Rye issue50

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contents. issue 50
58 Firenze in the Footsteps oF Dante...anD Dan Brown by Dan Burstein / photos by Julie O’Connor
70 oJ in the Morning, g&t at night Late life limbo. by A. E. Hotchner
82 MoDern Day Darwin Richard Wiese is Born to Explore™ by Erin Levi
94 thirD eye Central Park bench scenes. by Tod Papageorge
104 Fiction: can i have a Million Dollars? What’s a million between friends? by Alan Zweibel
114 Fiction: weDDing party The nuptials of the season. by Aurelie Sheehan
features
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& mAnY more
departments 24 train oF thought The innocent joys of girls and horses.. by Priscilla Whitley
33 the local scene School plays, summer festivals, area fairs and frolics.
124 rural palates New marketplaces, bistros and bars.
134 i’ll take Manhattan Hot yoga and hot tix..
144 Da Mo Da Merrier by Simone
154 like a rolling stone Tropical pleasures and mountain getaways.
168 vacation hoMe Destination: Telluride and Costa Rica.
180 acts oF kinDness The Hole in the Wall Gang Camp.
192 in the Driver’s seat The Maserati convertible! by Charles Moseley
204 appraiseD anD approveD Tips and tools for living right.
215 inDepenDent school guiDe Three Keys to a Compelling College Essay. By Hillary Frank
272 coMMunity rooM A homeless man lived in my backyard. by Robert Steven Williams
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TRAIN OF THOUGHT
ANY TIME THE PHONE RINGS at 6:30 am the news can’t be good.
When the phone wakes me I pretend I’ve been up for hours with that “of course I’m awake” tone. I doubt I’m fooling anyone. That was my intention as I fumbled with the receiver, but this time was different. This time I couldn’t grasp who was calling or understand as the voice, agitated, alarmed, kept saying over and over, “There’s been a fi re.”
Barn Life Lessons by Priscilla Whitley
CENTRALPARK WEST TRiBeCa m a g a z i n e
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UPPEREASTSIDETHE
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Editor Celia R. Meadow
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Executive Editor Debbie Silver
Travel Editor Susan Engel
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General Counsel Bruce Koff sky, Esq.
Contributors Dan Burstein, Hillary Frank, A.E. Hotchner, Geoff Kalish M.D., Erin Levi, Jarret Liotta, Bob Marrow, Rich Monetti,
Charles Moseley, Daniel Rothberg, Samantha Rothenberg, Debra Scott, Aurelie Sheehan, Carly Silver, Elizabeth
Spaulding, Elizabeth Titus, Vanessa Voltolina, Priscilla Whitley, Robert Steven Williams, Alan Zweibel
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50 train of thought.indd 2 7/19/13 10:47 AM
which always came as the day went on. I sat her down within the deep sofa in our cozy den, my arm tightly around her as if I could some- how hold together the heart which I was now about to break.
“Something bad has happened.” I didn’t know how to say it, though like a plunge into icy water it needed to be done swiftly. “The barn, honey… the barn is gone. There was a fire last night and it’s gone.”
“Donner?” She couldn’t understand. “No, sweetie.” I held her as if my body could
protect every piece of her. Of course it couldn’t. “Blue? Brando?” “No one, honey.” A whisper, for all thirty-
one were gone. Oh, dear God, you’re tearing your child into
little pieces, hold it together. Curled up within each other, with more tears than I ever thought possible, we eventually settled into that gentle sway of her baby years I remember so well as hours went by.
Holding her, it seemed her childhood floated down her back to disappear before it even reached the floor. Now neither little girl nor adult, she didn’t know how to react. To see my child’s innocence swept away as quickly as sand at the water’s edge took me to the brink of helplessness. I couldn’t fix this. Couldn’t change what the storm’s lightning of the night before had done. All I could do was watch her cry, her sweet little face in so much pain. There was nothing else to do, except cry together. She for her own losses, me for the pain, but also for her youth, which I knew would never return.
When the world is dark and frightening, where do you look for hope? We began by coming together, the barn girls and their parents. The girls clung to one another, all twen- ty or so of them staying at one girl’s home for the next week. Mothers on their watch we sat quietly downstairs, sometimes wandering out into the summer light or sneaking a peek into the room upstairs, littered with sleeping bags and stuffed animals, which they kept dark. We waited. Then waited some more.
We didn’t know how to begin either. Our first steps were a caravan of cars with
headlights on in that tradition of solidarity, parking at the foot of the drive which once took us to the top of the hill where that red barn used to hold the sweet smell of hay and horses and laughter. Up there nothing now but blackened, charred wood. But it was the fence along the road which offered our first glimpse of promise. It overflowed, the entire length, with a vast bountiful garden of flowers left by unknown others. Bouquets of summer colors, chipper yellow daisies and fragrant ros- es, some still wrapped, others casually strewn about among bunches of horse-loving carrots, so many carrots, wrapped carefully with color- ful ribbons… and handwritten signs of love
for these beautiful animals and the girls who had been so young a few days ago.
They walked slowly along the fence, hand in hand, touching and taking in the hope others offered them. Cars began to stop, strangers got out, and without a word began directing traffic behind us, keeping the many television crews at bay across the street. Grief shared in so many small, grateful ways.
Summer passed as if we were in one of those movies where the clock hands swiftly sweep the hours and days away. Confusion accompanies sudden tragedies. All those unanswerable ques- tions of “why?” would arrive without warning. Now the crying didn’t help and the sorrow and anger wouldn’t go away. She became sullen and unresponsive, like a little shroud of sadness, going through the motions.
We all deal with grief differently. But oh, my daughter; I couldn’t bear for her to travel that dark road, though it didn’t matter what I wanted. She needed to go step by step like ev- erybody else and there were no detours either one of us could take. And that’s what she did, as slowly I began to see the shift.
She read of others’ grief, which at first I thought only reinforced her own. I was wrong. She learned she wasn’t alone. Not only did this come as a relief to her, but her reading choices changed. No longer did she crave the
Saddle Club books, but instead began choos- ing themes which challenged her perspective. She began questioning the high school petti- ness and girly competitions, which seemed so important before. Her journal, which once held the scribbles of horses getting married, now took a more serious line as she began to understand the ramifications which come from experience. All this swirled around her for a year, as she tried to make sense of what will never be understood. Eventually, she learned it was all right to cry, to feel sad, be confused, for the months were going to go on in all their sparkling glory. And then she began to talk to me again.
“I want to leave here, Mommy. I want to leave and go away to school. I think it’ll be good for
me to be able to start out with something new to look forward to.”
She’d looked into herself and decided what would be best for her, one of the many revela- tions to come out of this tragedy. As difficult as that was for me, that’s what we did. She went away to finish high school, college, then gradu- ate school, discovering her focus was to help those less fortunate than she.
