Christopher Wheeldon returned with his new troupe to City Center in October and I was thrilled to see what the whiz kid of shape and grace would offer this time. Wheeldon is one of my favorites because I think of him as a writer and photographer's choreographer: Unlike many other dancemakers who seem to taunt the audience with a movement---here it is, did you miss it? too bad!--Wheeldon's work always seems to have a certain generous consciousness of watchers. Particularly beautiful poses or phrases are repeated just in case you were looking down the first time: While I'm usually nervous to take notes during a show for fear of missing the immediate experience, I always feel relaxed when I see Wheeldon. He presents his work as a gift without strings—for your pleasure and thought, and he doesn't mind making it approachable and comprehensible.
And he's said as much, too. In a pre-show short chat at the performance I saw, Wheeldon came onstage to explain his programming choices in his signature affable manner. His talk is an olive branch of sorts, a symbol that this is meant for you, and he doesn't want anyone to be left out. (I've noticed more and more artists taking this approach, possibly vying to become a personal reason to cough up dwindling patron and audience dollars).
For much of the program, his zeal is well-founded, for some, not so much. Unsurprisingly, a hit from 2001, Polyphonia, was dealt the king's ransom of my own applause. With dancers clad in deep purple leotards, in an elegant round of dips, stacatto shapes and feathery boureés, Wheeldon moves through various groupings for a piece that is delicate but emotionally compelling somehow. A repetition of a bend from the waist like a drunk flamingo into an elongated extension to the back adds that dash of humor and levity, along with new shapes that define Wheeldon to me. Yes, it's been compared to a Balanchine-style leotard ballet (along with many other ballets that focus on choreography not narrative, so who knows how valid that is). But whereas sometimes I'm left cold by a stark, even if outstanding Balanchine piece,Wheeldon sprinkles subtle emotion: In a hand gesture, a slow tip from a straight and narrow relevé into a walk tilted forward, a slow brush from a battement forward and back while partnering in the most tender way.
While the entire team glowed in this piece, all the talk of the town was Beatrix Stix-Brunnel, and it was well-merited. Although when she first came onstage, I wasn't yet convinced, and her understandable shakiness at 15 years old made me worry for those malleable feet and ridiculously lithe body. But as the piece continued, she strengthened her stance. And when she came to her solo, a faint shimmer shone on her and she stepped into the praise that's been given to her. Light and airy but regal with a quiet smile, she skimmed the stage in the simplest, but most breathtaking boureés. Her willowy arms and legs leave traces of the shapes she draws on the air, but her turns are razor sharp: There's power beneath her pretty. As she reached into her glide offstage, a slow, confident walk, I found myself looking forward to more from this phenom. Regal at 15. Icon at 18?
While the work found me intrigued by Stix-Brunnel, I was even more mesmerized by the true queen of the night(and any Wheeldon night for that matter), Wendy Whelan. Although she hadn't been a particular favorite of mine at NYCB, Wheeldon's movement fits on her like the perfectly draped evening gown of silk. Whelan's power, integrity of movement and unshakable precision is a true joy to watch. And somehow, even in the safety of her grace her daring spirit breaks through in moments of nymph-like merriment; a queen with a hearty laugh. When she finished a pas de deux with elegant partner Tyler Angle I tried to will more time from them.
With Polyphonia's glorious start—equal thanks to the movement and movers—Emily Molnar's jarring, brash and at moments exhilarating and at moments problematic Six Fold Illuminate shook me out of my reverie. Set to multi-rhythm, cacophonous tunes by famed composer Steve Reich, I got the feeling Wheeldon chose this piece to make the troupe a bit edgier. Point taken. Molnar's aggressive splices, unapologetic dips and swirls, compass-point foot work, gun-shot jumps and fierce stylistic undertones were even more hyperbolic on the force that is Drew Jacoby. Tiny Celine Cassone from the Ballet du Grande Theatre looked equally fearless and fiery. But in the end, all that talent from choreographer and dancer alike didn't amount to a comprehensible sum. Then again, this in itself is sometimes the point.
The last piece, Commedia by Wheeldon and with music by Stravinsky, swung the pendulum the farthest into narrative territory. With a backdrop of masks from the era of farce, Wheeldon creates a fun romp with flex-footed lifts, fanciful twirls and mischievous partnering. Leanne Benjamin of the Royal Ballet stood out for her joyous quality: bounding jumps, endless stamina and precision of footwork. The piece ended enjoyably with clever twists and turns, but the genius I had craved, and was teased with in Polyphonia was not all there.
And maybe that's ok. Along the rocky climb to idol status, there are moments of glory and moments of good. Wheeldon's program that night exhibited a steady rate of ascent, even if not a rocket shot.
Morphoses at City Center, NYC
Rating:To Die For for Polyphonia and Great for the evening in total.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Allen & Delancey
Growing up in Florida, things like basements, cabins, chunky sweaters and chilly fall evenings made me literally gaga. I'd watch movies with summer camps in the Berkshires or romantic getaways at a lakeside house and think...Why is it so damn hot here? Why are there mosquitoes the size of my dog? New England looks cozy, cool...and sexy. All that candlelight. All that snuggling. All that red wine.
Once while I was in college, a friend of mine spent a phenomenal and secret weekend with her boyfriend at her aunt's lakeside cabin in Upstate New York—obviously I was ridiculously jealous. When she returned, she showed me all her (appropriate) pictures as a lame consolation prize. They were filled with brick-a-brack, wood plank ceilings and tons of velvet. I couldn't get enough.
