#35 Boston - An Eyeopening Exploration of Expensive Eateries - Feb 2 07

Credit for this fabulous headline goes to my friend Steph, who listened to a voicemail with the sorry story of my sneaking out of a classy yet exorbitantly priced hotel after the menu was shown to me, and I could just not get myself to sign on for an afternoon tea for 45$. All the cucumber sandwiches in the world would not make up for that, no sir. This one certainly fits well under the headline of embarrassing tales from the road and even though nobody noticed this shameful act, I stilled blushed all the way back to my hotel.

Here I was, in our nation's capital, visiting the sights, when a little voice naggingly alerted me that I might be in the mood for a nice cup of tea accompanied by somethin' somethin' sweet. Up popped the Willard Hotel, a historic building also known as "The Residence of Presidents" (http://images.google.com/images?hl=en&q=Willard+Hotel) . It has hosted every president ever as a guest since Zach Taylor in 1850. Abe Lincoln paid his bill at the Willard with his first presidential paycheck. Lovely place, very classy. According to a memorial plaque at the hotel, it "was the scene of the last major effort to restore the union and prevent the Civil War. At Virginia's invitation, delegates of twenty-one of the then thirty-four states met in secret session from February 4 to 27 1861 in a vain attempt to solve the differences between the North and the South."

It is also believed that the term lobbyist was coined at the Willard - President Ulysses S Grant used to like to go there for happy hour, in his case a cigar and brandy, hang out in the lobby, decompress a little, take a load off, that sort of thing. Word got out for his fondness of hanging out there, and wouldn't you know it, many of the would-be power brokers used the opportunity to approach him during that time and peddle their cause. Grant called those folks "lobbyists" and apparently the name stuck.

Alright, alright, back to the story. Following that nagging little voice, I entered the Willard, and let me tell you, it was magical. Stunning architecture, a harpist was playing, everyone was dressed nicely and was equally well behaved, no one raised their voice, it was as if I had been miraculously transported into a Jane Austin movie. Patrons were sipping tea accompanied by cucumber sandwiches, petits fours and pastries on three-tiered serving platters and that little voice inside of me said "me too, me too, I want to be with the well-mannered people and eat triangular sandwiches". Upon inquiring, I was told that there were no empty seats, but that I shall try again in about 30 minutes. A little disappointed I left, and headed for the "Corner Bakery" (an excellent chain of cafes, with very delectable Apricot rugelach and apple tarts (yummm)) for the poor person's afternoon tea option. However, when I exited the bakery, rugelach and tarts in hand, I looked over to the Willard, and there was that voice again..... "Come on, you want to go, don't you?" The spell was cast, and I waltzed in there in eager anticipation, and after waiting for maybe another 10-15 minutes the miracle did happen and I was led to a very nice table near the harpist. I looked happier than any clam you have ever seen, but that smile flew off my face instantly when I opened the menu that was handed to me by the hostess. Holy Mother of God! Afternoon tea was priced at either $38 or 45$ a pop, and that was just a wee bit more than I wanted to spend on tea and a pastry. (I already think that a $3.50 soy steamer at Starbucks is too much.)

What to do? From my perspective, I had two embarrassing options - either talk to the hostess and tell her that this was just a tad more than what I had in mind (embarrassing) or sneak out when they were not looking (embarrassing). Yours truly went with option #2 during a very opportune moment when both the hostess and all waitresses were engaged otherwise. Needless to say this was yet another one of my great moments, and I will certainly cherish it always.

I had gone to Washington as a courier for the National Marrow Donor Program, and used the opportunity to look around DC a little for the afternoon. I stayed at the Crowne Plaza Hamilton, which was conveniently located about three blocks from the White House. So I had to go see it of course, and while I do not like its current inhabitants, I am fond of the building itself, it is quite a beautiful sight.