Fourteen isn’t the age to learn the cruel lessons that will surely come our way, though a friend did remark, “Your daughter is a lucky girl. My children haven’t had to overcome hardship, then learn that life goes on. When a tragedy happens, will being older make it more difficult?” Loss and all that it entails allowed her to understand you can’t stop changes from occurring, but it didn’t mean happiness, joy, love… and horses… would never again be a part of her life. Wonderful things would come again. Wonderful things have come again. Again and again and again. Now, years later, she’s saving to buy a horse. I can’t wait to meet him.
*
Holding her, it seemed her childhood floated down her back to disappear before it even reached the floor.
WESTONMAGAZINEGROUP.COM 27
Down the hall my fourteen-year-old daughter still slept soundly in her little girl room, snug within a mountain of stuffed animals. For her, this July was to be full of summer laziness and horses. Her father and I had separated a year earlier. He immediately bought her a horse, thinking Donner would make everything all right. Now, after a difficult year, she seemed to be accepting the new life I was attempting to put together. But it was Donner, with his soft white blaze nestled within chestnut hair, who became the one she trusted, his deep brown eyes following her every move. He was the one who nuzzled her with unconditional love as she rested her head against his strong neck and the one who wouldn’t suddenly go away one day. He was her love.
I panicked. Dumping an entire drawer on the kitchen counter I scrambled to find a box of stale cigarettes, lit one, then lurched out onto the deck and dry heaved over the side onto the dew of the lawn. It wasn’t even 6:40 yet.
I admit I pushed horses on my daughter, though I didn’t have to push very hard. I was that horse-crazy girl when I was young, so why shouldn’t she be? Even on her first pony ride she held her back straight as if she knew she’d eventually become one with her horse. Les- sons started when she was seven, first on little Brando, a buzz-cut heart on his grey rump, her skinny legs working to post to a trot. Then on to the canter, loping around and around the ring, mostly staying on, occasion- ally falling over his head when he decided he’d
had enough. The falls didn’t bother her, only me. I’d grip the fence, she’d glance over with that, “I’m fine, Mommy” look and up she’d climb again. Then came a trot over a pole on the ground, then two poles, then three, and a first jump over a two-foot crossbar. Unlike her stints on the soccer field, where she’d pick at the grass or follow the flight of a bird into the sun, afraid the ball might come to her, she worked hard on her riding. All it took was for her trainer to yell, “Good job, he loves you when he knows you’re working with him.” Then she became a barn girl.
The barn was full of little girls. They rode together, spent hours braiding manes with multicolored ribbons, and learned how to carefully pick up their horses’ hooves to clean the dirt from their shoes. On Saturdays, with their brown bag lunches, they’d sit on the tack boxes swinging their legs and talk only of horses.
“I’m going to marry Brando,” one an- nounced.
“I’m going to marry Blue,” another shot back.
“Maybe Blue and Brando should get married.” They agreed.
Happy, innocent, little-girl talk. Isn’t that what we all want for our children? And we want that to last forever.
Growing up my friends didn’t ride, they knew nothing of this life I had of mucking stalls, brushing tails, or the sweet smell of oiled leather as I polished the saddles, the scent that became part of me. They didn’t know the bliss of taking a horse out into a field on a cool fall day, a special time between the animal and me. I wanted this innocent joy for my little girl.
The previous year had been difficult for both of us, though I assumed a merry face. Her first year in high school brought on an unexpressed anxiety as she confronted the confusions of a still-distant maturity. She became quiet. She didn’t seem to want to hug and cuddle anymore. Her father came around for the fun events, but even she knew that was barely good enough. She didn’t trust
him and she didn’t trust me. I was told more than once you can’t protect your child from their realities. But I couldn’t accept that; I’d be different and protect her. “I can hide my hurt,” I thought. “I’m a terrific actress. Here’s my greatest role.”
Barn life for her, though, was different. There’s nothing sad when a horse’s ears prick up at the sound of your voice. And the girls were close. They spoke a language most of the parents knew nothing about and they were thrilled to keep it that way. Oxers, in- and-outs, on the bit, hunters, jumpers; their
world, their words. But it was also at the barn where I caught glimpses of a budding young woman. It showed in the responsibility she took for Donner as well as her commitment to the repetitive training they both needed; her tack box was always neat, his stall soft with fresh hay, his blankets folded and clean. If you were able to look very far into the future, you’d see the same kind of care a mother has for her infant. Though I only see that now; I didn’t then.
I let her sleep until 10 am. Such a little girl when she woke, none of the teenage attitude
All it took was for her trainer to yell, “Good job, he loves you when he knows you’re working with him.” Then she became a barn girl.
which always came as the day went on. I sat her down within the deep sofa in our cozy den, my arm tightly around her as if I could some- how hold together the heart which I was now about to break.
“Something bad has happened.” I didn’t know how to say it, though like a plunge into icy water it needed to be done swiftly. “The barn, honey… the barn is gone. There was a fire last night and it’s gone.”
“Donner?” She couldn’t understand. “No, sweetie.” I held her as if my body could
protect every piece of her. Of course it couldn’t. “Blue? Brando?” “No one, honey.” A whisper, for all thirty-
one were gone. Oh, dear God, you’re tearing your child into
little pieces, hold it together. Curled up within each other, with more tears than I ever thought possible, we eventually settled into that gentle sway of her baby years I remember so well as hours went by.
Holding her, it seemed her childhood floated down her back to disappear before it even reached the floor. Now neither little girl nor adult, she didn’t know how to react. To see my child’s innocence swept away as quickly as sand at the water’s edge took me to the brink of helplessness. I couldn’t fix this. Couldn’t change what the storm’s lightning of the night before had done. All I could do was watch her cry, her sweet little face in so much pain. There was nothing else to do, except cry together. She for her own losses, me for the pain, but also for her youth, which I knew would never return.
When the world is dark and frightening, where do you look for hope? We began by coming together, the barn girls and their parents. The girls clung to one another, all twen- ty or so of them staying at one girl’s home for the next week. Mothers on their watch we sat quietly downstairs, sometimes wandering out into the summer light or sneaking a peek into the room upstairs, littered with sleeping bags and stuffed animals, which they kept dark. We waited. Then waited some more.
We didn’t know how to begin either. Our first steps were a caravan of cars with
headlights on in that tradition of solidarity, parking at the foot of the drive which once took us to the top of the hill where that red barn used to hold the sweet smell of hay and horses and laughter. Up there nothing now but blackened, charred wood. But it was the fence along the road which offered our first glimpse of promise. It overflowed, the entire length, with a vast bountiful garden of flowers left by unknown others. Bouquets of summer colors, chipper yellow daisies and fragrant ros- es, some still wrapped, others casually strewn about among bunches of horse-loving carrots, so many carrots, wrapped carefully with color- ful ribbons… and handwritten signs of love
for these beautiful animals and the girls who had been so young a few days ago.
