face, and very piercing eyes.”
“Well, I’ve never done anything like that,” Tim said, blushing at the compliment. “What would I have to do?”
“Come back with me to the hotel, and I’ll show you. There’s nothing to it,” he said, taking hold of Tim’s arm. “They put me up in this enormous suite at the Plaza. You won’t believe it.”
“Well, yeah, I guess I could. I have nothing else to do.”
Tim and the Argentine artist walked up Fifth Avenue, and at Fifty-Seventh Street, they passed under the big blue box Christmas decoration that Tiffany erected every year.
“New York at Christmas is like nowhere else,” Tim said to his new Argentine friend.
“Yes.” He laughed. “For us, of course, it’s still summer, and Christmas is a family kind of thing. This is very different.”
“How long are you here?”
“I’m going back tomorrow. My mother expects me to be home for the holidays, along with all my brothers and sisters.”
“You have a big family?”
“There are seven of us. I am the youngest.”
They continued to walk uptown toward the Plaza. The streets were crowded with holiday shoppers carrying bulging bags from Bergdorf’s and Bloomingdale’s. Tim found the holiday season excesses depressing, since all he was looking forward to was the prospect of getting his first unemployment check.
Once past the revolving doors of the Plaza, the enormous Christmas tree in the lobby, all in glowing red ornaments, greeted them. Gustavo got his key from the front desk, where the staff obviously knew him, since he didn’t even have to give his room number. The young man at the front desk gave Tim a knowing smile and a thumbs-up.
The suite on the twelfth floor, overlooking Central Park, was magnificent. It was decorated in grand Louis XV style. A marble foyer opened onto a living room with a fireplace. There was a separate formal dining room and what appeared to be a bedroom beyond French doors. A huge vase of long-stem white roses adorned the intricately carved writing desk in the corner bay window.
“Do you like it?” Gustavo asked.
“I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
“The museum is very generous,” the artist said. “Would you like something to eat?”
“Sure, if you’re having something.”
“You like seafood?” Gustavo asked, and before Tim could respond the artist was dialing room service. “Yes, can I get an order from the Oyster Bar?” Gustavo waited while the operator checked. The special request must have been granted because Gustavo continued, “Great. It’ll be lunch for two people. Let’s start with some white clam chowder. Then can you fix a selection of seafood on ice? Lots of oysters, cherrystone clams, some shrimp, and a few lobster tails. Mix it up and make it nice. Some crusty French bread and those good bread salt sticks. And send up a bottle of the ’69 Alta Vista Chardonnay Premium.”
Gustavo waited while the operator repeated the order. “Great, twenty minutes will be fine.”
“Sounds pretty elegant,” Tim commented as Gustavo put down the phone. Tim was amazed at the Argentine artist’s fluent command of English.
“The wine is from Argentina, from Mendoza, in the north where I grew up. My father worked all his life in the vineyard at the Alta Vista winery. The wine is excellent. I hope you’ll like it.”
Tim sat on the windowsill looking out over Central Park, Christmas decorations blinking up and down Fifth Avenue.
“Are you nervous?” Gustavo asked.
“A little bit, I guess.”
“Don’t be. I don’t bite.” He smiled.
“This is so much,” Tim said as Gustavo pulled him forward and kissed him on the lips.
The knock on the door broke their moment. It was room service, quicker than expected. Gustavo must have VIP status, Tim thought, but then looking at the suite, anyone would have figured that out already.
“Thank you,” Gustavo said to the young Puerto Rican waiter delivering the order. “Put it on the table in
“Well, I’ve never done anything like that,” Tim said, blushing at the compliment. “What would I have to do?”
“Come back with me to the hotel, and I’ll show you. There’s nothing to it,” he said, taking hold of Tim’s arm. “They put me up in this enormous suite at the Plaza. You won’t believe it.”
“Well, yeah, I guess I could. I have nothing else to do.”
Tim and the Argentine artist walked up Fifth Avenue, and at Fifty-Seventh Street, they passed under the big blue box Christmas decoration that Tiffany erected every year.
“New York at Christmas is like nowhere else,” Tim said to his new Argentine friend.
“Yes.” He laughed. “For us, of course, it’s still summer, and Christmas is a family kind of thing. This is very different.”
“How long are you here?”
“I’m going back tomorrow. My mother expects me to be home for the holidays, along with all my brothers and sisters.”
“You have a big family?”
“There are seven of us. I am the youngest.”
They continued to walk uptown toward the Plaza. The streets were crowded with holiday shoppers carrying bulging bags from Bergdorf’s and Bloomingdale’s. Tim found the holiday season excesses depressing, since all he was looking forward to was the prospect of getting his first unemployment check.
Once past the revolving doors of the Plaza, the enormous Christmas tree in the lobby, all in glowing red ornaments, greeted them. Gustavo got his key from the front desk, where the staff obviously knew him, since he didn’t even have to give his room number. The young man at the front desk gave Tim a knowing smile and a thumbs-up.
The suite on the twelfth floor, overlooking Central Park, was magnificent. It was decorated in grand Louis XV style. A marble foyer opened onto a living room with a fireplace. There was a separate formal dining room and what appeared to be a bedroom beyond French doors. A huge vase of long-stem white roses adorned the intricately carved writing desk in the corner bay window.
“Do you like it?” Gustavo asked.
“I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
“The museum is very generous,” the artist said. “Would you like something to eat?”
“Sure, if you’re having something.”
“You like seafood?” Gustavo asked, and before Tim could respond the artist was dialing room service. “Yes, can I get an order from the Oyster Bar?” Gustavo waited while the operator checked. The special request must have been granted because Gustavo continued, “Great. It’ll be lunch for two people. Let’s start with some white clam chowder. Then can you fix a selection of seafood on ice? Lots of oysters, cherrystone clams, some shrimp, and a few lobster tails. Mix it up and make it nice. Some crusty French bread and those good bread salt sticks. And send up a bottle of the ’69 Alta Vista Chardonnay Premium.”
Gustavo waited while the operator repeated the order. “Great, twenty minutes will be fine.”
“Sounds pretty elegant,” Tim commented as Gustavo put down the phone. Tim was amazed at the Argentine artist’s fluent command of English.
“The wine is from Argentina, from Mendoza, in the north where I grew up. My father worked all his life in the vineyard at the Alta Vista winery. The wine is excellent. I hope you’ll like it.”
Tim sat on the windowsill looking out over Central Park, Christmas decorations blinking up and down Fifth Avenue.
“Are you nervous?” Gustavo asked.
“A little bit, I guess.”
“Don’t be. I don’t bite.” He smiled.
“This is so much,” Tim said as Gustavo pulled him forward and kissed him on the lips.
The knock on the door broke their moment. It was room service, quicker than expected. Gustavo must have VIP status, Tim thought, but then looking at the suite, anyone would have figured that out already.
“Thank you,” Gustavo said to the young Puerto Rican waiter delivering the order. “Put it on the table in
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