My grandmother grew up in a very wealthy Chicago family. Her grandfather was one of the steel magnates of the late 1800s and early 1900s. wealthier and more productive than Andrew Carnegie at the height of his career. She was introduced in her youth to cultural events like the opera, the theater, and ballet. However, while those interests remained her entire life, she eschewed what she thought the pettiness of a life devoted to social standing and a conspicuous display of wealth and priveledge.
It was through her that I was introduced to the theater and attended my first opera. But there was one difference from the performances of her youth. This became apparent to me my senior year in high school when we attended a show at the National Theater in Washington. D.C. My grandmother’s father had been one of the founders of the theater guild, and our second-row seats had been in the family from that time forward. From that spectacular vantage point, we missed neither what was happening on stage nor what was going on in the seats in front of us where the mother and daughter, dressed as if they were going bird watching, were EATING.
I did not realize how profoundly shocked my grandmother was until we were on the way home. One ate, she informed me very firmly, dinner before the performance or a late supper afterwards. One did not haul in snacks in large, oversized bags to be chewed on loudly during the show. And the truth was, that the duo did have to bring those snacks with them, as there was no wine bar, or snack counter in the lobby of the theater. Even movie theaters, unbelievable to today’s movie goers, did not have snack bars. After reading the book together, my grandmother and I went to see the movie Ben Hur without even the scent of popping corn.
I was reminded of this at a recent concert I attended given by the state symphony in our town. The all-Mozart evening was delightful, and the music accomplished. However, scattered about in the audience were people sipping on Starbucks coffee, sodas, and whatever snacks that could be produced from a purse. The couple in front of us chewed their way though an overture, a sinfonia, and a symphony. While my grandmother would have been horrified, I found that I did not mind. There was a warmth to the evening, and if it added to someone’s pleasure to sip on a latte while hearing music almost three hundred years old then so be it. There was one distraction, however. During particularly loud or percussive sections of the performance, the gentleman in front of me began to chew in time to the music. While my grandmother would have been unforgiving of his rhythmic munching, I think Mozart might have been amused.