They walked slowly along the fence, hand in hand, touching and taking in the hope others offered them. Cars began to stop, strangers got out, and without a word began directing traffic behind us, keeping the many television crews at bay across the street. Grief shared in so many small, grateful ways.
Summer passed as if we were in one of those movies where the clock hands swiftly sweep the hours and days away. Confusion accompanies sudden tragedies. All those unanswerable ques- tions of “why?” would arrive without warning. Now the crying didn’t help and the sorrow and anger wouldn’t go away. She became sullen and unresponsive, like a little shroud of sadness, going through the motions.
We all deal with grief differently. But oh, my daughter; I couldn’t bear for her to travel that dark road, though it didn’t matter what I wanted. She needed to go step by step like ev- erybody else and there were no detours either one of us could take. And that’s what she did, as slowly I began to see the shift.
She read of others’ grief, which at first I thought only reinforced her own. I was wrong. She learned she wasn’t alone. Not only did this come as a relief to her, but her reading choices changed. No longer did she crave the
Saddle Club books, but instead began choos- ing themes which challenged her perspective. She began questioning the high school petti- ness and girly competitions, which seemed so important before. Her journal, which once held the scribbles of horses getting married, now took a more serious line as she began to understand the ramifications which come from experience. All this swirled around her for a year, as she tried to make sense of what will never be understood. Eventually, she learned it was all right to cry, to feel sad, be confused, for the months were going to go on in all their sparkling glory. And then she began to talk to me again.
“I want to leave here, Mommy. I want to leave and go away to school. I think it’ll be good for
me to be able to start out with something new to look forward to.”
She’d looked into herself and decided what would be best for her, one of the many revela- tions to come out of this tragedy. As difficult as that was for me, that’s what we did. She went away to finish high school, college, then gradu- ate school, discovering her focus was to help those less fortunate than she.
Fourteen isn’t the age to learn the cruel lessons that will surely come our way, though a friend did remark, “Your daughter is a lucky girl. My children haven’t had to overcome hardship, then learn that life goes on. When a tragedy happens, will being older make it more difficult?” Loss and all that it entails allowed her to understand you can’t stop changes from occurring, but it didn’t mean happiness, joy, love… and horses… would never again be a part of her life. Wonderful things would come again. Wonderful things have come again. Again and again and again. Now, years later, she’s saving to buy a horse. I can’t wait to meet him.
*
Down the hall my fourteen-year-old daughter still slept soundly in her little girl room, snug within a mountain of stuffed animals. For her, this July was to be full of summer laziness and horses. Her father and I had separated a year earlier. He immediately bought her a horse, thinking Donner would make everything all right. Now, after a difficult year, she seemed to be accepting the new life I was attempting to put together. But it was Donner, with his soft white blaze nestled within chestnut hair, who became the one she trusted, his deep brown eyes following her every move. He was the one who nuzzled her with unconditional love as she rested her head against his strong neck and the one who wouldn’t suddenly go away one day. He was her love.
I panicked. Dumping an entire drawer on the kitchen counter I scrambled to find a box of stale cigarettes, lit one, then lurched out onto the deck and dry heaved over the side onto the dew of the lawn. It wasn’t even 6:40 yet.
I admit I pushed horses on my daughter, though I didn’t have to push very hard. I was that horse-crazy girl when I was young, so why shouldn’t she be? Even on her first pony ride she held her back straight as if she knew she’d eventually become one with her horse. Les- sons started when she was seven, first on little Brando, a buzz-cut heart on his grey rump, her skinny legs working to post to a trot. Then on to the canter, loping around and around the ring, mostly staying on, occasion- ally falling over his head when he decided he’d
had enough. The falls didn’t bother her, only me. I’d grip the fence, she’d glance over with that, “I’m fine, Mommy” look and up she’d climb again. Then came a trot over a pole on the ground, then two poles, then three, and a first jump over a two-foot crossbar. Unlike her stints on the soccer field, where she’d pick at the grass or follow the flight of a bird into the sun, afraid the ball might come to her, she worked hard on her riding. All it took was for her trainer to yell, “Good job, he loves you when he knows you’re working with him.” Then she became a barn girl.
The barn was full of little girls. They rode together, spent hours braiding manes with multicolored ribbons, and learned how to carefully pick up their horses’ hooves to clean the dirt from their shoes. On Saturdays, with their brown bag lunches, they’d sit on the tack boxes swinging their legs and talk only of horses.
“I’m going to marry Brando,” one an- nounced.
“I’m going to marry Blue,” another shot back.
“Maybe Blue and Brando should get married.” They agreed.
Happy, innocent, little-girl talk. Isn’t that what we all want for our children? And we want that to last forever.
Growing up my friends didn’t ride, they knew nothing of this life I had of mucking stalls, brushing tails, or the sweet smell of oiled leather as I polished the saddles, the scent that became part of me. They didn’t know the bliss of taking a horse out into a field on a cool fall day, a special time between the animal and me. I wanted this innocent joy for my little girl.
The previous year had been difficult for both of us, though I assumed a merry face. Her first year in high school brought on an unexpressed anxiety as she confronted the confusions of a still-distant maturity. She became quiet. She didn’t seem to want to hug and cuddle anymore. Her father came around for the fun events, but even she knew that was barely good enough. She didn’t trust
him and she didn’t trust me. I was told more than once you can’t protect your child from their realities. But I couldn’t accept that; I’d be different and protect her. “I can hide my hurt,” I thought. “I’m a terrific actress. Here’s my greatest role.”
Barn life for her, though, was different. There’s nothing sad when a horse’s ears prick up at the sound of your voice. And the girls were close. They spoke a language most of the parents knew nothing about and they were thrilled to keep it that way. Oxers, in- and-outs, on the bit, hunters, jumpers; their
world, their words. But it was also at the barn where I caught glimpses of a budding young woman. It showed in the responsibility she took for Donner as well as her commitment to the repetitive training they both needed; her tack box was always neat, his stall soft with fresh hay, his blankets folded and clean. If you were able to look very far into the future, you’d see the same kind of care a mother has for her infant. Though I only see that now; I didn’t then.
I let her sleep until 10 am. Such a little girl when she woke, none of the teenage attitude
All it took was for her trainer to yell, “Good job, he loves you when he knows you’re working with him.” Then she became a barn girl.
cobble hill sisal
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In Good Taste by Geoff Kalish, MD Westchester’s country club chefs are out to impress.
