Tennis as Spectacle

Thursday AM I made the trek to Cricklewood to see Diana, Simon’s mum.  She is still her old self in many ways, but in other ways lost in a bit of a fog.  I also saw a young woman who claimed to be his daughter but I truly couldn’t believe it.  Midday to tennis.

Spoiler alert: I did not see Murray Djokovic.  Because the Tour Final is a Round Robin of two groups of four, with 1/3/5/7 and 2/4/6/8, that means that since I have tix for both sessions on Thursday I will see Nadal and Murray, because Novak and Roger would be in the other group.  But then of course Nadal pulled out.  That left Novak with Andy, bumped Federer and his half picked up the extremely uneven Tipsarevic.

To start, they start with doubles.  On the one hand, doubles doesn’t get enough credit and is rarely shown on TV.  Brilliant dedicated doubles players can be brilliant.  But doubles is also littered with various castoff singles players, and worsened by teams where partners are forever switching it up.  It gets almost impossible to support anyone except for the Bryan brothers, who by dint of blood (and I guess temperament) are true to their team.

The 02.  Rock star venue.  Lights blink on Aces and Break Points.  Pretty much the bizarro version of Wimbledon.

First match was Paes and Stepanek against Lopez (not Feliciano, who isn’t playing at the event but was, for no apparent reason, on site, sitting with the Spanish Armada) and Granollers, the Spaniard with the French name.  The first set was dull as Paes/Stepanek took it easily; I think there were no break points and most games played at love.  But things picked up in the second, with not one but two breaks, although the Spaniards simply couldn’t capitalize, and Paes sealed the deal.  Stepanek, it might be noted, is I believe the only player on the tour (and maybe the only player under 30 period) that wears the long, baggy Pete Sampras shorts and tucks his shirt in.  He has the look of an Eastern European PE teacher, circa 1972.

The real tennis, and the sold out crowd, savoured the second match, Ferrer versus Federer.  With Nadal pulling out this should have been a Federer Nadal duel but was in fact one more nail in the coffin of the never ending Ferrer losses to Federer.  More insulting to Ferrer is that Roger didn’t bring his A game.  His first serve percentage was pathetic and he fluffed and muffed an unusual number of easy returns.  His second serves dribbled over the net, often under 100.  Still, Roger’s less than perfect game is still too much for most mortals and Ferrer, although he did try valiantly to recover, and brought the second set to a tie break, even having the upper hand twice, succumbed to the inevitable.  Roger, with only one ace in two sets served up two in the tie break.  Must have had dinner plans.

Ian McKellan was seated a few rows down from me.  Fluorescent orange top and tight stretch pants that looked like leotards.  He spent an unusual amount of time on his smart phone and the older gentleman accompanying him looked, at one point, to perhaps suffer from narcolepsy.

Pre-Sir.

During the break I tubed back to the hotel for a snack and to freshen up.  Given the timeframe it was a bit ambitious.  I arrived back just as Qureshi and Rojer were battling the Bryan Brothers.  Lively, fun, and with a few serious doubles net volley duels, the Bryans sewed it up quickly in two.  Following, in recognition of their eight year run as number one doubles partners and now going into the record book as the most successful doubles team of all time, they were given both a trophy for their year end status and a crystal goblet as ATP fan favourites. Justin Gimelstob, looking trim in a well tailored suit, did the honours.

They were followed by a strident and aggressive Tipsarevic and a loping, downcast del Potro.  Janko, who did a great impression of Novak at an ATP event a year or so ago--

  Phone rings

  Novak answers

  “Hello?  Who is this?  Barack?  Barack who?”

--brought no humour to the court, but neither did he bring much in the way of tennis.  Although there were some long rallies and there were all of nine break point opportunities in the first four games, it was poor shot selection, over-hitting, and a raft of unforced errors, that did Janko in.  6-0.  A bagel at the year end event!  Top eight in the world my ass.  A sea of Barclays men, the event sponsor, who appeared to be getting a fine corporate wine and dine in a restaurant upon my arrival, filtered into the arena, all navy and gray suits (is there no other acceptable fabric for the City?) twenty minutes late and virtually missed the first set.  It looked like a pod of Orcas, like private school boys in their uniforms which, I guess in a way, it was.  But they didn’t miss Janko not once but twice toss his rackets towards his stringer in disgust.  A streaker might have been what the match needed; some relief to the angst and tension of Tipsaravic and Delpo’s seeming lack of commitment.

