Pineapple Street

 I know a wealthy WASP. She attended Saint Ann’s and Yale; she then became a stay-at-home mom. The family owns multiple properties on various continents. The WASP’s parents—two elderly alcoholics—host elaborate parties with baffling rules and codicils. If you violate a rule, the WASP family speaks laughingly about you as if you aren’t in the room. If someone wrongly suggests that you know a great deal about Jane Austen, then the WASP produces trivia questions to stump you. Once you are stumped, the WASP seems satisfied. She then hands you supplemental Austen material—“as a gift.”

 

The WASP’s mother likes to pretend to complain about when the WASP was a child star in the City Opera revival of “A Little Night Music.” Of course, “Claire Bloom had the Gingold role—and Claire was not friendly.”

 

These are all terrible behaviors—and I was happy to see them parodied in “Pineapple Street.” A wealthy couple leaves their townhouse to one child and his “gold-digger” wife. But the transfer of the house creates tension. What if the alleged gold digger tries to replace the curtains? Elsewhere, a young woman has a crisis of conscience. Should she take the Abigail Disney route? Should she sacrifice her fortune?

 

The strength of this novel is not its plot. Instead, it’s a joy to wander through Brooklyn Heights with someone who really knows Brooklyn Heights. We are treated to a portrait of the Saint Ann’s gala dinner—where a teddy bear is auctioned off for eight thousand dollars. (Usually, the auction winner is “some NBA star.”) Snobs read about TV and movie personalities attempting to migrate to Brooklyn; the press trains its sights on Keri Russell, Lena Dunham, Matt Damon. When a movie star is blocked from a real estate purchase, the old money lets out a cheer. It might seem safe to attend a “gender reveal” party in a white blouse and navy slacks—but be careful. Someone might mistake you for “the help.”

 

The resolution of this story is too tidy, and at times it feels like very little is at stake. I also suspect that this novel generated buzz in part *because* its writer has publishing connections. That kind of buzz can be double-edged—you then might feel overly critical of the novel as a response to high expectations. But I did like the debate about a party whose theme is “Oligarch Chic.” And I liked the brief essay on the guy who drives around Cobble Hill, offering to sharpen your knives—knives that can benefit from an “on-site, on-demand” touch-up.

 

One point five thumbs up.