It’s the third Saturday of the month and Mykonos’ Montparnasse Piano Bar, the Greek Aegean’s own La Cage aux Folles, is back again with another story. For those who may not have read the bar’s first two tales, over the past thirty years the Piano Bar is where tourists and locals go to see and be the characters making up Mykonos’ legendary 24/7 in-season lifestyle. In the off-season, the bar’s sole purpose is to provide stories for this blog.
The Piano Bar is the creation of Nikos Hristodulakis and Jody Duncan, and they’re behind the bar every night, but this story comes straight off the piano stool. David Dyer, pianist extraordinaire of Aspen and Mykonos fame, is truly a caring guy though you might not think so from this story. Nor may it put you in the mood for a cocktail, but as a new “tail” is promised with every Piano Bar old tale, in honor of St. Patrick’s day there is a suitably green Grasshopper chaser for the story.
Speaking of green…as seems to be more and more the case with Piano Bar tales a word of caution is in order. If you’re of the squeamish sort, not given to thoughts of the purpose for that little bag in the pocket of the airplane seat in front of you, then perhaps you should skip the story and go straight to the booze. Then again this story is all about booze. And music. Play on, David.
Montparnasse Piano Bar Tale #3: “The Mysterious Performer,” as told by David Dyer from behind his piano trying to ignore Jody and Nikos making faces at him from behind the bar.
|Piano Man David Dyer|
But then there are those nights when everything goes so uncontrollably haywire you simply don’t know what’s going to happen next.
|Kathy “Babe” Robinson|
I smiled and said, “Everyone’s a critic.”
Kathy laughs at the pop of a cork, so it was a miracle she held it to a giggle as she struggled to finish her song, now a duet of sorts with a bent over and retching lady. Frankly, I was surprised the entire room didn’t lose it to laughter. It was one of those helpless, beyond schadenfreude moments where no matter how sympathetic you may be to the sufferer (albeit self-induced), you just can’t keep it together.At the end of Kathy’s ballad she leaned over to me and said, “Let’s do ‘Somewhere That’s Green’ from Little Shop of Horrors.”
Now, I take great pride in my warped sense of humor, but this was beyond the pale/pail. I said, “’Green,’ as in puke? Are you nuts? That’s just too tacky and obvious. We can’t do that.”
And since I wouldn’t go along with her, she had to sing a different number. Or rather Kathy and the still retching lady sang another.
I looked around the room. Everyone, including the waiters, was fighting not to laugh, except for Jody and Nikos who had given in completely and were rolling on the floor out of sight behind the bar. The only ones in the place not showing the slightest bit of giddiness were the retching lady and her friends. They kept handing her napkins as if nothing were wrong. The scene was so surreal I could hardly concentrate on the keys.
A word about the audience: the Piano Bar is where Broadway and West End performers hang out on the island with others into show tunes. So, when I started to play the lead-in to “Somewhere That’s Green,” there was a sudden hush followed by a fit of laughter from those who knew what was coming.
Call it coincidence, but at that precise moment the woman’s friends decided the time had come to leave the bar. Two men helped her up. I’d only seen her bowed over at the table and when she stood, or rather was lifted, she was not as I had imagined. She was in her late sixties, elegantly dressed, and sophisticated in appearance—except for the wobbliest pair of legs I’d ever seen. The men desperately tried to keep her from falling as they steered her toward the door.
They’d just reached Kathy when she sang the line, “Somewhere that’s green.” The woman made the men pause, and stared at Kathy, as if daring her to sing on, which of course she did: “There’s plastic on the furniture to keep it neat and clean in the pine sol scented air.”
With that perfectly placed lyrical observation on the evening so far, the woman’s face lit up in the widest ear-to-ear grin you could imagine. I’d never seen a happier looking person in all my life.
I lost it, Kathy lost it, the whole place lost it. But that was not the woman’s exit line. That moment came at the front door where she’d paused again, waiting for Kathy to laugh her way into the big finish, final lyric, “A picture out of Better Homes and Gardens magazine far from Skid Row…”
At that instant the “far from skid row” lady punctuated her farewell with a broad wave to a now utterly hysterical crowd and disappeared into the night. Dead drunk or not, the lady hadn’t lost her timing. As for who she was…