Janko came alive in the second, showing some clever and athletic moves, but even so it was just a glimmer of how good he can be.  Meanwhile, Delpo did little more than hit returns, hard, fast, and accurately, to quickly go up a break and take the match in a 6-4 clincher.  A little sour for the occasion I think.

From my seat.  Actually much better than my pathetic pocket Canon shows.

Hopped on the Jubilee home.  Oh, three nights in, and Knightsbridge is "home" already...

I Get High

Although it's spelled haight (the t is silent, the Welsh is hwcyntha).

And someone said fashion was dead...

Wednesday.  The best part of the morning was that no one knew who won the election.  Oh, and it was sunny.  Colder than Vancouver, proper November eight degrees cold, and, weirdly, all the leaves are not only on the trees still but they’re green.

It was exciting, even thrilling to be back in London and for it to be gorgeous enough to beckon walking.  Headed towards Sloane Square then along King’s Road, coffee at Nero, shopping, back towards Harrods, into the West End and then all through Covent Garden.  Did not pay 345 pounds for a Burberry cashmere scarf or a similar amount for Vivienne Westwood shoes.  Had lunch at Canteen, a sort of nouveau and improved version of pub fare (warm roast pumpkin and chicken salad in a light Dijon dressing, very tasty if a tad overdressed, although I think a pie or pasty would have been the thing).  Asked the Italian bartender Riccardo, who was across the street lifting stock shirtless, if I could take a picture and he said “no time” although there was plenty of time.  Frontline reported on the Russian oligarchs taking over London, and while they are around, or at least I should say there are many Russians in Aston Martins and with shopping from Fortnum’s, in my particular hotel they are shadowed by equally rich Arabs.  But while that’s a decidedly obvious element, it seems the city is also littered with surly Italian servers mispronouncing coffee and saying “afters” as a question.

Lamp standard on The Mall

City of statuary (look up)

Above and below: The building that was, once upon a time, the Texas embassy

Part of being high on London is simply getting re-acquainted with neighbourhoods, sites and buildings that I still remember discovering first time round, thirty years ago.  At the same time, I learnt two new things about London today: One, the lamp standards that line the Mall have, in reference to England’s naval past, ships atop each one.  And, second, when Texas was briefly a republic, it actually had an embassy here.

There is, believe it or not, a back seat; makes our shopping cart look Aston Martin-ish

Decided to catch a matinee and checked out the half price booth which was four deep in undecided tourists and tix for the play I wanted to see at over 20 pounds, so walked the two short blocks to the Comedy and scored a day ticket, stalls, unrestricted view seat for ten quid.  The Comedy is a cramped little theatre with pillars and narrow stairs.  Eric Peterson brought Billy Bishop there in the early 80s, to critical acclaim but public bewilderment.  I saw Joseph Fiennes in an unmemorable production six or seven years ago.  I was hoping for better.  Both with the Fiennes vehicle and the play today.

A Chorus of Disapproval is the sort of play that you expect an A student drama PhD to write.  In fact, many of Ayckbourn’s plays are sort of like that, as if he was voted the most likely to succeed in his class, and did, but became not necessarily the best of his class.  A strong cast in a Trevor Nunn production but really, the reason you are there for is for Rob Brydon (the second funniest man in Michael Winterbottom’s The Trip).  He truly is amazing, charismatic, spot on timing and with a language skill adept at making even a contemplative sigh hysterical.  In fact, he broke up a fellow thespian in the first act.  Many seniors (in the matinee audience) could be heard whispering “she’s very good” and “he’s very good” whenever someone performed to the second balcony but Brydon was so consistently good he defied the whisperer.  That said, start to finish, despite the many laughs and a bit of scenery chewing from the supporting roles, it wasn’t quite up to the splash of four star reviews littered across the marquee.  In a Google search afterward I came across the apt phrase that at the expense of breadth of story it lacked depth of characterisation.

The Queen's Head off King's Rd.  Many fine memories, including having our drinks collected un-drunk at time.

Bird lights

Pistorius claims they give women an unfair advantage

It's a little Verd, a little Wagner

Disney London.  Downsizing after Lucas took $4 billion off their hands.

