The Fat Lady Sang

by Robert Evans

  The allure of the evening, however, wasn’t the caviar or the champagne—or, for that matter, the film. Rather, it was their hostess, the most glamorous, sought-after, desired woman in the world, Elizabeth Taylor Todd.

  It was after midnight. Buchwald was breathless, running back and forth between the tent and the restaurant. Like a nervous Jew, he kept checking to see if the president and first lady had arrived. Finally, paranoia overcame pragmatism, forcing Art to confront the party’s host.

  “Mike, the numbers are running high tonight. I’m just a journalist. Can’t afford to vault these-size bills for long.”

  Mike interrupted, his face forlorn. “Do you think for a minute I’d leave you dry?” Feigning hurt, he looked at his watch. “It’s one thirty now. The party should break up by three. Come by the Madison [the hotel where that night’s ‘royal couple’ were staying] around noon tomorrow. We’ll have some brunch and settle up then. Don’t forget to bring the receipts,” he said with a wink. “Need ’em for the record.” He put his arms around Buchwald. “Hey, ain’t it a great night? Come on! Let’s get out of here and enjoy it. Hey, we deserve it!”

  Mike’s quick response to Art’s problem would have put anyone else’s mind to rest. Not Art. He knew Mike too fuckin’ well. Minutes later, he cornered Elizabeth.

  “See you tomorrow for brunch!”

  “Wish we could darling, but we’ve got a plane on hold to fly us out at ten A.M. to Chicago. . . .”

  Art let the moment pass. But not for long.

  As the clock struck nine the next morning, Art struck home, ringing and ringing the fuckin’ bell of the presidential suite till it opened. There stood Mike, already half dressed and packed to leave.

  Buchwald was on fire. “Pay up, motherfucker!”

  Without missing a beat, Mike threw his arm around Buchwald. “Just writing you a note. The bill’s taken care of. Send it to Elizabeth’s business manager. . . .”

  “Where is Elizabeth? I want to confirm it with her.”

  “Sure.” Mike smiled. “Elizabeth! Art’s here. Wants to check something out with you.”

  Art proceeded to the royal bedroom . . . empty. Rushed back to the salon. Empty.

  Naïvely, I interrupted Art, there in the dressing room at Carroll’s.

  “Do you think he meant to stiff you?”

  Buchwald laughed so hard he had to take off his trifocals to handkerchief the tears running down his face.

  “Stiff me? I’d still be on the corner waitin’ . . . !”

  18

  Why is it that I was less secure walking into Sumner’s party at Spago that Saturday night than I was a half century ago, walking onto Soundstage 16 at Universal Studios for my first screen gig, playing Irving Thalberg opposite the great Jimmy Cagney in Man of a Thousand Faces?

  Afraid? Big-time! Wouldn’t you be? My first scene in flicks and I’m telling Cagney how to act?

  Lookin’ back, it was a piece of cake compared to the cast I was about to face.

  My date for the night was Paranoia, and she was diggin’ her heels in but good. You look like the straw man. No . . . the tin man. No . . .

  I hated to be rude to my date, but all I could think was . . .

  Get the fuck out of my brain—and stay out!

  The clock struck seven. My right foot was in the door and on the floor. Knowing Sumner as I did, I knew enough to make sure I was the first guest to arrive. Unfashionable? Sure, for anyone else. For Sumner, I would have showed up for dinner at eight in the morning.

  I gave Wolfgang a hearty embrace, complimenting him on the evening’s décor, and we walked over to the bar. Quickly, I ordered a triple straight scotch—with a straw. Didn’t want to start the night by spilling a drink or letting it slip through my hand.

  Surrounded by the evening’s chosen, I was scared shitless.

  The birthday boy quickly made his way toward me, wide-smiling.

  “Was I right, pushing you to come?”

  “Were you ever! First night out and I hit the jackpot! Wolfgang’s outdone himself. I don’t think he’s ever done this for anyone else.”

  Within minutes, a steady flow of guests filled the room in their custom splendor. The flickering of hundreds of candles, the allure of the newest creations from dozens of couturiers: the evening had a magical aura. And yet, as the festivities shifted into high gear, I couldn’t help thinking, Something’s wrong here.

  I’d known most of the guys there for years. To them, I’d always been looked upon as the Kid.

