The Brave Stand Together

Holocaust survivor Ted Schneider, above left, at a meeting of Holocaust survivors and visiting wounded Israeli soldiers.
Holocaust survivor Ted Schneider, above left, at a meeting of Holocaust survivors and visiting wounded Israeli soldiers.    ANDREW HINDERAKER 

No sooner had I buttonholed Arale Wattenstein on the staircase of the West 86th Street Jewish Center than Millie Jerushalmy joined the conversation.

Mr. Wattenstein is a 31-year-old wounded Israeli war veteran; Ms. Jerushalmy is a Holocaust survivor.

“You have to understand, for a Holocaust survivor, an Israeli soldier is the embodiment of a miracle,” she explained. “He represents a sovereign state born from the ashes of the Holocaust.”

Ms. Jerushalmy shared her story: She survived because she was smuggled from France to Switzerland as an infant. Her father was killed for spying for the French Resistance.

“He was shot by a firing squad,” she said.

As Ms. Jerushalmy walked away, Mr. Wattenstein said: “They look at us as heroes. But to us they’re the heroes. They survived hell.”

That’s the way it went Friday afternoon at a lunch sponsored by Selfhelp Community Services, Inc., the largest social service organization in North America caring for Holocaust survivors.

The goal was to bring together survivors—now in their 80s and 90s—with injured Israeli soldiers, who belong to Hope for Heroism, an organization established by the soldiers to help other wounded Israeli veterans put their lives back together. Some are still in their 20s.

It was never clear who was more grateful to whom.

Mr. Wattenstein, a paratrooper, told me he’d suffered his injuries when a Molotov cocktail was thrown into a car in Nablus, on the West Bank, in 2005.

“I had grenades on me,” he remembered. “Explosives in my backpack. I decided to leave the car because of the fire.”

Lee Spiegel, a host for the soldiers, chats with Holocaust survivor Yona Berkovitz.
Lee Spiegel, a host for the soldiers, chats with Holocaust survivor Yona Berkovitz. ANDREW HINDERAKER 

And he left fast.

“I jumped out. As a result of the jump, I crushed my back and spine in three different spots. I did four years of rehab.”

Mr. Wattenstein’s work with Hope for Heroism has taken him from Johannesburg, to New York, to Los Angeles, where he recalls one Holocaust survivor who wanted to hug every soldier present.

“She started crying,” Mr. Wattenstein said. “She’d never touched or seen an Israeli soldier before. She’d never been to Israel.”

It would be easy to suspect that the soldiers, if only because of the vast age difference, considered themselves on a goodwill mission for the benefit of the Holocaust survivors. But the appreciation and respect felt mutual.

Mr. Wattenstein said he spends time with Holocaust survivors out of a sense of obligation to his family, especially his grandmother, herself a survivor.

But he also attends the events out of solidarity. He sees the survivors and the soldiers as fighters for the same cause.

“In 50 years they will not be alive,” he said. “The people who will tell the survivors’ stories are the survivors of Israel.”

At the lunch, I was seated next to Alan Fisher, a 92-year-old survivor. He didn’t feel like dwelling on his own story, at least before he reached Israel in 1947.

“I went through warm and cold,” he stated. “After I survived the Holocaust, I had no home, no parents.”

He’d been a tailor before the war, but there was little use for his trade in what was then Palestine. “I couldn’t find work,” he remembered. “No demand. It’s a hot climate. They wear shorts.”

Instead, he went to work building barracks and enlisted in the 1948 Arab-Israeli War as a carpenter assigned to headquarters. But his tailoring skills were suddenly back in demand when a general had a uniform emergency.

“He’s trying to button the button and the button came off,” Mr. Fisher remembered. “I said, ‘Can I help you? I’m a tailor.’ I pull a needle from under my lapel and a thimble from my pocket.”

Mr. Fisher’s story was interrupted by the main event—Chaim Levine, an American rabbi and Hope for Heroism’s executive director, introduced some of the soldiers. But it was the survivors who told their stories, one or two overtaken by emotion. The soldiers hugged them, and then everyone sang songs together, among them “Am Yisrael Chai”—“The People of Israel are alive.”

“He goes to the head general,” Mr. Fisher said, resuming his narrative. He was referring to his commanding officer. “He said, ‘Have I got a tailor for you! Maybe you need something?’”

The general ordered a pair of pants. “They set me up in a room with a sewing machine,” Mr. Fisher said. “And I became the tailor of the headquarters, including Prime Minister Ben-Gurion.”

Mr. Fisher pulled a letter with a photograph of Ben-Gurion from a manila envelope.

“I have all his measurements to this day,” he said. “He can’t get a standard size. He was short and chubby. He had a larger head than usual.”

Oshri Azran and Dekel Darchani, two of the wounded vets, were listening to Mr. Fisher’s story, too. They assured him that the Israeli army and the Israeli people had his back. What happened to him during the Holocaust would never happen again. Not in a thousand years. They sounded pretty confident.

Shooting Stars—And Loving It

An Exhibit of Patrick McMullan’s Work Begins Wednesday

Patrick McMullan looks over images at the Hearst Building with publicist Randi Friedman before his exhibition at the offices.
Patrick McMullan looks over images at the Hearst Building with publicist Randi Friedman before his exhibition at the offices. CRAIG WARGA FOR THE WALL STREET JOURNAL

Photographer Patrick McMullan qualifies as the Cartier-Bresson—or is it Weegee?—of the New York social scene.

Mr. McMullan and his staff of 16 shooters are out every night. They have hit 14 benefits, movie premieres and gallery openings on one evening alone.

And while it is mostly A- and B-list celebrities and socialites whose pictures make it into the publications and onto the websites that use his photos—including New York, Vanity Fair and, yes, The Wall Street Journal—no one seems too modest to catch his eye.

