The Orchid Show is on at the Botanical Garden (until April 2), and the exhibit’s theme this year is a recreation of a Palm Beach orchid collector’s garden. It’s not bad, really—any time I get to see a zillion orchids all bunched together is, for me, a treat.
But I just happened to be in Palm Beach last week, where I toured a few gardens and attended the Miami International Orchid Show. In its 61st year, the show more than makes it clear to me that those Florida people have a real leg up on us. The show’s executive director, Richard Brandon, gave me a brief tutoring on the hows and whys of orchids and taught me a few basics.
This show, which offers zillions of Waterford trophies for every conceivable category, was so much more lush and exotic than I’m accustomed to. “Why can’t we get blooms like these in New York?” I asked.
It seems the main problem is that New Yorkers are always trying to imitate the plants that thrive down south, and orchids are just not travel-friendly, thriving in their native regions. There are orchids that are germane to this region, but rather than develop these, we keep on buying hothouse flowers that just know they are not in a warm, humid, overgrown place, and react accordingly.
So, shoppers, when you buy an orchid here, you should ask if the plant was locally bred—that’s the sign that it will survive and rebloom. Either that or put it in your bathroom with a grow light and let it shower with you once a week.
I asked Richard if he had read The Orchid Thief by Susan Orlean. He had. Did they have a ghost orchid, like in the book?
“First of all, that orchid is not in bloom at this time. It would just be a tangle of roots. Secondly, if it was in bloom, it would be a small dark single flower, and you would be disappointed.” Apparently I was not the first to ask about this celebrity orchid.
The most innovative growers of orchids these days are the Taiwanese. Through some genetic sleight of hand, they are able to take a purple orchid I can’t remember the name of and inject it with spots, stripes, and all sorts of other Rorschach white markings.
At this show, unlike the New York Botanical Garden’s, there are little huts next to each exhibit where you can buy a planter that looks just like the one in the little pagoda you just oohed and aahed over. I asked about a basket of these Taiwanese babies that looked to contain 200 to 300 stems and was the size of the hood of my car, fully expecting to told that it cost as much as my car, which is a BMW. “$400.” I almost fainted.
The problem, of course, is getting it home in one piece, and (more importantly) fooling it into thinking it is still in the Florida swamps. (Even though that’s what my new friend said not to do.)
That’s why you need a Wardian case, which is like an aquarium, and it spritzes or something to make the orchid think it is in a rain forest. The good news? You only need to keep the orchid in the case until it starts to bloom, and then you can move it to your “tablescape” (my new favorite fake word from the Food Network). Once the bulb has sprung a stick and has little buds on the end, the hard work of the plant is done, and it can survive in a dry heat New York apartment, providing you still let it take a shower with you once a week.
Are you getting all this down?
So I’m checking out an example of the Wardian case, also about the size of my car hood, and this one has 30 to 40 different miniature exotic orchids, one more outrageous than the next. Surely it’s a trick—these plants couldn’t all survive in there together.
“Well they’ve been in there for two years.”
Okay, forget the big planters—“can I just buy this Wardian case?” I ask, thinking I can go from zero to sixty in my apartment, from one dead bamboo plant to a case of rare orchids.
“It’s already been sold.” Relieved, thinking I had just saved $10,000, I learn the price was $1,200. “I charged extra because it won an award.”
All this brings me to my point: Why don’t more parties decorate with live orchids, and other potted plants, than with cut flowers? This way, the host gets to keep the plants, and the investment isn’t as fleeting.
No sooner than I can say “ease up on the Carrie Bradshaw-style questions,” do I find myself in the sunken garden of the Frick Collection Young Fellows spring gala, ostensibly a celebration of the exhibit “Goya: The Later Years.” Despite the fact that Goya, a Spaniard, lived his late years in self-imposed exile in France, where almost all of the exhibited pictures were painted, party organizers seized on his native nationality to come up with “Tapas and Tango” as a theme.
The evening’s fashion sponsor was Vera Wang, who, despite her provenance as a computer heiress and wildly successful fashion empress, is known to this writer to be quite tight with a dime when it comes to parties.
Lo and behold, the fountains were laden with orchids (sadly, your run-of -the-mill phalaenopsis) and potted azaleas.
After I exclaim in pleasure to a nearby socialite about my joy in seeing renewable resources as party decor, she retorted, “Yeah, these will be renewed at a Vera Wang store display near you tomorrow.” Apparently I’m not the only one in on Ms. Wang’s penchant for party planning penny-pinching.
The display was not nearly as lush as in past years, when Dior and Carolina Herrera served as sponsors, but author Susan Fales Hill made the point perfectly. “Some flowers and some red fabric—this room doesn’t need money thrown at it.”
The party was mobbed and a huge success. One ballet bigwig of the gentleman gender told me the room was filled with “gorgeous bodies,” and I took his word for it, scared to learn his research techniques.
