The choice of topics discussed at Groucho’s during mealtimes was unpredictable. One day, at lunch with nurse Donna, the conversation turned to hamsters in general, and Donna’s in particular:
GROUCHO
What do you hear from your hamsters?
NURSE DONNA
Just chewing all night long. I haven’t slept for nights, ever since they got loose in the house. I’ve put out food to catch them, but they eat the food and get away.
GROUCHO
Hamsters can be pretty wily, like the Six Flying Hamsters.
I
Were the Six Flying Hamsters like Swayne’s Rats and Cats?
GROUCHO
Nothing was like Swayne’s Rats and Cats.
I
Are you going to tell us about the Six Flying Hamsters?
GROUCHO
Yeah. The Six Flying Hamsters was one of the most famous acts in show business. They did a flying act. They played all over the world. In Paris they were a great hit, and ate the cheese—the soft cheese, not the hard cheese—and wine. In China they learned to eat with chopsticks, and did their act in Chinese. In New York they played the Palace, and Variety said they were “socko.” They were the biggest, and they were impossible to follow. Nobody could follow them. They were next to last on the bill, and there were some acrobats after them, but they couldn’t follow the Six Flying Hamsters. They used to do three shows a day. At the end of their act, they’d fly out, but they were always back for the next show. The act lasted about forty minutes.
I
What could they do for an encore?
GROUCHO
For an encore one of them sang. She sang “Josephine in Her Flying Machine.” Just that one song. The act died when the female committed suicide. She was hopelessly in love with one of the males, Irving Hamster. You see, he was the only Jew of all the Hamsters. The female Hamster was the one who smoked the cigar. She always smoked it. It ruined her throat, but she smoked it anyway. The Six Flying Hamsters was a very important act. They were the headliners. E. F. Albee, the head of the United Booking Office, said it was one of the greatest acts he’d ever seen. And he hadn’t seen many acts. They don’t have acts like that anymore. Too expensive. They got paid in zlotys. They’d be around yet, but the price of oil got so high they couldn’t afford to travel anymore. They had very few contract problems because they had a very good agent. He was a beaver. Before that their agent was S. P. Eagle.
I
I never heard of an act like that before.
GROUCHO
(With a twinkle in his eye) There isn’t that kind of talent around anymore.
When Richard Adams came to the United States in 1974 on a tour to promote his best-selling book, Watership Down, he had one request to make of his publishers: He wanted to meet Groucho Marx. Groucho was approached, and one afternoon he, Erin, and I had lunch with Richard Adams, his wife, and their daughter at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Richard Adams was there waiting, and he was totally prepared for the visit. He was more familiar with the specifics of Groucho’s films than Groucho, having seen some of them more recently than Groucho had, and perhaps more times. His approach was also more analytical and more detailed than Groucho’s, whose approach was always more intuitive and more pragmatic. Asked about some specific bit, Groucho would say, “I never analyzed it.” Adams was highly articulate in his discussion of the films, especially the first five Paramount films, and Groucho was clearly pleased by the respect of this intelligent and successful fan. Groucho, however, failed to appreciate Adams’s criticism of Room Service. Richard Adams also unwittingly produced copies of The Marx Brothers Scrapbook. At that very moment, Groucho was embroiled in a costly legal action over that book. Richard Adams’s daughter was sent next door to Brentano’s in quest of something else to autograph. She returned with a copy of Groucho and Me, and Groucho wrote in the book, “To a very Bunny Man.” Adams had brought a copy of his own book, which he gave Groucho.
As we were finishing the appetizer course, we were greeted by French Consul General Jacques Roux, who had arrived to eat lunch and who had been a visitor with his wife and Henri Langlois of the Cinémathèque Française at Groucho’s house. Groucho said, “Hi, General.” Sometime later, after a leisurely European-style lunch, Monsieur Roux nodded to us as he departed. Groucho was just finishing his entree, carefully working on the last forkful, meticulously dissecting it into two forkfuls under the nervous gaze of the waiter. Disbelievingly, he had been trying to seize Groucho’s plate for more than half an hour, laboring under the delusion that he had finished, simply because no one could possibly eat that slowly. But Groucho defended his plate, and may indeed have increased his slowness. It was a long, long lunch.
