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Lauri and I have this running joke about how I'm the archetypal California suburban crunchy-organic gardener with the biotech career, and she's the archetypal Manhattan-born-and-bred upper-west-side-apartment-on-the-park with the Broadway career. And I've mentioned previously that I do get a bit of a kick out of tasting the "insider's view" with the peculiar filter that for Lauri, dealing with show biz folks is just a job.
When I'm out in NYC to visit, the socializing generally falls in two categories: our mutual historic textile geek friends (keeping in mind that we met while hanging out with the dress-and-textiles folks at the Kalamazoo medieval studies congress), and Lauri's friends and colleagues from work, which all fall on the "house" side of the theater business, which tends to involve things like pre-show dinners at venerable Russian-Jewish delis.
But this visit coincided with a round-number birthday party for one of Lauri's college roommates, and though neither of us are deeply enamored of cocktail party-type events, it was a must-do for Lauri and I thought it would be fun (within the context that I wouldn't know much of anyone else -- though I think I'd met the guest of honor on a previous visit). At the very least, I could practice my cocktail-party technique in a context where there were no consequences (for me) for utter failure.
So…um…here's how it went down. You take a taxi (because it's New York, either you take the subway or a taxi) up Central Park West, past the Natural History Museum and get out by the reservoir, opposite an impressively tall apartment building. The doorman lets you in and when you give the name of the party you've come to see, one of several uniformed persons hanging out in the lobby escorts you to the elevator and takes you up to the 20th floor. You don't get to see yourself up, because the elevator opens inside the apartment itself, so there are security keys and whatnot.
Arriving at the 20th floor, a short entry/coat-room opens onto a living room large enough that the grand piano supplying the live music doesn't seem awkwardly out of place.
After locating and greeting your hostess, you are approached by the catering staff who ask your drink preference (champagne, white wine, or sparkling water). Your drink will be refilled regularly throughout the evening (helpfully coded by the the type of glass involved). Catering staff circulate regularly with a variety of bite-size hot offerings in those long-narrow white ceramic dishes that I think get sold as "olive dishes" or something. A little cracker with a bit of steak the size of a dime, topped with carmelized onions. A bit of crescent-shaped pastry filled with a minty pea puree. Skewers of broiled shrimp. A pastry cup filled with pulled pork. That sort of thing. There is also a buffet of bread, cheese, olives, artichoke hearts, and a variety of other things I don't recall.
While you are acquiring your initial drinks you are approached by a genial, garrulous man who introduces himself as the actual resident of the apartment (who offered it as the venue for the party because: location!). You speculate silently on his connection to the guest of honor--possibly professional? The guest of honor does something in music publicity. You say appropriately admiring things about the view. Admiration is not at all difficult. This is the view.
Having completed the preliminaries, you look around for congenial conversations. The room is gradually filling with two categories of people: small clusters of (mostly seated) people talking intensely with each other who give of a "not interested in meeting anyone new" vibe, and generally pairs (some couples, some random conjunctions), typically standing, who look open to conversation. You approach the latter and make some inane compliment of the woman's outfit. She is gracious and it turns out she works in the fashion industry, being one of those people who decides what the "in" colors will be for next season. You put in a plea for your favorite color to be returned to favor. She laughs. She introduces her husband who is an architect but is now involved with [the specifics now elude you…installations of some sort?]. The conversation is entertaining enough that you begin to relax. Eventually you drift on.
The watch-word of the day is "smile and nod and pretend you actually recognize the names being dropped but are too blasé to react." You circulate to admire the view out the windows and make sure to ask before taking photos that include incidental people. Someone mentions in passing that the apartment was once inhabited by Faye Dunnaway. You peruse the bookshelves. It's time to tackle another conversation. This one is less successful--you are split from the herd and find yourself learning about your interlocutor's opinions about "kids these days". There is a simple formula for beginning the conversation: compliment something they're wearing, ask how they know the guest of honor, ask what they do. The last will generally be safe as everyone does something. The formula for ending a conversation is less simple. You succeed without needing to saw your ear off.
You notice that the pianist is being loomed over and back-slapped by an overly friendly guest, whom he is successfully ignoring while continuing to play. You wonder if an intervention, or at least a distraction, is in order but don't know the rules of the game well enough to venture it. Your date spots another person she has met previously and--after some confusion about where and when (and who, as it turns out)--you engage in a delightful conversation with her and her girlfriend, the lawyer, who reacts sufficiently intrigued when you mention your novels that you thrust a business card on her. The two of them recommend that you check out the balcony and you drift off in that direction.
The balcony involves a small glassed-in patio and an open deck that faces the park. After admiring the view, the breeze is strong enough that you retreat to the patio. You fall into a conversation with several people you've talked to previously, plus a movie producer with whom you commiserate on the misogyny of Hollywood. She tells you about her current project. You enthuse about how the world is crying out for more movies centered on female characters. You hear juicy stories about people you've never heard of before and don't care about.
Word circulates that the cake is about to be presented and everyone filters back into the living room. There are toasts. There is cake. There is singing of happy birthday. The cake is your typical gooey-frostinged birthday cake; you decline a slice. As the cake is being passed out, you determine it is an adequate cue to slip away and you make your congratulations and goodbyes to the guest of honor.
