I entered through a dramatically dark foyer.
Then, walking into a grand room with 15-foot ceilings, a photographer approached. He said, “May I take your photo?” Dressed like a swell for the evening—dark blue suit, pink button-down oxford, and pink suspenders—for a special night out, I said, “Of course.” (The laces in my black suede cap-toe shoes were pink, too.)
All of the servers were male, over six feet tall, strikingly handsome with chiseled faces—and were dressed head-to-toe in black. On silver trays, they presented hors d’oeuvres and three drink options (Champagne, White Wine, and—with a tip of the hat to Sondheim’s musical, Company—Vodka Stingers). I opted for a Stinger. To my right was an unusually handsome grand piano. I wondered if its striped case was Zebrawood or Tigerwood, possibly. Or, Kingwood? The evening was unfolding in an apartment on West 23rd Street—directly across from the famed Chelsea Hotel. The apartment was massive yet warm and welcoming.
A few weeks earlier, I’d received an invitation from Steven Baruch, a Broadway producer and co-owner of New York’s 54 Below. He’s also a co-producer of Back to the Future| The Musical* at the Winter Garden Theatre.
I read the invite, and I was in awe. Patti LuPone. Private residence. Intimate concert. Chelsea. Drinks and hors d’oeuvres by Daniel Boulud.
“Well,” I said, not using my indoor voice, “count me in!”
Jacob overheard me from around the corner and down the hall and asked, “Into what?”
“Can you get off work for a few days? We’re invited to see Patti LuPone sing an hour-long set in an apartment in Manhattan. In Chelsea.”
Jacob couldn’t get away. But, he said, “You have to go. Make it a birthday-week present.”
Monday, November 13.
I walked out of Moynihan Train Hall on Eighth Avenue and 33rd, jumped into an Uber and headed for my hotel.
That night was chilly and windy. I’d planned on a dry-aged steak for dinner, but walking to Eighth Avenue to pick up a bottle of Grey Goose, I smelled a warm memory: pungent yeast, tomato, garlic, and cheese. The scent took me back half a century. It was coming from a store-front pizza joint–a slice place. I canceled my reservation at Gallagher’s and ordered a cheese slice, a pepperoni slice, and a big ginger ale. The slices were as big and tasty as they were in the early 70s when I was a theatre student in Manhattan. Back then, pizza slices, hot dogs, and Blimpie subs often sustained me for days at a time.
Hot out of the oven, the slices were on brown paper plates resting on a red plastic tray. I sat in a red plastic chair at a shiny red Formica table and sprinkled the slices with red pepper flakes and Parmesan cheese. Looking out the window at people scurrying about on Eighth Avenue, I smiled. Food memories are powerful—for just a moment, I felt like I was in my 20s again. Sometimes … it’s the little things.
Tuesday evening, the event.
Sitting on lux sofas, plush chairs, and tufted benches, the group of us settled in and were reminded that our phones, smartwatches, and any other sound-making device we might be toting must be turned off—completely off—and put away in a pocket or purse. (Absolutely terrified of LuPone’s “demonstrative responses” to electronic devices intruding on her performances, I’d turned off my iPhone long before walking into the building.)
We shared a few moments of silent anticipation before a five-foot-two powerhouse of a star entered from the foyer and stood next to the piano.
Holy shit! There she was. Patti LuPone! She was gorgeous and electric. Less than ten feet away from me, she began telling us about her personal and musical life through stories and songs. Toward the end of the evening, she sang Meadowlark…
And when the king came down that day
He found his meadowlark had died
Every time I heard that part, I cried …
Glancing around the room, I watched ladies fish around in their designer bags, looking for tissues. (Most men sort of flicked their faces as if they had gnats around their eyes.) Then, after a short goodbye story, Patti LuPone was gone.
I thanked Steve Baruch for inviting me, Neil Westreich and Michael O’Keefe for hosting the event in their home, and headed across the street to the Lobby Bar in the Chelsea for a martini. Then it was off to Joe Allen for a salad, steak tartare, and a brandy.
Heading back to the hotel later that night, I found myself humming Oh, What a Night:
Oh, I, I got a funny feelin’ when she walked in the room
And my, as I recall it ended much too soon
Oh what a night, hypnotizin’ mesmerizing me
She was ev’rything I dreamed she’d be
Sweet surrender, what a night
Thanks to an unexpected invitation and Jacob sending me packing, my 73 birthday was extraordinary. I can’t imagine what experience my 74th will hold, but I bet it’ll have something to do with theatre.
*Transparency: Jacob and I are investors in the Broadway production and North American tour of Back to the Future|The Musical and supporters of 54 Below.
Great story. Happy birthday, and Happy New Year.
Thanks, Neil. I appreciate that!