Room with a View by Carly Silver Behold the Millionaires’ Magician!
School Road Rye Students in the Spotlight. South Pacific Rye High School You’re a Good Man Charlie Brown Rye High School A Night at the Oscars Rye Middle School
Speaker’s Corner by Bob Marrow Do you know who Al Cervi is?
The Arts Shakespeare in Westchester parks, concerts and collages.
Gallery The Picture House Gala in Pelham; Baubles at the Rye Arts Center.
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as well as paella, ceviche and sweet empanadas, with a weekly change in food themes for the club’s very well attended Sunday evening family buffets. A very popular aspect of the dining offerings at the Mt. Kisco Country Club, in Mt.Kisco, are the sold-out theme nights such as “Food from Arthur Avenue,” and “Steak Night,” reports long-time General Manager Hussein Ali. And as at other clubs, Mr. Ali stresses the special care given to accommodate the various dietary restrictions and food aller- gies of members.
At Ardsley County Club, in Ardsley, Ex- ecutive Chef George Flay changes his menu frequently, depending on what’s seasonally available. “More and more, our members are eating healthier, and we offer rather simple, flavorful fare made from the best ingredi- ents, preferably sourced locally. We have also found a recent trend towards gluten-free
fare, in many instances as a perceived healthy choice, rather than because of any intoler- ance,” he comments. In fact, because of the increased demand for gluten-free fare, the Club Chefs of Westchester recently held a two-day hands-on seminar on the topic, reports former President, Chef Phillips. And, in tune with many area restaurants and other clubs, “local sourcing, particularly from Hud- son Valley farmers, is an important aspect of our offerings,” states Saul Schwartz, Execu- tive Chef at Westchester Hills Golf Club, in White Plains.
Accommodating Service As to service, “The kitchen staff at our club works as a family to try to never let a mem- ber have a bad service experience,” comments Westchester Hills Chef Schwartz. “Like most clubs, we have a monthly dining minimum for members, so we have to remember that this is not a restaurant where if someone has a bad experience he just doesn’t come back,” he notes. Cary Stephan, General Manager of the
Trump National Club, states that “we expend a lot of effort on hiring, training and main- taining excellent kitchen and dining service staff and find it quite worthwhile because we have a very high degree of expectation from our members that must be met if we’re to stay successful.”
Winning Wine While outstanding wine selections like those offered by highly regarded area restaurants such as X2O on the Hudson in Yonkers and Crabtree’s Kittle House in Chappaqua are out of the range of even the most upscale clubs, many club lists feature upper echelon brands from highly acclaimed domestic and international producers. “We find that many of our members are interested in learning more about wine and we usually have forty to fifty people attend our monthly educational wine dinners,” comments Francesco Feola, Bever- age Manager at Brynwood. “This increasing sophistication has led us to expand our wine selection with many more premium brand
choices. Also, because we have a rather young membership, who very frequently dine with their families and then drive home, we find that wine-by-the-glass is more popular here than by the bottle, obliging us to offer a number of sensibly-priced, top-shelf by-the-glass choices,” he adds. General Manager Stephan, of the Trump Club proclaims, “many of our members are quite knowledgeable and expect that in keeping with the quality of the food and other offerings here, our wine offerings be top-of-the-line, so in addition to the award- winning Trump wines from Virginia, boutique bottles like Zinfandels from Turley and Mar- tinelli, rarely found on area wine lists dot the selection here.”
And so it goes at many other area clubs, where wine selection, like service and food choices and preparation, are at the forefront of the amenities important to today’s members. “There’s been a great impact of all the food shows on TV to heighten the demands of our members regarding what they want in terms of food and wine,” comments Romeo Stivaletti, Executive Chef at the Trump National Golf Club, in Briarcliff Manor. “So, we’ve all had to step up our game to meet the expectations of our members.”
Geoff Kalish, MD, a Bedford resident, is co-
author of “Wining & Dining in Westchester” and former wine columnist for Wine Spectator and The Westchester weekly section of The New York Times.
*
Across Westchester County, chefs, general managers, and members of private clubs agree that in the past decade there’s been a renaissance in the dining experience at their facilities.
top:
onCe upon a time dining at private golf and country clubs in Westchester County consisted of a regularly scheduled formal family extravaganza on a weekend evening or Sunday af- ternoon or a lengthy luncheon of “the guys” or “ladies,” following a round of golf. But with life-styles becoming more casual and people having less time for meals, club dining became an afterthought – with a marked decline in the quality of offerings and the level of service. However, across Westchester County, chefs, general managers and members of private clubs agree that in the past decade there’s been a renaissance in the dining experience at their facilities.
Reasons for Improvement “Improvements started once country clubs realized the impor- tance of dining in meeting the needs of their members, who are increasingly sophisticated in their knowledge of food and wine,” relates Leonard Phillips, Executive Chef at the Shenorock Shore Club, in Rye, and former two-term president of the Club Chefs of Westchester professional organization. This is especially important since dining revenue is a crucial source of income for many clubs, and the competition for new members – as well as retaining old members – remains quite keen at area clubs. “So to better meet the needs of their constituencies, clubs had to compete with restaurants in the quality of their offerings,” notes Chef Phillips.
Now, what’s being offered at a growing number of private clubs in Westchester County meets and in many instances ex- ceeds the level of fare available at local eateries. This is not your father’s club dining with gloppy, steam-table selections and over-or-undercooked burgers only available with generic wine. An increasingly wide selection of au courant items are on the menu, like freshly made sushi and sashimi, crisp salads chopped à la minute, juicy, char-grilled seafood, flavorful prime beef and lamb served at carving stations, all available with glasses and/or bottles of red and white wine from top-tier producers.
A Variety of Updated Fare A range of offerings is increasingly important since many members dine quite regularly at their clubs. For example, at Bryn- wood Golf and Country Club, in Armonk, Executive Chef Caesar Guaraca – with fifteen years of experience at the Cipriani properties in Manhattan – cooks up the likes of Italian classics
CLUB DINING IN WESTCHESTER NOT JUST AN AFTERTHOUGHT ANYMORE
By Geoff Kalish, MD
as well as paella, ceviche and sweet empanadas, with a weekly change in food themes for the club’s very well attended Sunday evening family buffets. A very popular aspect of the dining offerings at the Mt. Kisco Country Club, in Mt.Kisco, are the sold-out theme nights such as “Food from Arthur Avenue,” and “Steak Night,” reports long-time General Manager Hussein Ali. And as at other clubs, Mr. Ali stresses the special care given to accommodate the various dietary restrictions and food aller- gies of members.