The caterer, Mary Giuliani, was new to me, as was the suggested vehicle for paella dissemination, something that looked like a five-foot wok simmering with rice and what have you. While I could not take my eyes off of it, I could not recall any Madrid or Barcelona tapas bar I knew that used this technique, and for some reason or another I abstained from eating that evening altogether. But again, it looked great.
Dining Out at Perry Street
Where I happen to live just keeps getting jazzier. As if it weren’t enough that I see Graydon Carter (apparently he’s bought an interest in a local restaurant in the former Ye Waverly Inn space) every other day at Sant Ambroeus, and Calvin Klein and Marc Jacobs in my deli, the other day I bumped into Jean-Georges Vongerichten, whom despite having known for ten years I greeted as “Jean-Louis.”
Name guilt drove me into his new street name-named restaurant, where I hoped to absolve my sins by dropping some major dough on lunch. But apparently Perry Street continues a restaurant lunch promotion with a $24.07 three-course lunch (wine is extra, duh).
I’m typing from their enamel bar as I speak, by which I mean to say that I am now a regular.
First of all, like all of Mr. Vongerichten’s establishments it is sleek and immaculate. My first bartender impressed me with her knowledge of the menu and lack of pretension, something I always used to associate with the staff of Daniel.
The amuse bouche is carrot juice, which, once I learn to treat as wheatgrass (something healthy that should be chugged), becomes welcome with its nifty tarragon salt cup rim.
The crab dumplings come with two kinds of soy sauce, bien sur, plus thyme, which even I can taste. The mozzarella comes precut like for a school child or elderly person—neither of which I am, but whose deficiencies I share—with each bite atop a piece of dried pineapple. It’s weird. I devour.
None of the fancy liqueurs are listed on the dessert menu, but they look hard-hit anyway, meaning the bottles are all nearly empty. Are they trying to show off their high-roller drinker status? Can’t they handle a new CV XO and/or Fonseca 20-year port bottle as a decorating expense?
But the reason I keep coming back is their mini strip of a lounge, which I have yet to see one person sitting at. There are no private rooms, FYI—what you see is what you get. But a luxury joint on my block with an affordable bar menu and an even cheaper lunch? I hope Jean-Georges doesn’t see this—I can’t imagine him being pleased with the words affordable or cheap attached to any of his joints, not to mention the fact that I misnomered him while he was getting his dry cleaning; oy vey.
Photo: Thos Robinson/Getty Images (dancing)
But I just happened to be in Palm Beach last week, where I toured a few gardens and attended the Miami International Orchid Show. In its 61st year, the show more than makes it clear to me that those Florida people have a real leg up on us. The show’s executive director, Richard Brandon, gave me a brief tutoring on the hows and whys of orchids and taught me a few basics.
This show, which offers zillions of Waterford trophies for every conceivable category, was so much more lush and exotic than I’m accustomed to. “Why can’t we get blooms like these in New York?” I asked.
It seems the main problem is that New Yorkers are always trying to imitate the plants that thrive down south, and orchids are just not travel-friendly, thriving in their native regions. There are orchids that are germane to this region, but rather than develop these, we keep on buying hothouse flowers that just know they are not in a warm, humid, overgrown place, and react accordingly.
So, shoppers, when you buy an orchid here, you should ask if the plant was locally bred—that’s the sign that it will survive and rebloom. Either that or put it in your bathroom with a grow light and let it shower with you once a week.
I asked Richard if he had read The Orchid Thief by Susan Orlean. He had. Did they have a ghost orchid, like in the book?
“First of all, that orchid is not in bloom at this time. It would just be a tangle of roots. Secondly, if it was in bloom, it would be a small dark single flower, and you would be disappointed.” Apparently I was not the first to ask about this celebrity orchid.
The most innovative growers of orchids these days are the Taiwanese. Through some genetic sleight of hand, they are able to take a purple orchid I can’t remember the name of and inject it with spots, stripes, and all sorts of other Rorschach white markings.
At this show, unlike the New York Botanical Garden’s, there are little huts next to each exhibit where you can buy a planter that looks just like the one in the little pagoda you just oohed and aahed over. I asked about a basket of these Taiwanese babies that looked to contain 200 to 300 stems and was the size of the hood of my car, fully expecting to told that it cost as much as my car, which is a BMW. “$400.” I almost fainted.
The problem, of course, is getting it home in one piece, and (more importantly) fooling it into thinking it is still in the Florida swamps. (Even though that’s what my new friend said not to do.)
That’s why you need a Wardian case, which is like an aquarium, and it spritzes or something to make the orchid think it is in a rain forest. The good news? You only need to keep the orchid in the case until it starts to bloom, and then you can move it to your “tablescape” (my new favorite fake word from the Food Network). Once the bulb has sprung a stick and has little buds on the end, the hard work of the plant is done, and it can survive in a dry heat New York apartment, providing you still let it take a shower with you once a week.