Across from the maison blanche is the Renwick Gallery, part of the Smithsonian Institutions, and definitely a little gem of a place. Their permanent exhibit on american crafts (http://americanart.si.edu/renwick/highlights.cfm) featured the whole range from the stunningly crafty to the obscure, including Larry Fuente's "Game Fish", Judy Kenley McKie's "Monkey Settee", Wendell's "Ghost Clock" and my favorite, "The Bureaucracy Bureau", a very fine piece of carpentry.

George Catlin's Indian Gallery upstairs at the Renwick was impressive as well (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Catlin). Catlin, born in 1796, was the first major artist to record the Plains Indians in their own territory. During his five trips out west (from 1830-36) he encountered many of the Native American tribes, and documented their lives in his art. He was certain of the doom Native Americans would experience with the encroaching settlers, and proposed the idea of a national park consisting of the Great Plains and providing a safe home for buffalo, wildlife, and native tribes. The gallery features hundreds of his portraits of tribes people and the landscapes they lived in, however my favorite work of art by Catlin was painting # 603, mostly dominated by a giant Grizzly Bear and the tiniest little mousse staring at it.


After visiting the Washington Memorial, the debacle at the Willard and a little rest at the hotel, it was time for part 2 of the "let's spend money we don't have" portion of the trip - "Butterfield 9", which served my friend Sarah and I a most exquisitely scrumptious and beautifully arranged meal for a price that definitely was in the upper echelons. The two of us and maybe three other patrons were the only visitors to this establishment in downtown DC, which seemed strangely deserted on Sunday evening, and we settled for the B9 because it looked nice and we were so hungry we would have pretty much eaten anything. (http://www.butterfield9.com/). Labeled by Conde Nast Magazine as "one of the hottest 100 restaurants in the world", it does, despite its cost factor, serve ambrosial cuisine and our stomachs were quite content, and if you want to treat yourself in DC, this should be your choice.

Monday was courier duty with a quick zip back to Boston, and I can't believe the week has come and gone. It was an interesting one, since I had to endure a test ordered by my GI physician, where a tube was stuck down my throat to measure the pH level in my upper and lower esophagus (ongoing reflux story, don't ask). The tube is about the thickness of angel hair pasta, gets send down your throat, and then very aesthetically comes out your nose, gets affixed to the side of your face and then attaches to a little computer that you carry like a camera bag on your side. Pretty nifty little thing, and you can check out your pH level nonstop. 24 hours is along time for the tube du jour, but the worst part of the procedure is beforehand, when the GI nurses measure your esophagus length, so as to determine how far to push the darn thing in. The measuring tube, mind you, is more the thickness of a macaroni, and not the least bit pleasant. The technology is pretty cool, but boy I want those 45 minutes back. Of course people look at you like your the biggest freak they have ever seen and I did get a few stares, but Oscar, bless the little yellow bird (who is usually scared by pretty much everything), ignored it and gave me tons of kisses just to make me feel better.

Aside from watching yet again tons of episodes of CSI (now moving into Season 4), there was time for a little culture this week - ushering at the Huntington Theater for an adaptation of Anton Checkov's "Cherry Orchard" on Wednesday - it did not exactly knock my socks off. I actually did find it boring and way too silly, and on more than one occasion I nodded off a little. Maybe I expected too much drama from a Russian writer, and the actual story by Checkov does have it, but this version lacked oomph and even an actress of Kate Burton's caliber (daughter of Richard Burton) could not save the night for me. Ellen, Patrick, Amy and I all agreed that the best part was that there was a live animal on stage - a most adorable scruffy little dog - so at least a little pleasure was derived from an otherwise pretty bland endeavor.

Alrighty my friends, I am already at home, it was a light day at work, and I am meeting some friends for a little retail therapy at the Garment District (not that I can spend any more dough, since my beloved Ella asked for new brakes and got 'em). This weekend, I will paint up a storm, and my hallway will hopefully return to its old splendor.

In the meantime, stay warm and safe.

pet:)