Thats why when a former manager from Carl's, a direct pile-the-grey-meat-high New York knockoff of the grand South Philly tradition started to ply his trade in New York I was not that excited.

I was wrong. This guy just rejected the long-held belief that their's was the "only true path." Oh yes, he honored the fundaments of the sandwich. The grilling together of the thin-slice ribeye with the onions--to achieve maximum heat-retention and combination of flavor. He melts a proper amount of cheese--on the roll side of the sandwich for maximum meltage and proper sandwich integrity. Most of all, he flies his bread in from Philly, from the properly revered Amoroso Bakery.

I always get a good sandwich at 99 Miles to Philly. And the place feels like a sort of NYU offshoot, located on 3rd Ave between 12/13 streets. Lots of students, lots of grad students, ordering the $10.99 special cheesesteak/fries/soda. Hey, 99 Miles to Philly doesn't reach the ecstatic heights of the very best cheesesteaks--when the ribeye retains more steakly integrity, and develops more natural au jus--but I always get a really good sandwich.

Crif Dogs

Here's the deal: the guy who runs Crif Dogs on St. Mark's Place is from Northern Jersey, so his hot dog papers are in order (read: he deep-fries the dogs). Holy cow, are they in order. Crif Dogs are making by far the meanest dogs this side of Rutt's Hut. In some quarters they are whispering the blasphemous (sshhhh) that, for instance (ssshhhh), the spicy redneck may even be better than a ripper at Rutt's .

Okay, the "Spicy Redneck." Let's discuss. First, this dog was voted as "Best Hot Dog in America" by the readers of Maxim magazine. I know, I know. The readers of Maxim might not be the definitive arbiters, but, boy, did they ever point things in the right direction. This dog is smokin'!! The spicy redneck is a bacon-wrapped dog with chili, jalapenos, and cole slaw. Without putting too fine a point on it--it is fucking delicious.

Crif's is located on St. Marks Place, between 1st Ave and Ave A. The place has a feel to it. First, it is downstairs, in a brick-walled cellar of a space. Second, the smell of dogs-a-fryin infuses the air. Third, there is a phone booth at Crif's that does double duty: as welcome atmosphere during the day, and as Superman-like transformational experience at night (the thing actually serves as entrance to the nightclub next door).

And the menu is chock-a-block with super-cool combinations for topping your fried dog. Take for example the "Jon Jon Deragon," a dog with a schmeer of cream cheese, scallions, and everything bagel seeds. Or the "Morning Jersey," a Taylor Ham wrapped dog with melted cheese and a fried egg (for those of you who have never strolled a Jersey boardwalk--Taylor Ham is the extremely disgusting, unfortunately delicious, lunch meat that they grill and put on sandwiches that are too unhealthy, too beyond the pale in general, to contemplate).

How delicious does the "Morning Jersey" sound? I, of course, have never tried it because I can't get past the "Spicy Redneck." My only decision is how many to have, or when to order my second (third?). I've tried the fries and the rings, but I don't think I will anymore cause they can't really compete for stomach space. I have split a chili burger with Barnaby, along with two SRs each, but that's about it.

It seems to me that Crif's has made it into the funky tour guides of the world. I'm always sitting next to some punk-attired German tourists, or a couple of funky gay kids from Sweden. They don't know that what they are eating stands in the great dog pantheon, that a newcomer only gets blessed once in a great while.

Do you get the drift? Crif Dogs has entered the firmament! Come one, come all. Enter.

Rutt's Hut

I grew up in Northern New Jersey. Aside perhaps from working the counter at The Varsity, in Atlanta, there is likely no better hot dog atmosphere in which you could grow.

Come, on. My parents went on a double-date to the fabled Rutt's Hut--I have rippers in my blood! (a ripper, for the uninitiated, in the Rutt's Hut lexicon, is a hot dog that has "ripped" open from languishing in the hot oil it is deep-fried in). Hot dogs are typically deep-fried in roadside stands in the northern part of Jersey, and to anyone who grew up on them--there is no dog that compares. A popular variant (as practiced at The Hot Grill), never at Rutt's though, is the "Texas Weiner," a deep-fried dog with mustard, onions, and a truly disgusting but delicious type of chili sauce. My brother, who lives in New Hampshire, is given to reporting to me, when he is in New Jersey, just how many rippers and "weiners" he has ingested. Sometimes I will interrupt my day, "Meet you at Rutts in half an hour," we'll say. It is our particular brand of brotherly bonding.

If you want to go to Rutt's, and everyone should, just take the Lincoln Tunnel, follow Route 3 West for 12 minutes or so, and take the Route 21 exit north, toward Passaic. Get off immediately on the right and double back around--you can't possibly miss Rutt's. Hey, when the people of Clifton heard the state planned to build Route 21, and that they had plans to demolish Rutt's, the fans, the devotees, protested so strongly and so effectively, that the state veered the road around Rutt's, so there it still stands. When you arrive, you will have the choice of standing at the counter in the front (visible through the very dirty glass that encloses it) or eating in the tavern around back. I have only once eaten in the tavern, and that was when a visitor from a foreign land insisted. I eat at the counter, as all Rutt's fanatics do. Don't worry, the dirty windows get you ready for how unruly and seedy the entire experience of the counter truly is.

