Upstairs at the Roosevelts'

by Roosevelt, Curtis;

  We were fully aware that part of the blame for the dull boarding-school style menus lay with the White House housekeeper, Mrs. Henrietta Nesbitt. This woman, whose regime we viewed—as did all the servants—as tyrannical had been brought by Eleanor from the governor’s mansion in Albany to Washington, along with her husband, Henry, who became the White House chief steward. Her qualifications for the job were meager, a course in nutrition and food management, its teachings embodied in the phrase “what is good for you.” Daily she went over everything with my grandmother. She never did any of the cooking but was responsible for suggesting the menus, ordering the food, overseeing the cooks and organizing the household staff. Considering the many visitors and the frequent receptions, along with three meals a day plus tea every afternoon, her job was not easy. Yet there was no reason for Mrs. Nesbitt’s being so strict.

  I do wonder why we were always served vegetables and fruit from tins when Washington had open markets. My guess is that Mrs. Nesbitt felt “safe” with the canned goods. In those days everyone assumed that major corporations like General Foods could be counted on for the very best quality. But the canned stuff was awful. The sticky sweet peaches or pears, for example, were my sister’s and my standard desert. If by chance ice cream appeared, it was obviously someone’s birthday!

  Before the war one always heard English food criticized as being overcooked. Alas, ours in the White House was the same. My grandfather liked his meat rare, as did my mother and uncles, but he never saw a slice of lamb or beef on his plate that wasn’t very well-done. Covered in a cream sauce, the chicken was tasteless. So were the vegetables.

  Although she was aware that her housekeeper wasn’t popular, Eleanor simply left her alone to get on with it, adding, or perhaps rationalizing to herself, that Mrs. Nesbitt needed a job. I was told that FDR, when teased about his reasons for wanting to win a fourth term as president, replied that he wished to be elected again if only to have the opportunity of firing Mrs. Nesbitt! In fact, what actually happened was that my grandfather, with my mother’s encouragement, finally brought our cook Mary from Hyde Park down to the White House.

  A few years ago the Roosevelt Library at Hyde Park opened a cafeteria in the new Wallace Center reception area, and named it Mrs. Nesbitt’s Café. So much for history!

  5

  FDR’s Cocktail Hour, the High Point of the Day

  From my earliest memories I was aware that my grandfather enjoyed a special event each evening that was extremely important to him. And I was also aware that my grandmother didn’t quite approve of the goings-on at her husband’s “cocktail hour.” Yet the cocktail tradition had been a household fixture for years. I have in my possession my grandfather’s “bar,” which he used in our house on Sixty-Fifth Street in New York City during the years of Prohibition in the 1920s. It looks like a bookcase when closed. But when opened—there are all the bottles and glasses!

  Whether Franklin Roosevelt was at the White House or at his home in Hyde Park, without fail he observed a daily cocktail hour. He dubbed it “the children’s hour.” But I was not allowed to attend until I had reached the magic age of nine. It was then that I was first included at the dining table for supper, and hence also at the cocktail party that preceded it. From 6:15 to 7:00 in the evening became the highlight of my day; I was included in a select company.

  When I was younger I had passed by my grandfather’s second-floor study during the hallowed hour, and heard animated voices and laughter from behind the large mahogany door of his study. In my childhood there were many things in which I was not included because I was not yet old enough. I wore short trousers and my jacket had no collar until I was twelve years old. And the only reason I was included at table, and hence at the cocktail hour, when only nine was because my twelve-year-old sister became eligible. And my mother did not want to leave me having supper alone on the third floor. Besides, both family and friends remarked how well-informed I seemed for my age and could converse about current events. This decision annoyed my sister greatly, but she put on a good face to accommodate her three years younger brother.

  At the end of a long work day, after leaving the Oval Office in the West Wing, FDR might have a quick swim in the White House pool and receive a brief massage of his useless legs before being wheeled back to the second floor of the White House, the family quarters. He always changed his suit for the evening, putting on a clean shirt and a different tie. Then he was wheeled into the handsome oval study that was conveniently located right next door to his bedroom.