“We photograph everybody at the party,” said Anita Antonini, Mr. McMullan’s right hand. “Even the waiters.”

Search a party-going editorial assistant, publicist or real-estate broker, and chances are his or her thumbnail will pop up somewhere on Patrick

“I’m an attention-giver in a world that has lots of attention-seekers,” Mr. McMullan said as he ate his first meal of the day—a brownie—at 5 p.m. He was sitting in the lobby of the Hearst Tower, where an exhibition of Hearst editors he photographed, as well as candids of the New York Fashion Week’s Spring 2015 collections, opens Wednesday night.

“We could have 10 events here,” he said with characteristic enthusiasm as he examined the building’s soaring atrium. “There’s a six-month window of doing stuff.”

Dianne Brill and Sting in a 1984 photograph by Mr. McMullan. ENLARGE
Dianne Brill and Sting in a 1984 photograph by Mr. McMullan. PATRICK MCMULLAN

Mr. McMullan was referring to the length of the show, a time frame that would hearten any artist who wants his or her work seen.

But the opportunity may be especially poignant in Mr. McMullan’s case: If there’s any photographer working in New York City today who traffics in the ephemeral, it is him.

If Mr. McMullan has a gift, beyond a capacity for hard work, an easygoing charm, and an eye for beauty, it is a working-class mien that cuts through the self-regard that seems an occupational hazard among members of New York’s photogenic class.

“The most elegant thing is people who are consistent,” he explained. “You treat people the same all the time.”

His current pet peeve is the selfie.

“The celebrities are annoyed by it, too,” he said—technology interfering with direct experience, life becoming an extended photo-op. “Nobody is living and going and doing.”

His passion for photography dates to the 1960s when he was growing up on Long Island.

“Nixon was coming to the mall,” he remembered of the 1968 Republican presidential nominee Richard M. Nixon. “I decided I’d go and see if I could get a picture. They let me right up—‘Let the kid get a picture.’

“Nixon waved to me. There was no film. It was the greatest picture I didn’t take. It taught me one thing. Always be prepared.”

Mr. McMullan attended New York University and gained entree to Andy Warhol and the Studio 54 crowd. He said he learned important life lessons from the artist.

Kenny Scharf, Andy Warhol and Keith Haring at Elizabeth Saltzman's birthday party in June 1986.ENLARGE
Kenny Scharf, Andy Warhol and Keith Haring at Elizabeth Saltzman’s birthday party in June 1986. PATRICK MCMULLAN

“There was a kind of simplicity Andy had,” Mr. McMullan remembered. “He’d say I want to do something and do it. He wanted to have a magazine so he could go to more parties.”

The 59-year-old photographer has written a column for that magazine, “Interview,” every month for more than 30 years.

“He didn’t have limits,” Mr. McMullan added, referring to Mr. Warhol.

A couple of bouts with cancer, the first around 1980, also helped set Mr. McMullan’s priorities.

“I was 90 pounds,” he said, and running a 106-degree fever. “My mother said, ‘I don’t think you’re going to die but he’s going to give you the last rites,’ ” meaning the priest. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Even though Mr. McMullan runs a company with 50 employees, has published six books and has a website that gets hundreds of thousands of hits a month, he still lives in the same one-bedroom apartment on lower Fifth Avenue that he has rented since 1977.

“When I had my darkroom set up, I didn’t even have to close the windows,” he boasted. “It was dark. It is on the first floor. Even on 9/11 I just walked in.”

Mr. McMullan has worked for so many publications that some escape him; we bonded over the Soho Weekly News, which gave us both our first break.

But New York was a game changer.

“It was the big thing to be on my page in New York magazine,” he said. “Everybody wanted me to be at their events.”

Aspiring socialities trying to worm their way into photographs where they don’t belong is a perennial scourge.

“I’m a destination and there’s nothing wrong with that,” he explained. “But some people keep coming back to the destination.”

Nonetheless, his brownie finished, and a blueberry muffin as well, he picked up his camera and prepared to become a destination on yet another evening.

“I’ll go to this thing for Aperture,” he said, of one benefit. And then, “I should be at Alzheimer’s.”

The Ramen Renaissance

The last time I considered ramen was in the post-9/11 months and years when I stockpiled the noodles in my basement, alongside bottled water, honey and a cache of incandescent 100-watt light bulbs.

The light bulbs, of course, were a reaction to a different threat—the loss of cheap, pleasing light at the hands of government regulation. Even though I’m all for long-lasting, energy-saving CFLs, LEDs and halogens, I’ll buy them just as soon as they figure out how to manufacture them for 50 cents a bulb.

The ramen noodles, I was confident, would see me and the family through nuclear winter in style. I’ve always been impressed by how much fun and flavor—though I’m not sure about nutrition—could be packed into a cellophane bag filled with dried noodles and a packet of seasoning.

Add an egg, and maybe some chopped scallion, and eat like a king.

Thus, I was somewhat surprised when friends from Maine, visiting their college-age daughter in New York recently, told us she’d taken them to a ramen restaurant on the West Side. So popular was the place that if you arrived for dinner later than, say, 5 p.m. you’d have to wait an hour for a table, the line snaking out the door and down the block.

A patron enjoys a bite during the Ramen Slurpfest. RAMSAY DE GIVE FOR THE WALL STREET JOURNAL

When I hear such stories I’m reminded of my father and one of his mantras: If it’s that popular, he used to say, I’ll stay home and make it easier for everyone else to get a table.

I’m not sure what would make me wait in line except an exit visa. But I was mildly intrigued by this culinary trend: I assumed that whatever was generating all the excitement had to be different than the $1, five-minute, just-add-boiling-water-and-stir packages sitting in my basement.