No escort is needed to take the elevator down the 20 stories to the lobby. The doorman offers to get you a cab and you accept, wondering briefly if you should tip for the service. On the cab ride, you and your date analyze the various conversations and conclude that you both somewhat unexpectedly had a good time.
When I'm out in NYC to visit, the socializing generally falls in two categories: our mutual historic textile geek friends (keeping in mind that we met while hanging out with the dress-and-textiles folks at the Kalamazoo medieval studies congress), and Lauri's friends and colleagues from work, which all fall on the "house" side of the theater business, which tends to involve things like pre-show dinners at venerable Russian-Jewish delis.
But this visit coincided with a round-number birthday party for one of Lauri's college roommates, and though neither of us are deeply enamored of cocktail party-type events, it was a must-do for Lauri and I thought it would be fun (within the context that I wouldn't know much of anyone else -- though I think I'd met the guest of honor on a previous visit). At the very least, I could practice my cocktail-party technique in a context where there were no consequences (for me) for utter failure.
So…um…here's how it went down. You take a taxi (because it's New York, either you take the subway or a taxi) up Central Park West, past the Natural History Museum and get out by the reservoir, opposite an impressively tall apartment building. The doorman lets you in and when you give the name of the party you've come to see, one of several uniformed persons hanging out in the lobby escorts you to the elevator and takes you up to the 20th floor. You don't get to see yourself up, because the elevator opens inside the apartment itself, so there are security keys and whatnot.
Arriving at the 20th floor, a short entry/coat-room opens onto a living room large enough that the grand piano supplying the live music doesn't seem awkwardly out of place.
After locating and greeting your hostess, you are approached by the catering staff who ask your drink preference (champagne, white wine, or sparkling water). Your drink will be refilled regularly throughout the evening (helpfully coded by the the type of glass involved). Catering staff circulate regularly with a variety of bite-size hot offerings in those long-narrow white ceramic dishes that I think get sold as "olive dishes" or something. A little cracker with a bit of steak the size of a dime, topped with carmelized onions. A bit of crescent-shaped pastry filled with a minty pea puree. Skewers of broiled shrimp. A pastry cup filled with pulled pork. That sort of thing. There is also a buffet of bread, cheese, olives, artichoke hearts, and a variety of other things I don't recall.
While you are acquiring your initial drinks you are approached by a genial, garrulous man who introduces himself as the actual resident of the apartment (who offered it as the venue for the party because: location!). You speculate silently on his connection to the guest of honor--possibly professional? The guest of honor does something in music publicity. You say appropriately admiring things about the view. Admiration is not at all difficult. This is the view.
Having completed the preliminaries, you look around for congenial conversations. The room is gradually filling with two categories of people: small clusters of (mostly seated) people talking intensely with each other who give of a "not interested in meeting anyone new" vibe, and generally pairs (some couples, some random conjunctions), typically standing, who look open to conversation. You approach the latter and make some inane compliment of the woman's outfit. She is gracious and it turns out she works in the fashion industry, being one of those people who decides what the "in" colors will be for next season. You put in a plea for your favorite color to be returned to favor. She laughs. She introduces her husband who is an architect but is now involved with [the specifics now elude you…installations of some sort?]. The conversation is entertaining enough that you begin to relax. Eventually you drift on.
The watch-word of the day is "smile and nod and pretend you actually recognize the names being dropped but are too blasé to react." You circulate to admire the view out the windows and make sure to ask before taking photos that include incidental people. Someone mentions in passing that the apartment was once inhabited by Faye Dunnaway. You peruse the bookshelves. It's time to tackle another conversation. This one is less successful--you are split from the herd and find yourself learning about your interlocutor's opinions about "kids these days". There is a simple formula for beginning the conversation: compliment something they're wearing, ask how they know the guest of honor, ask what they do. The last will generally be safe as everyone does something. The formula for ending a conversation is less simple. You succeed without needing to saw your ear off.
You notice that the pianist is being loomed over and back-slapped by an overly friendly guest, whom he is successfully ignoring while continuing to play. You wonder if an intervention, or at least a distraction, is in order but don't know the rules of the game well enough to venture it. Your date spots another person she has met previously and--after some confusion about where and when (and who, as it turns out)--you engage in a delightful conversation with her and her girlfriend, the lawyer, who reacts sufficiently intrigued when you mention your novels that you thrust a business card on her. The two of them recommend that you check out the balcony and you drift off in that direction.
The balcony involves a small glassed-in patio and an open deck that faces the park. After admiring the view, the breeze is strong enough that you retreat to the patio. You fall into a conversation with several people you've talked to previously, plus a movie producer with whom you commiserate on the misogyny of Hollywood. She tells you about her current project. You enthuse about how the world is crying out for more movies centered on female characters. You hear juicy stories about people you've never heard of before and don't care about.
Word circulates that the cake is about to be presented and everyone filters back into the living room. There are toasts. There is cake. There is singing of happy birthday. The cake is your typical gooey-frostinged birthday cake; you decline a slice. As the cake is being passed out, you determine it is an adequate cue to slip away and you make your congratulations and goodbyes to the guest of honor.
No escort is needed to take the elevator down the 20 stories to the lobby. The doorman offers to get you a cab and you accept, wondering briefly if you should tip for the service. On the cab ride, you and your date analyze the various conversations and conclude that you both somewhat unexpectedly had a good time.
