Sex and the City Movie

Dara writes:

As most people living in Manhattan know, the Sex and the City movie, slated for a May release, is now filming on our streets. I had seen the pictures in Us Weekly, and heard the various narratives: for instance, that fake scenes were being filmed in order to disguise the real plot twists. Yesterday, even the New York Times got in on the SATC action; Melena Ryzik penned a piece about the massive crowds accompanying each shoot. Ms. Ryzik related a charming anecdote about the confusion of Kristin Davis (Charlotte); a paparazzo told her to move and she did so, even though she was in the middle of a scene. Ms. Davis found herself asking, "Now why did I do that?" She did it because fans are omnipresent at these shoots and the crowds can boggle the mind.

The presence of the shoot in my life was minimal, until yesterday, when it made a cameo appearance. James and I were walking to dinner at Yama, a sushi place near us on 17th Street. We were heading East on 17th and saw the Panavision trucks, the klieg lights, etc. There’s always a movie or Law & Order filming in NY, so I didn’t look twice.

Fast forward about twenty minutes. We’re waiting in the restaurant, in what amounts to a glass-enclosed human cage in this tiny Japanese joint. Our total wait was almost an hour, sigh, but the beginning of it made infinitely worse by a clutch of double-daters. The alpha girl in the group, we’ll call her Mimi, looked like she was trying to emulate Meryl Streep’s character in The Devil Wears Prada. Prada Juniorette had on a cape and stiletto knee-high boots and was carrying a large expensive (though possibly knock-off) luxury handbag. She had bangs and big eyes and hurtled past James and me on the stairs to the restaurant, where we were waiting, exclaiming to her friends about us: “If they would just make way for me on the stairs, I wouldn’t be tripping all over myself.” I felt like saying, “No, if you weren’t wearing four-inch stiletto boots you wouldn’t be tripping all over yourself.”

Once inside, Mimi draped her arm over the shoulders of the compact man putting names on a list for tables. She purred, “Anything you can do for us? Pleeeeeaaase???” Mind you, this wasn’t Bungalow 8. Rather we were waiting online for tuna rolls in a neighborhood restaurant. Those tacky tactics were NOT going to work.

So I guess outside became inhospitable to Mimi and her crew, at which point they pushed themselves past everyone waiting online and parked themselves in front of the sushi bar to wait, blocking the comings and goings of the staff. One of the boys, we’ll call him Eric, kept saying very loudly, “Sarah Jessica Parker.” Eric kept saying, “If we tell them Sarah Jessica Parker is outside shooting the movie, everyone will want to see her and leave the restaurant!” His ploy to secure a table was laughably juvenile. Didn’t he know we were jaded New Yorkers? The last time I can recall putting on a costume and purring to a bouncer, I was in high school.

In the event, I was happy to note I wasn’t the only one recoiling from this crew. The folks next to me said they wouldn’t accept a seat next to the bunch. A woman with long blonde hair and a green suede trench coat and I kept rolling our eyes at each other. Mind you, in Grand Central Station, or the Times Square subway station, I don't care who acts in what manner. If you want to go barefoot, grow dreadlocks, and bang on a guitar as though it were a drum, be my guest (though you might want to note your competition, as there is already a busker doing just that on 40th Street underground). But this restaurant is TINY and smells strongly of tempura grease. Noise and bluster just make the experience that much more unpleasant.

As it happens, James and I were the lucky ones to secure a table next to Mimi and Eric et.al. James, my hero, refused it. The folks next to us refused it as well. Of course solidarity was then formed among us. Soon after we settled in at the sushi bar and that was that, Eric and Mimi forgotten.

Until James and I stepped outside after dinner and Eric’s shouts of “SJP” were remembered. A scene was rolling inside a nearby boite. J and I watched the monitors and when the director yelled cut, we got a fabulous glimpse of no less than Carrie and Mr. Big. Chris Noth, though I love him on screen, I had already seen in action in real life in a cigar bar about three years back. Don’t ask me what I was doing there, but suffice it to say that Mr. Noth and his gumbah crew impressed me as being loud and crude. But SJP: her hair was long, a glittering black shawl enveloped her, and she was wearing black patent boots. She looked adorable. As James and I strolled away, content from our meal and our brush with the stars, yellow gingko leaves fluttered in the breeze. It seemed like a New York moment.

Lunetta

Dara writes:

Last night we picked a new restaurant for my mother's birthday: Lunetta, on Broadway near the Flatiron Building. The restaurant already has a well-regarded outpost in Boerum Hill, Brooklyn, so I suppose choosing it wasn't a total shot in the dark.

James and I are fortunate enough to live in a restaurant-rich neighborhood, but some new places, such as Bar Stuzzichini, underwhelm (though James likes it for after-work drinks). The evening at Lunetta did not start off auspiciously, as we sat right across from the kitchen doors. James thought he might vomit, looking at the line prep as he ate. I didn't care, because the kitchen seemed spotless. (If we'd been instead, let's say, at the Chinatown dive NY Noodletown, so my mother could enjoy the crispy duck, I would rather have eaten toenails than have looked into the kitchen). But the night only got better from there.

We ordered a well-priced Nebbiolo that we'd tried on our honeymoon in the Piedmont region of Northern Italy. I tucked into a "crisp greens" salads with a shaved parmesan and anchovy dressing. It was fabulous. The lettuce was fresh and buttery, absolutely the opposite of bagged lettuce--it had no gross salady aftertaste or wilted leaves slime. The dressing was just right, fishy and salty but neither overly so. James's beet salad was delish, as was my father's surprising brussels sprouts salad, which consisted of sprouts leaves and succulent red onion. My mother's fried artichokes were light and crunchy. The salad prep occurred behind a bar right next to us, in the back of the restaurant near the kitchen door. That salad guy knows his way around greens.

My snapper over stewed tomatoes, olives, and capers was really tasty. The tomatoes were pulpy and fresh, and the fish really delicate. James ordered pork chop (the pork having been purveyed, we were told on the menu, by the brother of one of James's colleagues) over black lentils. So flavorful--in contrast, of course, fish can only provide so much taste. My mother got the meatballs, a signature dish of the chef. They were so tasty, chewy and sweetish, with raisins. The only thing I didn't try was my father's octopus, an app that he ordered as a main. I have to say, it didn't look appetizing, though Dad said the taste was spot on. Our waiter was super-green (the restaurant itself has been open for less than two weeks!). But he didn't mangle putting a candle on my mother's dessert, a classic tartufo filled with hazelnut gelato.

Overall, I was very pleased with the experience. The diners were suitably hip that my mother felt like she was having fun for her birthday, but the food wasn't trendy, it was hearty and classic, kind of like what we enjoyed in the Piedmont and Lombardy regions of Italy. And that's a very high compliment.

Waiting

Dara writes:

Tonight, I will join other members of the National Arts Club's Literary Committee in reading short pieces on the theme of Waiting. It should be fun, and always a nice evening at the Club, especially when concluded by hot cider and warm M&M cookies in the parlor, as this event will be.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007, 8pm, National Arts Club, 15 Gramercy Park South, New York. Free.