New York

J. and I took a whirlwind trip to New York City this past weekend. I cooked it up a couple of months ago when I discovered that Hélène Grimaud was playing Ravel's piano concerto with the NY Philharmonic, somehow failing to realize (even though the calendar was right in front of me) that it was less than a week and a half before Christmas. So the timing wasn't ideal, but we managed to have a good time.

The drive was the easiest in recent memory, we arrived at my parents' house in Ft. Lee, NJ around lunch time, spent a couple of hours fulfilling familial obligations, then headed into the City sometime after 4:00. The previous day, I discovered to my great dismay, though I should not have been surprised by this, that we were not the only ones wanting to have an early dinner in the Lincoln Center neighborhood, and most restaurants were booked up solid. I did end up getting a reservation at Pasha, a Turkish place a few blocks away, and though we were in the mood for something a little more dressed up, we figured better safe than sorry, especially since the restaurant came with a glowing recommendation from my parents. In the event, the trip into Manhattan took no time at all, and we found ourselves on the Upper West Side with an hour to kill. Having a drink seemed like an obvious thing to do, and just as J. and I were discussing this while walking along 72nd Street, we happened upon a quaint looking bar wedged between two classically New York ultra-luxury apartment buildings. The name of the place was Riposo 72, and long story short, we spent the next two hours there, canceling our Pasha reservation and making a meal out of small plates and cheese at the bar.

The place opened recently according to the waitress, and judging by the crowd that had gathered by the time we left around 7:00, was doing well. It features a medium-sized wine list that leans in the Italian direction and a selection of appetizers, small plates and cheeses. We settled on some mussels in a tomato broth followed by a flatbread with wild mushrooms, onions and goat cheese. The mussels were delicious – plump and fresh-tasting – but it's the broth that made the dish. Chock-full of herbs and spices, it was positively bursting with flavor. I would have been happy to spend the rest of the evening dipping chunks of bread into a bowl of it.

The flatbread was Riposo 72's excuse for pizza. I was initially skeptical – I understand the headache and expense of installing a real pizza oven – but in my experience, trying to substitute an unleavened imitation, which is what flatbread essentially is, always falls flat (pun fully intended). It turned out to be quite satisfying, however. The relatively dry, bland crust functioned to offset the intense toppings and, being relatively crispy, provided an excellent vehicle for getting them into your mouth. The toppings were delicious and plentiful – the mushrooms were firm, meaty and very mushroomy – there is no other way to describe the flavor, and the goat cheese fresh and of high quality. I could have used a little more of the goat cheese, but the overall balance was good, the red onions providing a tangy foil for the mushrooms and a crunchy contrast to the unctious cheese.

We accompanied the meal with a couple of different red wines from Riposo's selection of glasses. We started with a Pinot Noir from Oregon whose name escapes me but whose flavor was excellent – a little more assertive than some Oregonians, but not quite Californian, with an enormous floral nose and good balance. I followed that with a glass of Zinfandel that was also delicious. Once again, I can't think of the name. J. opted for Barbera with her flatbread – it was excellent as well despite being only $8 for a semi-generous glass (a steal on the Upper West Side), and exhibited none of the flabbiness of cheap Barberas.

The evening's unintentional entertainment was provided by a thirtyish woman holding court at the bar (we were seated at a high-top near the window, away from the bustle), worshipped by a small gaggle of drooling (but behaving -- it was only 6:00 p.m. after all) young men. Attractive and stylish in a beautiful person kind of way, she appeared to have enjoyed some of Riposo's delicious wines already and was quickly losing her naturally low inhibitions. She would have been obnoxious had she not been so funny. Though we were focused on our own conversation, we left the place knowing that she was from Leesburg, VA (yikes -- almost a hometown girl), that her friend's new husband was a complete jerk, and that she was ovulating and it was a good time to get pregnant.

Amused and sated (but not so much that we would fall asleep at the concert) we walked the handful of blocks to Avery Fisher Hall. Despite all my connections to New York, I have never seen a performance at any of Lincoln Center's spaces, and have never heard the NY Philharmonic live, so I was looking forward to the experience. They started with Ibert's Homage à Mozart, a five-minute ditty they programmed, I am convinced, so that the late-comers could be seated after it was over and not miss any of the main attractions. Then it was time for my classical music crush Grimaud to play Ravel's piano concerto. It was the “normal” one in G, as opposed to the other one, written for one hand for a soloist who lost an arm in WWI. It's a great piece, and Grimaud and the NY Phil. did it full justice. The outer movements are frenetic and angular, and Grimaud tossed them off with casual nonchalance. There was little emotion in her playing, but that's because there is little in the music – it keeps the listeners on their toes, and communicates something about the world that surrounded Ravel when he wrote it, but the deep feeling is reserved for the slow movement, for my money one of the most beautiful in all of piano repertoire. Grimaud shined here, too – her playing was absolutely gorgeous. The orchestra provided solid support but let the soloist do the talking – exactly as it should be. The biggest surprise of the first half came at the end – the audience response was far more enthusiastic than anything I have heard in DC, and they called Grimaud back for three (!) curtain calls. One of the many ways in which New York is special, I guess (the hall was packed, too, I should point out).

The second half was dedicated to Shostakovich's Fourth symphony which I had never heard. Composed in 1936, it was not premiered in Russia until 1961. The long-standing story is that Shostakovich pulled it during rehearsals, but it's pretty much certain that he was told to pull it or suffer the consequences. Not surprising, either – it's a sprawling work (a full hour long), dark, and full of diametrically opposing contrasts. Despair and dread are far more apparent that revolutionary fervor. Shostakovich can be accused of neither subtlety nor economy of expression: doubled horns, extra basses and a contrabassoon. Mahler would be envious. The opening section alone, with the entire orchestra blasting away at triple-forte, is enough to push you into your seat. Structurally, the symphony is loose – there are themes, they recur, sometimes altered or inverted, but on the first listening I could not glean an overall architecture. It could also be shorter. A lot shorter – J., who is normally so natural at orchestral music, had trouble focusing by the third movement. But the visceral impact is undeniable, and some of the solo passages are amazing. The bassoon solo in the first movement, in particular, is great, and the farting – sorry, no better word for it – tubas have no equivalent in other composers' work that I know of. The symphony was well worth the effort, though I don't know that I would want to own a recording.

If I have any complaints about the concert at all, it is the acoustics at Avery Fisher. The Kennedy Center symphony hall where we usually hear the NSO has mediocre acoustics, and, spoiled by the Phoenix hall (surprisingly good sound) and, above all, Frank Lloyd Wright-designed Gammage Auditorium at ASU, I was hoping for something better in New York. I was disappoitned. From where we were sitting – rear orchestra, usually some of the best seats in the house, sound-wise – the sound was bone-dry and the bass was sorely lacking. The Shostakovich made an impact regardless, but despite all those extra low-end instruments, I was acutely aware that I was missing the bottom dozen or so cycles.

Sunday morning, through buffeting winds and freezing rain, we trudged to Gramercy Park to meet my old friend D. for brunch at Irving Coffee. Nice place. Very New York – cramped but cozy, with efficient but none-too-friendly staff and the clientele consisting primarily of independently wealthy denizens of the neighborhood writing travelogues on their laptops. Good muffins and delicious, eggy quiche. D. was his usual bright-eyed and bushy-tailed self, we caught up on his doings at NYU, where he teaches art history, and in a stunning reversal of his previous claims of helplessness, he promised me a complimentary copy of his first book. We made our way back to Ft. Lee early in the afternoon and hit the road for an amazingly smooth return trip.