So every time I visit Allen & Delancey in the Lower East Side, I have a strange, fantastic feeling that I'm in her photos. After sweeping through velvet curtains, my eyes need a moment to adjust to the dimly lit, narrow hallway of a bar. Beamed ceilings have that shabby-chic, not-quite-finished-but-who-cares feel and bulbs twinkle in a neat row above the dark bar. Behind the bartenders, shelves are filled with makings for cocktails galore—and porcelain dolls, art-class successes (and failures) and tzatchchis picked up on road trips somewhere in the Midwest, or maybe Provence. The same is sprinkled through the two main dining rooms, contrasting brassy chandeliers, opulent rugs, slick tables and luxurious booths. If I had a rich, wacky aunt myself (I've named her Aunt Zelda in my imagination for some reason) and threw a Jay-Z-style sexy/grown party at her vacation pad it would look like this—mischievous and playful but luxurious nonetheless. Aunt Zelda may paint with water colors, but you can tell from looking around she's got diamonds somewhere, too.
Through the seasons, Chef Neil Ferguson flits from menu to menu as market-ready produce cycles through. He keeps a few signatures throughout, though. From this bunch, is the hamachi with grapefruit beads. It's sleek and neat, a proficient palate opener, with all the zing you want without any superfluous decoration. Another perennial favorite is caramelized bone marrow. While the dollop of caviar is pretty ostentatious (and unnecessary in my mind), the sweet shallot puree and drippy succulence get me every time. Too bad a choice from the seasonal menu doesn't equal the two mainstays: Peeky toe crab ravioli lacks punch, and is swallowed in a salty crunch from pistachios and a too-thick green foam. The crab meat gets overpowered, even though underneath it all, it's sweet and lush with a tasty pasta wrapping.
To find Ferguson's real talents, the entreé section is where his heat hits the top. Although last time I visited it wasn't on the menu, when it is, the tersely and aptly titled "cabbage beef and onion" fills that hearty need the wintry digs call for. A huge chunk of tender beef sits beside its condiments, each requiring equal, quiet attention, but still a no-muss-no-fuss meal. The lamb chop is a more festive dish, with salty, tender meat dressed up in olives and eggplants for an unusual snap. For a real treat (again when/if they put it back on the menu), the lamb chop and neck is succulent with a potato puree to highlight the rosy meat's perfection. Surprising for a hibernation-inducing ambience, the real flavor explosion comes from a lighter dish: the snapper with braised celery is elegant and flaky, with a sultry whip of sugar from the wilted vegetable. A fork-licker for sure.
Dessert is relegated to the after-party and doesn't share the sparkle of the rest of the meal. Only a devilish take on snickers is chewy and intoxicating—honey ice cream seals the deal with a swath of freshness. For a more adult end, check out the diverse selection of cheese.
Sometimes I wonder if I like Allen and Delancey even more for the grown-up treehouse vibe than the savory, hearty food. Either way, I go back time and again, and I always love the feeling that at any moment I might have to pull out a lantern and long-lost fake ID to get in. Bring on the candles, vino and tight cardigans.
Allen & Delancey
Rating: Excellent
Address: 115 Allen Street at Delancey
Phone: 212.253.5400
Once while I was in college, a friend of mine spent a phenomenal and secret weekend with her boyfriend at her aunt's lakeside cabin in Upstate New York—obviously I was ridiculously jealous. When she returned, she showed me all her (appropriate) pictures as a lame consolation prize. They were filled with brick-a-brack, wood plank ceilings and tons of velvet. I couldn't get enough.
So every time I visit Allen & Delancey in the Lower East Side, I have a strange, fantastic feeling that I'm in her photos. After sweeping through velvet curtains, my eyes need a moment to adjust to the dimly lit, narrow hallway of a bar. Beamed ceilings have that shabby-chic, not-quite-finished-but-who-cares feel and bulbs twinkle in a neat row above the dark bar. Behind the bartenders, shelves are filled with makings for cocktails galore—and porcelain dolls, art-class successes (and failures) and tzatchchis picked up on road trips somewhere in the Midwest, or maybe Provence. The same is sprinkled through the two main dining rooms, contrasting brassy chandeliers, opulent rugs, slick tables and luxurious booths. If I had a rich, wacky aunt myself (I've named her Aunt Zelda in my imagination for some reason) and threw a Jay-Z-style sexy/grown party at her vacation pad it would look like this—mischievous and playful but luxurious nonetheless. Aunt Zelda may paint with water colors, but you can tell from looking around she's got diamonds somewhere, too.
Through the seasons, Chef Neil Ferguson flits from menu to menu as market-ready produce cycles through. He keeps a few signatures throughout, though. From this bunch, is the hamachi with grapefruit beads. It's sleek and neat, a proficient palate opener, with all the zing you want without any superfluous decoration. Another perennial favorite is caramelized bone marrow. While the dollop of caviar is pretty ostentatious (and unnecessary in my mind), the sweet shallot puree and drippy succulence get me every time. Too bad a choice from the seasonal menu doesn't equal the two mainstays: Peeky toe crab ravioli lacks punch, and is swallowed in a salty crunch from pistachios and a too-thick green foam. The crab meat gets overpowered, even though underneath it all, it's sweet and lush with a tasty pasta wrapping.
To find Ferguson's real talents, the entreé section is where his heat hits the top. Although last time I visited it wasn't on the menu, when it is, the tersely and aptly titled "cabbage beef and onion" fills that hearty need the wintry digs call for. A huge chunk of tender beef sits beside its condiments, each requiring equal, quiet attention, but still a no-muss-no-fuss meal. The lamb chop is a more festive dish, with salty, tender meat dressed up in olives and eggplants for an unusual snap. For a real treat (again when/if they put it back on the menu), the lamb chop and neck is succulent with a potato puree to highlight the rosy meat's perfection. Surprising for a hibernation-inducing ambience, the real flavor explosion comes from a lighter dish: the snapper with braised celery is elegant and flaky, with a sultry whip of sugar from the wilted vegetable. A fork-licker for sure.
Dessert is relegated to the after-party and doesn't share the sparkle of the rest of the meal. Only a devilish take on snickers is chewy and intoxicating—honey ice cream seals the deal with a swath of freshness. For a more adult end, check out the diverse selection of cheese.
