Thoughts at year’s end

The passing of the year finds me, like many others, in a reflective mood. I wish to make the most, or at least much, of what remains to me. Time, of course, which, now that I’m as old as the hills, accelerates at a dizzying pace. But also people. 2023 has not been kind in that respect. It knocked around many people I care about. I survive with only minor bruises, but a relative especially dear to me lies in mortal danger as I write this.

I’ve known her all her life and longer than anyone else in mine. We share memories of things no one else has seen. We are what makes lifelong friends so comfortable, so valuable: witnesses to each other’s lives. I pray she doesn’t suffer; yet, when she is gone, all that we knew goes with her, and I am incomplete.

Other friends are fragile, hospitalized, or at risk of being so. A good day now is one in which I hear no bad news of them. Knocking wood in puzzlement at my own good health, I thank my parents for bequeathing me both sturdy genes and the discipline not to undermine them. It helps, of course, not to have an addictive personality, though I confess I never met a cuisine I didn’t like.

I’m fortunate too with the doctors in my life, particularly a new one, a cardiologist who is among the smartest, most charismatic people I’ve met. He came highly recommended, and as to his bedside manner, let’s just say I want to marry him and bear his children. Will I follow his advice? You betcha.

This year leaves me frightened not only for the health of my friends and family, but for that of this divided nation. Never since I’ve been alive, never, I believe in our history, has so much depended on the outcome of an election, (and its possible aftermath).

Thankfully, I have the distractions of books, music, and movies. I would add theater, but the pandemic makes me reluctant to resume that habit of a lifetime, though I’m tempted by the reviews for Boop. Christmas brought a welcome array of novels, biographies, and Eddie Muller‘s handsome revision of The Art of Noir.

One of my favorite times between the covers has been Reynaldo Hahn’s memoirs of Sarah Bernhardt. Hahn knew everyone in fin de siecle Paris, and was a chum (with benefits) of Marcel Proust. What a treat to follow the antics of this extraordinary group. It led me to order several CDs of Hahn’s music.

Movies, on the whole, were a bit more interesting than in recent years, and I have some catching up to do. The last two I streamed were Maestro and Saltburn. Maestro may be overlong, and yes, there are things I would tweak about Cooper‘s performance (mainly the forced effect of his voice in a lower register), but Carey Mulligan is simply dazzling, and not to be missed. It’s certainly not the bore that some social media sites are ranting about.

Full of twists and surprises, Saltburn is well cast and acted, especially by Barry Keoghan, who does the nicest little naked dance through room after room that you’d ever want to see.

Mornings, if I’m careful to avoid news of endless, merciless wars, new legal barriers to reasonable freedoms, and crime close to home, the paper lifts my spirits with a tricky crossword and the funnies, notably “Pickles,” “Brewster Rockit, Space Guy,” and “Mutts,” (the fate of Guard Dog had me on the edge of my rocker for weeks).

Finally, this was the year I got up my nerve to travel again. Back in Mexico, to the spot where John and I went so often, I basked in the company of friends I’d begun to fear I’d never see again. But I did!

And so, Happy – or at least less scary – New Year to us all.

A fond farewell – or untimely ripped

Whenever my friends and I found ourselves in Chicago, our first choice for lunch was the Grand Lux Cafe. The site is spacious and lux indeed with its voluptuous decor, vast, imaginative menu, and fastidious service. As of Christmas Eve, Grand Lux will be no more.

Our favorite haunt is yet another casualty of the pandemic. One by one, my cherished places and activities are snatched away, leaving me to wonder, like the oven bird in winter, what to make of a diminished thing.

Lois, Tim and I agreed we couldn’t let this grand old emporium vanish without a farewell visit to feast our eyes and warm our tummies. I tried to make a reservation for Saturday, but it was completely booked up. I had better luck this Monday. We were ushered to a roomy booth with a superb view of the lighted trees on Michigan Avenue.

Our lux view of the “Magnificent Mile”

Once seated, someone proposed a toast. With only water before me, I demurred, citing the superstition about toasting with water. I had ordered a vodka gimlet, which John called my old fogy drink, “Nobody has that any more, and if they actually have Rose’s lime juice, it’ll be stale and brown.” This time, he was right. They were out of it, and I couldn’t expect them to replenish it for their few remaining weeks. Well, I was treated like a visiting potentate. Three different servers and the bartender arrived with concoctions they hoped would please me. And that’s how it has always been at the Grand Lux Cafe.

Our server was a cheerful young woman who plans, (God bless her courageous heart), to become a teacher. No one at Grand Lux is ever just a waiter, though they are so gifted at the task that one wishes they’d continue at it forever. But no, they are all budding doctors, budding teachers, or most of all, budding actors. They won’t be out on the street as of January. The parent company, The Cheesecake Factory will place them elsewhere should they so choose. I wish them all luck.

I wanted a souvenir and offered to buy a menu, but was told to just take it.

It contains so many tempting choices that it’s always hard to settle on an order. The three of us shared such delectable appetizers as crispy Thai spring rolls, fried pickles, pot stickers, and Bao buns. We gobbled all but the plates. For entrees, Lois had a Grand Lux burger melt, Tim, the short rib pasta, and I, (switching at the last moment from spaghettini limone), pasta carbonara.

Dessert choices were much easier. Tim wanted the carrot cake with citrus cream frosting. Lois and I each had the sublime warm butter cake that we’d been dreaming about for days. Forgive the itemizing. It permitted me to savor it all once more.

Over double espressos, we reminisced and sometimes just sat in silence, basking in the warm opulence of our old friend.

Hard to believe, and hard to accept, that we’ll never dine there again.