Ever since “Shtisel,” the superb Israeli series, I’ve been looking for a show that also “reckons with love, loss, and the doldrums of daily life.” It’s hard to pull off, hence the glut of science fiction series, detective shows, and broad comedies. The British series “Trying,” about a young couple wanting to start a family, is charming, with some excellent characters, but it doesn’t reach the artistic heights of “Shtisel.”
Last night, we watched the seventh and final episode of “Asura,” which struck me as a kind of Japanese “Shtisel.” The main characters are women rather than men – four grown sisters – but the show has the same slow pacing, the intermittent drama, the quiet humor, the illumination of the universal in an alien world. Just as with “Shtisel,” we were sorry to see it end.
When I was a travel editor this was my least favorite week at the newspaper, as I had to write a column for the new year while still in the old year. It was more difficult than you might imagine: forcing myself to think of beginnings while still preoccupied with endings. Few people understood how travel editors suffered.
Friday we drove with friends to Palm Beach, where we visited The Breakers and then strolled Worth Avenue. The place is always something of a shock – the pristine streets, the manicured lawns, the gleaming mansions – and I tried to imagine what it must look like to the visiting president of a war-torn country in Eastern Europe.
Despite my Christmas cartoon – which shows a disgruntled Santa in a suit of camouflage sitting in an empty sleigh – I wish everyone a very merry Christmas. I’ll be back here next week.
Last night American Masters focused on Dick Van Dyke. There were three men on television that I revered growing up: Jack Benny, Steve Allen, and Dick Van Dyke. The first two I wanted to be like, funny and smart, the last I wanted to be. I wasn’t drawn to Van Dyke’s physical comedy – even then I was more attracted to words – but I dreamed of someday having his TV life, not just the beautiful wife but his job as a writer with wisecracking office mates. And, marrying my Polish girlfriend and spending most of my career in the features department of a daily newspaper, I got pretty close to it.
A few months ago, a couple we’ve known for a long time invited us and a few friends to dinner at the Biltmore to celebrate their wedding anniversary. It was a lovely evening except for the fact that I failed to order the “thousand-layer lasagna” which a number of people raved about. We made plans with the couple to return sometime, perhaps around the holidays.
So Saturday night, Hania and I drove to Coral Gables. We arrived early and stopped at the Portuguese Bakehouse for four pasteis de nata, Motek for some hummus to go, Bulla for five takeout gazpachos, and finally Graziano’s for some last-minute Christmas presents.
I found a prime parking spot in the hotel lot, and we met our friends in the lobby.
“You know you have to pay for parking now?” Mark said. “It’s $4 an hour.”
I rushed out to my car, which, thankfully, had no ticket, and, after some searching, found a sign on the opposite side with the zone number.
“When did they start charging for parking?” I asked an employee as I returned to the hotel.
“Monday,” he said. “The city owns the lot, and they decided to start charging.”
Making my way to the restaurant, I found everybody sitting by the fountain in the courtyard. It was a gorgeous South Florida evening; looking up, one saw the sky framed by arched terraces and feathered by palm fronds.
The waiter arrived and announced that they were out of lasagna. This was greeted with a loud moan, and the news that we had driven from Fort Lauderdale. I noticed on the menu that the name had changed from “thousand-layer lasagna” to “Biltmore lasagna.” I ordered the spaghetti with clams.
“Do the clams come in shells?” I asked the waiter.
“No,” he said, which was also disappointing.
The spaghetti and unhoused clams arrived in tomato sauce. My third disappointment of the evening. Taking my first bite, I had my fourth disappointment. Hania and Cecile were equally unenamored of their risotto.
The soft trickle of the fountain was soon drowned out by the pounding music of a party in the ballroom. Boom, boom, boom, boom.
But not even that could spoil the pleasure of sitting with friends in an elegant courtyard the week before Christmas. And the gazpacho and hummus made for a delicious Sunday lunch.