But oh the hot dogs. I start to salivate on Rte. 21. These are the sine qua non of hot dogs, the north star, the still small dog in the distance. I know all about Ted's and Pink's and Super Duper Weenie--they're terrific (well, with the exception of Pink's which for me is grossly overrated). But these dogs outshine the sun. Quite simply, I do not think they can be improved upon. Listen, the dogs not only infuse the roll with some of the sloughed off oil they've recently been lounging in, and are actually crunchy, but you then face the solemn choice of adorning them with either Rutt's very special mustard, or their home-made relish. I am a purist. I stick solely with the mustard. But I understand, I do, my relish relishing brethren. You do not, however, want to order anything so crudely revealing, say, as a chili dog. Don't do it. Get fries, or the incomparably oily onion rings, or the utterly oily chili--sure. But stick to the experience.

If you love hot dogs, you owe it to yourself. If you have never been to Rutt's, you are missing a vital component of cocktail party trash speak. Go to the temple. Say a little prayer.

Bond 45

I like taking dates to the theater. I do. I feel at home, I have a lot to say (who can shut me up) and who knows--I may even appear charming. I think I even rush to find prospects "theater-date worthy." Ok, I know I do. Hey, I want to go to the theater, I want to be on dates (god knows)--so where do we eat?

Recently, Bond 45 has been my go-to spot for theater dates, even ones with my daughter, or my son and his fiancee. Bond 45 is Shelly Fireman's place (he of the solid, always a little better than you expect, places all over town: Fiorello's, Trattoria del Arte, Brooklyn Diner, Shelly's...), a wide-menu, grand cafe style, italian restaurant. Gael Greene used to kvell every time Shelly opened a new place.

The place occupies the old Bond Clothing Store (hence the name), with the famous Times Square sign, for those of a certain age--Men's Suits--2 Pair of Pants! It is one of those new restaurants that expertly feels like it's been there forever. I have always loved the old-New York, clubby kinds of places, and Bond 45 can transport you there with ease, especially if you get booth-lucky. On the main floor, upstairs, the lower ceiling and artfully chosen chandeliers envelop the booths in just that right clubby synergy.

But wait--the food is good. Really quite good. Now I am not partial to a creamy type of pesto on my pasta. I prefer the more traditional, olive oil and basil predominated pesto. But Bond 45 has made me a creamy-pesto believer. Danielle (my daughter) does like the creamy sort, so she prevailed upon me to sample hers--whoa, this is some real stuff! Obviously hearty, it is heavily pine nut inflected. Hold on, though--that doesn't always mean I abandon my beloved bolognese. I am on an almost constant search for solid, milanese-style bolognese. It is solid at Bond 45. It does not dazzle, neither does it achieve the full-textured nuttiness of a strictly, perhaps cream or bechamel-infused, traditional beef-veal-pork blend. But I like it. And the antipasto is killer. The artichokes al Giudea are delicious (the Jewish Way, a specialty in Rome that I first sampled on my first honeymoon (we can talk about that later)), as are the delicate asparagus, and pretty much everything I've sampled from the very impressive selections on view.

I eat more pasta as my main dish than anything else, but the veal here is no slouch either. Traditional costoletta, especially with arugula and tomato is just right. I will be trying (maybe I'll get back to you) more of their veal and beef entrees soon.

But I buried the lead. You see, on your way out, there are two baskets--one with light puff pastry dusted with powdered sugar, the other with break-apart chocolate toffee candies. They are there for you to glutton upon. Standing by those baskets on the way out is one of those things that I observe closely, in myself if not in others. How much to take? Is it important enough to offset my intense desire to indulge myself dearly--with the need to not appear a gluttonous trencherman? I'm not sure. I do go back after I eat my original handful--the question is simply will I go back more than once? I will leave that to your imagination.

Collected Stories

For the second time this season I had precisely the same feeling, provoked by precisely the same playwright. Donald Margulies has had two Broadway productions this season, Time Stands Still and Collected Stories, and at each I felt, right from the start, "Oh, I'm going to like it here tonight." Time Stands Still, all the better for the insightful direction of Daniel Sullivan, did, after all, have Laura Linney. I am, I admit, weak when it comes to Ms. Linney--in this case she held the center of a cohesive ensemble, irradiating the rest of the cast.

