A Miracle at Macy’s: There’s only one dog who can save Christmas. Lynn Hulsman Marie
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sated and buzzy into the sunshine, I had felt loose-limbed and hopeful. It’s funny how things don’t always turn out how you expect them to at first. James, summer, and living spontaneously feel like long-ago daydreams as the chilly air tickles my nose and freezes the tips of my earlobes.
Across the way, I see The Shops at Columbus Circle. It’s hard not to lose track of time when shopping in the uber-luxurious glass-fronted building with panoramic views of Central Park. If heaven had a trademark scent, it would be the comingled aromas of the merchants there. Shampoos from Aveda, bath salts from Crabtree & Evelyn, the rich leather smells from Coach and Etienne Aigner, the rich cocoa notes floating out from Godiva and La Maison du Chocolat, the tangy fresh fruit smell from Jamba Juice, the wonderful cooking smells like curry and sautéed onion rising from Whole Foods Market in the basement… even the sweat and freshly showered man-smell from Equinox intrigues.
Visually pleasing at any time of the year, the shops have been amped up to the Nth degree, decorated with 14-foot three-dimensional hanging stars that hang from the 150-foot Great Room. Lit during the day with blue and purple lights, they’re easy to see from the park. Like an ice palace, the whole Time Warner Center, with its Shops on Columbus Circle, acts as an ornament to Central Park’s festive greenness.
“Look, Hudson,” I say, pointing. “See the stars? I heard that they do the world’s biggest projected light show there, from the time the sun goes down to midnight, and that they play Christmas music and everything.” He cocks his head, body poised to pounce. He’s on high alert. “Oh, not now, Huddie. In the evening. Probably not tonight,” I tell him, “but maybe sometime. We’ll see.”
And there’s Per Se… How long has it been since I’ve eaten at Thomas Keller’s sublime restaurant, I wonder. A long time, I think, as my mouth waters. I sigh, remembering passing through the simple, classic, blue painted doors and entering the serene, intimate restaurant. On paper, it would seem to be everything I hate, with its artfully arranged dishes, infusions, foams, and sugar cages over exquisitely shaped meringues. But the food won me over. In spite of the upscale presentation and cheffy techniques, the emphasis was on the simplicity and goodness of the food. The Butter-Poached Nova Lobster, humbly prepared with leeks, carrots, watercress and the most eye-wateringly brilliant sauce — a sauce bordelaise — remains to this day one of the top dishes I’ve ever tasted in my life.
My shoulders stiffen as I recall, Oh, right. That was with James, too. I walk on, doing my best to concentrate on cut-diamond brilliance of the meal and tease it away from the memory of James scheming and plotting, and eventually wangling his way back into the kitchen to shake hands with Keller himself. Even though James had been with me, I’d dined alone that night.
At the light, Hudson and I turn and drift with the herd across the street to Merchant’s Gate, the entrance to the park at 59th and Central Park South. As we wade into the crowd, I notice the array of food trucks selling delicacies ranging from warm roasted chestnuts, to sugared Dutch stroopwafels, to fragrant Indian samosas, to your basic New York hot dog with that world-famous onion sauce. Even though it’s freezing, there’s still a Mr. Softee truck out, and there’s even a line for the creamy cones.
“C’mon Hudson, let’s go into the park and start home,” I say, tugging his leash toward the path. “Time to head back.” He sits down, panting and taking in the crowd. “You are a stubborn thing, aren’t you? You’re going to freeze your little tail off sitting on the concrete in this weather. I have work to do. Recipes to test. You can have a quick sip of water, and then it’s go-time.”
I pull a collapsible water bowl and small metal bottle out of my coat pocket, and pour him a drink. He perks up, and helps himself with gusto.
“That salmon was salty, huh boy?” While he drinks, I people-watch. Sitting in a chair by the base of the fountain, an elderly man with a wispy gray beard plays a warbling, Asian-inspired Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer on an erhu, pulling the bow back and forth with the grace of a ballet dancer. He’s competing with a group of Madrigal singers in full Renaissance garb, standing behind a sign proudly declaring Skidmore College Glee Club.