  Now I caught myself in the mirror. Have I aged that quickly?

  Perhaps I had. But what the fuck am I complaining about? I had a triple stroke. I was down for the count. And now I was back to talk about it.

  All I needed was a hook. Something to carry me through the evening, head held high.

  Serenaded by Stradivariuses, the guests glided to their antique French tables of eight, where Wolfgang’s personally prepared foie gras awaited them.

  Seventy-five years young, Sumner was like a kid, totally ingenuous, awed by the festivities in his honor. Though a billionaire many times over, at heart he was still a modest New England theater owner. My eye caught him standing alone in the back of the room, watching the celebration from afar.

  His expression said it all: Is this really happening to me?

  Sneaking up, I kissed him on the cheek. “You’re gonna outlive all of us, you motherfucker!”

  He smiled.

  “Give it to ya straight, Sumner. You’re the only guy in town who could have pulled this cast together. I ain’t easy to please, and you know it! But tonight breaks the mold.”

  He blushed like a kid hearing his first I love you.

  And, just like that, the expression on his face gave me my hook:

  Grant ’em.

  That’s right: Cary Grant ’em.

  Learned from the best. Mr. Cleft Chin himself. From the time we met, until the last time he closed his eyes, we were never more than seven digits away from one another. He’s the only guy I’ve ever met who had more panache walking into a room backward than anyone walking into a room forward. A master of self-deprecation: Throughout the years, he enjoyed telling people, “I’m really not that good an actor. I just know how to play myself better than anyone else.”

  To me, he said it with a wink: “Be yourself. It’s easier.”

  I saw Cary’s charm in action when I was his personal guest at the premiere of An Affair to Remember. It was one memorable night—not so much for the film, but rather for what followed. The reviews had come in, and they were underwhelming. But Cary knew not to show and tell—a knack that made Archie Leach, the real man, as dangerous a poker player as Cary Grant, the actor. Whoever approached him that night, I watched as he preempted their false congratulations by deflecting his attention right back onto them—complimenting their name, their family, their health, their business. And then he was on to another. So masterful his charm, not one had an inkling what hit them.

  I’m gonna Grant ’em, I thought.

  Gonna Cary Grant the ones who ask me about my stroke.

  I made my way to our table but made sure I was the last to sit down. Checking the table’s cast, I knew one thing: This was gonna be one tough gig. I knew all seven of my dinner partners. All top pros, all looking to play Information, Please! It was crisis time.

  A tub of caviar surrounded by crème fraîche, slices of lime, and potato shells . . . it was a table set to feast. If I tried to pick up a knife, fork, or spoon, though, I knew it could blow my cover before I said a fuckin’ word.

  Instead, I resolved to shock them.

  I wide-smiled the inquisitive round table.

  “Wolfgang’s somethin’ else! He’s transformed Spago to Maxim’s at its best.”

  A theatrical pause, then a quick look to Sherry Lansing. “My luck! Nothing’s a bigger turn-on to me than caviar and potato shells and I can’t touch it. It’s the one day of the year I can’t even have a drink! Tomorrow, of all days,
I’ve got an unbreakable appointment at Cedars.”

  “Darling, change it,” Sherry purred. “Who’s your doctor?”

  “Kivowitz!”

  “Oh, he’ll change it. Easily.”

  “Don’t think so, Sherry. Set in stone. Of all the machinery at Cedars, they’ve lined up their prized computer rig to evaluate me. They’re the only place in the country that has it. That thing’s got a longer waiting list than any of our pictures.”

  She laughed. “We’re in the wrong business, then.”

  “You said it, I didn’t. I called Kivowitz this morning in Aspen, trying to tell him tomorrow’s impossible for me. He says he’s personally flying in—be there at seven, no later—and he hangs up. I couldn’t tell him my extenuating circumstances were a night out at Spago’s.”

  Birthday Host Redstone walked over to the table. “Hope everyone’s enjoying themselves.”

  Candy Spelling took his hand. “Sumner, you certainly know how to bring out the best in people. Never seen Spago light up like tonight.”

  Suddenly his eye caught my empty plate. In a commanding officer’s tone: “Start eating or I’ll think you don’t like the food.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Sumner, I’m just a slow starter.”