At Ardsley County Club, in Ardsley, Ex- ecutive Chef George Flay changes his menu frequently, depending on what’s seasonally available. “More and more, our members are eating healthier, and we offer rather simple, flavorful fare made from the best ingredi- ents, preferably sourced locally. We have also found a recent trend towards gluten-free
fare, in many instances as a perceived healthy choice, rather than because of any intoler- ance,” he comments. In fact, because of the increased demand for gluten-free fare, the Club Chefs of Westchester recently held a two-day hands-on seminar on the topic, reports former President, Chef Phillips. And, in tune with many area restaurants and other clubs, “local sourcing, particularly from Hud- son Valley farmers, is an important aspect of our offerings,” states Saul Schwartz, Execu- tive Chef at Westchester Hills Golf Club, in White Plains.
Accommodating Service As to service, “The kitchen staff at our club works as a family to try to never let a mem- ber have a bad service experience,” comments Westchester Hills Chef Schwartz. “Like most clubs, we have a monthly dining minimum for members, so we have to remember that this is not a restaurant where if someone has a bad experience he just doesn’t come back,” he notes. Cary Stephan, General Manager of the
Trump National Club, states that “we expend a lot of effort on hiring, training and main- taining excellent kitchen and dining service staff and find it quite worthwhile because we have a very high degree of expectation from our members that must be met if we’re to stay successful.”
Winning Wine While outstanding wine selections like those offered by highly regarded area restaurants such as X2O on the Hudson in Yonkers and Crabtree’s Kittle House in Chappaqua are out of the range of even the most upscale clubs, many club lists feature upper echelon brands from highly acclaimed domestic and international producers. “We find that many of our members are interested in learning more about wine and we usually have forty to fifty people attend our monthly educational wine dinners,” comments Francesco Feola, Bever- age Manager at Brynwood. “This increasing sophistication has led us to expand our wine selection with many more premium brand
choices. Also, because we have a rather young membership, who very frequently dine with their families and then drive home, we find that wine-by-the-glass is more popular here than by the bottle, obliging us to offer a number of sensibly-priced, top-shelf by-the-glass choices,” he adds. General Manager Stephan, of the Trump Club proclaims, “many of our members are quite knowledgeable and expect that in keeping with the quality of the food and other offerings here, our wine offerings be top-of-the-line, so in addition to the award- winning Trump wines from Virginia, boutique bottles like Zinfandels from Turley and Mar- tinelli, rarely found on area wine lists dot the selection here.”
And so it goes at many other area clubs, where wine selection, like service and food choices and preparation, are at the forefront of the amenities important to today’s members. “There’s been a great impact of all the food shows on TV to heighten the demands of our members regarding what they want in terms of food and wine,” comments Romeo Stivaletti, Executive Chef at the Trump National Golf Club, in Briarcliff Manor. “So, we’ve all had to step up our game to meet the expectations of our members.”
Geoff Kalish, MD, a Bedford resident, is co-
author of “Wining & Dining in Westchester” and former wine columnist for Wine Spectator and The Westchester weekly section of The New York Times.
*
Across Westchester County, chefs, general managers, and members of private clubs agree that in the past decade there’s been a renaissance in the dining experience at their facilities.
top:
onCe upon a time dining at private golf and country clubs in Westchester County consisted of a regularly scheduled formal family extravaganza on a weekend evening or Sunday af- ternoon or a lengthy luncheon of “the guys” or “ladies,” following a round of golf. But with life-styles becoming more casual and people having less time for meals, club dining became an afterthought – with a marked decline in the quality of offerings and the level of service. However, across Westchester County, chefs, general managers and members of private clubs agree that in the past decade there’s been a renaissance in the dining experience at their facilities.
Reasons for Improvement “Improvements started once country clubs realized the impor- tance of dining in meeting the needs of their members, who are increasingly sophisticated in their knowledge of food and wine,” relates Leonard Phillips, Executive Chef at the Shenorock Shore Club, in Rye, and former two-term president of the Club Chefs of Westchester professional organization. This is especially important since dining revenue is a crucial source of income for many clubs, and the competition for new members – as well as retaining old members – remains quite keen at area clubs. “So to better meet the needs of their constituencies, clubs had to compete with restaurants in the quality of their offerings,” notes Chef Phillips.
Now, what’s being offered at a growing number of private clubs in Westchester County meets and in many instances ex- ceeds the level of fare available at local eateries. This is not your father’s club dining with gloppy, steam-table selections and over-or-undercooked burgers only available with generic wine. An increasingly wide selection of au courant items are on the menu, like freshly made sushi and sashimi, crisp salads chopped à la minute, juicy, char-grilled seafood, flavorful prime beef and lamb served at carving stations, all available with glasses and/or bottles of red and white wine from top-tier producers.
A Variety of Updated Fare A range of offerings is increasingly important since many members dine quite regularly at their clubs. For example, at Bryn- wood Golf and Country Club, in Armonk, Executive Chef Caesar Guaraca – with fifteen years of experience at the Cipriani properties in Manhattan – cooks up the likes of Italian classics
CLUB DINING IN WESTCHESTER NOT JUST AN AFTERTHOUGHT ANYMORE
By Geoff Kalish, MD
updates them to make them suitable for a modern audience. After perfecting tricks—which can take years—Cohen works them into his act with the help of his creative collaborator, Mark Levy. “I bring the magic skills, he creates the story that illuminates them, and together we create something unique and amazing,” says Cohen.
Cohen has performed for some of the most celebrated minds and per- formers of our generation, from War- ren Buffett—who couldn’t figure out his tricks—to fellow magicians like David Copperfield. While he treats all guests with respect, Cohen admitted to getting “cotton balls in the mouth” when he saw Woody Allen in his audience, as he had idolized the filmmaker when he was growing up.
When he’s not working at the Wal- dorf, Cohen performs private shows for patrons in the U.S. and abroad. They en- list him as a performer, he says, because he provides them with something “even the most jaded guest hasn’t seen before.”
Every magician strives to create a rapport with the audience. Guests become engrossed in Cohen’s routine because, he explains, “There’s no stage. The front row is a foot away from me, so there’s a level of trust that develops between me and the audience. It’s not
like a Las Vegas show, where you get a big flashy production with smoke and dancing girls and all that.”
Instead, he says, “The show is intentionally low-tech, so it’s all about the personal relationship between me and the audience, which is something that we, especially the younger generation, have moved away from.” And “people who are attracted to this type of show are usually ‘thinking people,’ smart people, who want to see something that’s a little beyond their scope of understanding.” Those guests, he believes, regard magic as a mental challenge—even “the smartest guys in the room... are going to walk away with their jaws hanging.”