Sometimes I wonder if I like Allen and Delancey even more for the grown-up treehouse vibe than the savory, hearty food. Either way, I go back time and again, and I always love the feeling that at any moment I might have to pull out a lantern and long-lost fake ID to get in. Bring on the candles, vino and tight cardigans.
Allen & Delancey
Rating: Excellent
Address: 115 Allen Street at Delancey
Phone: 212.253.5400
Monday, September 22, 2008
Fall for Dance; Program 1
Dance, theater and food are my holy trinity of things for which I'll shell out money...even though sky-rocketing prices and my light pockets make me do so begrudgingly sometimes. Regardless, I find a memorable, thoughtful, knock-my-ass-off-the-seat night worth way more than a new pair of shoes (though when I'm rich I'll have both). But that's why I—and every other artist in the city—run wildly to the box office or online page to try and get tickets to Fall for Dance, a fantastic New York dance festival held...well...every fall. While there are festivals all over the place, and you can get me to go to pretty much anything for $10 dollars, the quality and breadth of companies, artists and genres is what makes these shows a true steal.
Unfortunately everyone in the arts world knows it—and tickets are hard to come by. This year I was at least able to snag seats to one program, and every diverse minute made me wish I could see all the rest, too.
But since regret isn't helpful, I sat back and tried to digest every bit I did get for my ten bucks. First up was the slamming powerhouse Ballet Jazz de Montreal, now known as [bjm_danse]. When I was training at Ballet Florida as a teenager, one of my jazz teachers was a former dancer with this company: She was all legs, ridiculously strong and sassy. I found out this was a pretty good estimation of the company as a whole—a fierce, jazzy group full of unique flavors with a similar vibe as Hubbard Street Dance Chicago (a high compliment in my mind). The talented troupe performed Les Chambres des Jacques, a two-year-old piece by innovator Aszure Barton, set to a huge range of music including Antonio Vivaldi and Alberto Iglesias. It fit neatly into the jazz/contemporary category with an edge of animalistic quirkiness in a more conventional way than I've seen Barton's work be. As a row of dancers stood in the back in pedestrian-on-crack poses with angular arms and twitchy leg, one dancer took a downstage spotlight to writhe, wiggle and essentially krump. As the others joined in, Barton weaved regular gestures between whacked-out versions of the same moments, full on dance explosions and impressive floor work with Russian-like heel walks done in a squatted position. On the whole, the piece is entertaining and energetic, but I also found it to be a typical offering versus Barton's more intriguing challenges.
With a great stroke of programming, Rush by Christopher Wheeldon was next, taking the frantic tone down to tranquil. Oregon Ballet Theater's delightful Alison Roper danced with knightly Artur Sultanov with delicacy and humility. A breather for the audience, the piece's classical undertones and subdued but lovely lifts stood to affirm ballet's presence on the Festival's increasingly contemporary roster.
Swirling the audience across the world (one of my favorite aspects of the festival which continues to include many traditional, ethnic varieties and styles of dance), Odissi: PRAVAHA was then performed by mother and daughter, Madhavi and Arushi Mudgal. Their obvious family connection made the piece mesmerizing in it's offering nature: Yes, they danced for us, the audience, but an offering pyre at the front of the stage also made it clear there were greater recipients in mind, too. This is always the case with spiritually based Indian dance and I find this important aspect one of the most fulfilling; true rapture shone on the dancers' faces as they twirled into exaggerated poses, rhythmic foot stomps and indicative face/eye and hand sequences. The accompanying sitar and singers added extra spice of exotic lands.
Jane Dudley's Harmonica Breakdown was another ritual piece of a far different genre. To the sounds of banjos and harmonicas, Sheron Wray flew around the stage in a long blue dress, her arms reaching toward the heavens. Short and brief, the interlude wasn't startling in the moment, but left a lingering trace of humility and thanks after swan like arm movements and skyward glances.
For dessert, the programming left the best for last, well knowing that once the audience devoured Hofesh Shechter's Uprising they would neither want more, nor be able to handle anything else. Point being...I was left panting, even salivating, for seven of the hottest and strongest male dancers I have ever seen command attention onstage. It was if Fight Club had been remade into a dance-only event. Aggressive and daring, humongous jumps, flying-into-floor work and wrestling with each other, the guys made machisimo and testosterone something I actually wanted to watch. Their palpable commitment to just those twenty minutes or so—and each other—was a comraderie I've never seen before.
Once, in a dance class I took from master teacher David Marquez, he mentioned a strange difference when he separated groups into men and women: Women seemed to compete with each other, even just in a dance class, while the men seemed to cheer each other on through their rousing energy. In class, I wasn't sure if it all was true. But onstage, I could see the latter part in clear light. One particularly emotional moment was one I'd seen many times while watching boys play on a field: After an exhausting group sequence, lunging and flinging themselves, the dancers met in a circle in the back of the stage. Each one patted the next on the back...until it rapidly deteriorated into a full-on slapfest, the way that all boys' harmless rumbles start. To see the manly, or actually boyish, energy build into a good-attitude explosion was incredible.
While I'd never seen the newly formed Hofesh Schechter company perform, or even heard of its namesake founder, FfD did what it intended: It made me fall in love with a new artist, one I'm sure to follow and patronize again. And all just for 10 bucks. Amen.
Fall for Dance
Rating: Excellent
New York City Center
Unfortunately everyone in the arts world knows it—and tickets are hard to come by. This year I was at least able to snag seats to one program, and every diverse minute made me wish I could see all the rest, too.
