You know that thing that happens where you don’t see someone you know for years and then all of a sudden they’re everywhere? My everywhere man this week is Steven Greenberg, businessman, impresario, and one of Manhattan’s true Zeligs. You know who he is: He owned the Roxy and the Palladium; ran a celebrity magazine, Fame, in the late ’80s; partied at Studio 54 and Xenon with the best of them; and like the Energizer bunny, just keeps going.
I caught a documentary about the Roxy on Logo last week and was reminded that Steven Greenberg is the man who brought roller disco to Manhattan. I hadn’t seen him in years, but there he was Monday morning on Page Six, extolling the virtues of his latest nightclub, 230 Fifth. The venue installed 40 heaters last week on its 14,000-square-foot rooftop, where revelers can bundle up in red ponchos and mauve blankets to fight the night chill. The heaters were put in place just in time to warm the heads and hearts of theatergoers attending the Broadway revival opening night of David Mamet’s American Buffalo.
I had just gotten off a plane from Savannah, so I was still moving at Southern pace when I thought, “I’m supposed to go to that tonight.” Bryan Bantry, another impresario, is one of the producers, and I'd promised him I’d go. Besides, John Leguizamo is one of the stars. He acted as M.C. a few times for the Yahoo! music awards I produced, and let me tell you, he earned his lousy fee, not to mention my respect.
Luckily for me, the front of house was being run by Kornberg PR, helmed by Richard Kornberg and his able lieutenant Don Suma. Richard has been seating press and V.I.P.s in the theater for, well, a long time, and he does it the old-fashioned way. You get on the phone with him and you tell him what business you have wanting to attend the show’s bow and he decides yes or no. There’s a lot of holding and calling back, and your place in the pecking order is (hopefully) iterated by how good your seats are.
The Belasco is packed. Kathleen Turner purrs/slurs to a rapt group. Tall Tommy Tune looms overhead, and my young lady date, Lauren, swoons. Senator Bill Bradley, showing some years, can’t seem to recall a former donor (my grandfather) but nods along amiably. The show starts close to call time.
Readers of this column may remember I’m not long on legitimate theater: The last show I truly loved was Sweeney Todd, with Angela Lansbury, not Patti LuPone. But if it can’t be Sondheim than let it be Mamet.
American Buffalo is one of those watershed plays; for me it was the birth of real swearing on the stage. It’s first run in 1977 with Robert Duvall won the New York Drama Critics Circle Award. Later, Mamet proved with Glengarry Glen Ross that you could build a whole evening around the word fuck.
Profanity being the native tongue of John Leguizamo, it’s no surprise that he’s right at home in the central role. The surprise is Cedric the Entertainer, who plays Don, the other giant role, with range and thoughtfulness, and yes, anger. Their final player is boy/man Haley Joel Osment in a credible performance that guarantees we won’t see him on Surreal Life Seven.
The set, designed by Santo Loquasto, is Sanford & Son writ large. A pawn shop piled high with stools, metal shelves, wood shelves, lamps, lanterns, cuff links, and coins. (The title refers to a rare coin the shop may or may not have sold, and the trio may or may not steal back). It was brilliantly chaotic, and I wished I could shop there.
After, it’s off to 230 Fifth, near 27th Street, for the most elaborate Broadway opening I’ve been to in a long time. Downturn be damned, this shindig featured a band, three giant buffets, and an army of waitresses laden with trays of mini-pizzas, goat cheese-topped crostini, sliders, and pigs in a blanket that were replenished constantly—as were the drinks.
Steven Greenberg was there holding court. His club has room for 1,200 people on the rooftop deck alone. How can this place have been here for two years and I never even heard of it? “We can host 5,000 people on a summer night,” he tells me. There’s a row of at least 20 private unisex bathrooms, looking efficient as heck, and I believe him.
But he’s really just finished the roof, and it is a revelation. You can touch the Empire State building. There are gardens and Thanksgiving-y displays, two well lit old water tanks, and cider stations. He gets his ciders from South Carolina. I had the hot apple cider with Apple Pucker. “That’s the cheapest one to make,” Steven said. “That’s the one where I make my money.” Lauren had a hot peach cider with Absolut Apeach. We both agreed the warm libations do the trick.
Revelers were still filling the ranks upstairs, but down below, the wraparound floor-to-ceiling windows lit in fuchsia were laden with sightseers. There’s lounge after lounge, and featured vendor Saaga Vodka offered shots in tiny chocolate cups. The company’s founder convinced me to try one. I never try stuff like that.
There’s a stuffed leopard at the entrance to the club. The buffet tables had 10 giant chafing dishes each, and the in-house catering manager offered to write down the menu. I was getting dizzy.
Who knew they still threw parties like this? What’s this, a gift bag? For a Broadway show? Give me a break. Here's a list of the contents: a pound and a half of Peanut Butter & Co. pretzels that will last my home about a year; a tin of SerendipiTea that looks like you could smoke it as well as brew it; “Renowned Cosmetic Dentist” (the box tells me so) Dr. Debra Glassman has given me enough “Star Brite Whitening Toothpaste for a White Celebrity Smile” to insure I’ll be able to brush away pretzel breath as long as I need to; more of Saaga unfiltered Vodka; Wingers: Fiery Buffalo Bleu potato wing snacks that feature a Buffalo nickel emblem and promise great taste I can trust, which seems appropriate enough; Walkers shortbread cookies; a Fat Witch brownie; and Phytospecific Intense Nutrition Shampoo to wash it all down.
I want American Buffalo to run long and profitably enough to afford a big closing party, and I want to be on the list.