BEHOlD THE MILLIoNAIRES’ MAGICIAN
Chamber Magic derives its inspiration from centuries-old traditions. In nineteenth-century Paris and Vienna, magicians would host “magic salons,” which were considered intellectual gatherings. In that envi- ronment, magicians would show off their latest tricks. Cohen strives to recreate such an atmosphere in his performance, down to the look of the audience itself, who are decked out in cocktail attire that suits both the salon atmosphere of the show and the Waldorf Astoria’s own timeless elegance.
Steve Cohen’s routine is mystifying—his famous “Think a Drink” trick leaves the audience stunned and delighted. Yet he is humble in discussing his magical abilities. “Magic is my profession,” he explains. “Doing magic is about learning and practicing technique. There’s no God-given gift, except maybe the satisfaction that comes from bringing joy and wonder into people’s lives.”
How does he choose his tricks? ”I know which type of magic I like personally and I think, Would an audience like this, also? I’ve done so many shows that I know what gets an audience going and what makes them think, This is extraordinary! So that’s what I strive for—giving the audience a memorable and happy experience.”
To purchase tickets for Chamber Magic, and to learn more about Steve Cohen and his magical world, visit www.chambermagic.com.
Carly Silver is a native of Weston, Connecticut. An editorial assistant at Harlequin, she graduated summa cum laude from Barnard College, Columbia University, in 2012.
scHweninGer paintinG
W ithout a single alakazam, master close-up magician Steve Cohen manages
to turn even the most skeptical group of spectators into an awestruck audience. Dubbed The “Millionaires’ Magician” by Forbes magazine, Cohen performs his highly acclaimed show, “Chamber Mag- ic,” five times a week in a private suite at New York’s Waldorf Astoria Hotel.
A native of Chappaqua, New York, Cohen began practicing magic at an early age, inspired by his great-uncle, an amateur magician. He studied psycholo- gy at Cornell University and applied the lessons he learned in class to his rather unorthodox profession. More than a decade ago, Cohen began performing an evening magic show in a friend’s West Village apartment before moving to the National Arts Club on Gramercy Park. When that space closed for the summer, his manager, Holly Peppe, introduced him to executives at the Waldorf Astoria, and soon after he started performing a weekly show, Chamber Magic, in a suite in the exclusive Waldorf Towers. At first he struggled to find an audience, but after the website Daily Candy sent out an informational blast about Cohen, cus- tomers began pouring in. Since then, he has been featured in major media outlets including the New York Times and Late Night with David Letterman. Last year he was the star of a one-man show at Carnegie Hall and a two-hour History Channel special, Lost Magic De- coded. His book, Win the Crowd, has been translated into eight languages. He is also active on Facebook and Twitter, to the delight of his thousands of fans.
When creating a routine, Cohen digs deep into magic archives. No, not the library at Hogwarts, but centuries-old magician’s Bibles, including The Expert at the Card Table, a book on card magic that he carries with him ev- erywhere. He researches how tricks were done in the past, utilizing his own home library and the Conjuring Arts Research Center in Manhattan, and
room with a view
Chamber Magic derives its inspiration from centuries-old traditions. In nineteenth-century Paris and Vienna, magicians would host “magic salons,” which were considered intellectual gatherings. In that envi- ronment, magicians would show off their latest tricks. Cohen strives to recreate such an atmosphere in his performance, down to the look of the audience itself, who are decked out in cocktail attire that suits both the salon atmosphere of the show and the Waldorf Astoria’s own timeless elegance.
Steve Cohen’s routine is mystifying—his famous “Think a Drink” trick leaves the audience stunned and delighted. Yet he is humble in discussing his magical abilities. “Magic is my profession,” he explains. “Doing magic is about learning and practicing technique. There’s no God-given gift, except maybe the satisfaction that comes from bringing joy and wonder into people’s lives.”
How does he choose his tricks? ”I know which type of magic I like personally and I think, Would an audience like this, also? I’ve done so many shows that I know what gets an audience going and what makes them think, This is extraordinary! So that’s what I strive for—giving the audience a memorable and happy experience.”
To purchase tickets for Chamber Magic, and to learn more about Steve Cohen and his magical world, visit www.chambermagic.com.
Carly Silver is a native of Weston, Connecticut. An editorial assistant at Harlequin, she graduated summa cum laude from Barnard College, Columbia University, in 2012.
scHweninGer paintinG
W ithout a single alakazam, master close-up magician Steve Cohen manages
to turn even the most skeptical group of spectators into an awestruck audience. Dubbed The “Millionaires’ Magician” by Forbes magazine, Cohen performs his highly acclaimed show, “Chamber Mag- ic,” five times a week in a private suite at New York’s Waldorf Astoria Hotel.
A native of Chappaqua, New York, Cohen began practicing magic at an early age, inspired by his great-uncle, an amateur magician. He studied psycholo- gy at Cornell University and applied the lessons he learned in class to his rather unorthodox profession. More than a decade ago, Cohen began performing an evening magic show in a friend’s West Village apartment before moving to the National Arts Club on Gramercy Park. When that space closed for the summer, his manager, Holly Peppe, introduced him to executives at the Waldorf Astoria, and soon after he started performing a weekly show, Chamber Magic, in a suite in the exclusive Waldorf Towers. At first he struggled to find an audience, but after the website Daily Candy sent out an informational blast about Cohen, cus- tomers began pouring in. Since then, he has been featured in major media outlets including the New York Times and Late Night with David Letterman. Last year he was the star of a one-man show at Carnegie Hall and a two-hour History Channel special, Lost Magic De- coded. His book, Win the Crowd, has been translated into eight languages. He is also active on Facebook and Twitter, to the delight of his thousands of fans.
When creating a routine, Cohen digs deep into magic archives. No, not the library at Hogwarts, but centuries-old magician’s Bibles, including The Expert at the Card Table, a book on card magic that he carries with him ev- erywhere. He researches how tricks were done in the past, utilizing his own home library and the Conjuring Arts Research Center in Manhattan, and
room with a view
RHS PARSONS STREET PlAYERS PRESENTS
SOUTH PACiFiC
school road
SOUTH PACiFiC Directed by Michael Limone Photos by Joel and Anne Darelius
SOUTH PACiFiC
school road
SOUTH PACiFiC Directed by Michael Limone Photos by Joel and Anne Darelius
YOU’RE A GOOD MAN, CHARliE BROwN
YOU’RE A GOOD MAN, CHARliE BROwN Directed by Peter Green Photos by Joel and Anne Darelius
school road
YOU’RE A GOOD MAN, CHARliE BROwN
YOU’RE A GOOD MAN, CHARliE BROwN Directed by Peter Green Photos by Joel and Anne Darelius
school road
RYE MiDDlE SCHOOl PRESENTS
A NiGHT AT THE OSCARS Directed by Tom Snowden Photos by Joel and Anne Darelius
school road
RYE MiDDlE SCHOOl PRESENTS
A NiGHT AT THE OSCARS Directed by Tom Snowden Photos by Joel and Anne Darelius
school road
AL CERVI: ONE-ON-ONE
the arts
Katonah MuseuM of art Remix: Selections from the International Collage Center In the Beitzel and Righter Galleries Through October13, 2013 Remix weaves the narrative of collage through the history of modern and contemporary art. Coined in the early 20th century from the French word coller, meaning to glue or stick, the term “collage” originally described a revolutionary method of art-making. Over time its definition has expanded to represent an approach to and perception of the modern world. The 100 artists featured in the exhibition utilize collage’s core conceptual traits—heterogeneity, fragmentation, and appro- priation—to address with clarity and immediacy the circumstances of their times. Remix explores the impact of collage on artistic and cultural expression and gathers together the diverse frag- ments of a rich artistic tradition.