So when an opportunity arose to participate in a “Ramen Slurpfest” Thursday night at the Astor Center on Lafayette Street, with four top ramen chefs pulling out all the stops, I felt an obligation to attend. I also brought along my daughter, a devotee of Chuko Ramen, a restaurant near her apartment in Brooklyn.

“You have to wait for, like, an hour,” she explained.

There’s only so much you can teach your children. Then you have to let them live their own lives.

The drill was that we’d have 13 minutes at each station—because that’s apparently how long it takes the average person in Japan to eat a bowl of ramen. Don’t ask me how Luckyrice, which hosts Asian culinary festivals around the country, including this event, knows that. But I was willing to take their word.

There was also a bar serving Bombay Sapphire East gin. I received a tall cocktail called a “Sapphire East 15 Minute Sunrise” (why this obsession with the clock I don’t know) when I requested the strongest drink they had as a hedge against any off-the-wall ramen.

Our first station was Hide-Chan Ramen, and their Hakata Tonkotsu Ramen—porkbone ramen paired with thin Hakata noodles. The bowl also included bean sprouts, green onions, a half-cooked egg, pork shoulder and spicy garlic oil.

I was told it was the most traditional ramen we’d be eating that night, and it was certainly delicious. If I had any issue with the Slurpfest, it was that ramen is intended to be filling. I could have happily have gone home to bed after my first bowl.

Hideto Kawahara of Hide-Chan, at the Ramen Slurpfest.ENLARGE
Hideto Kawahara of Hide-Chan, at the Ramen Slurpfest. RAMSAY DE GIVE FOR THE WALL STREET JOURNAL

Next up was Ivan Ramen’s Chicken Paitan Ramen. The restaurant is named after Ivan Orkin, who was born in Syosset, N.Y., but had the temerity to open one of Tokyo’s most popular ramen shops. He has two locations in Manhattan, and his lines said to be the longest of all.

“It tastes like a Jewish version of ramen,” my daughter observed, the ingredients including white chicken broth, chicken confit, schmaltz-fried onions, shio kombu (don’t ask me, I’m reading from a crib sheet) and rye noodle.

Gathering my chopsticks, ceramic spoon, gin cocktail and a beer chaser that I’d somehow acquired along the way, we moved on to Ramen Lab’s Miso Ramen. Layered with a foie gras espuma and alba truffle shavings, it delivered the equivalent of a TKO, with one station left to go.

Tsujita LA Artisan Noodle’s ramen was a blend of pork soup and fish stock with a twist. The noodles were served cold in a separate bowl and came with seaweed and a lime meant to be squirted on the noodles about halfway through the experience.

We were told the soup had taken 60 hours to make. So I guess I won’t be making it at home. On the other hand, the experience has forever spoiled me for $1 ramen noodles. Though I probably ought to pay a visit to the basement to see how they’re doing, given current events.

It’s All for the Birds, Happily

The lobby of the Cornell ornithology lab with seats overlooking Sapsucker Pond.ENLARGE
The lobby of the Cornell ornithology lab with seats overlooking Sapsucker Pond. RALPH GARDNER FOR THE WALL STREET JOURNAL

I had a choice to make when I spent the night in
Ithaca recently: I could visit either the main campus of Cornell University or the famed Cornell Lab of Ornithology several miles down the road, having time for only one.

The ornithology lab it was.

This isn’t because I believe that all Ivy League campuses look alike, or that, all these years later, I’m still suffering sour grapes because I got shot down at Princeton and Yale.

It had more to do with the kinship I feel with the ornithology lab. I subscribe to its Living Bird magazine. Though, come to think of it, I haven’t seen a copy lately. So perhaps my subscription has lapsed.

And I’m also a participant on eBird, an online database whose sponsors include the lab, where you can register your bird sightings and check out what your neighbors are spotting in their backyards.

I had no agenda in visiting the lab, though my expectations for the place—located, aptly enough, on Sapsucker Woods Road—were fairly high.

I suppose I was hoping for a facility where cutting-edge science got accomplished, but at the same time doubled as the world’s largest, most elegant feeder station.

Robyn Bailey, head of Cornell's NestWatch, with intern Melcolm Crutchfield.ENLARGE
Robyn Bailey, head of Cornell’s NestWatch, with intern Melcolm Crutchfield. RALPH GARDNER FOR THE WALL STREET JOURNAL

I wasn’t disappointed. The lab’s modern Imogene Powers Johnson Center for Birds and Biodiversity sits at the hub of 226-acre sanctuary with well-tended nature trails that snake through woods and over marshes.

The lobby overlooks Sapsucker Woods pond, actually a glorified swamp, where you can pull up a chair and watch great blue herons hunting for dinner outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, or frenetic chickadees, more relaxed American goldfinch and the occasional squirrel coming and going from their multiple feeders. High-powered spotting scopes are provided.

Indeed, the conference rooms were also equipped with scopes. And rare was the office that didn’t have a pair of binoculars sitting by the window. Their presence suggested that the scientists and administrators who worked there were birders first.

The lobby also boasted a well-equipped gift shop (in addition to being part of Cornell University, the lab is a member-supported nonprofit) and a soaring mural of 140 bird silhouettes that looked familiar—and not because I’ve ever exhibited any talent at identifying birds by their silhouettes.

Painted by artist and naturalist James Prosek, they are based on the endpapers of Roger Tory Peterson’s famous “A Field Guide to the Birds.”

While the lab is best known for birds, its Macaulay Library has the world’s largest archive of wildlife sounds and videos. And it is available online. (The library helped when the makers of the Harry Potter movies were looking for a screech for a mythical hippogriff, and Ken Burns consulted with lab experts on his national parks series.)