Further out, I hear hip-hop strains coming from an oversized boom-box. Glancing over, I see that five fit youths in futuristic tracksuits and Kabuki masks are breakdancing. People dressed as cows are handing out individual Greek yogurts from refrigerators attached to oversized tricycles.
“Elfies! Come take a free holiday Elfie, compliments of Takasaki Worldwide. Takasaki: On the cutting edge of global technology! Free Elfies! No money to pay!”
Hudson, chin dripping from his drink of water, lasers in on the high-pitched voice piercing through the din from a crowd of Japanese youngsters, dressed as Manga-style elves. They’re so hip it hurts, with the red and green streaks in their hair, black-and-white striped tights, off-kilter ponytails, and pointed high-heeled elf boots. That’s girls and boys, mind you. I feel tragically frumpy in my brown puffer coat.
Hudson strains toward the Elfie tent, standing on his back legs, paws bicycling in the air, chest supported by his harness.
“Wait, Hudson! Stop.” I shake out his dish, fold it up, and pocket it. Once I’m upright, he’s scraping his claws on the pavement, pulling me toward the tent.
“Huddie, I’m not getting my picture taken,” I explain as I walk him over to the teeming gaggle of elves. One by one, revelers and tourists sit on the brightly colored sleigh situated in the center of the staging area, allowing Santa’s Helpers to drape them in festive scarves and to plop pointy hats with jingle bells atop their heads. There’s a mirror, so all newly ordained Christmas Troopers are able to see themselves. To a person, they all laugh when they catch sight of themselves transformed into elves. Upon exiting, they’re given a lapel button declaring, “I can’t ELF myself — I jingle for Takasaki!”
“You want photo?” one of the elves demands, pointing straight at me. “Step up here. Take a seat on the sleigh! Sit now! Free, from Takasaki.”
Hudson climbs the first step to the dais where the sleigh sits empty.
“No thanks,” I call. “We were just looking.”
“Come on! You take photo now. No one else waiting. Your turn. Come!” He picks up a scarf and a hat, and gestures toward the sleigh.
“Not today. Thanks anyway. Come on, Hudson, time to go home.”
“Oh, hello, little dog! Oh, cuuuuuuuute.” The elf comes toward me, arms outstretched, and Hudson starts dancing like a loon. “Mai, Sparkles, come! Come and see this little dog.” Before I know it, we’re surrounded by elves. “Let’s take an Elfie of this doggie!”
Another elf picks Hudson up, and holds him high in the air à la Simba in the Lion King, and there’s a cacophony of Japanese phrases spoken in excited, high-pitched baby voices surrounding us.
Like a flock of birds, the elves drift toward the sleigh, and I’m swept along, still holding the end of the leash. I can’t even see Hudson above all of the pointed hats, and I trip on the step leading up to the sleigh. I couldn’t fall down if I wanted to, though, because I’m shoulder-to-shoulder in a herd of Santa’s Finest.
“Hudson!” I call, as I find my footing. The leash goes slack in my hand. I can’t see my dog anywhere. As if on cue, the crowd parts like the red sea to reveal my dog up on the sleigh being fussed over like Dorothy just before she meets The Wizard. They’ve stripped him of his harness and collar, and two elfin stylists are brushing back the wispy hair around his face. Is that hairspray? From the look on his face, he’s enjoying the fuss. An elf takes out a baby-sized green-and-red scarf and winds it around his neck, and another sets about fitting his little head with a tiny elf hat with jingle bells on top. A girl pulls an elastic headband from her own hairdo, and from what I can see, fashions a chin strap out of it and… what is that? Maybe safety pins?
A crowd of impossibly tall and impossibly blonde tourists presses in front of me.
“Look Astrid! Gus! See the elf dog?” They’re all wearing huge, thick sweatshirts that say, ‘Lincoln Nebraska