But since regret isn't helpful, I sat back and tried to digest every bit I did get for my ten bucks. First up was the slamming powerhouse Ballet Jazz de Montreal, now known as [bjm_danse]. When I was training at Ballet Florida as a teenager, one of my jazz teachers was a former dancer with this company: She was all legs, ridiculously strong and sassy. I found out this was a pretty good estimation of the company as a whole—a fierce, jazzy group full of unique flavors with a similar vibe as Hubbard Street Dance Chicago (a high compliment in my mind). The talented troupe performed Les Chambres des Jacques, a two-year-old piece by innovator Aszure Barton, set to a huge range of music including Antonio Vivaldi and Alberto Iglesias. It fit neatly into the jazz/contemporary category with an edge of animalistic quirkiness in a more conventional way than I've seen Barton's work be. As a row of dancers stood in the back in pedestrian-on-crack poses with angular arms and twitchy leg, one dancer took a downstage spotlight to writhe, wiggle and essentially krump. As the others joined in, Barton weaved regular gestures between whacked-out versions of the same moments, full on dance explosions and impressive floor work with Russian-like heel walks done in a squatted position. On the whole, the piece is entertaining and energetic, but I also found it to be a typical offering versus Barton's more intriguing challenges.
With a great stroke of programming, Rush by Christopher Wheeldon was next, taking the frantic tone down to tranquil. Oregon Ballet Theater's delightful Alison Roper danced with knightly Artur Sultanov with delicacy and humility. A breather for the audience, the piece's classical undertones and subdued but lovely lifts stood to affirm ballet's presence on the Festival's increasingly contemporary roster.
Swirling the audience across the world (one of my favorite aspects of the festival which continues to include many traditional, ethnic varieties and styles of dance), Odissi: PRAVAHA was then performed by mother and daughter, Madhavi and Arushi Mudgal. Their obvious family connection made the piece mesmerizing in it's offering nature: Yes, they danced for us, the audience, but an offering pyre at the front of the stage also made it clear there were greater recipients in mind, too. This is always the case with spiritually based Indian dance and I find this important aspect one of the most fulfilling; true rapture shone on the dancers' faces as they twirled into exaggerated poses, rhythmic foot stomps and indicative face/eye and hand sequences. The accompanying sitar and singers added extra spice of exotic lands.
Jane Dudley's Harmonica Breakdown was another ritual piece of a far different genre. To the sounds of banjos and harmonicas, Sheron Wray flew around the stage in a long blue dress, her arms reaching toward the heavens. Short and brief, the interlude wasn't startling in the moment, but left a lingering trace of humility and thanks after swan like arm movements and skyward glances.
For dessert, the programming left the best for last, well knowing that once the audience devoured Hofesh Shechter's Uprising they would neither want more, nor be able to handle anything else. Point being...I was left panting, even salivating, for seven of the hottest and strongest male dancers I have ever seen command attention onstage. It was if Fight Club had been remade into a dance-only event. Aggressive and daring, humongous jumps, flying-into-floor work and wrestling with each other, the guys made machisimo and testosterone something I actually wanted to watch. Their palpable commitment to just those twenty minutes or so—and each other—was a comraderie I've never seen before.
Once, in a dance class I took from master teacher David Marquez, he mentioned a strange difference when he separated groups into men and women: Women seemed to compete with each other, even just in a dance class, while the men seemed to cheer each other on through their rousing energy. In class, I wasn't sure if it all was true. But onstage, I could see the latter part in clear light. One particularly emotional moment was one I'd seen many times while watching boys play on a field: After an exhausting group sequence, lunging and flinging themselves, the dancers met in a circle in the back of the stage. Each one patted the next on the back...until it rapidly deteriorated into a full-on slapfest, the way that all boys' harmless rumbles start. To see the manly, or actually boyish, energy build into a good-attitude explosion was incredible.
While I'd never seen the newly formed Hofesh Schechter company perform, or even heard of its namesake founder, FfD did what it intended: It made me fall in love with a new artist, one I'm sure to follow and patronize again. And all just for 10 bucks. Amen.
Fall for Dance
Rating: Excellent
New York City Center
Monday, September 1, 2008
Mia Dona
After a delicious and simple dinner at Kefi two years ago, I admired Michael Psilakis and his crystal-clear flavors and obvious food-joy. So, after reading about his other ventures, I thought it wise to find out firsthand what all the newer fuss was about, despite recent unappealing/hunky photos of the chef floating around online. I chose his more casual, Italian-based restaurant, Mia Dona, where he partners with constant chum Donatella Arpaia, as my initial expedition.
My first try was a pre-theater dinner, and walking into the fairly empty, dim restaurant during the no-mans land of six pm felt odd and lonely, especially in the nether dining region of the east 60s. The low lighting eerily reminded me of cocktail waitressing with a shift starting at four pm—getting to a place of nighttime pleasures while the sun was still blazing always felt awkward. Without the booze and lust it all just seemed so… wrong. Sort of like seeing a distant aunt in huge panties and a girdle by mistake—disrobed.
Despite the perplexing anxiety this produced, once I sat down and looked at the mouth-watering menu with comforting prices (appetizers between $9–$16, pastas between $11–$18 and entrees between $19–$25), I felt better. And while the meal that followed that night and one other didn’t quite summon up the smile that Kefi did, the food and ambience did provide homey and stylish comfort suggested by the laid-back atmosphere.
Although the wine list is a terse affair (but reasonably priced to match with glasses between $9–$16), a crisp, tangy Ferrari-Carrano Fumé Blanc was the right start to my early evening, and the lights started to seem more appropriate as I gulped it down. Plus the artfully displayed black and white plates on whitewashed brick, and Palm Beach-inspired wallpaper took me home to the balmy beaches of Florida.
Looking over the menu, my friend and I decided to dabble in all of the sections, starting with the diverse appetizers. We chose well. The octopus was tender and sweet, an anchovy vinaigrette laced under the tentacles with salty feta and olives served as obvious but tasty accessories.
Crispy fried rabbit with translucent fingerling potato chips was the star of the small plates list though. The slivers of starch had me at first salty bite. Before I even glanced at the hunks of rabbit breaded with crumbs and hints of parmagiano-reggiano, I instantly dug into the shimmering take on good old Lays. The vinegar, hidden in a thin slick on the chips, rang sharply in my nose, and the flash-fried parsley mingled with the basket of crunchers made them more than irresistible—they were addictive. Add a creamy cucumber remoulade (which was probably more for the rabbit, but who’s checking), and you’ve got something deadly here.