Are you getting all this down?
So I’m checking out an example of the Wardian case, also about the size of my car hood, and this one has 30 to 40 different miniature exotic orchids, one more outrageous than the next. Surely it’s a trick—these plants couldn’t all survive in there together.
“Well they’ve been in there for two years.”
Okay, forget the big planters—“can I just buy this Wardian case?” I ask, thinking I can go from zero to sixty in my apartment, from one dead bamboo plant to a case of rare orchids.
“It’s already been sold.” Relieved, thinking I had just saved $10,000, I learn the price was $1,200. “I charged extra because it won an award.”
All this brings me to my point: Why don’t more parties decorate with live orchids, and other potted plants, than with cut flowers? This way, the host gets to keep the plants, and the investment isn’t as fleeting.
No sooner than I can say “ease up on the Carrie Bradshaw-style questions,” do I find myself in the sunken garden of the Frick Collection Young Fellows spring gala, ostensibly a celebration of the exhibit “Goya: The Later Years.” Despite the fact that Goya, a Spaniard, lived his late years in self-imposed exile in France, where almost all of the exhibited pictures were painted, party organizers seized on his native nationality to come up with “Tapas and Tango” as a theme.
The evening’s fashion sponsor was Vera Wang, who, despite her provenance as a computer heiress and wildly successful fashion empress, is known to this writer to be quite tight with a dime when it comes to parties.
Lo and behold, the fountains were laden with orchids (sadly, your run-of -the-mill phalaenopsis) and potted azaleas.
After I exclaim in pleasure to a nearby socialite about my joy in seeing renewable resources as party decor, she retorted, “Yeah, these will be renewed at a Vera Wang store display near you tomorrow.” Apparently I’m not the only one in on Ms. Wang’s penchant for party planning penny-pinching.
The display was not nearly as lush as in past years, when Dior and Carolina Herrera served as sponsors, but author Susan Fales Hill made the point perfectly. “Some flowers and some red fabric—this room doesn’t need money thrown at it.”
The party was mobbed and a huge success. One ballet bigwig of the gentleman gender told me the room was filled with “gorgeous bodies,” and I took his word for it, scared to learn his research techniques.
The caterer, Mary Giuliani, was new to me, as was the suggested vehicle for paella dissemination, something that looked like a five-foot wok simmering with rice and what have you. While I could not take my eyes off of it, I could not recall any Madrid or Barcelona tapas bar I knew that used this technique, and for some reason or another I abstained from eating that evening altogether. But again, it looked great.
Dining Out at Perry Street
Where I happen to live just keeps getting jazzier. As if it weren’t enough that I see Graydon Carter (apparently he’s bought an interest in a local restaurant in the former Ye Waverly Inn space) every other day at Sant Ambroeus, and Calvin Klein and Marc Jacobs in my deli, the other day I bumped into Jean-Georges Vongerichten, whom despite having known for ten years I greeted as “Jean-Louis.”
Name guilt drove me into his new street name-named restaurant, where I hoped to absolve my sins by dropping some major dough on lunch. But apparently Perry Street continues a restaurant lunch promotion with a $24.07 three-course lunch (wine is extra, duh).
I’m typing from their enamel bar as I speak, by which I mean to say that I am now a regular.
First of all, like all of Mr. Vongerichten’s establishments it is sleek and immaculate. My first bartender impressed me with her knowledge of the menu and lack of pretension, something I always used to associate with the staff of Daniel.
The amuse bouche is carrot juice, which, once I learn to treat as wheatgrass (something healthy that should be chugged), becomes welcome with its nifty tarragon salt cup rim.
The crab dumplings come with two kinds of soy sauce, bien sur, plus thyme, which even I can taste. The mozzarella comes precut like for a school child or elderly person—neither of which I am, but whose deficiencies I share—with each bite atop a piece of dried pineapple. It’s weird. I devour.
None of the fancy liqueurs are listed on the dessert menu, but they look hard-hit anyway, meaning the bottles are all nearly empty. Are they trying to show off their high-roller drinker status? Can’t they handle a new CV XO and/or Fonseca 20-year port bottle as a decorating expense?
But the reason I keep coming back is their mini strip of a lounge, which I have yet to see one person sitting at. There are no private rooms, FYI—what you see is what you get. But a luxury joint on my block with an affordable bar menu and an even cheaper lunch? I hope Jean-Georges doesn’t see this—I can’t imagine him being pleased with the words affordable or cheap attached to any of his joints, not to mention the fact that I misnomered him while he was getting his dry cleaning; oy vey.
Photo: Thos Robinson/Getty Images (dancing)
The grand champion of the Miami International Orchid Show, the V. Robert's Delight.
The show's winning exhibit, from R. F. Orchids.
Back in New York at the Frick's benefit, caterer Mary Giuliani served paella from a giant wok-shaped dish.
Dancing at the Frick.
