The Big Apple bites back

The Big Apple bites back
Fascinated by legends of the city that never sleeps, Fayza Hassan travels to New York at last... and discovers she can make it anywhere
Our annual trip to Florida was going to be a little different this year. In one of our numerous telephone conversations my daughter suggested that she and the children meet us in New York. We could spend the weekend there, since we were arriving on a Friday. She had lived in the States for over 15 years but had never had a chance to visit the Big Apple. Now was the time: the children were old enough to enjoy it, and we could have much fun. "Choose a hotel," she told me. "I'll make the reservations."
My younger daughter had her own hotel preferences. She had read about the Hudson, the fruit of a collaboration between architect Ian Schrager and designer Philippe Starck. "It is an object of sheer beauty and rooms start at $100," she said excitedly. Her sister, from the vantage point of Bradenton, Florida, dismissed the choice decisively. "Too cheap, too modern, certainly not chic enough -- probably a wannabe hippy haunt. You will have to do better than that. How about the Marriott Marquis?"
My brother is a regular at all the Marriotts in the world. I called him. "Certainly not," he said. You will be terrified by the traffic in Times Square." I bought a guidebook. I marked a number of hotels. The Algonquin sounded like an attractive choice, but maybe the name had something to do with my interest. Anyway, it, together with the others that I had ticked, was vetoed from Bradenton, which was fast becoming Vacation Central. "You have to understand hotel-speak," said the expert. "If the brochure boasts 'old-world charm,' the hotel will certainly feature bad plumbing and traces of cockroach powder in the corners."
At my wits' end, I suggested the Plaza (not only chic but historical), as a joke and to indicate that I was running out of ideas. An hour later my daughter called: "What was that you said? The Plaza? You have it. The rooms go for half price during the weekend so we will only pay $200 per double room... and since I am a good daughter, I remembered to book you a smokers' room."
I had just read of British stage star Mrs Patrick Campbell, who caused the hotel's very first scandal by introducing pets into the hotel (thereby establishing a precedent), but also unleashed a media furore by lighting and smoking an Egyptian cigarette in public. This provocative act was unfathomable in 1907. The headwaiter is said to have appeared instantly, insisting that the cigarette be put out. "My good man," Mrs Campbell legendarily replied, "I understand that this is a free country, I shall do nothing to change it." A screen was brought so that the sight of the cigarette would not offend the other diners. It was too late, however: the great debate over the evils of smoking was started in the press, and I am not sure that the daring Mrs Campbell is not at least partly responsible for the annoying Clean Air Act so obdurately enforced nowadays in New York's public places.
We arrived in New York in the early afternoon after an uneventful trip, collected our suitcases and stood on the curb trying to smoke all the cigarettes we had been deprived of during the flight. Finally we flagged a taxi. The driver was nice, but not nice enough to allow us to indulge in our filthy (not to mention illegal) habit in his vehicle. He took us to Manhattan via his "secret route," however; only he knew it, he told us. For good reason, we mused, as we were treated to a tour of the streets of Queens. The quaint little cottages, many decorated with artificial flowers in hanging baskets, reminded me of Sydney's western suburbs 30 years ago. "How depressing," said my daughter, but she soon cheered up as we entered Manhattan and drove along a tree-lined avenue graced with elegant town houses. "This must be Park Avenue," I thought, but refrained from speaking out, afraid of sounding like a fool in front of the cab driver.
The Plaza was all I had expected and more. From the outside, it looked like an oversized French chateau with the Sherman monument standing guard over the plaza. The air smelled strongly of horses: several horse-drawn carriages were aligned on the other side of the square, waiting for clients. I reflected that they looked much sturdier and better cared-for than our hantours, but had little time to take in the view. A janitor carrying our suitcases had already preceded us into the hotel. The cab driver was positively overjoyed by the tip I gave him ($5.00) and people strolling on the footpath were smiling at us. We were off to a good start.
Inside, I could not stop staring at the oversized chandelier in the lobby, which was matched in extravagance only by the centerpiece, consisting of a gigantic fresh flower arrangement placed on a charming carved and gilded marble console. I was so taken by the atmosphere that I abandoned my daughter at the reception counter and went off to explore the site. Beautifully arranged displays in glass showcases throughout the lobby area announced that shopping would be something special in New York. The display cases were profit-making devices, installed and rented to up-market boutiques for the first time by Conrad Hilton when he purchased the Plaza in 1943. I was cranking my neck to admire the ceiling of the lobby when my daughter nudged me. It was time to take the old- fashioned elevator.