  FDR would preside over the gathering from behind his desk, seated in his big swivel chair. Papers had been pushed aside to make room for the large tray of drinks in front of him. Guests assembled quickly, comprising perhaps a dozen interesting people, plus a few family members and friends, mostly people who fit the sort of company FDR liked. Sis and I would arrive with our mother and, after giving our grandfather a hug and a peck on the cheek, move quickly to the sidelines. Because I knew most of the guests, I felt quite at ease in this adult company, and said a polite “Good evening” to everyone in response to their “Hello, Buzzie.”

  There was an atmosphere of conviviality. Conversation was spontaneous, even noisy, a mixture of lighthearted banter and serious dialogue, but it always touched on politics. I was on my best behavior, listening and taking it all in. Like many well-bred children of my generation, I had been brought up to be “seen and not heard.” I couldn’t get enough of the exuberant style of my grandfather and his guests and their amusing talk—most of it gossip about what had gone on that day in Congress or in one of the many government bureaus. The day’s newspaper headlines and the latest opinions of prominent columnists were also good fodder for conversation. There would be bursts of laughter as the humorous sides of people and events were brought to light. FDR’s sallies dominated. These were usually broad observations but could occasionally be quite pointed, even personal, yet all in good fun. That was the style of FDR’s cocktail hour. Yes, it was gossipy, but I never heard a really mean word—well, maybe one or two about this or that hostile Republican senator or archconservative congressman.

  A cocktail-hour regular, and one well-suited for this atmosphere, was Harry Hopkins. Of course, with his chronic stomach problems he shouldn’t have been drinking at all. Nonetheless, he made sure that he got his full quota of martinis. His slanted but engaging smile made it seem as if he was always on the edge of laughter or about to make a sardonic comment. How he could quip! He was one of the most amusing of the crowd. Slouched, leaning forward, a slightly cynical expression on his face and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth—he shouldn’t have been smoking, either—his observations always hit the mark, and the funny bone.

  When Harry remarried after his wife died, it was to a chic lady named Louise Macy, known as “Louie”—a former correspondent and former Paris editor of Harper’s Bazaar. He was obviously enchanted with his new wife. He straightened up and tried to look more like the sophisticate he really was. My grandfather too enjoyed Louie’s repartee, and she became one of the select few women to whom FDR had a particular attachment. Eleanor tolerated some of these women but not others. Mrs. Hopkins unfortunately landed in the latter category.

  She fell afoul with my grandmother when she rearranged the table setting one evening, a task my grandmother always did herself. “Louie” had overstepped, and the first lady so informed her. This was always a danger for women in FDR’s social circle. Harry Hopkins himself, I was told, advised the handsome Trude Pratt, soon to be Mrs. Lash, not to get too close to “the Boss” or she might lose Mrs. Roosevelt’s friendship. Trude became more circumspect.

  More sober—in every respect—was FDR’s chief speechwriter, Judge Samuel Rosenman. He could get off a good remark from time to time, though his delivery often was. Perhaps his wife, Dorothy, hanging on his arm, was a dampening influence. Less reserved was Robert Sherwood, a new addition to the select group of speechwriters. But he was more than just a talker; he
took it all in—and later published the well-known biography Roosevelt and Hopkins.

  FDR’s military aide and general factotum “Pa” Watson—Major General Edwin Watson—was deceptive. On the surface he seemed a bit of a buffoon, laughing heartily at everyone’s jokes, especially his boss’s. His face was always wreathed in amusement, but underneath a shrewd intelligence was at work gathering the rumors and gossip being shared, all of which he would assess with FDR the next day. My grandfather rated Watson so highly that he later would make him his appointments secretary. Being a family man, he usually went home after cocktails, preferring to have supper with his wife and children.