At the end of the day Groucho was still mulling over what Richard Adams had said:
GROUCHO
He said he didn’t like Room Service. Did you hear what he said?
I
Of course, but I also heard him say how much he admired just about everything you did, and it was certainly clear how much he respects you. Besides, you told me that you weren’t that enchanted yourself by Room Service.
GROUCHO
I can say it. (Raising his eyebrows for me) I wasn’t going to let him say it.
One of Groucho’s virtues was that he usually recognized when he was being unreasonable—even though that insight didn’t make him any more reasonable.
A year after the fact, Richard Adams, discussing the event with Newsweek, told them how furious his publishers were with him when he refused to terminate a long lunch with Groucho Marx in order to plug his own book at a previously scheduled appearance on a television show.
“…It would have been dishonorable and ungentlemanly to leave the hotel before Groucho, the greatest comedian of the century. If I’d walked out on Groucho Marx to go on some moneymaking affair of my own, I wouldn’t have had any self-respect left.”
Groucho made his own brand of fun. At a tea party with a group of socially prominent and proper ladies to plan his appearance for charity at an affair called “A Day at the Races,” the conversation remained on an elevated plane. The ladies conversed in well-modulated tones until Groucho interrupted with: “I’ve got to take a leak. There’s one thing that’s true: no matter how rich you are, sometimes you have to take a leak.”
“The ladies really broke up over this,” Erin commented. “The whole atmosphere relaxed, and a great deal more was accomplished.”
There were frequent visits to charitable groups that were planning to raise money through Groucho. I once asked him if he minded being so exploited by everyone for something, and if it ever made him feel the way a beautiful girl feels. He answered, “No—to both questions.”
Groucho admitted to me that “big parties were never exactly my glass of tea,” but he continued to turn out for a few anyway. His appearance at any Hollywood party was often the scene-stealing event. Irwin Allen, who produced some of Groucho’s pictures, rediscovered this when he gave a party for the Hollywood premiere of his Towering Inferno at the Beverly Hilton Hotel. Many celebrities were there, including William Holden, Henry Fonda, Fred Astaire, and Jennifer Jones, but the picture in the papers the next day was of Groucho dancing with Red Buttons.
Groucho had first asked Fred Astaire, who declined to dance with him. Next, he asked Red Buttons, who was sitting nearby, and who leaped to his feet. Strobe lights started flashing as reporters gathered around Groucho and Red Buttons, who made the most striking couple on the floor.
When the photographers were satisfied, Groucho relinquished Red, who danced with his wife, Alicia, while Groucho danced with me. I was surprised to find that the same person whose walk at eighty-four was no longer always steady was still a graceful and professional dancer who not only looked good on the dance floor, but who could make his partner look good.
Groucho liked to dine out with friends, but because of his salt-free diet, he found it a bit complicated. This didn’t stop him, though, so when Elliott G
ould and George Segal suggested a Beverly Hills Chinese restaurant called Mr. Chow, Groucho accepted in a Chinese accent. The group consisted of Groucho, Erin, Elliott and his wife Jennifer, George and his wife Marion, and me.
At the restaurant the first blow was struck when Groucho announced he couldn’t eat anything with salt in it. Next, George and Marion Segal declined anything with monosodium glutamate in it because they suspected that they had been poisoned elsewhere a few nights earlier by this chemical additive. Elliott Gould told the waiter, “No food, just seven glasses of water.”
Eventually they compromised by ordering everything on the menu, just as Harpo had done many years earlier. The meal included such varied delicacies as fried seaweed, Peking duck, and assorted Chinese entrees. Groucho had never eaten with chopsticks, but when he saw mine, he couldn’t resist trying them himself. Even in his eighties he was ready to experiment. Being a quick study, he used his chopsticks with considerable dexterity throughout the whole long meal.
