We were still up one recent A.M. when those who must rise early for their daily bread were hurrying to their respective cells. We were delivering a charming young lady to her apartment and stopped off along the way to let her phone her employer some outlandish excuse for not coming to the office that day. While this fraudulent operation was in process, we found ourselves wondering just how many of the people passing us on the street really were on their way to work and how many were late merrymakers like ourselves. We finally decided that the fresh, happy ones were more likely to have been up all night and that the tired, sad people must have just arisen to face a day at the desk.
By the time our comely companion returned to the car, we had seized hold of a splendid idea. Instead of the usual coffee-shop breakfast, why not a real posh ending to a great night? Breakfast in splendor! Instead of slinking into a sleazy diner and mixing with the early coffee crowd, we headed for the Ambassador Hotel (N. State and Goethe), where Chicago's ultra-swank Pump Room is housed.
We knew the Pump Room wouldn't be open, but correctly reasoned that such a plush hostelry must have some elaborate facilities for the care and feeding of those denizens who don't hanker for breakfast in bed. The dining room is called The Assembly, a sumptuous, high ceilinged bit of a elegance that smacks of good taste. Breakfast in these opulent surroundings proved just the right ticket for two sleepy people. There's undoubtedly a class hotel in your town, too; that has a room like The Assembly, and we suggest you try it the next time you're up greeting the gentle lark.
We flew up to Cambridge, Massachusetts recently for an extended two-day house party given by a close friend of ours on the Harvard faculty. By the time we arrived, his modest, bookish apartment was alive with toothsome young Radcliffes, Wellesleys, a few Barnards and several Vassars. We established rapport with a Radcliffe graduate student, and as the evening wore on, suggested that, perhaps, the two of us might sneak away for a while. She suggested we drive into Boston proper to a place called The Stable (20 Huntington Ave., near, Copley Square), which was warmly described as a jazz workshop. It was. Governed by the ex-Kenton trumpet of Herb Pomeroy, the style flowed out smoothly and with proper restraint, in the best cool school tradition. We completely knocked ourselves out until 1 A.M., then returned to the party. Spirits were still high there, too, and so were the guests.
International relations notwithstanding, serious soldiers of fortune will find the Russian Bear (645 Lexington), an interesting place in which to break bread in New York City. Right down to the hatchick, everyone's authentically Russian--strictly the pre-Revolution variety, however. Ambulating fiddle and accordion prepared our souls for Borsch Malorossiyskiy, a touch of Beluga Caviar and beef Stroganov. After dinner we found it edifying to have our palms analyzed by Gypsy Rava, a sage just in from the steppes of central Asia. Vodka Martinis, we discovered again, produce a remarkable effect on the drinker.
