Vignette 2: The Dinner
Finally, the day arrived. Graydon and I took a cab downtown to meet the gang.
Just weeks before, I was having my last fitting at Huntsman for the tuxedo I wore to the dinner when Charlie Watts of The Rolling Stones came in. He was headed to rehearsals in Montreux, Switzerland for their American tour and was checking out canes (a man after my own heart). When he heard of our dinner, he said to give his regards to Pigpen and asked for an invite to the next one.
Graydon wore a tux too, but he left his bowtie untied, his hair effortlessly aloof, and went sans socks. Even with the help of a Savile Row tailor, it was impossible to compete with his sprezzatura.
We hopped out of the cab to see Robert Evans in an olive, double-breasted velvet jacket, a cashmere turtleneck, and his trademark frames. He was talking to Fran, who was wearing worn-out Levi’s, tennis shoes, and a blue sweatshirt.
Pigpen, who appeared to have taken his last shower before leaving for Europe, was listening to Hunter, who wore gold Kalichrome Shooters beneath a bucket hat, his Dunhill bouncing up and down in a plastic cigarette holder as he rambled about McGovern’s chances.
The Colonel greeted us at the door in his white suit, black ribbon bowtie, and an infectious smile. “Welcome, y’all! Now take a seat oh-va yawn-dah, and we’ll getcha drink aw-dah shawt-lay.”
For those who don’t speak Southern and require an interpreter: “Now take a seat over yonder, and we’ll get your drink order shortly.”
Before we sat down, it was clear where Hunter’s seat was—someone had placed a bottle of Wild Turkey next to a bucket of ice and a highball. In the middle of the table was a 14-inch yellow ceramic ashtray the size of a hubcap, which, if filled, could give a fresh set of lungs cancer before dessert was served.
The windows were filthy, pipes of various sizes hung from the ceiling, and century-old planks creaked with every step. Several vagabond cats, arrogant to their core, acted like they owned the place. They were feral creatures, born and bred in the mean streets of New York, with green eyes that squinted at everyone and everything—untrusting beasts who’d rip one apart over a dropped pork chop.
The kitchen was full of twenty-somethings. The men had unkempt, shoulder-length hair and wore dirty aprons; the ladies parted their hair in the middle or wore bandanas. Everyone had cigarettes hanging from their lips. “A Horse with No Name” crackled through an AM radio, and the bathroom hadn’t been cleaned since it was a pickle factory in the 1800s.
But no one cared. Aside from Graydon and me, the others were none the wiser to what this neighborhood would become (thanks to our time machine). To them, it was where artists took advantage of massive windows and ample sunlight; where rent was cheap—if it existed at all; and where you couldn’t find a single streetlight that worked. The streets were empty, save for drunkards, prostitutes, and addicts.
The uptown crowd would no sooner visit this part of town than tell their buddies about their membership at The Mineshaft. Oddly enough, Robert Mapplethorpe was having dinner with Patti Smith on the other side of the restaurant. In another corner sat a man with a greasy combover of dyed black hair, playing a guitar and humming something that brought a melancholy to his posture.
After exchanging pleasantries, the Colonel brought out a plate full of his fried chicken, buttermilk biscuits, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, collards, and green beans. The chefs had whipped a carrot cake and a lemon meringue pie earlier in the morning.
The table was set with six different plates, a roll of paper towels, and an eclectic assortment of cutlery. The handle of my fork, which I’m sure was made of silver, was stamped with a Union Club logo. My spoon, however, was orange and plastic.
Hunter was three shots into the Turkey by the time the bird arrived. Fran drank Diet Pepsi, Pigpen guzzled beer, and Robert Evans spoiled himself with a bottle of 1959 Dom Pérignon. Graydon, being a wine guy, sipped a 1961 Château Lafite Rothschild, and I shared the Turkey with Hunter, though I cut mine with Tab.