Onto dinner.  If you Google “eat out alone London” you will get in the first page of hits a suggestion to take dinner at Joel Robuchon’s Michelin lauded L’Atelier.  Which I guess is a good recommendation as it’s certainly not the sort of place I would have ventured into alone without a search hit.

The place is discreetly tucked away behind where Charing Cross Rd meets Shaftesbury Avenue, sort of the nexus of the West End, Covent Garden and Bloomsbury.  In glossy black with red undertones there is the feel of something both elegant and Asian pastiche.  It has a sort of Interview magazine cover feel from the 70s, faux oriental grandeur.  If you’ve seen the film that Yves St. Laurent’s partner made about YSL after his death, you’ll know the style.  It’s of an era. 

Stock photo.  I did not have the courage to bring a camera.

There is a bar restaurant on the ground floor, a restaurant proper upstairs and a bar proper on top of that.  The ground floor, with a kitchen about the size of a bachelor apartment, with around 12 chefs “plus” all sautéing and reducing and whipping and foaming, is a hive of regimental activity with many "yes chefs" and quiet acquiescence. Although spectacularly expensive, there is a prix fixe theatre menu from 5:30 to six.  A subdued and appreciative crowd surrounds the bar.

While thinking about what to order I had a Sardinian white Vernaccia which was listed “in the sherry style” and although I am baffled by that description it was indeed both dry and deeply interesting in that nutty, woodsy way sherry is, although not for a second was it anything but white wine.

Not famished, and absolutely certain everything would be scrumptious-ed up with butter and oil, I took the starter and main for 28 pounds.  It was no surprise to be served, first, an amuse bouche of foie gras, port wine and parmesan foam.  The foam, the omnipresent high end restaurant tendency towards foam, which has long outlived its welcome, actually worked very well, as it cut the foie’s richness without detracting from it (but so would any number of lightly bitter flavours, without the salt).  The port was sort of lost on me but swirled together it was perhaps the most decadent (non-)milk shake I’ve ever had.

A starter of chestnut veloute, a celeriac puree and chestnuts with the veloute poured over top.  Chestnuts are one of those enticing aromas that beckon you on the street; you buy a bag; you bite into one; and pthhft—they’re absolutely tasteless, dry, mealy and banal.  But here, with the dimension of celery, and the richness of the soup, it all combined nicely, with the mealy-ness of the nuts lost in the smooth richness of sauce.  I felt there was a tiny hint of cardamom in there to boot.  Trust Rubuchon to make chestnuts delectable.  With that a Touraine which was good, not a star.

For main a saddle of lamb, pan roasted, I watched the chef finger it lovingly to test its doneness, served with roasted potatoes (the anticipated lemony overtures were brief to nonexistent) and a side of buttered root vegetables which were as good as homemade which is I guess a backhanded compliment.  Overall, the dish was excellent, but I can’t help but say the lamb was ever so slightly, just a smidgen, too done.  Recommended was a Cote du Ventoux.  In Canada, CdV has long been an underappreciated value wine and I remember many good vintages back in Toronto as a student, but I don’t think it had the oomph to stand up to the saddle, it was a trifle too weak, and I think that is one recommendation that just didn’t pair perfectly.  There was no dessert, no chocolate with the bill (the French tradition, what a letdown!) and, as you can see, I didn’t take one picture.  But everything I ate, and watched come out of the kitchen, was a work of art.  Great dinner.

The joys of paying only 10 pounds for the afternoon were tempered by having to pay full price for the evening, a remount of an RSC production of Twelfth Night with Mark Rylance and Stephen Fry (the half of Fry and Laurie most North Americans don’t know).  It was at the Apollo, where Stephen and I saw a remount of The Country Wife a few years back, a wonderfully intimate theatre but with a centre aisle in the stalls that cuts out halfway.

“Twelfe Night” plays in rep with Richard III.  God knows how the cast that did Richard at 2:30 then quickly turned it around for three hours of Twelfth later that day; something of the dedication actors have for the craft I guess...  The theme, much lauded, is to replicate the purity of a version from Shakespeare’s time.  Thus, all the roles are played by men, there is actual candlelight (dripping, often, wax across the stage) augmented by artificial, period costumes, there are two tiers of seats specially built for the sides of the stage, and actors come and go through the stage and stalls.  Mark Rylance, not that well known outside of the UK (think Prospero’s Books) was Olivia, but the over-achievers were Belch and his sot pal Andrew.  Having actual musicians, lingering about, and playing actual music when appropriate (on period instruments) was genius.

