Every big city has the street. It's Pine Street in Seattle. It's In Boston, it's Huntington Ave. In Atlanta it's Paces Ferry. Collins Ave is where you'll find them in Miami and of course everyone knows Fifth Avenue, Rodeo Drive and Michigan Avenue in the First, Second and Third Cities. Here in Philadelphia it's Walnut. The area of town is called Rittenhouse Square after the gent who was one of America's first astronomers.
I've had my second ridiculously expensive dinner here in the City of Brotherly Love at a joint called Barclay Prime. Soup. Steak. Spinach. Water. Margarita. Bearnaise Sauce. 100 bucks. That was actually a deal. They have a Kobe Cheesesteak for $100.
I moved into my new apartment as a huge cost-cutting move that I expect will be recognized and praised. Whereas I had been staying in $300/night hotels for the past 5 weeks I found a month to month lease deal that costs only about 1/3 of that. They really didn't object to my other hotel bills, so I can actually justify eating 200 bucks a day, but even I have one or two scruples left. Besides, there's something very weird about having all these expensive meals alone. I feel rather like an old retired cowboy star complete with hat and bolo tie or like James Garner. I come into the restaurant and they know I'm alright somehow but they ask if I've ever eaten there before, as if there were some level of sophistication they're just not sure I have. Of course I know how to dress and act like a restaurant critic, but I haven't bothered with that ruse since three trips to Salt Lake City ago. This time at Barkley Prime they actually did have a little sophisticated trick up their sleeve. You get to pick your style of steak knife. From the selection of four, I took the one I imagined would be best thrown by Dick Marcinko. It was a very modern looking well balanced affair. I twirled it through my fingers absent-mindedly without watching to see if the waiter was impressed.
I made a mistake getting to Barclay Prime. They have two doors you see. One for private dining and one for those of us who can only afford 100 bucks per meal. I didn't expect that there would be two and coming as I was from Walnut I opened the first door that said Barclay. There were a couple large parties milling about in that foyer but no familiar Maitre'D or hostess. I wondered if this was the joint that someone told me required a jacket. I was wearing Hollywood Black and a leather jacket. I ducked out and found the right door with a minimum of embarrassment. Still.
I had been walking all around Walnut and the Rittenhouse areas figuring out what exactly I felt like eating. Daylight savings had given all of us extra light and there was finally no more frozen anything in the streets. I stopped by the Episcopal Church on the square to find it closed but beckoning with a noon concert on Wednesday as well as evening services. I avoided being knocked over by a limo and crossed over to the square where joggers and small dog women shared the sunlight. This is definitely a slice of urban rich America; I watched intently trying to figure out which of the stroller pushing young women were tending to their own infants and which were mothers for hire. I made similar assessments of the dog walkers. For my own bit of posturing I note with a chuckle how many dorks were wearing Borg-style wireless bluetooth headseats and how many wore the white iPod headsets. Me, I'd just purchased the latest Martin Amis as my signifying fetish. I took the dust jacket off already, naturally. Nor do I ever use bookmarks, I'll have you know.
There is another gauntlet on Walnut. This one consists primarily of black men. There are four types. The primary sort are doormen and security men. This being the most uptight section of town, one presumes they're better than mere bouncers. All have short afros. They are calm, they are watching. The secondary sort are found closer to Broad. They are hawkers of various entertainments or deals. As I passed one in a cab several days ago, he was exhorting another black man "..it's free money!" he said. The third sort are the most annoying in symbiosis with the first. They are the beggars who are not beneath identifying the doggie bag in your hand as something you should feel guilty of if it sits in the fridge for any length of time. This is the best begging spot, these men are not slouches. They are a staple of the neighborhood, well the shopping part not the residential part. The fourth type of black man is the sort of which I am, comfortably ambling from one part of the area to another, occasionally impressed by the babes. Not many black couples. Not many at all.
In my new building over on JFK there is one bum at the 7/11. But he was no trouble at all. Through the security doors of the upscale apartment block is a different matter. Behind the desk there stood a black woman who let me know in no uncertain terms that she was the head of security and she didn't recognize me. I almost used my Starbucks name out of habit; Michael is so common I'm known to baristas as Max. I was distractedly needing to go to my bathroom, no I'm not visiting, I moved in yesterday, it's 'Michael', the twelfth floor thank you goodnight. She wasn't on duty Sunday when I came in and the black man who ran things then was much more accommodating although his Hispanic partner didn't recognize me the second time I passed the desk. He was there this morning and called hello to me by first name.
I'm not quite sure of the protocol for doormen. I never like to be called by my first name. In fact at work, I much prefer it when I'm called 'Bowen'. It's how I answer my phone; it's an old habit from Jesuit school and my wife and I call each other Bowen as well. There's something very debate-team, military discipline, and responsibility oriented about being addressed by your last name. It's very deep in me. I'd rather have a nickname than be called by my first name and it annoys me in almost every context. I don't think I'm going to get over it.
Today I wore my glasses. I don't want to be handsome and approachable. I want to appear stodgy, fussy, implacable. Even though it got into the sixties, I wore the trench coat. Cabs are harder to get over on this end of town. It's very busy and there's not a big hotel. I'm going to be annoyed for a while even though the weather is nice. I'm grouchy like Oscar Madison and persnickety like Felix Unger all at once, living in the same kind of building, except Murray the doorman is black and he's playing me too close.
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