Characteristically, Hunter opened the conversation with a tirade on Nixon, “That son of a bitch reeks of cheap cologne and stale Brylcreem! If I ever…”
“But you did have a ride in his limousine, didn’t you?” asked Graydon with careful precision.
“Yeah, so what.”
“Well, when we met last spring at The Pierre, you gushed about how well he knew football. Seems, a little, shall we say, disingenuous, being that you enjoyed the only time you spent with him.”
“He’s still rotten, and I didn’t gush,” said Hunter, with a grin, knowing Graydon got him.
Pigpen filled his plate with two thighs, two wings, potatoes, gravy, and a big slice of carrot cake. His mug of beer was emptied almost as quickly as it was poured. He didn’t hear a word of the Nixon back-and-forth on account of not having a home cooked meal in weeks. He sure as hell wasn’t going to spoil it with politics.
Fran, picking at the Southern fare like she’d never had collards (which she hadn’t), chimed in, “I, for one, don’t give a damn about Nixon or anyone else,” her nose in the air.
“Nor do I, I don’t vote,” said Robert, as he leaned back in his chair, blowing smoke from his cigar.
“You don’t vote?!” exclaimed Fran.
“No, it’s a frivolous affair. Besides, I find the machines overly complicated. But I host fundraisers at my house.”
Hunter took it all in while Graydon and I watched Pigpen obliterate his plate.
“You host these idiots, but you won’t vote for one?” asked Fran, almost shocked.
“Well, technically I don’t host. I’m usually next door with Jack,” Robert said with an air of showboating.
“Jack?” asked Pigpen, between bites.
“Yeah, Jack. Nicholson. We’re neighbors.”
“Let me get this straight,” said Fran, totally immersed, “You let these people INTO your home, you PAY for the party, and you spend the evening NEXT DOOR, doing only GOD KNOWS WHAT, with Jack Nicholson? WHY?"
"Well, I don’t quite knooow my dear, it’s LA.”
“And that is why I stay in New York,” said Fran, as she lit a cigarette and leaned back in her chair.
An hour later, Hunter and I finished the Wild Turkey, Fran smoked half a pack of cigarettes, Pigpen was sober after twelve mugs of beer, and Robert didn’t have a hair out of place, in a permanent state of dapper.
The conversation turned to art, when Pigpen asked Robert about The Godfather premiere, “Hey Bob, how’d ya get Kissinger to attend?”
“Well, he’s a friend, and he’s a sucker for pretty girls.”
“Ali, huh?” asked Pigpen as he shoveled a bite of pie in his mouth.
“She’s a stunner, ain’t she?” said Robert, referring to his girlfriend, Ali MacGraw.
“Okay guys, really? We’re not turning this into, ‘Who’s the prettiest girl at the dance?’” said Fran, “Tell us about the Europe tour,” talking to Pigpen.
“We just wrapped up a few shows in England and Denmark. We’re heading to Germany next.”
As the table went round robin with the Dead’s tour, Hunter’s book on the ‘72 election, and Evans’ new film that he had just started working on, Chinatown, Graydon and I listened in amazement. Even though Fran’s first book wouldn’t be published for several years, she more than held her own.
Sitting before us were some of the heaviest hitters in film, literature, and music. With the exception of answering questions we couldn’t deflect, we listened, observed, and tried to take it in.
As everyone was finishing their dessert, Graydon stood up and made a toast, “Thank you all for coming here this evening, especially our dear Pigpen, who flew in all the way from Heathrow. What a crime to fly that far. I hope they had your favorite beer on board.”
“They did,” said the demure organist.
“Cheers to that! Here’s to a maaaarvelous evening and a safe trip home, wherever that may be.”
Robert hopped on the MGM jet at Teterboro. A Hells Angel picked up Pigpen. Hunter made an Irish exit. Fran took a cab.
Graydon and I walked home through Washington Square Park. As he passed his doorman, he looked back and said, “Until the next PBS fundraiser, my dear.”
The author and Graydon Carter
*Composed, Edited, and Published in Atlanta, GA