Above: Fry as Malvolio.  Below: Rylance as Olivia

I was seated (excellent seats BTW, perfectly centred with a spectacular view) next to a young man called Oscar who was taking notes and I asked him if he was a theatre student and he told me he was the assistant director!  The actual director, Tim Carroll, did an amazing job.  So, all in, it was the type of rare theatrical event that makes you want to return to the theatre repeatedly, and encourage the art, it put me in a hugely upbeat frame of mind, it was just that good.  Like fly into London for it that good.  However, there is this one little problem: Twelfth Night is not the best comedy.  In fact despite the gorgeous language and many amusing scenes, particularly as it unfolds, there is something grossly overwritten about TN--and as it hits the three hour mark you do wonder to yourself whether a sincere edit (taboo to the purists, I know) was in order.  Somehow, unlike say in The Tempest or All’s Well, you don’t connect with the characters or their plight or really care.  Even the subtitle, As You Will, is like the lax and lamer version of As You Like It.  In the end, despite Fry’s performance, you don’t have any feeling, good or bad, about Malvolio.  Worse, you don’t really have any concern or interest about the mistaken identities coming to light and the glimmer of all’s well that ends well to the thing.  It has been three decades since I last saw TN and, truthfully, I think it fair to say it will be my last.  Still: If you’re going to do TN, you couldn’t do it better and this really is a runaway must-see event.

Laura Ashely Approved

That Was Then

Patsy and Edina go Shopping

Given that I was going to be out of the country a whole week, Nan took it upon herself to make sure no one went hungry.  She roasted a turkey, and served it with cheese cauliflower, baked carrots, Brussels sprouts, a turnip casserole, corn, roast beets, mashed potatoes, gravy, and a regular stuffing as well as a rice stuffing.  Homemade cranberry on the table with a spectacular November fruit plate.  And for those with the room, a choice of either lemon meringue or pumpkin pie (or even brownies) whipped up for dessert.

Going Away Repast

Calm Before the Storm

Afters

 

Of course there is no picture of Nan and Pop, Brent and Jane, Robyn and Paul, Kyle, Emily, Tyler, Nikki, Shawn, Vivian, Stephen or myself.  Or even Wilson or Kalli.  Just the food.  But the company was excellent nonetheless!

Monday was a beautiful November Vancouver day (oxymoron I know), perfect for Mr T and I to walk Stanley Park.  Nan and Pop came by mid afternoon to drop me at YVR, where there was little to-do and check-in, embarkation, departure were fairly smooth.  Dinner up front was a smoked salmon and green salad followed by a choice of cod, steak, ravioli or Cornish game hen.  I took the latter, which came with a slew of quinoa and green beans.  They had a pretty interesting Sardinian white on the cart as well as an uber-powerful California cab sauv which more or less did me in.  Didn’t stick it out for dessert and got, for better or worse, a four hour nap, but the AC flat beds are a miracle of airborne space and privacy and I wouldn’t have even had that in the back.  About an hour before arrival a continental breakfast (there was, also, an omelette with chicken sausages and potatoes of all things on offer) and we landed believe it or not forty minutes early and it took less than 10 minutes to get to the gate (take that YYZ), fast track check-in which, unlike two years ago, actually was fast track, express train to Paddington (yes, it really does go 15 miles in 15 minutes), cab to hotel (same price as the train...).

Checked into the swanky Sheraton which has the (enviable?) address of 1 Knightsbridge.  It is, architecturally, an early form of what PC notoriously referred to as the carbuncles contaminating London.  But the room is more than comfortable with a spectacular view towards Hyde Park and what was once the Hyde Park hotel now Mandarin Oriental.  Harvey Nichols directly across (with its window dressings reminiscent of an Edina and Patsy shopping spree).

Mid afternoon met Simon at Caffe Caldesi, north of Selfridges on Marylebone Lane, although in my jetlagged state it felt like a very late supper.  It had the air of the cafe in Amelie ("even artichokes have hearts" for those who cherish that sort of thing) save a little person at the bar.  We had some decent bar food, red wine, and talked for about four hours.  Afterward I saw Simon into a taxi, wandered down to Oxford St where it was still abuzz, checked out some windows, then tubed it back to SW1.  Jetlagged and exhausted I had a thoroughly decent nine hour sleep.

