Authors: Anthony Bidulka
be and whether she was dangerous. Was it a coin-
cidence that she began following me immediately
after my lunch with James Kraft? Was he more sin-
ister and better connected than I’d given him cred-
it for? Was my accusing him of being Loverboy a
Anthony Bidulka — 285
big mistake? Had he put a hit out on me? On the
other hand, if this was the same woman I’d seen in
our hotel the day before I even met James Kraft,
that theory didn’t hold water. So then who was
she? Who in New York City would have reason to
set a tail on me?
Parka Woman circled back onto Fifth Avenue
and kept on trucking south towards 42nd Street
where she turned right before the New York
Public Library, passing Bryant Park with its
charming bistro tables, merry-go-round and
imprisoned typewriters. I knew Grand Central
Station and the Empire State Building were some-
where nearby too but I didn’t see either.
A couple of blocks later she turned right again
onto Broadway Avenue. She was no dummy. She
was undoubtedly accustomed to the amazing
sights to be seen on this world-renowned street. I,
however, was literally agog.
Dorothy was no longer in Kansas.
Broadway is a paradise of sorts. Even in the
light of day it shines with the brilliance of newly
coined money. Like a photograph enlarged for a
closer look, the proportions are larger than life-
size. Any of the buildings plopped down into any
other city, large or small, would look to be a
dinosaur amongst pygmies. Broadway Avenue
itself isn’t about the theatres. Most of the theatres
are actually half a block or more off Broadway on
one of the side streets. Broadway Avenue is all
about the signs. They are everywhere, they are
big, they are bright, they are in-your-face, they are
like billboards falling from heaven, advertising all
286 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
the world has to offer.
And it’s about the people. Crowds of people
moving at high speeds in every direction like ants
escaping a shot of Raid. And not just tourists and
not just fashion models and not just artsy-type
actors and their nebbishy agents, but rather a
swirling mixture of all human subtypes from the
society madam to the mohawked skateboarder.
The one thing they all have in common? They
move fast.
Parka Woman was looking to lose me. And she
knew just how to do it. She led me to Times
Square. I swear I looked up for only a moment,
distracted by movie, television and singing stars,
beckoning me from a menagerie of signs on high,
to see their career-rejuvenating turns in
The Naked
Producer from Chicago on a Hot Tin Can of Hairspray
.
When I looked back down…she was gone. And all
the while I was still moving forward, propelled by
the momentum of the crowd. I tried to stop, get
my bearings, find the only parka with fur and
embroidered trimming in New York City, but to
no avail. It was hopeless.
For a while I wondered what would happen if I
allowed the wave of people to carry me. Where
would it eventually deposit me? Or would it?
Maybe we’d move along together forever. I fought
off an uncharacteristic shot of panic. With a brisk
and purposeful pace, I was able to regain control of
my own destiny (and destination). I knew however
that if I ever gave it up, even for a moment to
debate which way to go, I’d be sucked back into the
maelstrom and end up transported several blocks
Anthony Bidulka — 287
past where I wanted to be. Wherever that was.
At 57th Street I caught a break in the human
train and veered off Broadway. By this point I was
so weary from carrying my shopping bags, each of
which had somehow turned into cast iron, I bare-
ly stopped to examine Carnegie Hall. I thought
about hailing a cab but I could sense I was close to
Fifth Avenue and managed to trudge along until I
saw The Sherry-Netherland sign. No sweeter
sight.
After my strenuous afternoon, jockeying about
Manhattan chasing the elusive Parka Woman, I
was happy to start our evening close to home at
the hotel’s restaurant, Harry Cipriani. That deci-
sion made, there was only one question left to
answer. Perhaps the biggest question of all when
dining in New York City. Do you eat before the
theatre or after the theatre? The “in” crowd eats
after—a more likely time to catch sight of a star (if
you aren’t one yourself)—but by the time your
play has ended and you’ve made it to your restau-
rant of choice (if you can even get a reservation) it
can be close to midnight. And
then
you start eat-
ing? Who are these people? They must not get
home until 2 a.m. Don’t they have jobs to go to in
the morning? Sereena informed me that it was
absolutely respectable to eat prior to a show and
that’s just what we did. Besides, I had already
spotted Pat Boone and daughter Debbie. What
more could I hope for?
Although not a landmark establishment, I
288 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
quickly realized that Harry Cipriani has its own
“in” crowd. And with Sereena on my arm, I was
part of it. Cipriani’s was created in the image and
atmosphere of some place called Harry’s Bar in
Venice, Italy. I’d never heard of it, but if the replica-
tion was genuine then it too has delicious Italian
fare and delicious Italian men who greet you at the
door in a rough and brutish maître d’ sort of way.
A big man named Mario who, with an inexpli-
cable glint of recognition and complicity in his
eye, addressed Sereena as “my dear and lovely,
Missus Smith,” boisterously welcomed us. He was
a fully maned lion in heat, six-foot-three and sim-
mering with nearly unrestrained sensuality. He
looked comfortable in his black tuxedo but you
could easily imagine him chopping up hunks of
red meat in a butcher’s shop. Sereena did her part,
wearing a creamy white piece of clingy material
that hung off her shoulders by way of strings of
sparkling, multi-coloured gems, and was cut
extremely low in front and even lower in back.