The room we were led to was no different from its counterparts in any international hotel and, apart from the Plaza crest (two back-to-back Ps emblazoned on everything from the towels to the curtains and the wall-to- wall carpet), we could have been at the Winter Palace or at the Marriott in Cairo. Although Central Park was just opposite the hotel and was promoted abundantly in their advertisements, our room overlooked a blind alley; but at $200 dollars a night, who was going to complain?
I briefly wondered if we had been given the room where Princess Lwoff- Parlaghy's pet lion had stayed. I did not think that the princess, demanding though she might have been, would have insisted that her cub enjoy his own vista of the park. Besides, the view of trees could have reminded him of the jungle and inspired him with the desire to jump out the window. In 1908, the immensely rich princess who traveled with a menagerie (only cats and dogs at this point), had been turned away from the Waldorf Astoria, which admitted no fauna on its premises. Instead, she took several rooms at the animal-friendly Plaza, where she remained for five years. During her stay, she fell in love with a lion cub she spotted at the Ringling Brothers' circus. She tried to buy it, but was rebuffed. The princess, apart from having acquired a huge fortune from a brief marriage to a Russian prince, was an accomplished portraitist whose subjects included many of the crowned heads of Europe. In other words, she had connections. Determined to obtain the cub, she called on one of her recent portrait subjects, Civil War hero General E Sickles and begged him to use his influence on his friends, the Ringlings. Her scheme worked and "Goldfleck" was given his own room at the Plaza. Fred Sterry, the then managing director, insisted, however, that a round-the-clock trainer be assigned to care for the cub. Unfortunately, hotel living did not agree with Goldfleck and he died four years later. After a private funeral ceremony at the Plaza, the princess buried him in the animal cemetery in Hartsdale, New York.
His tombstone, which remains an object of curiosity to this day was inscribed with the words "Beneath this stone is buried the beautiful young lion Goldfleck whose death was sincerely mourned by his mistress, Princess Lwoff- Parlaghy, New York, 1912." The princess herself died shortly after.
I would have gladly taken a grand tour of the hotel, forgetting that the city was beckoning. In particular, I wanted to see the tearoom, which had been used by Scott Fitzgerald in The Great Gatsby. "It must have been changed ten times over since those days," said my reasonable daughter, who had other plans. Dinner with friends was much more on her mind than the sequel to Home Alone, whose action had been situated at the Plaza. An amusing story is connected with the shooting of the film: the 59th Street lobby was the location of a scene in the film requiring actor Macauley Culkin to slide across the floor into a waiting elevator. To make the stunt possible, the wall-to-wall carpeting, which had been in place for 25 years at the time, had to be removed. When the hotel owner Donald Trump saw the exquisite mosaic floor hiding under the carpet, he was so taken by it that he changed the decoration in favour of area rugs that allowed the mosaic to be seen.
My daughter's friends were already waiting in that very lobby when we came out of the elevator. While they discussed the merits of the various restaurants, wondering which would still be open and which would accept us without a reservation, I had some time to admire the mosaic. I was interrupted by a very beautiful blonde who stopped talking on her cell phone to ask me the name of my perfume. I was rather flattered: here was a real New Yorker inquiring about the name of a perfume I had bought at Morgana, the Zamalek-based temple of cosmetics addicts. Then I had second thoughts: was she making fun of me? Was my eau de toilette too strong? As I stared at her, she resumed her conversation, loudly telling someone on the other side of her gadget that she was in New York for a few days and thought she had landed a contract but needed "real classy photographs, you know the kind." Then she proceeded to tell me that she was an actress trying to make it on Broadway. This sounded like the cheap novels I used to love in another life -- and she was not even an authentic New Yorker. I was no longer flattered. A stern look from my daughter signaled that I should cut our exchange short and, after quickly wishing her luck, I excused myself. "You don't talk to strangers in a foreign city," I was told. "Can't you see what she is?" I couldn't. My daughter's friends spelled it out for me. "So what?" I said. "She won't be calling on me." I felt that in New York, where I had always imagined that only special people lived, I had to show more chutzpah than usual.
