Gale-force winds whipped our faces as we stepped out of our apartment last evening. By the time M. and I arrived at our destination, my hair had been stirred into a hornet’s nest, literally. Our hostess, whom we’d be meeting for the very first time, stood outside a residential tower in Chelsea to receive us.
She pressed a couple of buttons, and we were inside its small vestibule, an atrial chamber, of sorts, with nothing other than a bank of mailboxes tucked into one of its white walls. The elevator door sighed open on the 10th floor, directly into the foyer of a Cadillac penthouse.
My eyes fell on a weighty, stoic, marble Buddha, sitting in a meditative posture, in a corner, who approved us into the mellow lighting of the commodious living room, kept warm by the smoldering (faux) fire in the fireplace.
This was the venue for the second get-together of the “New York British Comedy Group,” a little club for those who explode into chuckles over britcoms (short for British sitcoms.)
Our agenda for the night was to eat, drink, and watch.
So, as the assistant organizer for this event, I arrived sufficiently early, with a bag of baby-carrot sticks and a tub of creamy blue cheese dressing to feed a crowd of about ten. M. brought along a container of store-bought macaroni salad.
The organizer, a buxom Texan, for her part, had ordered pilaf and curry from the neighborhood Indian restaurant. The other guests trickled in one after the other, with an assortment of fare: a packet of potato chips and crackers; a box of pastries; a bottle of soda.
We had plenty to munch on, and most of it was polished off, with relish. As for the beverages, our stock of ales and beers was more than what we could imbibe. Everyone, barring three of us, was either a teetotaler or not in the mood for an adult beverage.
As for the lineup of britcoms, “Fawlty Towers” was on the menu. We were also introduced to three new series: “Young Ones,” “Peep Show,” and “The Increasingly Poor Decisions of Todd Margaret.”