I made it back from Denver to Minneapolis on Friday just one step ahead of the snow, but ironically, I headed right back into it the following day when MrsBaliHai and I journeyed to the Land of 10,000,000 Pathetic Viking Fans to spend the weekend in Stillwater, a quaint little burg filled with antique shoppes and B&Bs.
We stayed overnight at the William Sauntry Mansion, and had a Zagat-errific meal at La Belle Vie, quite possibly the best French restaurant in Minnesota. Highlights of the meal included a bottle of 1999 Lorca Petite Sirah and the foie gras mousse, along with a fantastic stuffed, roasted pheasant, and the chocolate fondant for dessert. Hell, it was all good.
I also scored bigtime at one of the local antique malls; I picked up a hideously tacky lamp made out of abalone shells, along with an old cocktail shaker, and a Tiki Leilani mug. All will look fabulous in my incipient home tiki bar.
On Sunday, we braved the snowstorm in our trusty Subaru and made it to Saint Paul for a matinee performance of Rigoletto. Now I have to confess that Italian operas are usually not my thing. I was first introduced to opera by my parents who took me to a performance of Borodin's Prince Igor in Moscow when I was seven years old, so I much prefer the pitch-black insanity of Russian opera to the usual squealing of fat sopranos and eye-rolling tenors in love that tend to populate the works of Italian composers. However, I make an exception for Rigoletto because Verdi deliberately took the cliches of Bel Canto and turned them on their ear in this stark tale of vengeance gone terribly awry. His score dispenses with most of the standard arias, and sets vile, evil thoughts to incongruously spry music. He does bow to tradition in the end, however, by killing off the soprano, but thankfully, she dies quickly without coming back to life several times as in La Traviata.
The performance of baritone Chen-Ye Yuan in the title role was masterful and poignant, giving a very human face to the hunchback's bitter soul. Genevieve Christianson's portrayal of Gilda was also fine, making the most out of a somewhat underdeveloped character.
Of course, a few turds must must float to the top of every operatic punchbowl. In this instance, it was the elderly couple in front of us who unwrapped hard candy, nattered incessantly during the entire performance, and refused to be shushed. The old farts even sang along with the Duke's famous Act III aria. Le Donna e Mobile. Sheesh. It's enough to make you support mandatory euthanasia for anyone over age 60, or better yet, Carousel!
Unfortunately, their singing wasn't the only thing that ruined "Le Donna" for me, I also had this stuck in my head.
Dear Greedy Old Bastard,
