Matinée

It's the former Peking from wing to wing,Grauman's mixed with a golden Angkor Wat,when out bounce Ministers Pang, Pong, and Ping.

"Relics from Commedia dell'Arte,"I whisper to my wincing dinner date,for whom even the Met rates a T-shirt

and khaki shorts. Our Turandot, overweight,tall and rosy as a Wagnerian dream,over-lines her eyes, offs her breastplate,

and reclines upon the seat of her regime."What is born each night and dies at dawn?"she asks through subtitular seatback screens.

"Good taste," my date hurries to respond,while a countdown through the pentatonic scaleends abruptly in a Jeopardy-like gong.

By Act III, Puccini's Chinese interests fail.The Tartar hero's FIFA World Cup aria,Tuscan as tagliatelle, concludes the tale.

My date suggests the corner cafeteria,picks up a veggie sandwich labeled, "Thai,"and tallies every outrage in the opera.

I can only shrug, "Better than Butterfly,"and after wine, admit it made me cry.