PAUL MICHEL

Favorite Chine restaurant translation (so far):
"Giant clam with two tastes."

Yesterday was principally about the Met, (as in the art museum not the opera house); a full, foot-sore seven hours of mostly Middle Eastern, Egyptian and Cypriot art as it happened, though through no particular design, and a couple of surprises as well. Oh and a new Picasso exhibit, open in preview to members, which we became quickly when it was explained to us that an annual membership would be cheaper than admission for two. Seeing a Picasso exhibit is like going to a gallery of a half-dozen different twentieth century artists. His linocuts alone are worth the price of admission. And "The Blind Man's Meal." And...

The first surprise delight was a temporary exhibit called "The Mourners," a collection of 15th century, mostly alabaster figures removed from a museum in Dijon while it is being renovated. Instead of their original positions in the tomb of the Duke of Burgundy and his wife, these sculptures, each about sixteen inches high, are arranged in two long rows, as though on funereal parade. Originally painted, they retain a subtle rust patina. The carving, by Jean de La Huerta and Antoine Le Moiturier, is exquisite--the postures, facial expressions and resulting aura of somber grief are utterly convincing and arresting--and, inevitably, fuel for much juvenile humor when, joined by my older sister (visiting from Ithaca) for our second viewing, we felt compelled to assign to each of the perhaps forty figures a cartoon-caption quote. Sigh. Sophomoric poor taste and sacrilege combined. Such are the lasting scars of the Mother Church, at least for those of us who escaped the groping hands of the Holy Rottweiler's minions. But really, they are stunning. If you have a chance.

Another delightful surprise was an exhibit of Victorian photocollage; whimsical, goofy, often hysterical combinations of cut-out photography and watercolors made usually by Society women in late 19th century England. They would place the faces of friends on the ends of a peacock's feathers, or figures of the day's celebrities posed as guests in their own salons. Or as the heads of ducks, or as balls dropped in a pond by a harlequin jester. Whatever. I am inspired, and looking forward to scissors and paste when I get home.

We were stuck on the Upper East Side for lunch, and for those who doubt that New York is a microcosm of the bigger world, I'd simply invite you to breakfast in Chinatown and take your mid-day meal at 79th and E 79th and Madison Ave. Apart from costing considerably more (a sandwich and a salad) than Chinese dinner had the night before, it was appropriately delicious, and people-watching was the not-always-sweet dessert. The Upper Eastside luncher is as reliable a stereotype as the Chinatown butcher of the Bowery bum, and our dining companions obligingly dressed and acted their roles to a "T." An added director's inspiration was the preponderance of couples comprised of "older" (as in, even older than me) men (chiseled faces, impeccably dressed, expensive hair, deep yacht tans) and young, gorgeous women. Their granddaughters, no doubt. No doubt. So sweet, how they cuddle and laugh together.

Dinner was Dawat, the Midtown Madhur Jaffrey institution, which over the years has become a sort of Intro to Indian Food establishment for neophyte honky gourmands. As my sister is new to the wonders of Indian cuisine, it was a good choice, and completely, delightfully edible. I'd certainly go back. Now, say. Or for lunch.

I'd not intended a travelblog, but I am after all away from home, and the days are filled with the New. It's a gift, to be able to spend a few days in such a place. Okay, it's a gift to spend a few days anyplace, or nearly so, considering the alternative and all. But New York widens the eyes and stretches perceptions in a special and wonderful way. (Spectacular spring weather doesn't hurt.) One senses that its natives know it, and, excepting those who are myopically convinced that real life ends at the Hudson (they are entertaining in their own quaint way), that they appreciate and embrace it in a manner that most city-dwellers seldom know. It makes me want to go home and look even harder at the Seattle I've called home for nearly thirty years. To see it like a tourist. To sit on a bench and marvel at it. And especially to seek out and fully appreciate our giants clams and its tastes. Both of them.