  Luckily, he was called away to another table.

  “He’s my boss, but he checks in on me like I’m the night watchman,” I said to Daryl Hannah, sitting next to me. “If he comes back, can we switch plates?”

  Twenty minutes later, the birthday boy was on his way back. Quick on the pickup, Daryl cut her soufflé in half and switched plates. When the birthday boy got there, I blurted out: “Wow! I wish I could package Wolfgang’s cooking, Sumner. Could be a good Viacom subsidiary.”

  He came. He saw. He laughed. He left.

  Thank God. I got away with it. Kissing Daryl’s cheek, “Thanks for them reflexes.”

  Close to an hour now, and still not a sign that anyone suspected that I was anything but in top form. All I had to do was make my way through dessert. Well, I’m finally into my third act, I thought.

  “Aaron,” I asked Spelling, “do you think the birthday boy’s gonna make another round?”

  “I’ll go over and talk with him, and keep him where he is for a while.”

  “Mr. Spelling? I owe you big for that one!”

  “You’re right—you do.”

  Jackie Bisset started to laugh. “Bob, this reminds me of going to a Royal Post Premiere dinner in London. I was seated at the royal table and—just like clockwork—as soon as we sat down, I became royally nauseous. Too afraid to eat a thing . . . but too scared to be disrespectful. Without even thinking to excuse myself to the loo, somehow I made it through the entire dinner. Charm got me through the meal without anyone noticing I hadn’t touched a morsel. Isn’t it bizarre, Bob, that watching is so much more painful than doing?”

  Thank you, Jackie, I said to myself. You just jump-started my third act.

  I got the table’s attention. “Got to give you a great story about watching.”

  “I’m sure you can give us a lot of stories about watching, Bob,” cracked Arnold Kopelson.

  “I could, Arnold, but it’d be too boring for you. Do any of you remember Jean Negulesco, the director?”

  Dominick Dunne: “Do I remember? I worked with him at Fox. Directed some of the best romances. Three Coins in the Fountain . . .”

  “He also did The Best of Everything, a picture I was in.”

  “Not one of his best,” Dunne quipped back.

  “It was for me. Playing in that picture for me, with one of the female leads . . .”

  “Which one?” asked Candy.

  “Kiss-and-don’t-tell has been my style since before you were born, Candy. Let’s just say, a guard saw the both of us leave my Winnebago at two in the morning, and within forty-eight hours the whole lot knew about it.

  “When he found out, Negulesco walked into my dressing room. Didn’t say a word. Then, in his European style, he shrugged. ‘Robert, one day you are going to be like me.’ I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about.

  “ ‘When I was your age, all I wanted to do was make love to every leading lady I worked with. As I got older, I used to like to watch people make love. Today, now, I like to watch the people who watch the people who make love.

  “ ‘Enjoy it while you can, Bob. Everyone’s the same. The older you get, the more watching becomes better than the doing.’

  “That’s what he said, Jackie. But he was wrong! Whether it be food, sex—anything—the doing is still more fun than the watching.”

  By the time I finished, the dessert had arrived. I’d made it to the finish line. Couldn’t believe I’d pulled it off.

  What had started out a potential horror show ended up as one of the most memorable nights in years.

  Wherever you are, Archie, I thought, I hope I did you proud. Were you ever right! Not one of them even asked about my stroke!

  19

  Two days before Turkey Day, 1998. As the clock struck noon, I hit Spago, the top luncheon rendezvous in Beverly Hills. My luncheon date was no beauty—rather, my beady-eyed locust attorney. The subject? My will.

  It would be a quick lunch and a quick will. Doesn’t take long to divide nothing.

  When I got there, I looked around and realized I was the only guy in the joint. Grabbing the bar phone, I quick-dialed my secretary. “Where the hell is the locust? He’s five minutes late already.”

  “Mr. Evans, I’m terribly sorry. I tried to reach you. I’ve made a mistake. The lunch was actually set for one, not twelve.”

  “Sorry’s no answer! If you can’t get a luncheon date straight, how the hell can I depend on you to even open the mail?”

  “Mr. Evans, you must get a cell phone, like everyone else.”

  “Oh, really? Get this straight—I’m not a doctor. I’m not a hooker. And I don’t like . . . being . . . on . . . call. End of subject.”

