Before catching Samson et Dalila at the Met tonight, I got dinner across the street at Rosa Mexicano.
I had the grilled sliced chicken atop something called Chihuahua cheese and served with sides of beans and two kinds of salsas. The dinner came with a little woven container filled with a stack of soft, warm corn tortillas. Very delicious. I had margaritas to drink and, for dessert, some decadant chocolate cake thing.
I got to the Met early, so I purchased some red wine, served unceremoniously in small clear plastic cups, from one of several bars situated in the main lobby area, where I stood still as a stormy ocean-like crowd of really slow-moving, elderly opera patrons milled about.
The show itself was well done. I’d imagine most folks are familiar with the basics of the tale of Samson and Dalila, so it wasn’t tough to follow, despite being sung in French, although the English translations displayed on LED screens mounted on the seatbacks helped. Unexpectedly, the show was spiced up considerably by extended ballet-like dance sequences in the first and third acts, the latter of which involved a lot of leaping and writhing by a gaggle of scantily clad Philistines. It was a attention-getting buildup to them getting smushed by a falling temple ceiling, a special effect accomplished by sound and light, falling scrims and a mechanically pivoting column for Samson to “knock down.”