So the next time you feel like procrastinating, instead of disappearing down a YouTube click hole, visit their website——and listen to gorillas recorded in Gabon or watch blue whales surfacing off the coast of Chile.

Robyn Bailey, who heads the lab’s NestWatch program—thousands of “citizen scientists” watching their backyard nests and reporting back on developments—was taking advantage of the good weather to build nest boxes outdoors with Melcolm Crutchfield, an intern.

“These are kits meant to be shipped to schools,” Ms. Bailey explained. “We’re testing prototypes. If we can’t do them, kids won’t do them.”

I also visited Charles Eldermire, who manages Cornell’s birdcams. An appealing alternative to staring out your apartment window onto an air shaft and feeling sorry for yourself, check out the live-streaming activity at birdfeeders from Boise, Idaho, where American kestrels were holding court, to Ontario, where evening grosbeaks, which I spotted at my own feeder only once years ago, were chowing down on black oil sunflower seeds in Tammie and Ben Hache’s backyard.

“It’s a cool spot,” Mr. Eldermire, a biologist, explained speaking both figuratively and literally of the Canadian site. “As it starts to get colder, the birds that come to this feeder are boreal species.” Meaning that they are coming from way up north. “Evening grosbeaks have been disappearing from winter feeders in the Lower 48.”

We discussed common redpolls, a boreal species that visit my feeders, but only every few years. And I shared sightings about a month ago of a little blue heron, better known in the Gulf States, on my pond. Unfortunately, it was maddeningly elusive, always spotting me before I saw it, and making it impossible to positively identify as it took flight.

However, the joy of sharing your observations with fellow bird-watchers, even those far more experienced than you, is that passion is the common tongue.

“I had this epiphany in college,” Mr. Eldermire said. “Birds will do almost their entire behavioral repertoire in front of you and not care you’re there.

“As opposed to mammals,” he added. “Basically the only thing you can do is watch them eat and sleep.”

When Size Really Matters

A view from the 75th floor of 432 Park Ave.ENLARGE
A view from the 75th floor of 432 Park Ave. AGENCE FRANCE-PRESSE/GETTY IMAGES

My friend Aris, who has a way of expressing things succinctly, describes Bravo’s “Real Housewives” franchise as “wrestling for women.”

He was similarly profound this summer as we sat in Central Park partaking of certain liquid refreshments from an athletic squirt bottle. Discussing the megalith luxury condominiums that are rising along the south end of the park, he nailed their effect. “They’re turning the park into a courtyard,” he said.

Central Park has always served as a leafy oasis, a refuge from city life. But these skyscrapers are so tall—One57 is over 1,000 feet, and 432 Park Ave. recently topped off at 1,396 feet, overtaking the World Trade Center (minus its antenna) and leaving the Empire State Building in the dust. You can almost feel the breath of the billionaires they’re being marketed to on the back of your neck.

Here’s how out-sized 432 Park is: It makes One57, which previously appeared as if it was giving Central Park the finger, appear modest, even demure, by comparison. If I were a plutocrat who had already plunked down $50 million or $100 million, or whatever penthouses in the building are going for these days, I might be suffering buyer’s remorse.

And there are apparently larger condos still to come. At least one of them, topping 1,400 feet, is certain to give 432 Park erectile dysfunction.

Before you know it, Manhattan is going to resemble San Gimignano, the medieval hill town famous for its dozen tower houses, absent the Tuscan charm.

Nonetheless, I’ve decided to love 432 Park—though entirely for selfish reasons.

The condominium tower at 432 Park Ave. looms over neighboring buildings.ENLARGE
The condominium tower at 432 Park Ave. looms over neighboring buildings. AGENCE FRANCE-PRESSE/GETTY IMAGES

A couple of years ago, an apartment building rose a few blocks south of mine, partially blocking my view. This was cause for despair because there’s nothing that taps Gershwin’s “Rhapsody In Blue,” that lends a touch of magic to mundane reality, like the New York City skyline when the lights blink on after dark.

So I’ve been anticipating 432’s contribution to my view shed for a while. Even when it was still a hole in the ground, I calculated where it might rise relative to my apartment, and kept my fingers crossed that it wouldn’t be blocked by some closer tall building.

Several months ago I rejoiced—I don’t think that’s too strong a word; then again I’ve always been a geek for tall buildings—when the crane at its summit peeked out from behind a building that I could see from my living-room window. Though it required binoculars to confirm the sighting.

Binoculars were no longer necessary as the luxury condo rose higher and higher. I know I annoyed my wife, though probably no more than normal, when I daily dragged her over to the window proudly to note the skyscraper’s progress.

I even started to get greedy. A view from my living room wasn’t enough. I wanted to see it from every room in the apartment. I almost succeeded. The thing is so exceedingly tall that, while the building itself never made it that high, I could spot its crane from my East 80s bedroom window, above the apartment house directly across the street that blocks everything else.

The only problem is that I sometimes must leave the apartment. And from just about anywhere else in the city, Park Avenue in particular, 432 Park is out of all proportion. It feels ridiculous in a way the Empire State Building, which looms over Fifth Avenue in the 30s never did.

Perhaps because the Empire State—on a pedestal (or maybe that’s just the model on my mantelpiece) and with setbacks on the upper floors, and a tapered point—seems to acknowledge poetry’s contribution to architecture.

I’ve heard 432 Park, designed by Rafael Viñoly, described as elegant. But how elegant can an edifice be when it so totally overwhelms, when it seems to belittle, its surroundings?

I always fancied the idea that New York’s skyline reflected, literally, America’s rise and greatness through the 20th century.

