Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

You would think evening gowns and the Mummers wouldn't mix. But that's exactly what I encountered when I went to a formal event this past weekend as part of my Dad's medical convention.

Following cocktails, serenaded by a jazz ensemble and pampered with hors d'oeuvres, the glitzy Mummers were a bit of a shock. The group who was performing, to be specific, was the Polish American String Band, and they'd gathered at one end of the ballroom.

There's simply nothing you can do to make "Roll Out the Barrel" sound ritzy. And yet, nobody seemed to mind. Guests filled the dance floor, in their tuxes and evening gowns, even accepting some of the large cardboard props, such as oversized lollipops.

My Dad felt conspicuous in just a dark suit and black tie, but I told him that even at the Oscars some men don't wear tuxes any more. I surreptitiously pointed out to him other men who were wearing similar suits, but he still quietly decided that for next year, he'd buy himself a tux.

Because I hadn't found anything suitable to wear at the rural mall where I'd shopped, I wore a vintage beaded top with a long black skirt and did my hair in a pseudo-1920s style.

The look was somewhat successful and, compared to the Mummers, it wasn't even a smidgen overdone. In fact, they made even the most atrocious evening gowns appear tasteful.

While the Mummers were performing, Dad thought it interesting to inform me that the hotel we were in, the Park Hyatt, was formerly the Bellevue, which -- and he said this next bit with glee — was where the Foreign Legion had succumbed to Legionnaire's Disease in the 1970s. Gee, thanks, Dad.

But as the Mummers gave way to a jazz band, and as the appetizer of a White Bean Casoulet Pureed with Creamy Yukon Potatoes Encasing a Confit of Duck with Sweet Garlic and Fennel, Crispy Leeks and Shitake Red Wine Demi Glace was served, I forgot all about Legionnaire's Disease.

The Dwight Howard Orchestra featured two main vocalists. One was a Frank Sinatra-style crooner (naturally, this being Philadelphia). He was so good whenever he took up a Sinatra tune that if you closed your eyes, you thought it was the Chairman of the Board. If you opened them, you saw an ageless Italian singer with a receding hairline and a tan. Come to think of it...

The other vocalist, a female, led the band in a few pop tunes. But the crooner got more people on the dance floor, and I even got my dad up a few times. I discovered he's much more comfortable with partner dancing; probably because he's not stranded on the dance floor all alone. I even got him to try swing dancing with me. We were terrible, but that was my fault, for once.

After the salad, featuring Belgian Endive, Pecans, Grapes, Roquefort Cheese, R oasted Red Peppers and a Citrus Vinaigrette, there was an intermezzo of Sorbet (in Mango or Creamy Pear and Cinnamon).

The entree: Veal Filet Paired with a Jumbo Lump Crabcake Accompanied by Wild Rice Risotto and Caramelized Shallot Demi Grace. And the coup de gras, dessert: Chocolate Almond Basket Filled with Seasonal Berries and Pineapple Pastry Cream.

Yum.

Just as we were finishing our dessert, chatting with the others at our table, somebody grabbed the mike and started insisting that we be quiet right now or he couldn't bring out the entertainers. We stared at each other, mystified at his rudeness. But when the room was sufficiently quiet, he brought out a singer (all the way from New York!), Joanne Engle.

She had dark hair, teased high, and wore a tight knee-length black dress. For her first song she launched into was a pop tune. The second was a sappy song about doing your best, written for the 1988 Olympics. But then she promised something special, a medley to "one of the greatest singers and entertainers of all time."

Who could it be? Bessie Smith? Lady Day? Ella Fitzgerald? Nope. Judy Garland.

She started the medley with a version of "You Made me Love You," where she'd taken liberties with the lyrics: "You made me love you with your way of singing; You set the rafters ringing." The medley included show tunes such as "The Trolley Song" from Meet Me in St. Louis ("Clang, clang, clang went the trolley") and of course, ended on a completely over-the-top version of "Over the Rainbow."

The classically trained vocalist at the next table, who'd performed at an event a couple nights before, looked pained. She coughed into her hand and gave a golf clap when the medley ended.

But Joanne was high-energy, and many enjoyed her performance. It was hard not to smile back at her.

Then, the MC introduced comedian Glen Anthony, whose claim to fame was a performance on The Tonight Show. His agent's web site calls him "the cleanest, most original comedian you'll ever see" and called him a talented impersonator, with imitations including "Howard Cosell, Willie Nelson, Jacques Costeau, Julio Inglesias, Jackie Mason, Kenny Rogers, Henry Kissinger."

He might have been clean but he wasn't exactly original. Most of his act consisted of Polack jokes with other nationalities inserted. They were all jokes about how stupid someone was, and he simply had the room call out nationalities to insert. So, for example, he told the tired old joke about a patient complaining that when he touches his nose it hurts, when he touches his chin it hurts, when he touches his elbow it hurts and the doctor telling him his finger is broken. But he did it in a Swedish accent. Original.

That's when it hit me. We were in Vegas, Philly style. There was the glitzy floor show, full of sequins and dazzle. But being Philly, it wasn't half-naked women, it was Mummers. There was the entertainer — all the way from New York! And the "family approved" comedian, telling jokes so old they were bound to be safe. And being Philly, there was no gambling.

One fancy night of people pulling out mothballed tuxedoes and squeezing into old evening gowns. One night of sophistication, with gourmet food and jazz. Class for the masses, Philly style.

But despite this wry observation, I enjoyed myself. And I didn't even catch Legionnaire's Disease.

Copyright 2003 by Alyce Wilson

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