What are you doing New Year's Eve?

I know all this Christmas stuff is coming up sooner, but I want to talk about my favorite holiday.  I love New Year's.  I seem to be the only person who does.  It's always been my favorite holiday.  I just love its potential, I love the true romance of it, I love the idea of a new year and a new beginning.  I love the cliches, I love the champagne toast, I love that there is a single moment that we all celebrate together along the time zones and across the world.  I love the countdown, I love the kissing, I love the dressing up and the camaraderie.  Sure, it's usually a disappointing affair where we flip the telly on and watch that devilish Dick Clark anti-climactically drop the ball in Times Square, then race around trying to get to the next party before everybody leaves. 

One of the first New Year's I spent here in New York, I wore a white wig, white patent leather platform wedges and a sparkly blue disco mini-dress.  Immediately after midnight, I went and hit the street to catch a cab to the next party.  Of course, being a newbie to the New York nightlife, I didn't realize that it's practically impossible to get a yellow cab just post-midnight on New Year's, and that the only alternative to slow subway rides are the many unmarked gypsy cabs not governed by the Taxi & Limousine Commission who gouge riders with jaw-dropping prices people only begrudgingly pay on New Year's.  So, innocent little lamb that I was, I just stuck my arm out at all the cars, shivering on the sidewalk.  Miraculously, a cab with its off-duty sign lit up pulled up almost immediately.  I got in:

Me:  I'm going to 23rd St. and Lexington please.

Taximan: (with South Asian accent)  You working?

Me:  (Smiling blankly)  No, not working.  Just going to a party.

Of course, it wasn't until I recounted our exchange with friends later that I understood why I managed to get a cab so quickly at midnight on New Year's and what the cab driver really meant.  (It might take you a second too.  I'll wait.)

So New Year's can be a drag, especially when you're trying to run around town on icy pavement in chopstick heels, rushing from one dying party to another.  But on occasion, New Year's can live up to its potential and you feel that glorious surge of joy in that one moment when the clock strikes twelve.  The New Year's I spent in London was one of those hugely satisfying moments.  I was on my year abroad program, having an absolutely miserable time, being shunned by the rich Brit freshers in my dorm, eating tinned tomatoes for breakfast and cheese and onion pasties for dinner.  (If you thought your dorm food was bad, try English dorm food.  I actually became a vegetarian that year.  I know, CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?).  I had been terribly lonely for months, and couldn't wait til my friends from Berkeley could nurse me back to health with some milk of human kindness.  We decided to go all out and be tourists that night, braving the awe-inspiring crowds of Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus, where the masses were so thick that when someone tried to cop a feel I had no idea which ebb of people the hand had come from.  Anyway, we finally wound up in Piccadilly Circus as the countdown began.  It seemed like there were thousands of people around us, piercing the air with penny whistles, keeping a constant high-pitched buzz going.  The snow had begun to fall in very light, lazy drifts, glittering in the bright floodlights.  We stood in front of some Swiss building which, naturally, had clocks along its facade.  We turned our faces up to the diamonds in the sky, and when those clocks struck twelve, a deep, ringing roar came up from the crowd, dotted with the bright sound of hundreds of whistles, and I felt joyously, rapturously in the moment, and the total opposite of alone. 

This New Year's, my roommate and I are planning to cook a New Year's Eve dinner for a small group of friends.  The theme is "foods that bring good luck."  Thai people eat long noodles for long life; southerners have Hoppin' John, a dish of black-eyed peas and rice; the Swedes make a pudding with a lucky almond in it -- whoever gets the pudding with the almond will be the next to get married.  We are still putting the menu together and I would love any suggestions.

Those of you who know me know that I don't drink much because whatever I drink usually winds up coming back up soon after it goes down.  (Damn that Asian alcohol syndrome!)  But recently, I went out for a friend's birthday and had a most fabulous time.  I had my first taste of Cristal champagne and was totally hooked -- it slid from the delicate flute down my tongue, cold and slightly syrupy, like the most delicious golden sparkly grape juice, not too sweet or alcohol-fumed.  And most miraculous of all, it did not make me feel immediately ill.  So I've become obsessed with the idea of finding a delicious champagne to share with friends on New Year's.  I'm looking for suggestions for champagnes as well -- while I loved the Cristal, I'd prefer not to pay the $200 I would be required to fork over.

There will be several champagne tastings happening around town right before New Year's.  I'm making tentative ambitious plans to hit several up.  If anyone has any desire to join me, email me and we'll get crunk together, Mariah Carey style.

Astor Wines & Spirits
12 Astor Place
New York, NY 10003
info@astorwines.com
212-674-7500
212-529-7592 fax

Tuesday, December 14; 5-8 PM
Wine from California and Gosset Champagne

Wednesday, December 15; 5-8 PM
New Italian Wines and Krug Champagne

Tuesday, December 21; 5-8 PM
Sumptuous South American Wines and Veuve Clicquot Champagne

Tuesday, December 28; 5-8 PM
Small Producer Champagne

Thursday, December 30; 5-8 PM
Le Ragose Italians, Small Producer Champagnes and Moët & Chandon Champagne

Chelsea Wine Vault
@ THE CHELSEA MARKET
75 NINTH AVENUE
NEW YORK NY 10011
P 212.462.4244

Thursday, December 30, 2004 — 4pm to 7pm — Champagne Tasting

Friday, December 31, 2004 — 4pm to 6pm — Champagne Tasting

And here's a nice article in New York Magazine on a blind tasting of champagnes.