When actress Michelle Phillips invited Groucho to a dinner in his honor, all of the other guests would be beautiful young women, she promised—a promise kept. A few nights later, he and I arrived at the Summit Ridge site of the party. We were a little early, and the door was slightly ajar. Groucho pushed the door the rest of the way. Just inside, deep in concentration arranging the table, was a young lady unclad only in a towel. Seeing Groucho, she screamed, which he didn’t take personally. Then she dashed for the stairs, covering her confusion as she fled. A little later she reappeared coiffed and composed and fully dressed, wearing a perfectly see-through top.
Michelle appeared with her daughter, Chynna, and Michelle played the piano and sang for Groucho, who was sharing some avocado dip with actress Helena Kallianiotes. Groucho enjoyed his unique position with “these lovely young things” until photographer Harry Benson arrived with his camera to be the only other man present and to immortalize the moment for People magazine.
Despite the inevitable insults Groucho was a desirable guest. Jorja Sheldon (who had been actress Jorja Curtright) had been at the receiving end of Grouchoesque humor since her marriage more than twenty years ago to writer Sidney Sheldon, one of Groucho’s closest friends. But Groucho never joked about Jorja’s talent as an actress. “She was a good actress,” he always said, an accolade he took very seriously.
When Jorja first entertained Groucho, she was anxious to make a good impression as a hostess, and she offered him a drink from their well-stocked bar. He asked for Bushmill, the only thing they didn’t have. Only mildly shattered, she was prepared for his next visit:
JORJA SHELDON
Will you have some Bushmill, Grouch?
GROUCHO
I never drink Bushmill. I’ll have a Campari.
When Groucho next visited them, Jorja was ready.
JORJA SHELDON
I’ll fix a Campari for you, Grouch.
GROUCHO
No, thanks. I’ll have some aquavit.
And so it went through the years, and the Sheldons built up their bar with assorted liquors no one ever drank, especially Groucho.
“But now,” Jorja said, “Groucho has mellowed; he’s even sweet. When Groucho gave up drinking, I offered him a glass of tomato juice, and I waited…for him to ask for orange juice, but it didn’t happen. Groucho has mellowed.”
Sidney and Jorja once took Groucho to a restaurant they liked, Jack’s at the Beach. Sidney told me about their entrance:
“Jack was still alive then, and he was really thrilled to have Groucho there, making a tremendous fuss over him. Jack went on like that, and after a while Groucho said, ‘Jack, stop groveling!’”
The Sheldons’ collective heart sank; they knew Groucho really meant it. Sidney understood the extent to which Groucho’s humor is based on telling the truth. They had visions of never being able to return to the place. But everybody laughed, including Jack. Groucho’s voice accompanying an insult was like Picasso’s signature on a drawing. Sidney observed, “Even when Groucho wanted to insult someone, he couldn’t, because no one would take the insult seriously.”
At one Sunday brunch, Jorja had spent the morning on a matzo brie, an omelet with lox, and toasted bagels. She and daughter Mary, Groucho’s goddaughter, carefully arranged the food on lovely china. The silver was shimmering, the linen was crisp, and Groucho had arrived about twenty minutes before. Groucho, Sidney, Marty and Frenchy Allen, Erin, and I were sitting in the living room when Jorja announced triumphantly, “Brunch is served.”
Groucho looked up and said, “It’s about time.”
Dorris Bowdon Johnson, the wife of Nunnally Johnson, a former actress who played in The Grapes of Wrath, also learned to accept Groucho without taking exception. Groucho often visited Nunnally, whose friendship went back to when he worked in New York and lived in Great Neck, as did Nunnally. We were at the Johnsons’ home when Groucho asked Dorris for some milk, so she brought him a glass of milk. He drank it and asked for another glass of milk. He drank that glass as well. Then, as he was leaving, he turned to Dorris and said, “That’s the lousiest milk I ever had.”
One afternoon we found Lauren Bacall having tea at the Johnsons’. Groucho invited her to come over to his house.
GROUCHO
Why don’t you come over to dinner, Betty?
LAUREN BACALL
Are you entertaining?
GROUCHO
Not very.
