Saturday, December 31, 2011.
Where The Time Went. New Year's Eve In The Classic Style.
The fact that I'm the first one up every morning of our vacation may mean I'm not having enough fun the night before. I will have to look into this.
I quietly made my way down to The Homestead's main dining room buffet at around eight. The whole thing yesterday was $26, which I cannot countenance. I must have coffee and juice, however, and the only other source is in the Starbucks-style coffeeshop, where the java is in a paper cup and the juice in a plastic bottle.
I told the waiter that I would be having those two essential liquids, plus fruit and pastry only. "I'll just charge you for the Continental," he said. Then he leaned over and added, sotto voce, "Just take whatever you want." I did, but that involved only a little cheating. Two slices of bacon. The bacon here is pretty good.
The table was a good place to start writing, so I stayed there for quite awhile. The paragraph in my novel about the peculiar action around the streetcars was too long and complicated. I had just begun reworking it when Mary Ann landed, to have tea and keep me company. She stayed for about an hour, picking at my plate, which I had to refill with fruit and croissants. The waiter gave me a wink. When the check arrived, it was for the one Continental, $17. No extra charge for Mary Ann. I do not feel guilty about this.
The kids finally appeared, and declared that they ached all over from the exertions on the snowboard slope yesterday. Mary Ann went off with them. I adjourned to a long hall with greenhouse-like quality. It was sunny and cool outside. Perfect for writing.
I was still working on what had become two paragraphs about The Streetcar Massacree when the other seventy-five percent of my family showed up, ready for lunch. Not many options short of leaving the resort. We did the Casino again. Salads all around.
Everybody dispersed, and I worked another hour on the two paragraphs before a shower and a nap. Back down for tea. A pianist who looked and sounded as if he'd been playing for many decades left no breaks between his numbers, moving smoothly from one American Songbook tune to another, not pausing even when he held up his watch to see whether it was time to quit yet. Finally, it was.
I remained in the Great Hall, my laptop waiting for more of the novel. I could not get past the two paragraphs about the streetcars. They remained confusing and boring. A waiter came by and surprised me by asking whether I'd like anything. I had decided that there actually was no service in the Great Hall. It appears I just hadn't been there long enough.
He brought me a near-perfect Negroni. Maybe that would have helped the streetcar grafs, but Mary Ann reappeared shortly after. I hailed the waiter to get her a glass of Champagne.
She told me how much she's enjoying The Homestead. She is ecstatic that Jude and Mary Leigh are spending all their time together, moving from bowling to chess to a snack to ping-pong, enjoying their rare mutual company.
In other news, MA is having trouble figuring how to get home with me in the car. I told the radio station I'd be back on the air next Thursday. I can do the show from the road--I have all the equipment with me. But we must check into a hotel by four in the afternoon, and MA doesn't like such limitations. She suggested that I join Jude in the airport when he flies off to Los Angeles on Wednesday, and fly back home. That would leave the girls free to do whatever they want.
I changed the subject. The price of tickets to tonight's New Year's Eve Dinner Gala when we reserved them was $190, but when we picked them up we were charged $230. MA thought something was wrong with that. I stepped over to the concierge stand and asked. Just as I thought. The $190 was plus tax and tip. Plus wines, too. Wow.
Mary Ann told me to calm down and enjoy, because in her entire life she'd never been to a New Year's Eve party and wanted to have the experience in a place like The Homestead. Indeed, most New Year's Eves of our marriage were at home with a very good Champagne. But we did go to at least one big party--at Commander's Palace, hosted by Dick Brennan, in 1988. Every New Year's Eve after that we had children, and their needs always superseded everything else for Mary Ann.
The New Year's Eve Gala at The Homestead was a classic black-tie affair. The enormous ballroom held at least 300 people at big tables. We were seated in a far corner with two attorneys from Washington D.C. Most of their work is in Brazilian trade. They were pure Yankees, but had lived in Brazil quite a bit. With them was their son and his girlfriend (maybe his fiancee.) Jude and Mary Leigh balanced out our side of the table.
The gala began at eight. The dinner itself started some forty-five minutes later, to give everybody the chance to put away the single complimentary glass of bubbly and move on to bottles of real wine. Our table partners ordered a very good Argentine Malbec--a familiar wine to them from their days in South America. I commanded a 750 of Mumm's Cuvee Napa, mainly to swap for Malbec. Lot of kids and light drinkers at our table kept either bottle from being completely consumed.
The culinary and service standards we had come to know here over the past few days were in full force. The dinner began with a soup of spiced pears and parsnips, with a floating slice of French toast (!). Then a panna cotta studded with grilled vegetables--an idea roundly derided by everyone at our table. Heirloom tomatoes with pesto and local goat cheese saved the course.
That was sort of like a salad. The next course actually was one. Butter lettuce, glazed walnuts, muscat grapes from nearby, cider-Dijon vinaigrette. Good enough.
The entree paired a modest, dry filet mignon (steak for 300 always comes out that way), helped a bit by sauce Perigourdine. On the side, lobster bread pudding. Yes, that's what I said. And saffron-tinged mashed potatoes. Asparagus and rainbow (extra orange) carrots. Remember those mushrooms you had in the 1766 Grille last night, Mary Ann? Here they were again, still with no identifiable flavor.
The best course of the night was the dessert, a spire made of white chocolate filled with a mousse of darker chocolate and champagne.
The food ended by ten-thirty. I thought it would be a long wait until midnight, but the band came to the rescue. The big collection of musicians played well all night long. The first tunes were in the Sinatra style, but Motown and 1960s pop took over for the rest of the night. The dance floor was full most of the night. Mary Ann and I even got out there a few times.
The kids had long since disappeared into the dancers. Rumors arrived that Mary Leigh was on the trail of a certain young man she'd never met. Or, more probably, vice versa. She looked stunning tonight, wearing the dress she bought while we were in Chicago a few months ago. She was not wearing it for Daddy. Jude, too had found girls worth talking to, and did.
We got to our feet with a minute to go. We were on the floor for the countdown. Happy New Year! MA and I exchanged kisses. Both of our children kissed and were kissed, but by whom they couldn't or wouldn't say. But if you can't get kissed at a New Year's Eve ball, when can you?
It's over three years since a day was missed in the Dining Diary. To browse through all of the entries since 2008, go here.