www.katonahmuseum.org
LawnChair theatre in the westChester ParKs Peter and Carin Zakes Green, founders of LawnChair Theatre, present Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew. Now in its 8th season, LawnChair Theatre began in Lyon Park in Port Chester and in the past three years has expanded to include shows in Rye, Rye Brook and Armonk.
Performance weekends: August 2 - Rye Town Park August 3 - Crawford Park August 4 - Bedford Village August 8 - Lyon Park August 9 & 10 - TBD www.lawnchairtheatre.org
the neuberger MuseuM of art PurChase CoLLege Coney Night Maze– Monumental-Scale Installation By New York Artist Donna Dennis Through September 15, 2013 One of the most popular New York City icons is the Coney Island Cyclone, a 1927 landmark wooden roller coaster, whose jack-knife turns and precipitous drops have thrilled hundreds of thousands of visitors since it opened in 1927. It also is the inspiration for Coney Night Maze, a monumental sculptural installation by artist Donna Dennis that is presented to the public for the first time at the Neuberger Museum of Art, Purchase College.
Thirteen years in the making, Coney Night Maze draws on the labyrinth of fences, gates, and ramps nestled among the I-beams and columns located beneath the actual Cyclone. Rising to a height of twelve feet, the installation includes an ascending rollercoaster-like track which weaves in and out of the dark- ness, then descends into the distance, skim- ming the edge of a rock wall that runs the
work’s entire 27-foot length. The Museum is located at 735 Anderson Hill
Road in Purchase, New York. www.neuberger.org.
CaraMoor Center for MusiC and the arts Audra McDonald Saturday, August 3, 2013
Winner of five Tony Awards® and regularly ap- pearing on the great stages of the world, Broadway legend Audra McDonald returns to the Venetian Theater on Saturday, August 3 at 8pm. Joined by a jazz ensemble, the two-time Grammy® Award-winner will perform an intimate evening of fa- vorite show tunes, classic songs from the movies, and original pieces written ex- pressly for her.
www.caramoor.org
collaGe Mounted to illustration board, 9 x
26 incHes. courtesy of tHe estate of nanette
bearden and dc Moore Gallery, new yorK.
A Taste of Westchester Summer Arts
donna dennis, Coney night Maze- 1997-2009,
Mixed Media, courtesy of tHe artist
audra Mcdonald
*
I n 1975 I lived in an apartment house that faced Central Park between 84th and 85th Streets. I had two dogs, Bogar and Phoebe, both black and
medium sized. Every morning, evening and night I walked them in the park. We crossed Central Park West near the entrance to our building and walked north to the entrance at 86th Street. Most mornings there was a young derelict, apparently homeless, sitting on a park bench with a shopping cart full of his belongings.
He was young and white, about 30 years old, filthy- looking with a straggly beard and long tangled hair. Something about him, maybe his scent, spooked Phoe- be, who was the female and more gentle of my two dogs, so that she refused to walk past him. I knew she wouldn’t wander off, so I would let her off the leash and she would walk carefully into the street and around a parked car before coming back to the sidewalk to join Bogar and me, thus avoiding the homeless man. I wasn’t as spooked by him as Phoebe, but I thought it best to avoid eye contact or any contact whatsoever as we passed him every day for weeks.
Years before, my father had given me a windbreaker jacket that fit perfectly. It was light weight with comfortable sleeve cuffs and nice deep pockets; it had snaps, not a zipper, that worked perfectly; and the color was a non-descript blue or purple. I loved that jacket and wore it a lot. The jacket had an insignia in the area of the upper left chest which was a ball with curved stitching (it could have been a baseball, a basketball or a soccer ball) and the name “Al Cervi” printed in script over the ball.
One morning as I was walking past the bum on the bench and Phoe- be was engaged in her avoidance technique (in fact, so was I) he said something to me that stopped me in my tracks. “Do you know who Al Cervi is?”
I had worn the jacket a thousand times. I always wondered who Al Cervi was, and why he was so honored, but my curiosity (in those pre-Google days) never rose to the level of doing research or asking anyone. Then and there, at 7 in the morning on Central Park West, this young homeless man held me and my attention as firmly as if he were grasping my arm. I looked directly at him for the first time and saw that his eyes were seemingly thoughtful and intelligent. There was no choice, I had to have this conversation.
“No, I don’t. Who is he?” “Al Cervi was a basketball player. He was the player-coach for the
Syracuse Nationals.” That was all I needed to know about Al Cervi, but as long as I was in
a conversation with this guy, there was something else I wanted to know. “Why are you living on this bench?”
His answer was better than I could have imagined: “My psychiatrist lives in your building and I like being near him.”
I paused for a moment and could think of nothing else to ask or say, so I said, “Have a nice day,” and walked on to the park entrance with my
dogs. I don’t remember ever seeing him again. In writing this tiny story I finally decided to find out
about Al Cervi, and here it is from his 2009 Obitu- ary in The New York Times. Al was born in Port Ches- ter. He was 92 at the time of his death. (www.nytimes. com/2009/11/11/sports/basketball/11cervi.html?_r=0)
Cervi (pronounced SUR-vee) was a 5-foot-11 guard and one of the strongest of the 1940s and ’50s. His Hall of Fame biography calls him “an intense competitor with superior defensive skills, an explosive one-on-one offensive player.”
He started playing pro basketball in 1937 with the Buf- falo Bisons of the new National Basketball League after dropping out of high school in his junior year. He never went to college. As a pro, he initially earned $15 a game and acquired the nickname Digger for his gritty, dogged approach to the game.
After five years in the Army Air Forces, including service in World War II, he joined the Rochester Royals, a new N.B.L. team, in 1946. His teammates included the future Hall of Famers Bob Davies and Red Holzman, who went on to coach the Knicks; Otto Gra- ham, a future Hall of Fame quarterback; and Chuck Connors, who became a television star as the title character on “The Rifleman.”