  I banged down the phone. My eyes spanned the elegant Spago, still being dressed for lunch. There was Wolfgang himself, checking the tables, reservations, flowers, and every nuance that makes Spago singular. Wolfgang spotted me at the bar and came over.

  “Bob, did you hear? They’re doing a book on me! The Kid Stays in the Kitchen!”

  Both of us laughed. A fond embrace between two old friends of many decades.

  “What are you doing here this early?”

  “Thought we’d talk turkey, and you ain’t easy to catch.”

  “Come! We have a drink in the back together.” He led me over to a booth.

  “Don’t get it, Wolf. It’s been thirty years, and you’re faster on your feet now than you were then. There ain’t no better sprint runner. Kitchen to the table, table to the kitchen. How do you do it?”

  “I love it, that’s how.”

  “You’re a lucky kraut. The wealthiest I know. How few people love what they do.” Our drinks arrived. I raised my glass. “The past we can’t do anything about, the future is unknown. A Thanksgiving Day toast to the present!”

  “Ah, but the past was such fun!”

  I couldn’t help but wide-smile. It sure as hell was.

  “You were a kid chef at Ma Maison, right? And your boss, what was his name . . . ? Patrick Terrail!”

  “Patrick Terrail was not a restaurant man, Bob. He was the son of the top restaurateur in all of France—Claude Terrail. And competitive, too. He wanted desperately to be a success, and that’s where the hitch came. He knew I was the key to that success. So even in my twenties I had, as you would say, the run of the house. No one knew the kitchen better than me, because I loved it! I could make any dish better. And when you have the key, you can open many a door. Money? I couldn’t have cared less. But I had one thing no other chef had—my own private table in the restaurant. It was front and center, and it was mine alone to seat.”

  “Why was that important?”

  “I looked at it every day as my party. Money could not buy you
entrance. It was Wolfgang’s corner. That, to me, was wealth. Patrick didn’t like it at all. But he had no choice. It was either Wolf or the wolves would be after him. Without Wolf, Ma Maison would have been a hamburger joint in a month.”

  “You couldn’t have been that good at that age!”

  “I was. I worked sixteen hours a day, eight in the kitchen and eight at Puck’s round table of eight. You know what’s crazy, Bob? No money could buy a seat at Wolfgang’s table. It was full-time reserved.” A reflective laugh. “There I was, just a chef . . . and every day I hosted Woody Allen, Helmut Newton, Jackie Bisset, Farrah Fawcett, Gianni Agnelli, Richard Burton, Jack Nicholson, Warren Beatty, Alain Delon, and of course you! Then, I was a snob. Today, I’m just rich. You have no idea how I had to switch tables and reservations when you and Delon would come. Why do you think I never charged you? Ach, there’s not a table in the city that touches it today.”

  “Never will be, Wolf.”

  “I learned something as a chef when I was very young. Inverse snobbism—it’s the only dish the wealthiest can’t afford to order.”

  “Wolf, man or woman, who was the hottest ticket ever to sit at your table?”

  “A man? I’m sorry to say this to you, Bob, but by far it was Alain Delon. When rumors went around that he’d be there, reservations would go up twenty percent. All women!”

  “How about women? C’mon, concentrate. I’ll bet you come up with a name.”

  Wolf sat for a moment, concentrating. Then, taking a pen from his pocket, he slowly wrote a name and quickly covered it with a napkin. “Let’s see how good my memory is. Pick up the napkin, Bob.”

  I did . . . then stared him straight in the eye. “You fuckin’ kraut! You hit the bull’s-eye.”

  “How could I forget her, Bob? It was she who made me a celebrity. . . .” He laughed gently. “But I was scared shitless having Madame Claude herself use Ma Maison as her hangout. What a dummkopf! Thought she would close the restaurant in a week.”

  He leaned closer and half whispered, “If Patrick had known who she was, he’d never have let her in. But without Madame Claude, Ma Maison would never have become Ma Maison. Remember those Saturdays? It was Madame Claude, Pierre Galleut, Alain Delon, and you. Claude once told me that between San Diego and San Francisco, she had at least thirty clients, all very wealthy, who married her girls. There wasn’t a girl who wouldn’t be happy to hear from her. But she would never call or ask for anything.”