Thankfully I was able to rip myself away to concentrate on the worthy main component. I’m not always a fan of rabbit, the gamey meat often curling my tongue back. But this rendition was sweet and crunchy without being overly fried, and the game quotient was somehow subdued and delicate. After polishing off the tasty starters, we moved on to a delicious skate dish, the stringy fish gently holding to a thin pan-fry, crunchy ramps and surprisingly crisp (in a fantastic way) escarole—an unexpected plate-licker.
My second visit didn’t fare quite as well. The pasta I chose from the well-edited list, chitarra with clams, was gloppy with sticky cheese and too much oil, making the starch overwhelm the hidden, tiny clams. Only a blast of garlic and chile heat made its way through the mess.
The Spiedini from the starter list served as a mildly pleasing, filling entrée. On a gleaming white rectangle, five tiny bites were presented like gifts for a newborn…on skewers: a well spiced but severely undercooked lamb polpetti (meatball), mushy sweetbreads with too-little crunch, a tender but boring tiny quail, a classic bite of merguez sausage and the one prize of the dish—pork involtini made of sweet pork meat wrapped around dripping mozzarella. Although the dish packed a stuffing wallop for a small plate, I would have preferred more flavor, less meat.
While the décor and food whisper comfort—if not excitement or seduction— I did find the service almost rude and certainly haphazard. When I sat at a table, the waiter kept insisting I was done with my wine despite a couple of sips left. At prime time, I can understand the need for a table, but so early (and with nobody waiting in the wings up front), it seemed not only inappropriate, but also amateurish for the pedigree of a restaurant run by Psilakis. While the bar fared better, with an affable bartender, many questions I asked went unanswered, usually with a friendly shrug.
But you don’t come to Mia Dona for those points—you got to Anthos apparently. Instead, you visit this spot for an amiable vibe, tasty if not mind-blowing food, more than decent prices and a haven where you can wow yourself with a few favorites or simply enjoy your time with wine, pitchers of beer and the rest of the middle ground.
Follow Up: Mia Dona is no longer serving the fried rabbit starter to rotate more seasonal dishes. I’ll keep you posted if something can match the crunchy delight.
Mia Dona
Rating: Good
Address: 206 East 58th Street
Phone: 212.750.8170
My first try was a pre-theater dinner, and walking into the fairly empty, dim restaurant during the no-mans land of six pm felt odd and lonely, especially in the nether dining region of the east 60s. The low lighting eerily reminded me of cocktail waitressing with a shift starting at four pm—getting to a place of nighttime pleasures while the sun was still blazing always felt awkward. Without the booze and lust it all just seemed so… wrong. Sort of like seeing a distant aunt in huge panties and a girdle by mistake—disrobed.
Despite the perplexing anxiety this produced, once I sat down and looked at the mouth-watering menu with comforting prices (appetizers between $9–$16, pastas between $11–$18 and entrees between $19–$25), I felt better. And while the meal that followed that night and one other didn’t quite summon up the smile that Kefi did, the food and ambience did provide homey and stylish comfort suggested by the laid-back atmosphere.
Although the wine list is a terse affair (but reasonably priced to match with glasses between $9–$16), a crisp, tangy Ferrari-Carrano Fumé Blanc was the right start to my early evening, and the lights started to seem more appropriate as I gulped it down. Plus the artfully displayed black and white plates on whitewashed brick, and Palm Beach-inspired wallpaper took me home to the balmy beaches of Florida.
Looking over the menu, my friend and I decided to dabble in all of the sections, starting with the diverse appetizers. We chose well. The octopus was tender and sweet, an anchovy vinaigrette laced under the tentacles with salty feta and olives served as obvious but tasty accessories.
Crispy fried rabbit with translucent fingerling potato chips was the star of the small plates list though. The slivers of starch had me at first salty bite. Before I even glanced at the hunks of rabbit breaded with crumbs and hints of parmagiano-reggiano, I instantly dug into the shimmering take on good old Lays. The vinegar, hidden in a thin slick on the chips, rang sharply in my nose, and the flash-fried parsley mingled with the basket of crunchers made them more than irresistible—they were addictive. Add a creamy cucumber remoulade (which was probably more for the rabbit, but who’s checking), and you’ve got something deadly here.
Thankfully I was able to rip myself away to concentrate on the worthy main component. I’m not always a fan of rabbit, the gamey meat often curling my tongue back. But this rendition was sweet and crunchy without being overly fried, and the game quotient was somehow subdued and delicate. After polishing off the tasty starters, we moved on to a delicious skate dish, the stringy fish gently holding to a thin pan-fry, crunchy ramps and surprisingly crisp (in a fantastic way) escarole—an unexpected plate-licker.
My second visit didn’t fare quite as well. The pasta I chose from the well-edited list, chitarra with clams, was gloppy with sticky cheese and too much oil, making the starch overwhelm the hidden, tiny clams. Only a blast of garlic and chile heat made its way through the mess.
The Spiedini from the starter list served as a mildly pleasing, filling entrée. On a gleaming white rectangle, five tiny bites were presented like gifts for a newborn…on skewers: a well spiced but severely undercooked lamb polpetti (meatball), mushy sweetbreads with too-little crunch, a tender but boring tiny quail, a classic bite of merguez sausage and the one prize of the dish—pork involtini made of sweet pork meat wrapped around dripping mozzarella. Although the dish packed a stuffing wallop for a small plate, I would have preferred more flavor, less meat.
While the décor and food whisper comfort—if not excitement or seduction— I did find the service almost rude and certainly haphazard. When I sat at a table, the waiter kept insisting I was done with my wine despite a couple of sips left. At prime time, I can understand the need for a table, but so early (and with nobody waiting in the wings up front), it seemed not only inappropriate, but also amateurish for the pedigree of a restaurant run by Psilakis. While the bar fared better, with an affable bartender, many questions I asked went unanswered, usually with a friendly shrug.
