Word: suppers
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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...minor poet is secure. He is not coming back into vogue." But the final truth, as Eliot so often suggested, may lie somewhere in the rack and ruin of the middle distance. His claims were modest. He asked only for a hearing -- say, between cleaning up after supper and getting ready for bed, a few moments' attention to a poet speaking as if speech could still alter society and the perception of hours. On his birthday, unbidden, hundreds and perhaps thousands will give him an audience. Nothing has changed for these solitary readers, who have been massing over the years...
Temptation is drenched in blood. The blood of sacrificed animals runs through the streets, blood unaccountably pours out of an apple Jesus eats and, at the Last Supper, the wine literally turns into blood. In one grotesque scene, Jesus reaches into his chest (though it looks more like his belly), yanks out his heart and holds it up for his apostles to admire...
...option is Bugatti in the Omni Hotel, which offers decent, if second-rate, Italian food in a comfortable setting. Far better is Nikolai's Roof, atop the Atlanta Hilton. Despite an annoying 6:30 and 9:30 seating policy and an altogether corny menu recitation, the sparkling little supper club offers winy hot borscht, herbed rack of lamb, roasted guinea hen in a lemony olive sauce and a gently sweet banana-almond souffle. Asked why there was not more Russian food on the menu, the waiter answered, "The Czar Nikolai ate only French food." Smart...
...facing him at the other end, and the maid materialized, bearing the soup tureen. Then came a walk to restore the circulation, perhaps to deliver proofs or buy cigars. Consultations were at three, and after that, he saw more analytic patients, often until nine in the evening. Then came supper, sometimes a short game of cards with his sister-in-law Minna, or a walk with his wife or one of his daughters, often ending up at a cafe, where they could read the papers or, in the summer...
...feast of the Epiphany, Jan. 6, 1904, some old friends gather, as they have for many years on this day, at the home of two elderly sisters for dancing and supper. They sing songs and make speeches. They quarrel about the opera and worry about the drunkenness of one man while not noticing that another is getting quietly blotto. It's every awful party we have ever attended, and Huston is wonderfully ambiguous about it: affectionate toward the hospitable impulses at work here, slyly satirical about the clumsy ways these impulses are expressed...