We had a lovely evening yesterday. Dinner with the oh-so-charming Anne at the oh-so-delish Mission Beach (I recommend the Pomegranate, Persimmon, Duck salad) and then off to the high culture of a concert by the Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra.
We had tried subscribing to the SF Symphony last year, but, ho hum, it didn’t take. I much prefer the oddball charm of PBO, their tiny, but pretty hall and of course, the music. I always thought the symphony here sounds too sweet, Symphony Hall has this weird muffled acoustics and they play way too much damn Mahler.
Plus, the audience at PBO is much more amusing to watch. It’s mostly composed of stern, sensible spinster ladies and elderly homosexuals, creaking old Marys. It can be hard to tell them apart, but usually the men wear more jewelry. Big brooches pinning their shirt collars close and important, say-something rings on their index fingers. And semi-decorative walking sticks. Perhaps you know the look. I take comfort in knowing that, with my rhinestone cuff links, as I get grayer and more decrepit, I will just fit in more and more, shuffling in late and cranky during the Handel overture.