Les Mis and an unexpected pleasure.

I'm blessed to be married to a theatre goer. In our years of dating and marriage, my Dear has made us season ticket holders. First, to the Shubert, then in it's demise, the Geffen and for many years now, the Ahmanson.

Before I share another thought, I have to say, Les Miserables was brilliantly staged. J. Mark McVey as Jean Val Jean sang beyond anyone I've heard on stage. And the death of Eponine at the barricade brought me to tears. My dear friend Michelle (oh I have many) Sharpe heard how technology changed the presentation and it did, magically.

So, the night. Our Saturday night theatre dates almost always include dinner at the Pinot Grill at the Music Center. We love dining al fresco, watching the fantastic mix of theatre and Opera goers passing, the dancing waters between the restaurant and the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion and, of course, Pinot food. Typically, we get to the complex a bit early, check for ticket upgrades and dine.

But last night the plan was altered by first a postcard message about the sold out status of the play and a follow-up email about traffic and timing. My Dear wasn't interested in seeing the play again. (He continues to savor the Shubert version, maybe that's because Tom Hanks and his little girl sat in front of us.) My youngest became my delightful theatre companion. She's very interested in musical theatre and singing and loved taking Dad's ticket.

When we arrived at the Grill we were stunned. The tables were full and there were lots and lots of people waiting in line. We put our name in for our 25 minute wait and sat to watch the people. There was much to see. In her preteen status, my lovely and I had gone shopping for "appropriate" shoes and were watching and measuring at all the fantastic and fantastically high heels on people who could and couldn't command them. It was great fun.

Notably, we saw lots of people in beige or beige patent leather espadrilles, lots of shoes with zippers up the back and these:

We found ourselves completely captivated by a beautiful woman in her late 50s/early 60s who made quite an entrance dressed in black with a gorgeous gray bob, Edith Head sun glasses,  and wearing the shoes of the night: black pumps with the highest heels and and almost floating red platform.
As she walked from the restaurant to the opera with her date, every head was turned and every woman took note and most notably of the shoes. She took the ground at every step. Shortly thereafter our name was called and our runway moment ended.

As we stood, waiting to be accompanied to our table, a woman saw that we were alone and asked if she and her daughter could join us. Though we were in the heart of LA, the thought, at the crowding throng, was that in Europe people do this all the time. My girlie and I agreed, with LA reluctance, to eat share our dinnertime with Laurie and Carly. As we ate we got to know a little about an LA native mom whose best pal is the man who played Timmy in Lassie and her lovely 16 year old flautist daughter (the one wearing the shoes above) who is crazy about Sarah Jessica Parker and wears a Carly necklace (just like Carrie's) and a diamond horseshoe necklace given to her by SJP's goddaughter. It was great fun and a sweet opportunity, quite outside our expected evening. I watched my daughter shine as she talked about her love of Broadway music (as a genre) and how proud she is of her big brother's musical explorations.

It was an unexpected pleasure. A little shift to my dinner and the theatre paradigm. And one I'm the better for.

Traditions & a French Dip Sandwich

My kids are getting old. The handwriting is on the wall. They may not be leaving tomorrow, but every moment today has to do with their tomorrows. I'm noticing how important family traditions are to both of my two. We have plenty of traditions around holidays, Sundays, birthdays, late mornings, etc., (and a discussion of them will make another post).

I've also noticed that the traditions I don't legislate, but that evolve over time are very important.

A year or so ago we went to Philippe's for French Dip Sandwiches a couple of times after Christmas. We saw lots of families with college aged kids, likely home for the holidays, eating and chatting for long stretches of time. I thought, "I love this - a cool, not-so-blatantly Christmassy traditional visit to a great LA institution - we can do this!"

However, we didn't go at Christmas this year. At least I didn't go. My Dear took the kids into LA for some errand or another and ended up stopping at Philippe's without me. And then I got this laryngitis business and didn't feel like going anywhere for a couple of weeks. My tradition was canceled, put off, done for the season.

So Monday, with the Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday, we decided to go up to LA's great camera store - Samy's -  to explore each of our digital photo/video needs. And on the way we stopped, along with the rest of the city, for a French Dipped Sandwich.

While we stood in line, my daughter starting singing Christmas songs. And my son reminded me that the Beef Dip is better with a pickled egg.

My timing may be off a bit, but my traditions are thankfully, embraced and intact.

The well beaten path

Last night my kiddos and I found ourselves back at Philippe's in downtown L.A. We'd been over to the west side, home and back to up to Hollywood when my son became, "Ravenous Man." For me, any trip away from home is a great opportunity to try, see, taste something new or experience a place in the local culture, so my brain was working on the many spots available when Philippe's entered his mind.
We hopped onto the 101 freeway and sat as visions of French Dipped Sandwiches danced in his head. (Neither my girlie nor I were really thinking sandwiches, so she quickly declared that she'd be dining on potato salad while I recalled a Caesar Salad I'd never tried.)

When we pulled up it felt so familiar and welcoming.
Queues were short and we found ourselves at the head of the line, then off through the sawdust to our table in no time.

While we ate and stared at the beet red pickled eggs we really noticed what a center of Los Angeles culture Philippe's really is.

From the back room, we heard a little girl singing loudly with an auditioning-for-Annie voice. We saw a couple of dressed-for-casting swing dance hipsters. There were a couple of lawyers discussing details of a case at the big common table to our right, a group of older men in their 70s kibitzing and occasionally watching the World Cup on the TV, a Chinese couple sharing their own bag of Hawaiian Style potato chips with the beef dips, young tourists chatting behind us, and literally hundreds of others coming in and out as we sat. I wondered who they all were, where they were going and most interestingly, where they'd been. My musings were interrupted when one of the men who busses tables offered to take our picture. He was dear, but my inner-Los Angeleno was highly insulted. "Wait just a doggone minute!" she cried out. "I'm from here! My dad ate here in the 50's when he worked in the copy department at the Broadway and the Times. I came when I first worked in advertising in my twenties. My husband came as a kid with his parents. And my kids have come since they were really little! In fact, we were here just a month or so ago! We're from here, sir!"

Instead, I simply offered a, "no, thank you, sir" and went back to my cup of sixty five cent coffee and sighed, with great gratitude, for the opportunity to walk and share the well beaten floors of a Los Angeles institution.

By the way, it was a tasty Caesar Salad.