The Royals won the league championship in Cervi’s first season; in his second, he was the league’s leading scorer and most valuable player. In his third season —he was by then a player-coach — he was an all-star and the coach of the year.
He moved to the Syracuse Nationals as player-coach in 1948, a year before the N.B.L. and the Basketball Association of America merged to become the National Basketball Association. He was player-coach until 1953 and full-time coach until he was fired during the 1956-57 season, after the Nationals got off to a slow start. He coached the Philadelphia Warriors in the 1958-59 season.
As a player in that low-scoring era, Cervi averaged 7.9 points a game. His coaching record was 366-264, and his Nationals won the 1955 N.B.A. title by defeating the Fort Wayne Pistons in the finals.
Cervi was inducted as a coach into the Naismith Memorial Basket- ball Hall of Fame, in Springfield, Mass., in 1985. Recalling his coaching years, The Syracuse Post-Standard wrote in 1997, “The Nationals shot poorly but succeeded because they played Cervi-style basketball: nasty, with an emphasis on defense.”
Cervi knew what he wanted on offense, too. “Al didn’t like plays,” Dolph Schayes, one of his Hall of Fame players, told The New York Times in an interview in 2007.“We played a lot of freelance ball, Eastern style, good, aggressive, fundamental, high post, lot of movement.”
Bob Marrow is a real estate lawyer who has lived in Rye for 36 years, where he sails a 23’ Alberg sloop moored in Greenhaven Harbor.
speaker’s corner
the arts
AL CERVI: ONE-ON-ONE
the arts
Katonah MuseuM of art Remix: Selections from the International Collage Center In the Beitzel and Righter Galleries Through October13, 2013 Remix weaves the narrative of collage through the history of modern and contemporary art. Coined in the early 20th century from the French word coller, meaning to glue or stick, the term “collage” originally described a revolutionary method of art-making. Over time its definition has expanded to represent an approach to and perception of the modern world. The 100 artists featured in the exhibition utilize collage’s core conceptual traits—heterogeneity, fragmentation, and appro- priation—to address with clarity and immediacy the circumstances of their times. Remix explores the impact of collage on artistic and cultural expression and gathers together the diverse frag- ments of a rich artistic tradition.
www.katonahmuseum.org
LawnChair theatre in the westChester ParKs Peter and Carin Zakes Green, founders of LawnChair Theatre, present Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew. Now in its 8th season, LawnChair Theatre began in Lyon Park in Port Chester and in the past three years has expanded to include shows in Rye, Rye Brook and Armonk.
Performance weekends: August 2 - Rye Town Park August 3 - Crawford Park August 4 - Bedford Village August 8 - Lyon Park August 9 & 10 - TBD www.lawnchairtheatre.org
the neuberger MuseuM of art PurChase CoLLege Coney Night Maze– Monumental-Scale Installation By New York Artist Donna Dennis Through September 15, 2013 One of the most popular New York City icons is the Coney Island Cyclone, a 1927 landmark wooden roller coaster, whose jack-knife turns and precipitous drops have thrilled hundreds of thousands of visitors since it opened in 1927. It also is the inspiration for Coney Night Maze, a monumental sculptural installation by artist Donna Dennis that is presented to the public for the first time at the Neuberger Museum of Art, Purchase College.
Thirteen years in the making, Coney Night Maze draws on the labyrinth of fences, gates, and ramps nestled among the I-beams and columns located beneath the actual Cyclone. Rising to a height of twelve feet, the installation includes an ascending rollercoaster-like track which weaves in and out of the dark- ness, then descends into the distance, skim- ming the edge of a rock wall that runs the
work’s entire 27-foot length. The Museum is located at 735 Anderson Hill
Road in Purchase, New York. www.neuberger.org.
CaraMoor Center for MusiC and the arts Audra McDonald Saturday, August 3, 2013
Winner of five Tony Awards® and regularly ap- pearing on the great stages of the world, Broadway legend Audra McDonald returns to the Venetian Theater on Saturday, August 3 at 8pm. Joined by a jazz ensemble, the two-time Grammy® Award-winner will perform an intimate evening of fa- vorite show tunes, classic songs from the movies, and original pieces written ex- pressly for her.
www.caramoor.org
collaGe Mounted to illustration board, 9 x
26 incHes. courtesy of tHe estate of nanette
bearden and dc Moore Gallery, new yorK.
A Taste of Westchester Summer Arts
donna dennis, Coney night Maze- 1997-2009,
Mixed Media, courtesy of tHe artist
audra Mcdonald
*
I n 1975 I lived in an apartment house that faced Central Park between 84th and 85th Streets. I had two dogs, Bogar and Phoebe, both black and
medium sized. Every morning, evening and night I walked them in the park. We crossed Central Park West near the entrance to our building and walked north to the entrance at 86th Street. Most mornings there was a young derelict, apparently homeless, sitting on a park bench with a shopping cart full of his belongings.
He was young and white, about 30 years old, filthy- looking with a straggly beard and long tangled hair. Something about him, maybe his scent, spooked Phoe- be, who was the female and more gentle of my two dogs, so that she refused to walk past him. I knew she wouldn’t wander off, so I would let her off the leash and she would walk carefully into the street and around a parked car before coming back to the sidewalk to join Bogar and me, thus avoiding the homeless man. I wasn’t as spooked by him as Phoebe, but I thought it best to avoid eye contact or any contact whatsoever as we passed him every day for weeks.
Years before, my father had given me a windbreaker jacket that fit perfectly. It was light weight with comfortable sleeve cuffs and nice deep pockets; it had snaps, not a zipper, that worked perfectly; and the color was a non-descript blue or purple. I loved that jacket and wore it a lot. The jacket had an insignia in the area of the upper left chest which was a ball with curved stitching (it could have been a baseball, a basketball or a soccer ball) and the name “Al Cervi” printed in script over the ball.
One morning as I was walking past the bum on the bench and Phoe- be was engaged in her avoidance technique (in fact, so was I) he said something to me that stopped me in my tracks. “Do you know who Al Cervi is?”
I had worn the jacket a thousand times. I always wondered who Al Cervi was, and why he was so honored, but my curiosity (in those pre-Google days) never rose to the level of doing research or asking anyone. Then and there, at 7 in the morning on Central Park West, this young homeless man held me and my attention as firmly as if he were grasping my arm. I looked directly at him for the first time and saw that his eyes were seemingly thoughtful and intelligent. There was no choice, I had to have this conversation.
“No, I don’t. Who is he?” “Al Cervi was a basketball player. He was the player-coach for the
Syracuse Nationals.” That was all I needed to know about Al Cervi, but as long as I was in
a conversation with this guy, there was something else I wanted to know. “Why are you living on this bench?”
His answer was bett

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