A cheapskate takes on pricey New York

"What's red bean ice cream taste like?" I asked my waiter.

"Like red bean," he informed me.

"Vanilla will be fine."

Cost: $20 and change. No, it wasn't Le Cirque, but it filled me up without emptying my wallet.

Ten minutes to curtain. Gotta fly.

Performance was spectacular.

Time to hit the sack. Who cares that there's no chocolate on the pillow, or that the bed wasn't turned down?

A friend had suggested a Harlem gospel tour to fill up Sunday morning. What could be better, Metropolitan Opera one day, Harlem gospel the next?

I decided to walk to 690 Eighth Avenue despite the cold drizzle. Of course I walked in the wrong direction for about three blocks despite the doorman's explicit instructions. There's something about the logic of New York City streets that escapes me. I'm used to Boston, where cows planned the city streets.

Anyway, after wearing out my shoes, I meet my friend and we hopped on the bus for our tour.

Our guide, George Lee Miles, was raised in Harlem. He has one of those deep, sweet voices that sound as though he were weaned on Godiva chocolates.

We drove through Harlem for more than an hour as Mr. Miles told us about its history. Finally, we arrived at the Greater Central Baptist Church, on the corner of West 132nd Street and Fifth Avenue.

"We'll wait here a while. Church usually starts late," said Mr. Miles. "We'll sit in the balcony. Now, remember no pictures, no leaning over the balcony. Be respectful."

We climbed the worn wooden stairs and took our seats in the plush-red pews as the organ wailed and a piano rocked out gospel songs.

Shortly, the choir (actually there were three choirs) swayed down the aisle to the refrain of "I was blessed with a faith unto thee."

Soon, the Rev. Anthony J. Chisolm's spirited preaching and prayer had the congregation on its feet, shouting approval. This was very much an audience-participation service.

Time for more from the choir. "Sometimes a song does more for us than words," said Mr. Chisolm, introducing the choir again.

"Jesus is a rock in a weary land, a shelter in a time of a storm," they sang, some banging tambourines against their thighs, others shaking maracas.

After the soloist rocked the congregation with "Turn it over to Jesus," our guide motioned us that it was time to leave.

"Rev. Chisolm is a Pentecostal minister preaching in a Baptist church. That's why [the services] go on so long. You never know when they're going to end."

I think we all would have rather stayed until the end.

"How many churches can you choose from for these tours?" I asked Miles.

"About 75," he said.

And why did he pick this one?

"My mother's a member," he said with a broad grin.

After the tour I hoofed it to Penn Station. (Another $1.50 saved by not taking the subway.)

At the station I wolfed down a tuna sandwich on rye. "You want tomato on that?" asked the guy behind the counter.

"How much more?"

"Fifty cents."

"Sure," I responded. After all, this is New York.

Back on the train, I started tapping out my story – but not before adding up my expenses. Total bill (not counting the opera splurge): $276.29.

But now I'm thinking that if I had kept it to only two packs of snack mix, and didn't go hog-wild with that tomato on my tuna sandwich, I could have done it for $274.79.

I'll know better next time.

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