We took a cab, the younger generation still wondering aloud at my recklessness. "Not everything is allowed because you are in New York," my daughter said severely, echoing the words I had plagued her with.
I had a most delicious grilled tuna steak at Yama, a small Japanese hole- in-the-wall restaurant where, after half an hour's wait on the footpath, we were packed around a table barely sufficient for two. The food, nevertheless, was impeccable. On that first night, I could not tell one street from another, and it was only while returning to the hotel, a trip that took us barely five minutes, that I realised our first taxi driver had taken us for an unnecessary spin en route to the restaurant.
My older daughter and her children arrived from Bradenton around noon. They declared themselves satisfied with the room, close enough to ours, yet far enough not to be reached through the corridor by the billows of poisonous fumes emanating from our room. Her son, she said, had been worried that he could be contaminated by the nicotine. I ruffled his blond- tipped crew cut and assured him that we would avoid smoking under the door. My American trio had come from Florida equipped with a list of restaurants complete with addresses, telephone numbers and reasons why we should lunch or dine there. Unfortunately, we never made it to the top of the list, which included the Tavern on the Green, the Russian Tearoom and the Rainbow Room -- all condemned by our New York friends as hopelessly touristy.
On the other hand, over the following three days, we lunched and dined at the Mesa Grill on Fifth Avenue, Nobu on Hudson Street (which, I was told, belongs to Robert de Niro); Foley's Fish House at the Hyatt Renaissance; Balthazar on Spring Street, in Soho... The food was invariably succulent and each place featured an original décor. The Mesa Grill had been a garment showroom before being transformed into a cozy restaurant; Nobu sported an elegant minimalist allure with an oversized bar, rough wood columns and rafters; Foley's Fish House gave me the impression of sitting in a fishbowl looking out on the surreally oversized artificial brilliance of Times Square.
I loved each new experience but regretted that we had not had time to linger in Balthazar, the faux-French brasserie whose co-executive chefs, Riad Nasr and Lee Hanson, have such a hot reputation. The Balthazar was the hottest place in town for a few years, and although it has lost some of its popularity with the glittering crowd, its regular clients remain faithful because the food is, according to them, the very best one can get in New York.
My young companions were in a hurry to start seeing the city. Shopping was also high on the agenda: although most of the department stores were the same as those in Florida, they were convinced that clothes bought in New York had a different allure. As we left the hotel early in the morning, a handsomely dressed doorman whistled for a taxi. There were some difficult negotiations that I failed to comprehend and another taxi was hailed. I finally understood the reason for the minor commotion: by law, taxis only carry four passengers, and there were five of us. Not all drivers will risk breaking the law. The second driver was more accommodating. My grandson, a slight 12-year-old, was told to slide down in his seat and his sister took this opportunity to put her elbow on his head and push hard. A muted battle ensued. When order was reestablished, I insisted on telling my daughters and grandchildren the story of the New York taxicabs. Their polite silence informed me that they couldn't have cared less. The girls wanted to talk about shoes and the merits of long skirts over minis; the little boy was sulking in his tight corner. I decided not to be put off nevertheless.
New York taxicabs made their debut on the same day that the Plaza opened: 1 October 1907, a date carefully chosen by the fleet owner, Harry Allen, to take advantage of the publicity accompanying the opening of the hotel. Twenty- five cabs were paraded up Fifth Avenue to the Plaza, where the taxis were parked around the perimeter. Plaza patrons were given free rides for the day
The motorcars were painted red with a green stripe for easy identification and were driven by chauffeurs dressed like Hussars. They were equipped with the revolutionary taximeter, which allowed passengers to monitor the amount of their fare.
At first the hansom cab owners dismissed their motorised competition as a novelty that would soon pass, but the vehicles' growing success finally upset them. One morning, in the winter of 1909, Allen was having breakfast at the Men's Café at the Plaza. Shots rang out from the park and a bullet shattered a window, fortunately missing its target. Allen got the message, however, and sold his business, which by then numbered 600 taxis. The hansom cabs faded away nevertheless, dwindling to a handful, which ironically can be seen almost only around the Plaza, where tourists hire them for a tour in Central Park. "I want a carriage ride, please," said the plaintive voice of my grandson, who had probably been the only one listening. His mother promised he would get one and, when the little boy extricated himself from the cab, he was smiling despite the discomfort to which he had been subjected.
Next week: Fayza Hassan finds no rest in the city that never sleeps
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