In preparation for a dinner at New York City’s The Red Cat, I read again the novella Breakfast at Tiffany’s and watched the movie. I mentioned previously in a post the coincidence between the story and the restaurant. They both have a ‘50s New York City motif; The Red Cat was so named in both venues for similar reasons (to sever associations); and there is a main character in the story named Rusty Trawler, whilst there is a painting on the restaurant wall of a rusty trawler. The restaurant chef and part owner Jimmy Bradley says it is a remarkable coincidence, while I surmise it was potentially a subconscious association on his part when he created the restaurant. He cops to having seen the movie, but not to having read the book. I find a delightful synchronicity in the connection, which brings me into the magic of time travel and the beauty of New York.
Watching the movie for the second time (the first time many years back) a couple of evenings ago, I was nearly brought to tears by the beautiful memories of New York City in 1961. People had the freedom of ‘60s Berkeley (my third favorite venue, then), and folks crossed streets irrespective of crosswalks or traffic lights, since there were only a few cars with big fins traveling very cautiously.
Back then, at 19 years of age, I had total independence and a hefty inheritance which allowed me to do what I wanted. (As one little example, for those younger folks who will never experience “how it was,” and I fully realize they wouldn’t want to, in good conscience; I once skidded my car from an icy curve flush into a telephone pole after drinking a pitcher of Manhattans. The license plate was bent into a perfect “U” on the totaled brand new 401 Buick. The 16-year-old girl sitting in the middle of the front seat got hurt enough to require the hospital. It didn’t bother her too much then and she if fine now – I hear. I opened my door and fell into the street. Cops at the scene laughed. One was kind enough to drive me home, while another saw to the girl. The rest of the kids scampered off probably to another bar. I bought another sedan [my date car], treated the wonderful girl to the best year she might have ever had in her life – my consideration, I hope she had far better years – and that was that.) Since you could do the most in New York City, I frequented the fine hotels, nightclubs, restaurants and department stores with reckless abandon, with pretty teenage girls in tow.
The only problem (now, in thinking back, not then) was I was dumber than a stump, and missed some things which would have augmented the greatest pleasures. Part of the freedom of being a rich kid with no supervision disinclined any time spent in school. So not only had I no role models, I also had very limited education. Fortunately, I had read A Catcher in the Rye, because a smarter kid told me Holden was me, or I wouldn’t have even known about New York City. I had never heard of fine food and wine. Consequently I ate lobster, French Fries and coleslaw, or steak, virtually every night, washed down with scotch and beer.
If anybody reading this knows, it would be wonderful for me to learn; otherwise, I must somehow look up what a fine 1945 or 1947 Bordeaux would have cost then at Lutece, or whatever five-star restaurant would have been most appropriate. Whatever it cost, I could have drunk them with friends until one half a bottle was left for the clean-up crew. It might have been.
I loved it. Remember Frenchy, who loved all the girls? I wonder how many he got.