"No, the punching happened at a Boston Pops concert," we told everyone who wished us a fistfight on Thursday. "The audience was riled up by that popular music. This is the Boston Symphony Orchestra. There's a difference." This Bostonist is a savage who can't articulate that difference, but we tricked a musically-literate friend who was under the impression that we were taking her out for her birthday—let's call her Fancy McCulture-Pants—to accompany us to the BSO's all-Ravel opening night program. We, on the other hand, felt qualified to bask in the anthropological joys of the cocktail reception: bow ties, shawls, reluctant children, hors d’œuvres scooped up in little endive shovels, morsels of conversation ("We live in Nantucket now, just across the pond"). A bar on the mezzanine supplied us with a lovely Manhattan, and we escorted it down the grand stair.
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