“Every epoch has another response,” the architect Santiago Calatrava observed when we discussed 432 Park last week. “What is interesting,” Mr. Calatrava added, “is that New York keeps alive the idea of rising up. It’s important to the identity of the city.”

I agree, but I dread to think what these behemoths say about our age, though I suppose that’s preferable to the alternative—a building bust rather than a boom. So I’ll enjoy the view from my window, perhaps purchase a 432 Park model for my mantelpiece if one becomes available, and focus on the refreshments, rather than the encroaching skyline, next time I meet Aris in Central Park.


Punk and the Ruby Connection

Randy Cohen at his Upper West Side home.ENLARGE
Randy Cohen at his Upper West Side home. RAMSAY DE GIVE FOR THE WALL STREET JOURNAL

Randy Cohen’s career has taken some novel turns. From 1984 to 1990, he was a writer for “Late Night With David Letterman. ” Then he wrote “The Ethicist” column in the New York Times for a dozen years, from 1999 to 2011. Today, he’s the host of “Person Place Thing” on public radio.

But Mr. Cohen, 66 years old, also used to be a punk rock star. Or is. Or may well become one in the near future.

Perhaps a little explication is in order. During the early ’70s, Mr. Cohen belonged to a band called Jack Ruby. The members skirted success when Epic Records considered signing them, however briefly.

“ ‘You can only have the studio from midnight to 5 a.m.,’ ” he remembered being told. “But we could do anything we wanted.”

Perhaps the invitation should have been less open-ended, though Mr. Cohen rejected that notion.

“We were pretty happy with the results,” he said. “They thought it was just awful. That was the end of everything. They weren’t going to sign us.”

A less principled person—me, for instance—might have spent the following several decades haunted by what might have been if, say, instead of recording the band’s “Bad Teeth,” which has been described “as violent as a root canal without the anesthetic,” it had performed a cover of Joni Mitchell’s “Circle Game.”

Not Mr. Cohen.

“We did the best we could,” he said. “To get Epic to put us in the studio—we’d already gone further than 95% of bands.”

A photo of Mr. Cohen from his days in the 1970s punk band Jack Ruby.ENLARGE
A photo of Mr. Cohen from his days in the 1970s punk band Jack Ruby. RAMSAY DE GIVE FOR THE WALL STREET JOURNAL

“I think they were really wrong,” Mr. Cohen added, when I pressed him. “We were never going to have hit records. But the people who liked it would really like it.”

Fast forward, give or take 40 years, to something called the Internet. It’s a place where you can exact the best deals on diapers and laundry detergent but also indulge your taste in music, no matter how esoteric or overlooked.

Even so, I’m still not sure how Jack Ruby was rediscovered; I’m not sure Mr. Cohen is either. It’s actually just slightly beyond the realm of human comprehension, sort of like the big bang: How could the universe go from nothing to everything in a million-billionth of a second?

“Maybe 2010,” Mr. Cohen said, “some of the tracks showed up online. You can have an instant following on the Internet”—“two guys in Denmark” and maybe one each in Croatia and Belarus.

Jack Ruby also had a fan in Sonic Youth’s Thurston Moore.

“He thinks Jack Ruby was a very influential band,’” Mr. Cohen said as he sipped a beer in his West End Avenue apartment.

Producer Chris Campion got in touch with Mr. Cohen and asked if the original tapes from that Epic session still existed.

“I vaguely remembered they were in my mother’s home in her basement in Kutztown, Pennsylvania,” he said.

The dust and cobwebs removed, and the tapes salvaged and restored—“This was like archaeology more than music,” Mr. Cohen explained—all the effort turned out a handsome two-disc set titled “Hit and Run” that includes a small poster and a booklet that serves as both an oral history of the band and of New York City’s ’70s punk rock scene.

“It starts getting these incredibly great reviews,” in far-flung hipster music magazines, Mr. Cohen said. “I can’t walk down the street in Barcelona, if I ever went to Barcelona. So passionate is the following for Jack Ruby.”

In July, Rolling Stone magazine included Jack Ruby on its list of best reissues of 2014.

“Issue is closer,” to the truth Mr. Cohen pointed out, since the band hadn’t produced an album or CD.

Inevitably, Mr. Cohen began to wonder what might have been had the band been discovered when it existed. Of the four original members, two are still alive—Mr. Cohen and vocalist Robin Hall.

“If we’d gotten these reviews in 1974, I’d be dead now from heroin addiction and sexual excess,” he said.

The rediscovery isn’t limited to punk rock fans and critics. HBO is considering a drama series about the music scene in ’70s New York, produced by Terence Winter of “Boardwalk Empire” fame and directed by Martin Scorsese.

“They want to license a bunch of these songs,” Mr. Cohen said.

Mick Jagger is an executive producer—“Perhaps you’ve heard of him”—and the lead singer of the fictional band that might play Jack Ruby’s music is James Jagger, Mick’s son.

“All this is increasingly moving away from reality,” said Mr. Cohen, who claimed that no matter the demand from fans or even in his moments of “deranged vanity” will he ever grow out his hair again and hit the road with his synthesizer.

“A friend started referring to it as my ‘posthumous success,’ ” he said.


Ahhh…the Comfy Outdoors

The tent came with a king-size bed, a writing desk and deck.
The tent came with a king-size bed, a writing desk and deck.

The route from New York City to central Ohio is distinguished neither by superior hotels nor fine dining. Or if it is, I have yet to discover them in seven years of traveling back and forth to the college that both my daughters attended.

So when the opportunity arose to spend a night “glamping” on the way to this year’s parents weekend, it sounded like an appealing alternative to a chain motel.