This time it is Lynn Meadow directing Linda Lavin and Sarah Paulson. All I can say is it is nice to be in the hands of old pros. I must say I have never been a huge fan of Ms. Lavin's, but she is marvelous here as the cranky, wise, soft-after-all Jewish intellectual mentor to Ms. Paulson's eager, gifted graduate student. The play follows these two from their first tutorial as professor and student. If it wasn't on a smaller canvas, and so closely observed, the evening might have become a reworking of All About Eve. But it's not--it has finely turning nuance, and the power of unspoken envy and competition. Ms. Paulson's television work, for me especially wonderful on Studio 60, made us forget she has real stage chops. What a pair these two make.

The teacher has never married nor had children of her own, the student has fantasized and idealized the great writer she finally finds herself sitting in front of. Well, setup in place, we are in for that greatest thing: a comfortable, well-worn sweater of a play that keeps digging deeper than you thought it would. I am a sucker for crusty smart codgers cracking wise, and Ms. Lavin turns me into a real fan with her deft, sharpened whine. And the fierce aroma of ambition Ms. Paulson gives off within her dedicated devotion has the power to disarm.

Oh, let me not forget--the set by Santo Loquasto (set-designer extraordinaire for evoking a certain lived-in New York quality) is simply perfect.

I'm not saying that Donald Margulies is our new August Wilson, or even Tracy Letts--but he might be, I sort of imagine, what Woody Allen's plays may have been, with a lighter hand.

American Idiot

Ok, here it all is about American Idiot. First, full disclosure: I am a serious Green Day fan. Serious. Both American Idiot and 21st Century Breakdown (from which a few songs are included) were perhaps 20-hour per week experiences when they came out. Certain songs still make it onto my daily playlists. I love these albums.

That's probably at least a little bit why I was disappointed with American Idiot, the musical. And that took a lot anyway. I was looking forward to this production. My daughter, who shares a ridiculous level of devotion to plays she likes, like her father, had seen the play four or five times when it was at Berkeley Rep, since she was at law school in San Francisco at the time.She told me to get ready to rock out in my seat for this one.

I even went with her (the world's single biggest John Gallagher, Jr. fan) specifically to see it on Broadway, in one of the last preview performances, to get the full synergy of our shared love. We were both disappointed.

I readily admit it--I was smiling and rocking through and after the first number. Ok, if the whole show were anywhere near as rousing as the opening eponymous anthem, it would have been easier to forgive the abject absence of a cohesive (dare I say coherent?) book. It would have been easier to allow that any moment ripe for full emotional wallop just seemed to wither within the confines of the soaring set. Easier still to allow that the sound, for all the advance heralding of it's ferocity and power, simply dies on the stage (did the producers think the thing was just too loud to get an older audience and tempered it mid-previews??). The power of the introduction of the bass or the full throttle drums are what signal the gear change in a Green Day song--what the heck happened to them here--someone just pulls all their punches!

Hey, I have to give all due props to John Gallagher, Jr. in the lead role. He has the market cornered on young, angry, confused men on the verge of individuation. And I think he is probably the most abundantly talented of our new stars. His lone rendering of the opening verses of Boulevard of Broken Dreams, alone on the stage with his acoustic guitar, evokes the sense of how poignant and heartbreaking things might have been.

And Tony Vincent's St. Jimmy is a welome burst of energy and phrasing. I will likely be at any production that either of these two guys are ever in. And I had a good time at American Idiot. It;s hard not to--after all it is the rock opera of the album--one of the best of all times. Introducing Green Day at the Grammy's in 2002, the year the album won album of the year, Quentin Tarantino declared that American Idiot had broken new ground, "All the songs are good!"

I don't know what happened to Mr Isherwood at the Times. I can only imagine that this may have been his introduction to the glories of Green Day and the incredible artistry of the American Idiot score. Who can blame him? The music is incredible. The show is not.

Family Week

Is there a sadder little play than Family Week by Beth Henley? I'm not sure there is. Here is a 75 minute play--75 minutes. I checked my watch at 45. I sat in A111, so I was in the first seat, first row, on the aisle--no true chance to contemplate leaving. And at the Lucille Lortel--I love that theater. And so many recent good memories.

The play follows family week at The Pastures rehabilitation center, set in a town of dude ranches (was Ms. Henley making sure we couldn't miss that she was referring to an actual family week, maybe, I don't know--at The Meadows, the actual rehabilitation center in the cowboy town of Wickenburg, Az.?). Even now that I've seen the whole play, I can't quite figure whether I was meant to see the rehab process as a giant joke, or whether it is meant to be a tender thing. That is sort of incredible, given that this is the stage directorial debut of Jonathan Demme. And I don't even know where to begin about the cast. I mean we're talking Kathleen Chalfant and Rosemarie deWitt. I love Ms. Chalfant. And who wouldn't, remembering her chilling performances (i.e. Wit). But more, I think Rosemarie deWitt is a thrillingly nuanced actress (and, to be fair, she is the best and most nuanced thing in the play) and thought she actually upstaged Anne Hathaway in Rachel's Getting Married, and gives an amazing turn in The United States of Tara. My question comes down to this--did a communal sort of fugue state descend on the creative team here? What are they all doing in this clunker? It's a shonda.