  Bill Hassett, FDR’s appointments secretary at that time, was a quiet man. During the cocktail hour he listened more than he commented, in the same way as his colleague Watson. Despite his reserved nature, he was delightful company for those who came to know him. Of course, he would comment on the evening’s conversations the next day if asked to do so by “the Boss.”

  It was my grandfather’s secretary, Missy LeHand, who coined the title “the Boss” for her employer. Having worked for FDR since his campaign for the vice presidency in 1920, and having lived with us as part of the household after my grandfather contracted polio, she had a special place at the cocktail hour. If my grandmother was absent—which she frequently was—and my mother wasn’t present, Missy acted as FDR’s hostess. Every one of the other guests knew she had probably more influence with “the Boss” than anyone else in his entourage. When it came to repartee, she was quick. (She was like a second grandmother to me. I was a teenager before I knew she had any name other than Missy.) Because of her closeness to FDR, it was all the more remarkable that she was successful in getting along with my grandmother, whose friendship she made great effort to maintain. Eleanor and Missy had a remarkable mutual sympathy and understanding.

  My grandmother’s response to the cocktail hour was cordial but plainly reserved. She usually didn’t make an appearance until toward the end—she had “too many other things to do,” she said, and then she would reappear to announce that dinner would soon be served.

  No one who knew Eleanor Roosevelt expected her to engage in sophisticated chatter, let alone appreciate the boisterous conversational atmosphere that her husband enjoyed. Somehow, perhaps as a matter of choice, she had not developed a talent for making the amusing remark at the right time. Maybe she felt that such a level of talk tended to diminish the importance of serious matters, and, what is more, that the fun was often had at the expense of other people. True enough: most of the pointed remarks were aimed at someone present, one generally quite capable of shooting back.

  During the proceedings, my grandfather would sit back in his big chair—telling stories, making quips, or maybe just smiling, raising his eyebrows, and laughing loudly at the remarks of others. After the first round of his martinis—which were, I was informed, truly awful—he would promptly mix another round, adding four parts gin to one part dry vermouth and then an additional splash of gin—just to make sure he hadn’t miscounted. He might also add a few drops of absinthe—“for taste.” Swishing it around in the martini shaker “till it was very cold,” he would fill up any glass or goblet placed in front of him. Today you can see displayed in the museum at the Roosevelt Library the shaker and some of the glassware and silver goblets used at those cocktail gatherings.

  At some point FDR’s valet would appear with a bowl of food for Fala’s supper. My grandfather’s little Scotty would next run over to his master who would take the bowl and hold it in the air, demanding that Fala roll over and sit. Then, and only then, did the president’s pet receive his meal. Afterward, Fala, always the performer, would circulate among the guests to be greeted warmly, cadging what small tidbits he could charm from his admirers.

  Since I was always the youngest dinner guest, I was, by protocol, the last to leave to descend to the family dining room. As the other guests were bowing each other out, I would discreetly empty the dregs from a martini glass or two, especially if someone had been foolish enough to leave a nicely marinated green olive at the bottom of the glass. Then I would quickly follow my family and their guests, glancing at the seating chart as I went by the second-floor usher’s desk to find out whom I would be seated next to at supper. Would he or she be interesting? Or one of the less desirable, which is to say less lively guests whom my grandmother had felt obliged to invite?

  Many times during the year, especially in the summer, my grandfather would return along the Hudson River by train to Hyde Park. His daily ritual of the cocktail hour played out quite differently in the Big House. His study there was tiny—it had been the children’s schoolroom when my mother and her younger brothers were growing up. About fifteen feet square, it had built-in bookcases that made the space still more cramped. In this small room afternoon cocktails were served.

  This was in sharp contrast to Washington, where in the president’s White House study, cocktail hour attendees could mill about and mix freely. They had space to wave their arms and gesticulate, using expansive body language to emphasize the point of a juicy story.