If you’re unfamiliar with glamping, as I was, it stands for glamorous camping. It’s a way to enjoy the great outdoors for those who consider high-thread-count sheets important.

Think of a luxury safari camp, except the encampment we visited was in Ithaca, N.Y., not on the Serengeti. And the wildest beast we encountered was our own dog.

Apparently, my wife and I are glamping’s target demographic.

“The most demand is from 40-plus,” explained Robert Frisch, who founded Firelight Camps with his wife, Emma Frisch, and Kyle Reardon, a consultant.

“Baby boomers,” Emma added, as we sat in the campground’s “lobby tent,” chasing Finger Lakes bourbon with Finger Lakes beer.

“A lot of these people used to go camping,” Robert went on. “They have a nostalgia for it, but they don’t want to sleep on the ground. They have some extra money to spend. But they don’t own a tent or camping equipment.”

I took mild exception to that generalization. Yes, my tent is long gone. But I still know where to find my twin-burner Coleman stove in the basement. In a pinch, I bet I could even get it to fire up.

The Frisches, both 30 years old, met at the University of Pennsylvania and opened their first hotel in Nicaragua, where Robert served in the Peace Corps. He recently graduated with an M.B.A. from Cornell University’s Samuel Curtis Johnson Graduate School of Management.

Firelight Camps is on the grounds of La Tourelle, a hotel and spa that has connecting trails to Buttermilk Falls State Park. The lobby tent stands on a former tennis court.

“This was a space looking for a new idea,” said Scott Wiggins, whose family bought the hotel in the ’60s. “It made a whole lot of sense. We share build-out expenses. We share revenues.”

Explained Robert: “The vision for the company is we create luxury camping experiences for an existing operation. We have tons of interest from property owners.”

When people are outside they meet each other.

I started to entertain the idea of having the Frisches set up a few tents in the backyard of our weekend home upstate to generate a little extra income.

“We’re looking at the Hudson Valley for our next site,” said Emma, who appeared this summer as a contestant on the Food Network’s “Food Network Star” program. She makes her own rosemary-and-honey s’mores with orange flavored marshmallows, and the granola we enjoyed at breakfast the next morning.

While the Frisches have only six tents—plans are to double that number by next summer—they already seem to have the branding thing down. Firelight’s logo appears on notecards, T-shirts, even axes, though I’m not sure when the need would arise to chop wood.

Prices range from $155 to $230 a night, depending on the size and location of the tent and whether it’s a midweek or a weekend getaway. The season ends Nov. 2 and starts again in May.

“We’re looking to build it into a big national brand,” Robert said.

Our 16-by-20-foot tent came with an extremely comfortable king-size bed, an attractive “Out of Africa” writing desk and a deck. The only thing missing was a bathroom—we had to schlep a distance to a communal bathroom, or go in the woods—a missing modern convenience that might constitute a deal breaker for baby boomers.

“This is a prototype year for us,” Emma said, when I raised the hardship. “We’ve talked about doing en suite bathrooms. That will probably come. It’s much more capital intensive.”

A view from the outside. ENLARGE

I suppose that for the experience to have been truly authentic, while still qualifying as glamping, we would have had a personal chef to cook our franks and beans. Instead, we drove a couple of miles into Ithaca where we had dinner at a cozy Italian restaurant.

When we returned, we hung out with other glampers by the lobby tent’s fire pit. Our socializing, on the edge of the woods, is exactly what the Frishes, both rock climbers, had intended.

“We wanted to bring people into the outdoors and preserve existing landscape,” Emma explained.

“When people are outside they meet each other,” Robert added. “They’re not on their phones.”

Sleeping under a couple of down quilts was pleasant, even if the outside temperature was in the 50s.

And Firelight’s surest sign of success is that as we undertook the remainder of the journey to Ohio—fully refreshed—we mused about the idea of building a tent platform in our woods, even if only for our use. And perhaps with indoor plumbing.

Write to Ralph Gardner Jr. at

A Church Near Ground Zero Re-Imagined

Renderings of the new St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church designed by Santiago Calatrava, which will overlook the 9/11 Memorial, in a video provided by his architecture firm. Photo: Santiago Calatrava

It took two hours of talking with architect Santiago Calatrava —we touched on rock climbing, the Swiss cheese dish raclette, Rembrandt’s self-portraits and New York City’s tradition of great civic architecture—before I realized how appropriate the placement is of St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church, which will overlook the 9/11 Memorial.

And not just because it’s the rebirth of the church, a fixture in the neighborhood since the 19th century until it was destroyed by the collapse of the World Trade Center’s south tower on Sept. 11, 2001.

Mr. Calatrava designed the church and will attend its groundbreaking on Saturday. If everything goes according to schedule, the building should be finished in 2016 or early 2017.

While the 9/11 Memorial, with its twin reflecting pools and alleys of trees, masterfully creates an opportunity for quiet reflection, there’s also something to be said for a sanctuary with four walls—and perhaps for lighting a memorial candle, no matter what religion you practice, or even if you practice no religion at all.

Santiago Calatrava with one of his sculptures in his Manhattan studio.ENLARGE
Santiago Calatrava with one of his sculptures in his Manhattan studio.KEITH BEDFORD FOR THE WALL STREET JOURNAL

“All the circumstances around 9/11, the memorial embodies that very well,” Mr. Calatrava said as he sat in the stately Park Avenue townhouse that does double duty as his home and his office.

Then, the architect pulled out the sketches that won him the competition to rebuild St. Nicholas, describing the church with words such as “full” and “introverted” to illustrate how different the experience will be from the voids of the reflecting pools.

Unlike what you might expect, the renderings aren’t architecturally rigorous. They are relatively simple, rather impressionistic drawings—of a mosaic of the Madonna and Child Enthroned at the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul that morph into a church with a cupola, of flowers and domes produced during a visit to Mount Athos in Greece.