Her hair was dramatically pulled away from her
face, proudly showing off the signs of life that lived
there, including a tiny scar at the apex of her chin.
Women, men, staff and guests alike stared at her
when she entered the room and for some time
afterwards. My new suede jacket barely regis-
tered—though I’m quite certain more than a few
eyes looked covetously at my wonderpants.
After we were seated in the centre of one of the
two main dining areas—better for all to feast on
the dish called Sereena—I began to notice a certain
well-designed regimen, a play of sorts, acted to
Anthony Bidulka — 289
perfection by the Harry Cipriani people.
Immediately following our arrival a group of six
arrived. They were obviously well-known to the
maître d’, for he flirted with the women in a most
obvious and lascivious way and with the men he
alternated between hearty back slaps, whispering
something into their ears, and slipping something
(who knows what—cigars maybe?) into their
breast pockets. He then made a cacophonous pro-
duction of showing them to one of the many “best
tables in the house” and yelling for a server (of
equally hirsute and husky proportions) to shower
them with attention, but only after convincing
them to begin with an impossibly, excruciatingly
perfect bottle of red. And that wasn’t the end of it,
for throughout the evening this roughhewn host
would often return to the table as if he’d only just
caught sight of the group and would fawn at their
sides with exaggerated solicitude.
The next diners to arrive, two men and two
women, although equally spiffed up for a night on
the town and looking as if it’d been a while since
they’d set foot in a Burger King, received a much
different treatment. The host was not familiar with
them and, although amazingly charming, he was
reserved compared to his earlier behaviour
(although both seemed quite sincere). He asked a
few pointed questions to determine their inten-
tions towards his restaurant and the evening,
expertly categorized them in an instant (tacky
tourists, show goers, wannabes, money spenders,
no-fun-nics) and then seated them accordingly (in
a quiet corner in the room next to ours).
290 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
Our meal sounded like standard fare, veal and
pasta, but tasted gloriously unlike anything I had
ever eaten before. I ate ravenously between furtive
glances about, checking for Parka Woman.
Sereena did little more than look at the repast,
busy as she was being flattered and courted by
most of the men in the place. Afterwards we
donned our coats and caught a cab arranged by
our gracious host. Minutes later we were at the St.
James Theatre for the 8 p.m. performance of
The
Producers
. Although Sereena didn’t roll in the
aisles with laughter with the rest of us, she cer-
tainly cracked a smile or two.
There are probably a million (small-town-boy
exaggeration) gay bars and restaurants in New
York City but it seemed my experience wasn’t
going to be that varied. The Townhouse nightclub
is only a short walk from the restaurant of the
same name where I’d met James earlier for lunch.
Before we’d parted he’d told me he’d be at the
club waiting for me. I had offered no promises,
but now, buoyed by the excitement of being in
New York City on a Friday night, fresh from excel-
lent entertainment, food and drink, I’d decided to
find what there was to find. Besides, I assured
myself, this was work. I had to make certain James
Kraft was not Loverboy and hadn’t sent Parka
Woman to follow me.
Leaving Sereena with some friends at a cham-
pagne bar called Flute, I caught a cab to The
Townhouse. After being deposited on a dark street
Anthony Bidulka — 291
I found and scooted up a set of stairs that took me
into the bar. Upon entering I hesitated for a
moment to take in the scene. I was Neil Armstrong
landing on the moon. One small step for gay man,
one giant leap for gay mankind from Saskatoon.
Inside was an unusual combination of gay night-
club and sedate Boston fern bar. The space was
long and narrow and divided into several distinct
areas like the restaurant, but unlike the restaurant
it was crowded and noisy. Gazing down the tun-
nel where I stood to the farthest corners of the bar
was like looking through a rotating kaleidoscope,
the swirling mass of men like so many pieces of
colourful glass and paper constantly moving and
changing shape as they flitted about their play-
ground. And I wanted to play.
I initially moved through the collection of
partiers with ease but found the going rougher
with each successive room, the noise growing
louder, the writhing more pronounced, until final-
ly I reached the last room where suddenly, as if
protected by some invisible barrier, the din disap-
peared. And there I found James, sitting on a stool
next to a small table situated under a painting of a
hunting dog and hunter. He was nursing a beer
and listening to a piano player who was maybe in
his early twenties but singing standards in a voice
that was three times his age. I gave the sedate
room a once over and noticed that most couples
were of the old-rich-guy-in-shirt-and-tie (and in a
few unfortunate cases a smoking jacket) and very-
young-guy-in-tight-jeans-and-T-shirt variety. I
scored a beer from a goateed bartender and
292 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
approached James. He was wearing tight jeans
and a T-shirt. His hair, now released from ponytail
bondage was a glorious blond tangle around his
surprisingly patrician, aristocratic-looking face.
He might have been a Roman emperor surveying
his gladiators or a young prince assessing his sub-
jects. When I slid onto the chair next to him he