  In the Big House at Hyde Park there was no room for that. FDR’s desk and armchair took up so much space, and there were so many guests, that people were forced to hold their drinks close to their chests—while remembering not to wave their arms! Getting the host’s attention for a refill from the ever-ready martini pitcher was a major maneuver accompanied by cries of “Excuse me!” even though it was only a few feet away.

  Of course there were fewer people present at Hyde Park than at the White House. Still, the same sense of fun prevailed. My grandfather brought only three or four of his staff from Washington, but family and friends made up the difference. Into this little room we would be packed like sardines, early evening revelers eager for gossip and the infamous martinis. Some didn’t stay for supper—our dining table held only twelve people easily—but no one wanted to miss the conviviality of FDR’s cocktail hour.

  A regular at Hyde Park was cousin “Polly,” Laura Delano, from Rhinebeck. She had hair of brushed blue or purple henna with a widow’s peak, and she wore so many rings and bracelets that one wondered how she could raise her drink aloft. In contrast was Cousin Daisy: Margaret Suckley, demure but handsome, and FDR’s favorite lady. There was also our portly Cousin Leila, who took up twice as much space as Bill Hassett, the skinny appointments secretary, and whatever other family members might be on hand. Too, there could be several Morgenthaus visiting from their family estate close by at Fishkill. My grandmother occasionally brought two or three guests from her Val-Kill cottage, but she herself usually stood in the doorway, both in and out of the game. My grandfather seemed just as happy among this packed throng as he was presiding over the grander cocktail hour in his spacious White House study.

  Unfortunately, the delightful “hour” was in truth little more than half or perhaps three-quarters of an hour. My grandmother set the schedule. Her appearance at the gathering signaled that supper would soon be announced. “Top up and drink up” was what her arrival signified.

  Whether at Hyde Park or at the White House, upon the first lady’s entrance into Papa’s study, the decorum improved, voices softened, and the level of noise noticeably dropped. My mother used the term “a wet blanket” in describing her mother’s effect on the crowd. Her brother, my uncle Elliott, simply quipped, “Here comes Mother!”

  We were familiar, as were most of the guests, with her characteristic reaction to a slurred voice or a loud guffaw from someone enjoying FDR’s martinis a bit too much. This did not elicit even a mild glare of disapproval. Instead her face registered concern for the culprit, coupled with a touch of sadness. Everyone held Eleanor Roosevelt in such high esteem that this expression was sobering enough for all present.

  Eleanor Roosevelt’s attitude toward drinking and its loosening of the tongue was often the occasion for family amusement. But it was serious; it had a long history, its roots in an unfortunate family afflic
tion of alcohol abuse, one that had affected her throughout her life. It had begun with her father when she was a youngster, and then, as when she was living with her grandmother and two wild alcoholic uncles, and still later with her younger brother. My grandmother thus was intimately acquainted with the behavioral problems created by addiction to alcohol. And she worried about her sons. My reading is that my grandmother had a deep-seated fear that liquor would lead to “loss of control,” and this fear, deep within her, was always an important factor in her way of being, of relating to the world around her.

  At Hyde Park my sister and I well knew we had to arrive as early as possible for the cocktail hour, lest we get squeezed out of our grandfather’s small study. (There was no room for my dog, Ensign, so he stayed upstairs.) With ginger ale in hand, I would position myself on the far side of the room, squeezed up against a bookcase, playing the wallflower, so that when guests dispersed I could enjoy my usual game of emptying the martini glasses and downing the olives.

  Both at the Big House and at the White House, FDR’s cocktail hour was markedly different from other Washington functions. Usually when its government or business people gather to share a drink at the end of the day, a certain amount of useful information is typically exchanged. This is expected. Perhaps a deal is casually struck, or a congressional leader is able to test the political waters for an amendment to a piece of legislation. At the very least, somebody usually takes being in the company of his superiors as an opportunity to show off, scoring points or just plain swanking.