My hunch is that many architects don’t operate that way.

“In Europe, I dedicate the morning until noon,” to drawing, said Mr. Calatrava, who divides his time between New York and another home and office in Zurich. “And in America I do it mostly in the afternoon to the evening.”

Born in Spain, the 63-year-old Mr. Calatrava isn’t only an architect. He also paints, sculpts and designs furniture.

The new St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church, in this rendering, will overlook the 9/11 Memorial.ENLARGE
The new St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church, in this rendering, will overlook the 9/11 Memorial. SANTIAGO CALATRAVA

“I started in an art school,” he added. “I have always been working in art. I do that mostly alone with very little assistance.”

While acknowledging that architecture is among the most collaborative of professions, he said, “It’s also a very meditative job. It’s important to travel into yourself.”

That might explain why he’s producing some of the most innovative and controversial architecture today—controversial as much for cost overruns and feasibility as for design.

Among his creations is the bird-winged PATH station at the World Trade Center, scheduled to be completed next year at almost $4 billion—double the projected cost.

We didn’t much delve into the controversy. The architect did mention that train stations are challenging—because the trains have to keep running—but that he has completed seven of them.

Mr. Calatrava, his wife, Robertina, and their four children moved to the U.S. only a couple of months after 9/11. But his relationship with the city started well before that.

His first visit occurred in the mid-70s when he traveled the country on a Greyhound bus and remembers his first encounter with Grand Central Terminal—and with the law.

“I stay there watching the whole experience,” he recalled. “I was in ecstasy. After 15 minutes a policeman came and said, ‘What are you doing?’ I was the only one not moving.”

He noted New York’s tradition of great architecture, including the Brooklyn Bridge and the Seagram Building.

“New York is a good school of these kinds of spaces. I say many times I came to learn from New York.”

He hopes the World Trade Center PATH station will be uttered in the same breath as those other architectural wonders.

“I like when a building tells you a story,” he said.

However, the architect pointed out that his contribution to the narrative of the Church of St. Nicholas is circumscribed by a thousand years of tradition.

“It’s like climbing a rock,” he said of a sport he gave up, though he remains an enthusiastic hiker in the Alps. “You don’t have a grip. You only have some millimeters.”

Still, a video of the yet-to-be-built church, made of white Vermont marble and with spaces that filter light inside during the day and make the structure glow at night, makes it clear his contribution is far from negligible.

“This is what I want; this is what the church wants: a very ecumenical place; they would like to have 24 hours the church open.”

But Mr. Calatrava conceded the public has the last word.

“When it’s finished,” he said, “we’ll go there and ask what the building is telling us.”

Dog Days of Autumn


Oct. 14, 2014 9:26 p.m. ET

Rob Shepperson

We’d never had a “working” dog before we got Wallie, our Bracco Italiano.

I think it’s safe to say we didn’t even realize we were purchasing a working dog, with all its implications.

Our previous pets had been playing dogs. Or more precisely eating, sleeping and playing, with the occasional walk thrown in.

But what working translates to—especially when there’s no work to be done because you live in a modest two-bedroom apartment and there’s no sheep to herd or waterfowl to flush—is that you must find other ways to occupy and amuse your pet.

This is a particular challenge in our household, though I realize I should speak only for myself, because we’re not in the entertainment business. Our goal, whether with pets or children, has been to integrate them into our relaxed lifestyle, rather than vice versa.

What that means is a happy, low-stress environment where we don’t go out of our way to create problems that don’t already exist. That may not sound like much, but it’s actually a subtle art, one my wife is better at than me, and that many of our friends and acquaintances, even at this late date, have yet to master.

Our concept of the ideal pet would have been one that’s pleasant, well-behaved and goes to the bathroom every other day.

At all other times, she’d be basically catatonic, as animated as the living room rug.

That, however, isn’t the case. She’s more likely to be systematically gnawing her way through the couch or stealing shoes and articles of clothing that haven’t been locked away.

Her rambunctiousness apparently is the result of the fact that she’s both a puppy and a working dog.

Two things have allowed us to survive Wallie’s initiation into family life over the past few months—three, if you include that she doesn’t have a mean bone in her body.

The first is the Central Park off-leash, pre-9 a.m. free-for-all, where over 45 manic minutes she gets to expend the strength and energy engineered into her breed.

If we had any questions about a Bracco’s capabilities and requirements, they were answered by online videos starring Braccos that look just like Wallie, and that my wife consumes like popcorn.

Unfortunately, most are in Italian so we can’t understand what they’re saying, but they’re all pretty similar: A hunter extols the breed’s virtues over B-roll, accompanied by overly dramatic Star Wars-style music, of the canine stalking prey through alpine meadows. When he locates it and helps land dinner, his owner erupts with a rapturous “Bravissimo!”

So obviously, we had, and still have, a lot of work to do to help our Bracco achieve her potential. And running circles around other puppies in Central Park alone won’t suffice.

To that fact add that we’ve never trained a dog in our lives.

Frankly, it’s too exhausting and we have better things to do. Even getting Wallie to come when you call her would constitute a significant achievement.

We have recruited a couple of trainers. The first spent our inaugural—and final—session psychoanalyzing us, taking notes and selling us an overpriced leash. Until I politely demanded she teach the dog a trick.

Our new trainer preaches tough love and seems quickly to have earned Wallie’s respect.

But he also gave us some disturbing news: As dogs go, he described our pooch as “aloof.”

In other words, she only comes when she feels like it. Which wouldn’t make her any different than anybody else in the family, except that they’ve learned not to run in traffic or wet the carpet.