But you don’t come to Mia Dona for those points—you got to Anthos apparently. Instead, you visit this spot for an amiable vibe, tasty if not mind-blowing food, more than decent prices and a haven where you can wow yourself with a few favorites or simply enjoy your time with wine, pitchers of beer and the rest of the middle ground.
Follow Up: Mia Dona is no longer serving the fried rabbit starter to rotate more seasonal dishes. I’ll keep you posted if something can match the crunchy delight.
Mia Dona
Rating: Good
Address: 206 East 58th Street
Phone: 212.750.8170
Monday, July 14, 2008
A Perfect Couple, by Brooke Berman
If “Sex and the City” was sourced for its tastiest nuggets, Brooke Berman’s A Perfect Couple might be the outcome. Like an over-stuffed closet, it’s jam-packed with pat romantic philosophies that promptly explode all over the well-versed characters for juicy—and verbose—drama.
In this episode, uptight Amy (sympathetically played by Dana Eskelson), fiancée Isaac (James Waterston) and mutual best friend Emma (Annie McNamara) retreat to the couple’s countryside house for the weekend. A journal belonging to Isaac’s observant grandmother resurfaces, unhinging the wobbly relationship between the oddly matched lovers and their constant compadré.
Throughout, similarity to SATC makes the piece a bit too familiar: Amy’s stringent approach to love is Charlotte’s battle call with a snap of erudite Miranda. And as she beds everything in Vans, Emma’s cocky but transparent outlook is a tart mixture of Samantha’s sexual politics with Carrie’s quirks. Scene titles projected on a blue housefront and emo/strummy music finishes it off. While the ingredients are integrated, the girls are still in the gaggle—and oddly so. McNamara’s serious diction and maneuverings are better suited for a more esoteric piece, and the only meaty chemistry lies between the two ladies in their overly involved friendship.
But, this dejá vu is also what works for the piece. The topics and tone that nabbed worship for the series still hold pertinent and witty here. With an ear for zingers and moments of grace, Berman presents an enjoyable, if uneven, show investigating perennial subjects: relationships in all messy forms, and the ideas that get us stuck, unstuck and altogether befuddled as we try like hell to navigate them. A good show. Just not perfect.
A Perfect Couple
Rating: Great
At DR2
By Brooke Berman. Dir. Maria Mileaf. With Dana Eskelson, Annie McNamara, Elan Moss-Bachrach and James Waterston. 75 minutes. No intermission.
In this episode, uptight Amy (sympathetically played by Dana Eskelson), fiancée Isaac (James Waterston) and mutual best friend Emma (Annie McNamara) retreat to the couple’s countryside house for the weekend. A journal belonging to Isaac’s observant grandmother resurfaces, unhinging the wobbly relationship between the oddly matched lovers and their constant compadré.
Throughout, similarity to SATC makes the piece a bit too familiar: Amy’s stringent approach to love is Charlotte’s battle call with a snap of erudite Miranda. And as she beds everything in Vans, Emma’s cocky but transparent outlook is a tart mixture of Samantha’s sexual politics with Carrie’s quirks. Scene titles projected on a blue housefront and emo/strummy music finishes it off. While the ingredients are integrated, the girls are still in the gaggle—and oddly so. McNamara’s serious diction and maneuverings are better suited for a more esoteric piece, and the only meaty chemistry lies between the two ladies in their overly involved friendship.
But, this dejá vu is also what works for the piece. The topics and tone that nabbed worship for the series still hold pertinent and witty here. With an ear for zingers and moments of grace, Berman presents an enjoyable, if uneven, show investigating perennial subjects: relationships in all messy forms, and the ideas that get us stuck, unstuck and altogether befuddled as we try like hell to navigate them. A good show. Just not perfect.
A Perfect Couple
Rating: Great
At DR2
By Brooke Berman. Dir. Maria Mileaf. With Dana Eskelson, Annie McNamara, Elan Moss-Bachrach and James Waterston. 75 minutes. No intermission.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
In the Heights
In the Heights
Review
Audiences love a good musical—they just do. To begin with, musicals are fun, and unabashedly so. Then there’s the dancing, the singing and physical feats that accompany any musical worth its salt. But regardless, a musical is truly at its best when it follows the cardinal rule: Only use music and dance when simple spoken word cannot match the intensity of emotion. When a show veers from this formula, endless, pointless songs parade onstage while onlookers want to throw themselves off any close balcony. But, when it is, tingles ripple through the audience as it feels what can’t be described in regular conversation. The music surges into emotion, and sentimental or not, that can’t be denied by any snarky comments in our cynical world. Essentially then, hope is the third gift offered by the best musicals and sought out by theater goers whether they realize it or not.
And this full-fledged, wide grinning, heart pounding hope is exactly what In the Heights brings with its sexy salsa strut. A gutsy bite and heartfelt underpinning are the staples in Lin Manuel Miranda’s tale of Washington Heights in modern day New York. Usnavi, the bodega owner (perfectly played by Lin himself), raps his way through the hilarities, anecdotes and struggles of el barrio, introducing a troupe of colorful characters along the way. When an unexpected lottery win forces the entire hood to reconsider goals, they must decide whether to follow new dreams or stick to the old. In its immigrant roots, the show touches upon ethnic specificity while retaining a universal truth—without a home and family, what will dreams-come-true really mean? The writer’s voice rings sharp and precise, gathering the particulars of a people and place that are clearly so dear to him, without masking them in rose colors—an impressive new kid on the block for sure.
The cast magnificently fills out characters that could easily become caricatures. Most impressive is Robin De Jesus as Sonny, the insecure but adorable sidekick who always says the wrong thing but means well. His voice is strong, with aptly-twitchy movements and puppy eyes—casting at its best. The voices that blow out of young lovers Nina and Benny played by Mandy Gonzalez and Christopher Jackson, are show-stopping tear-jerkers, and while some of the love moments can seem canned (there are kids in the audience mind you), by the end of the show the two have fully grown the relationship. Olga Merediz as Abuela Claudia has now been nominated for a TONY and rightly so. Shifting between a supporter of the blooming youngsters around her, to a woman with her own fears and dreams, Abuela is the unsung glue that holds the barrio together. And Merediz herself, seems to play the same role in the cast.
