The Shubert’s cure

Almost two months now, and I think I may be getting over it. Finally.

I was snuggled up on the couch with my favorite throw and a cup of Earl Grey decaf, watching Miss Marilyn napping by the fire—and, I might add, successfully resisting the pint of Haagen Dazs Vanilla Swiss Almond in the fridge—when the phone rang. L. wanted to see “other people.”

Devasted! Crushed! Shattered! Virtually annihilated. Words fail me. Hadn’t we just been talking about moving in together?

And now this! Three of the best years of my life. Down the toilette. And after all the sacrifices I made!

But, as they say, one must get back on le cheval.

So, au revoir, New York; enchantà, Chico.

I arrived last month, tout seul, with nothing but a valise and the faithful Miss Marilyn—and my love of fine food and movies.

Which is why I have been to Shubert’s Ice Cream Parlor every day for the last 29 days and why my living-room floor is strewn with 17 overdue movies from All the Best. I have barely slept, and I haven’t done laundry. I think I’m finally going to be OK, but Miss Marilyn is getting more than a bit cranky.

Thankfully, I discovered Shubert’s my second day in town, and, I don’t mind saying, I have become an aficionado and rather an expert on their fine products. Especially which ones, along with which movies, are best for helping one try to forget that one has just been so thoroughly and mercilessly dumped.

Last week I began, finally, to begin to feel better.

• Monday: A pound of Grande Marnier truffles and A Streetcar Named Desire. Tennessee Williams and dark chocolate. As close to heaven on earth as one can get. Naturally, I had to save a truffle for the one of the greatest lines in Hollywood, when Blanche says to Stanley, “You’re simple, straightforward, and honest. A little bit on the, uh, primitive side, I should think.” Well … I, I turn to mush. What else can I say?

• Tuesday: A quart of strawberry cheesecake ice cream and a triple scoop of Barbra: Funny Girl, A Star is Born and The Way We Were.

• Wednesday: Three boxes of Shubert’s mints and Waiting for Guffman. A tragic study of a hugely talented director whose shot at the big time is thwarted by a lackluster cast and a miscommuniquà with Broadway.

• Thursday: A bag of peanut-butter pretzels, mint-chip ice cream in a waffle cone, and Pillow Talk. Sinful. Need I say more?

• Friday: A pound of almond clusters and Rope, Hitchcock’s best movie, besides The Trouble with Harry.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking. Calories. Fat.

Well, you’re right. But what can I say? These are difficult times. I’ll tell you what I can say: Don’t tell Dr. Epinards, my new personal physician, who had the audacity last week to tell me I could stand to lose a few pounds.

Well, actually, 50.

Not now, doctor. Not now when I’m, well, in recovery. Maybe later. I just need to indulge myself now. I know, I know. The health club. I’ll get to that. I will.

Sorry. Back to Shubert’s. Two more things: They make all their own ice cream and candy (except for the little gold-foil coins), and they’ve been in the same little building since the year before The Wizard of Oz came out! The original Mr. Shubert, Leonard C., left Montana in 1938 and started the business right there on Seventh Street, where it still stands.

So, as I say, I’m just about over it. Thanks to Shubert’s. One can’t live in the past. I’m going to return those movies and begin weaning myself. Ice cream every other day, fudge on Fridays only. And, Dr. Epinards, I’ll make some phone calls about that health club. Next week. Really.