Fortunately, something remarkable happened recently. It is called autumn and it’s the second thing that has allowed us to maintain our equilibrium.

When she’s not terrorizing the squirrels formerly hogging the bird feeders, or rushing through the woods upstate with her nose glued to the ground, the leaves falling off the trees have been providing literally millions of opportunities for Wallie to exercise her hunting, and pointing, instincts without us having to lift a finger.

Their motion, floating to Earth, seems to trigger some sort of Pavlovian response in the dog. I don’t think she realizes they’re not alive. Or that if she looked up they wouldn’t take her by surprise and prevent her from having yet caught one.

Which raises questions about her intelligence, especially after having watched a recent “60 Minutes” segment starring a border collie who can recognize 1,000 words.

Wallie, on the other hand, appears functionally illiterate.

We’re also worried that the leaves might be starting to drive her crazy. She can spend hours chasing them.

As that “60 Minutes” segment showed, dogs have emotions, too, their brains lighting up with something resembling love as they look into our eyes.

Does that means they’re also capable of nervous breakdowns?

If so, Wallie may be a candidate unless she catches a leaf soon.

Write to Ralph Gardner Jr. at

Where Moguls Meet and Greet

Oct. 13, 2014 10:05 p.m. ET

‘Any customer tells me anything, I give it top priority,’ says Sergio Vacca, longtime maître d’ at Harry Cipriani in the Sherry-Netherland hotel. Kevin Hagen for The Wall Street Journal

At Harry Cipriani, the mogul watering hole at the Sherry-Netherland hotel, the reception is more elaborate than at some other popular restaurants: Guests expect to be recognized, effusively greeted by name and seated instantly after a hearty handclasp from Sergio Vacca, the maître d’ who’s been conducting the show since 1991.

And quite a show it is.

On a recent routine Monday night, one could spot billionaire Ronald Perelman, who has been a regular since the restaurant opened in the mid-1980s; movie producer Harvey Weinstein; the Dolans of Madison Square Garden and Cablevision fame; and talk-show host Charlie Rose.

What makes their presence noteworthy, and distinguishes Cipriani from your average pricey Italian restaurant, is that the food is probably secondary. It has been receiving indifferent reviews, to put it politely, ever since the restaurant opened.

(Nonetheless, I’d place its baked tagliolini with ham among the top comfort foods of all time. And the wafer-thin carpaccio, drizzled in a mayonnaise, mustard and Worcestershire sauce, is as good as carpaccio gets.)

“To treat people like they’re coming to your house,” is the way Mr. Vacca described the enthusiasm he employs on customers, whether venerable or first-timers. He said he picked up the habit from Arrigo Cipriani, the 82-year-old patriarch of the international family-run restaurant empire, which includes 11 properties in Manhattan—among them restaurants, private clubs, residences and event spaces.

The company is best known for Harry’s Bar in Venice, where Mr. Cipriani spends most of his time these days.

The business hasn’t been without controversy. The Ciprianis have had bitter disputes with both unions and landlords, among them Tishman Speyer Properties, over the Rainbow Room, which they bought in 1999 and closed a decade later. Arrigo and his son Giuseppe also pleaded guilty in 2007 to tax evasion for defrauding New York state and city of $3.5 million in taxes, and agreed to pay $10 million in restitution and penalties.

But none of that seems to have dented the brand. And the reasons are probably a good deal subtler, hidden in the nooks and crannies of human aspiration, than simply treating customers like houseguests.

It starts with Arrigo Cipriani himself. A model of dark-suited dignity and restraint, he’s always conveyed the impression, despite sky-high prices, that you were as fortunate for having received a table at one of his restaurants as he was for having you as a guest, perhaps slightly more so.

“Many people would stand up to pay homage to Mr. Cipriani,” Mr. Vacca said.

What certain of-the-moment restaurants seem to have in common, besides celebrity spotting, is a kind of lively, orchestrated tumult that transmits the impression that you’re standing, or seated, at the center of the universe.

That is quite a feat to pull off, particularly with the competition for dining dollars in New York. Even more so, if you’ve managed to do it over a quarter-century, as the Ciprianis have.

“We do have these people; we know they’re important,” Mr. Vacca acknowledged, referring to the 1% of the 1%. “For me, every person who comes in here is very important.”

The restaurant’s success certainly owes something to the maître d’s energy level. No guest, no matter how entitled—or titled—is too difficult.

“Any customer tells me anything, I give it top priority,” said Mr. Vacca, who once clocked himself on a pedometer at 24,790 steps in a single day. “I never stop. It’s adrenaline.”

“They feel at home when they come here,” said Maggio Cipriani, Giuseppe’s son, Arrigo’s grandson, and a member of the fourth generation working in the family business.

There is something to be said for that. The moguls come to rub shoulders with other moguls, those slightly lower on the food chain hoping some of the magic rubs off, and everybody enjoys the occasional royal or head-of-state spotting.

“One night we had the King and Queen of Sweden—and the King of Norway,” Mr. Vacca recalled. “Netanyahu,” he added, referring to Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, “every time he’s in here, when security permits. He’s been coming the last 25 years.”

Part of the allure is that the place and the menu hardly change. It’s the triumph of familiarity—all the way down to the tables and silverware, which tend to be on the compact side.

“Everything is small, nothing imposes itself,” Maggio Cipriani observed. He quoted his grandfather to the effect that it’s the guest who makes the table, not the other way around.

And it’s all a reasonable facsimile of Harry’s Bar in Venice. “This is a table for four?” Mr. Vacca said customers, undoubtedly first-timers, occasionally grouse. “I say, ‘In Harry’s Bar, this is a table for six.’ ”

Write to Ralph Gardner Jr. at