A superb antipasti

Retired Porn Star Simon Kennedy

Window at Harvey Nicks.  (or is it Nichs?)

Linda Reeves "approved"; most people hang their shoes too high...

My Kind of Town

Easter in Chicago.  Checked into the Fairmont Airport.  Last time we lucked out with a north facing suite, view of the mountains, bathroom bigger than Michael Fassbender’s business if you know what I mean, shutters you could swing back from the bathtub and watch TV or take in the view, double sinks, two-person shower, the works.  This time south facing, standard king, still very nice and well appointed and as equally terrifically sound-proofed.   Honestly, you can watch a jumbo speed down the runway (through the Nikon Prostaff telescope, standard) and still hear a pin drop.  Nice.  Not so nice?  Well, we passed on the $35 salmon sandwich and the other fine selections at what is arguably one of YVR’s best restaurants but also priciest, and had, for $11.99, the White Spot burger and beer special; something appealingly socialist about how the prices at YVR are the same as the city.  Free WiFi for free membership in the free President’s Club, terrifically non-elite elitist, and SS promptly returned to work.  Aah, the government.  I could also pass on the bed, uber-soft and all enveloping, like lolling in jelly.

Fairmont YVR: Too soft

Fairmont Chicago: Just right

Standard king on 32nd floor

Mies out the window. The Carbide/Carbon deco building in the distance is now a Hard Rock Cafe and Hotel.

More Mies-ey

On the morning of travel we breezed through check-in and had Nexus to speed up Customs.  But SS was “spot checked” unbeknownst to me and I was left alone in the departure halls not sure what to do or  where to turn and not allowed to re-enter the Customs area.  Our gate, 78, was the furthest distance possible without ending up in the Fraser, and I jogged down to the gate to make sure he wasn’t there, jogged back, then jogged back down again as they were in the final stages of boarding.  A crew member said “if you want to fly you better board” so I passed the gate but I just stood on the gangplank unsure of which way to go.  At the end, the very bitter end of boarding, SS showed up.  They had demanded to see his bag which had to be pulled from the plane and delivered to Customs.  At this point we had no idea whether we were going to arrive at O’Hare with or without underwear.  I took a sedative.

The plane was overbooked and crammed with gargantuan men who made up a hockey team but we finagled two seats together and I sat cautiously between a stressed out SS and a Left Wing asleep with drool dribbling into the cabin.  Gorgeous day to arrive in the windy city, and arrive early, although in a holding pattern, and miracle of miracles the bag came too.  Cabbed to the Fairmont (first day of baseball and Cubs traffic had the Interstate backed up).  Checked in rather seamlessly.  Decent room with a great SW view towards a Mies van der Rohe complex and Millennium Park with its Anish Kapoor Cloud Gate sculpture and Gehry's Pritzker Bandshell.  Common areas in the hotel not so hot, hallways and public areas a bit of a rabbit warren and with much room for improvement.

Kappor's sculpture, Millennium Park

Gehry's Pritzker bandshell

Gehry also designed the stainless steel BP Bridge which snakes over traffic and provides a sound buffer; above and below

Took a walk up the Magnificent Mile.  Sort of a glorified mall, Robson Street on a Chicago scale, but happened upon an exceptional high-end food fair at the Water Tower complex and we had charcuterie, cheeses, dips and vegetables, with Prosecco, so all was not lost.  Nothing else to write a blog about, every chain under the sun, but the Bloomingdales in the 1912 Medinah Temple was of note as were signs and buildings and something glorious called sunshine.

Nap.

First evening jumped in a cab to Green Zebra, an elegant vegetarian restaurant on W Chicago where we met up with Irish/Vancouver Julie and her UK/Washington DC friend Wendy, for a pretty splendid small plates sharing feast.  Some highlights included sweet potato dumplings with crabapple ketchup and flatbread with charred leek jam, taleggio, cured fennel and Thai basil.  SS did the tasting menu.  Julie and Wendy shared what was, apparently, a superb baked Alaska for afters. A wonderful bottle of Au Bon Climat.  Great evening.  Chef Shawn McClain signed a menu for us.  Later we cabbed to the W for cocktails, the wrong W, and then to the Lakeshore, where we admired the views of Navy Pier and the downtown skyline to $14 drinks and music which Julie begged go old school to no avail.  Having arrived at our limit, our old person’s limit, we cabbed back to our respective hotels.