The ensemble steps up to the main players’ standards, vividly depicting the gang of spunky New Yorkers. Although their roles border on sentimental at times (they smile for the most part and the poverty that resides in the area is only touched upon), there is real work being done to flesh out each individual onstage. Andy Blankenbeuhler’s choreography, a blend of Latino slink, fluid contemporary and hip hop funk offers the entire cast moments to melt and pop, and the area’s joyous quality is lived most fully in his dance sequences.
With the show’s finale, “Home,” it’s impossible not to get swept up in the genuine voice set forth by Miranda. A new talent with wild potential, he brings a fresh perspective to the melting-pot stance and offers hope that a chile-hot kick is still available on the Great White Way.
In the Heights
Rating: To Die For
Review
Audiences love a good musical—they just do. To begin with, musicals are fun, and unabashedly so. Then there’s the dancing, the singing and physical feats that accompany any musical worth its salt. But regardless, a musical is truly at its best when it follows the cardinal rule: Only use music and dance when simple spoken word cannot match the intensity of emotion. When a show veers from this formula, endless, pointless songs parade onstage while onlookers want to throw themselves off any close balcony. But, when it is, tingles ripple through the audience as it feels what can’t be described in regular conversation. The music surges into emotion, and sentimental or not, that can’t be denied by any snarky comments in our cynical world. Essentially then, hope is the third gift offered by the best musicals and sought out by theater goers whether they realize it or not.
And this full-fledged, wide grinning, heart pounding hope is exactly what In the Heights brings with its sexy salsa strut. A gutsy bite and heartfelt underpinning are the staples in Lin Manuel Miranda’s tale of Washington Heights in modern day New York. Usnavi, the bodega owner (perfectly played by Lin himself), raps his way through the hilarities, anecdotes and struggles of el barrio, introducing a troupe of colorful characters along the way. When an unexpected lottery win forces the entire hood to reconsider goals, they must decide whether to follow new dreams or stick to the old. In its immigrant roots, the show touches upon ethnic specificity while retaining a universal truth—without a home and family, what will dreams-come-true really mean? The writer’s voice rings sharp and precise, gathering the particulars of a people and place that are clearly so dear to him, without masking them in rose colors—an impressive new kid on the block for sure.
The cast magnificently fills out characters that could easily become caricatures. Most impressive is Robin De Jesus as Sonny, the insecure but adorable sidekick who always says the wrong thing but means well. His voice is strong, with aptly-twitchy movements and puppy eyes—casting at its best. The voices that blow out of young lovers Nina and Benny played by Mandy Gonzalez and Christopher Jackson, are show-stopping tear-jerkers, and while some of the love moments can seem canned (there are kids in the audience mind you), by the end of the show the two have fully grown the relationship. Olga Merediz as Abuela Claudia has now been nominated for a TONY and rightly so. Shifting between a supporter of the blooming youngsters around her, to a woman with her own fears and dreams, Abuela is the unsung glue that holds the barrio together. And Merediz herself, seems to play the same role in the cast.
The ensemble steps up to the main players’ standards, vividly depicting the gang of spunky New Yorkers. Although their roles border on sentimental at times (they smile for the most part and the poverty that resides in the area is only touched upon), there is real work being done to flesh out each individual onstage. Andy Blankenbeuhler’s choreography, a blend of Latino slink, fluid contemporary and hip hop funk offers the entire cast moments to melt and pop, and the area’s joyous quality is lived most fully in his dance sequences.
With the show’s finale, “Home,” it’s impossible not to get swept up in the genuine voice set forth by Miranda. A new talent with wild potential, he brings a fresh perspective to the melting-pot stance and offers hope that a chile-hot kick is still available on the Great White Way.
In the Heights
Rating: To Die For
Monday, June 9, 2008
Michael Clarke Redux
If there is a John Paul Gaultier of the dance world, his name is Michael Clark. Stylish and badass, the 46-year-old Scott has made the rounds choreographing masterpieces onstage, as well as in a dramatic soap opera offstage.
After training at the Royal Ballet and being touted on the 1980s dance scene, Clark was swept away by a nasty little habit known as heroin addiction. Since kicking it, he's set off to reclaim his creative edge and made his American re-debut on June 4th at the Rose Theater in New York City.
The anticipation in the audience pre-show mirrored a strange duality of the paparazzi age: Show-goers seemed equally interested in the possibility that Clark would a) fail miserably like many post-glory boat-rockers or b) climb to new heights with a fresh, more mature perspective. Any schaudenfreude was mostly squashed: Clarke’s work on program A was captivating and unique. A win for the boy back in town.
The evening consisted of two U.S premiers under the title of Stravinsky Project: OO, the music a deluge of punk anthems and a surprising Barbara Streisand ballad, was first, followed by O, Clark’s rendition of Apollo to Stravinsky’s landmark score. Throughout both, Clark’s interest in a ballet bottom and modern top played out in classical ballet steps like echapes and chennes, juxtaposed with angular, jutting, tilting, twirling arms and torsos. In O, this duality was further echoed by the trappings: a black stage was lined in white labyrinth patterns and the dancers were outfitted for much of it in variations of stark unitards with a black back and tan front—a dancer split both by different styles on top and bottom, plus front to back with a thin line of light and dark.
The sleek costume also established a trippy visual effect of halves—legs and arms disappearing, or appearing in odd ways as the two dimensional robot dancers scooped and staggered: When the dancers first slid on to the stage, stepping slowly into an attitude, they then curled their backs towards their outstretched toe like a piece of plastic being burned by the sun, furling backwards into an inside-out standing circle. The tan of the bodysuit made half of the body disappear—Jim Morrison reality.