Groucho ate dinner only once at director George Cukor’s home, but it was a memorable occasion—for George Cukor:
“Olivia de Havilland came from Paris on one of her frequent trips here—she lived in Paris—and I asked her for dinner. She said, ‘May I bring someone?’ I said, ‘Yes, of course, Olivia,’ and she said, ‘I’d like to bring Groucho Marx.’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I never knew he was a beau of yours!’
“Then they came, and he was very, very funny and very charming. But during dinner I had a tablecloth that was rather grand on the table, and little unshaded candles in little open holders. We had dinner, and Groucho was very funny throughout. Then we left the dining room, and Groucho remained. He was dazzling some girl, and he was talking and talking, and they remained after the rest of us had left. Then he came and joined us in the other room.
“Theodore, the temporary butler who serves at all these parties, came in a few minutes later, rather pale and shaken. ‘There’s been a little fire in the dining room.’ He said that when Groucho got up, being absolutely gallant, you know, he just tossed his napkin on the table, as we all do. But he didn’t reckon that it would catch fire, and it caught fire, and there was nobody in the dining room.
“By the time they came to undo the table, the whole table was blazing. Fortunately there was a very heavy mat under the tablecloth, so that was that. There was no damage except the cloth, which was ruined. Nothing else happened, but if they hadn’t come in, it would have taken off. I never used that kind of candleholder again.
“That happened years ago, and I never told Groucho. You said you told him, and he was unmindful that he had committed any arson or anything like that, because it was a very lighthearted evening.”
On those rare occasions that Groucho went to a nightclub, he often became the featured attraction. One night out on the town with Elliott Gould, George Segal, and their wives, Groucho was persuaded to visit a place called The Speakeasy on Sunset Strip.
The place was packed when we arrived, and there didn’t seem to be room enough left for “even one more sardine.” Groucho suggested, “This is the kind of nightclub you should go to during the day.” When the young people there saw who was trying to get in, they were respectfully ecstatic. “Hi, Groucho!” “Look, it’s Groucho!” resounded throughout the neo-Twenties atmosphere.
Immediately some people got up from their tables and offered them to Groucho. The crowd of young people parted to form a path through which we could pass. They found room where there was no room. Groucho took it all in stride, smiling and wondering what he
was doing there.
“It’s like being in a hookshop,” he observed.
Groucho used to go to Palm Springs to see Gummo and Zeppo, and occasionally Gummo or Zeppo would drive to Beverly Hills to have dinner with him. Just before Christmas, a year before Gummo’s death, Groucho decided that we would go to have dinner with his brothers, a trip involving more than five hours of driving back and forth, but he took that right in stride. As Martha, then his cook, put it, “He doesn’t worry about it, he just does it.”
Nurse Donna accompanied us. The driver of the limousine Groucho hired turned out to be a young man from England named Leonard, a good start, as far as Groucho was concerned. (“I had a brother named Leonard.”) During the trip there, Groucho said that he didn’t think he would be happy living in Palm Springs.
“I don’t play golf or tennis or swim, so what would I do? I lived in Palm Springs for eleven years, but I didn’t know any better. I brought Ben Hecht to Palm Springs once, and he looked around and said, ‘There’s nothing here but a lot of fat, old, sunburned Jews.’”
The trip to Palm Springs took three hours, and when we arrived, right on schedule, Zeppo, Gummo, and Gummo’s wife, Helen, were waiting to meet us. Gummo was still married to his first and only wife, something which Groucho greatly respected. When Gummo started to give our chauffeur some money to go and have his dinner, Groucho insisted that Leonard come with us and join the party.
Zeppo, on seeing me (I’d been to Palm Springs before to visit with Zeppo and Gummo at Tamarisk Country Club), exclaimed to Gummo, “Look, here’s the good writer again.” But he told me, “I’m all played out. You won’t get much from me, honey. I’m tired of all this. That’s why I got out.”
Although Zeppo was then in his seventies, he looked much younger. He had fair hair, and his voice sounded as it did in the Paramount comedies. He told me that he was always “a very shy person,” but I didn’t know if I should completely believe him, because he had his hand on my knee at the time.
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