The Wrigley Building Chicago Is

The Medinah Temple, now a Bloomingdale's

Aon Center, front, dwarfs the Chicago Fairmont behind

Not caucasian

The Monadnock skyscraper.  16 stories, load bearing.  Eight foot walls underground, six foot walls at street level, 18 inches at the top.  Post fire, 19th century.

Willis, nee Sears Tower

Their Library.  Kin to a famous YVR faux pas.

Next AM a little slow, but we got it going, thanks in no small part to the Nespresso in the room; nice touch Fairmont.  Onto Wicker Park for a little window shopping (glorious day) then back to Chicago Avenue for a basic lunch at a Michelin-guide recommended diner called Flo (a little too greasy and fast food for our tastes: No TripAdvisor review for you!) then North along Halsted walking, up and down Boystown and beyond, found some Peychaud’s bitters but not much else, train downtown, took a 3:30 Architecture Institute high-rise tour, then back to the hotel for a rest before hopping back in a cab to Boka.  Excellent food in a spectacularly mediocre room (half the restaurant is an outdoor space converted, with rather flimsy passion, into a dimly lit cloister).  Pass.

The Palmer Hilton

Saturday AM a little slow on the go (great beds at the Fairmont, so unlike the YVR airport venue) then into the downtown.  Gloriously sunny and warm and deep blue sky.  Checked out the over-the-top garish lobby at the much-touristed Palmer Hilton, into Macy’s (previously Marshall Fields), sourced a vintage poster shop, and otherwise traipsed about State Street, that great street, and the grandee of Michigan Avenue.  Then trained north to John Hancock Center for Vibram shoes and a fine lunch at the Water Tower food fair where they were playing the Masters on one TV at the bar and college field lacrosse on the other.  Go figure. 

Back on the trains north to Lincoln Square for quaint shopping poking about, had hazed over and there was no wind so it had become a whiff of how humid I’m sure the windy city can get, and then back downtown on the “better late than never” Brown line.

We had no dinner plans and nothing in our various treks led us to consider making a reservation and as a fallback we were considering Aria, the Top Chef Texas near-finalist Beverly Kim’s restaurant in our hotel, but it was perpetually empty, and worse, from the street, was dead; the sushi bar was a ghost town, night after night.  So on a whim we walked across the street to the Radisson which has an Italian bar and restaurant called Filini, after the strings of lights across the room, for a very tasty basic Italian dinner (eggplant and house made mozzarella bruschetta, a Caesar with fresh anchovies, braised oxtail gnocchi, a half chicken in rosemary and a green salad).  SS went for a dessert of basically house made donuts with raspberry, vanilla and chocolate dipping sauces.  Chef came over and poured us a couple of very fine grappas gratis. 

SS and a Calder

Thinking of our friend, er, Nina, that's it

Beauty Bar, a hip bar on Chicago street

The skyline in Lego; as per below, not lifesize!

Another gorgeous day Sunday.  Even warmer.  Got up lazily and packed and went out for a short walk then met Nigel for brunch, who had come from Principia en route to his training gym up in Geneva (returned to Filini, where I have to give credit to the fruit that came with my yoghurt: raspberries, blackberries, strawberries and blueberries, not a whiff of the old crutch, melon, in sight).  After we finished packing, had a quick look at the Sunday paper, went to check-out, and didn’t have our gift card to pay the bill!  After totally unpacking and combing through the garbage and room twice over it dawned on me that I might have accidentally given it to Nig; so I called his cell and he was miraculously still in Chicago, and not far away, so we reconnected.  Phew.  Jumped into a cab to the airport—and thus began the single longest cab ride of my adult life, over an hour in stop and go traffic, plodding up to O’Hare.  But, again, we made it.  Check-in (three seats for two! Sweet!), got some lunch at Starbucks (two small waters, two sandwiches and two cookies: $31USD.  I kid you not!), and boarded early.  SS watched Downton Abbey on his iPad and I wrote the blog.  His birthday to boot.  Happy Easter!

Let's see if I can remember: Glenn Cassie, Nigel Marples, Stephen Smith.  Outside Aria, the Beverly Kim enterprise that seemed like a ghost town.