Throughout the challenging work filled with difficult extensions and yoga- handstands of all sorts, Clark also went against the grain in a gentler way: Although the music was blaring and frantic at times (Sex Pistols and Iggy Pop are the anthems of angst), much of the movement was languid—he is no conformist, even to the music’s whims. The sharp upper body and flexible legs made the dancers look like odd dolls, robotic and inviting at the same time, with a 2-D quality highlighted by the sleek outfits.
Third in the line up of O was Streisand’s rendition of the melancholy Sondheim tune, “Send in the Clowns,” a tongue and cheek choice paired with the only naked work of the evening (listed on the program, of course). Often, when choreography is shown without clothing, one has to wonder—why? Does this piece benefit from nudity, or is merely shock value? Here, the slow undulations were enhanced by the nudity (well half really- feather and fur boas were held over genitalia in a burlesque type way that was almost asexual). And if perhaps one ever got too serious, then Streisand’s crooning in the back would pop in for ironic relief.
In the last section to "Submission" by the Sex Pistols, more anger and passion came to the surface, as popping knees, splicing arms and dervish twirling filled the stage and Clark’s investigation of the extreme took center stage. Like very young children who are fascinated with their own abilities and exploring just how far each bone can move, steps were dissected until a simple knee bend was broken into four movements—a twisted technician’s parade.
After the blaring opening (appreciated by the younger of the crowd, but disdained—vocally—by some of the older patrons), O seemed tame, and not quite as exciting, if still well done. In Clark’s retelling, Apollo is trapped in a giant, clear jewel box that later opens to become a mirror of doors. Classical floor patterns and port de bras are showcased here, still partnered with odd, forceful upper body contortions, but less so than his first piece. A lovely pas de deux between Terpsichore and Apollo was the highlight—soft feminity and classical masculine strength combined gently to an effect striking in its repose against the earlier fire.
The program in its entirety may not have seemed thrilling to those old enough to have seen shows at the Judson Church or impromptu performances at Studio 54. But for those of us who missed our chance to meet Leigh Bowery, Clark’s second coming is welcome in its force—a middle finger clearly sticking up in front of a face that is smiling sweetly.
After training at the Royal Ballet and being touted on the 1980s dance scene, Clark was swept away by a nasty little habit known as heroin addiction. Since kicking it, he's set off to reclaim his creative edge and made his American re-debut on June 4th at the Rose Theater in New York City.
The anticipation in the audience pre-show mirrored a strange duality of the paparazzi age: Show-goers seemed equally interested in the possibility that Clark would a) fail miserably like many post-glory boat-rockers or b) climb to new heights with a fresh, more mature perspective. Any schaudenfreude was mostly squashed: Clarke’s work on program A was captivating and unique. A win for the boy back in town.
The evening consisted of two U.S premiers under the title of Stravinsky Project: OO, the music a deluge of punk anthems and a surprising Barbara Streisand ballad, was first, followed by O, Clark’s rendition of Apollo to Stravinsky’s landmark score. Throughout both, Clark’s interest in a ballet bottom and modern top played out in classical ballet steps like echapes and chennes, juxtaposed with angular, jutting, tilting, twirling arms and torsos. In O, this duality was further echoed by the trappings: a black stage was lined in white labyrinth patterns and the dancers were outfitted for much of it in variations of stark unitards with a black back and tan front—a dancer split both by different styles on top and bottom, plus front to back with a thin line of light and dark.
The sleek costume also established a trippy visual effect of halves—legs and arms disappearing, or appearing in odd ways as the two dimensional robot dancers scooped and staggered: When the dancers first slid on to the stage, stepping slowly into an attitude, they then curled their backs towards their outstretched toe like a piece of plastic being burned by the sun, furling backwards into an inside-out standing circle. The tan of the bodysuit made half of the body disappear—Jim Morrison reality.
Throughout the challenging work filled with difficult extensions and yoga- handstands of all sorts, Clark also went against the grain in a gentler way: Although the music was blaring and frantic at times (Sex Pistols and Iggy Pop are the anthems of angst), much of the movement was languid—he is no conformist, even to the music’s whims. The sharp upper body and flexible legs made the dancers look like odd dolls, robotic and inviting at the same time, with a 2-D quality highlighted by the sleek outfits.
Third in the line up of O was Streisand’s rendition of the melancholy Sondheim tune, “Send in the Clowns,” a tongue and cheek choice paired with the only naked work of the evening (listed on the program, of course). Often, when choreography is shown without clothing, one has to wonder—why? Does this piece benefit from nudity, or is merely shock value? Here, the slow undulations were enhanced by the nudity (well half really- feather and fur boas were held over genitalia in a burlesque type way that was almost asexual). And if perhaps one ever got too serious, then Streisand’s crooning in the back would pop in for ironic relief.
In the last section to "Submission" by the Sex Pistols, more anger and passion came to the surface, as popping knees, splicing arms and dervish twirling filled the stage and Clark’s investigation of the extreme took center stage. Like very young children who are fascinated with their own abilities and exploring just how far each bone can move, steps were dissected until a simple knee bend was broken into four movements—a twisted technician’s parade.
After the blaring opening (appreciated by the younger of the crowd, but disdained—vocally—by some of the older patrons), O seemed tame, and not quite as exciting, if still well done. In Clark’s retelling, Apollo is trapped in a giant, clear jewel box that later opens to become a mirror of doors. Classical floor patterns and port de bras are showcased here, still partnered with odd, forceful upper body contortions, but less so than his first piece. A lovely pas de deux between Terpsichore and Apollo was the highlight—soft feminity and classical masculine strength combined gently to an effect striking in its repose against the earlier fire.
The program in its entirety may not have seemed thrilling to those old enough to have seen shows at the Judson Church or impromptu performances at Studio 54. But for those of us who missed our chance to meet Leigh Bowery, Clark’s second coming is welcome in its force—a middle finger clearly sticking up in front of a face that is smiling sweetly.
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