“You’re one of a kind, Jean. Who else could have come up with this!” Beatty said, giving him a few friendly slaps on the back.
“The credit is yours, Warren, you’re the one who said it. I had to do something, there was no way I could just throw you out on the street,” Leon replied.
“This is a real privilege, eating back here, where the magic happens!” Beatty said.
From then on, that improvised table, fruit of a moment’s necessity, became the most sought-after one in the restaurant. And the most exclusive.
Again, Emilio had to grin and bear yet another of Jean’s quirks. He peered over from behind the grill, shaking his head at this gamble, but luckily for them both, Jean always seemed to hit the mark. But then, Emilio had his part in that, too. He always knew how to manage these whims so that they ended with more happiness than grief.
Soon enough, the two men were celebrating the restaurant’s fourth anniversary. The duo functioned like a well-oiled machine as long as the chef held on to his place as the conscience of Jean, who was getting harder and harder to handle.
“Luckily, I don’t ever pay you any mind,” Jean told Emilio. “And see, here we are celebrating it.”
Jean never left the restaurant—or at least it seemed that way to Emilio, who was always eager to rush home at the end of the night. For him, the restaurant was an investment, a place to work and hone his craft, but he got no thrill out of seeing or being seen. When the day was done, he treasured his relaxation at home. Jean, on the other hand, liked to linger, to break down how the evening’s service had gone, to plan ahead for events to come, to dream for the future.
Often Emilio had the unpleasant feeling that Jean wasn’t so much lingering at a place he loved as avoiding being somewhere else: his home. Emilio missed Jean’s wife, Donna, even if Jean didn’t seem to.
But the chef didn’t voice his worries to Jean. Instead he focused on those small battles that he had at least a chance of winning. Like Jean’s gruff manner with his employees, the very opposite of the kindness he offered his customers. While Jean treated his guests with kid gloves, he managed his staff with an iron fist, and that often caused problems. He felt he could demand the maximum from them because he gave his all and he offered the best clientele and the biggest tips in all of Hollywood.
“It’s a matter of principle,” he said. And that was that. His friends, from Emilio to big stars like James Dean, had reproached his obsessiveness and his demanding nature—but as the restaurant grew, he started to cultivate those qualities intentionally. He perfected the Humphrey Bogart stare, which froze the blood of anyone who tried to contradict him.
La Scala was the world for Jean Leon, and he gave it all the time and energy it required, at the expense of everything else. Everything else being, principally, Donna and their two children.
He had become one of the beautiful people, and that was what mattered most to him. At seven every morning, he was already headed to the restaurant. He would have his coffee at one of the booths while he waited for the first deliveries. In theory, he left the closing duties to a manager or headwaiter, but in practice, some VIP always kept him long after the doors were locked. He would come home past midnight, liquor on his breath, bragging of how he’d shared a cognac with this or that celebrity, and he never noticed Donna’s bitterness, nor how it faded gradually into resignation.
With time, his family became a thing to be referred to, but not to be taken care of, and he worried more about thumb smudges on the silver and how the servers carried the plates than whether the strain of his absence was pushing his wife over the edge. Jean was consumed by what he felt was his true calling: feeding the stars’ bodies and souls. And he was a master host: he was happy to let them take center stage while he observed from the wings, making sure to keep gawkers and the press on the sidelines. On the rare occasions when stories did leak out, Jean was never accused of using the stars’ names and stories to buy press for his restaurant. More often than not, the leakers were the stars themselves, so everyone was satisfied. And Jean remained atop his small kingdom, the silent, benevolent monarch.
The restaurant became the place everyone wanted to go, just to see who was there. It was a barometer for celebrities’ success. And all the credit went to the men running the kitchen and the dining room: Emilio Nuñez at the stove, Jean Leon on the floor. A team that shined as brightly as the stars who showed up night after night at La Scala.
CHAPTER 8
“Donna?”
“Yes, she’s on the other line,” the headwaiter repeated.
“Don’t you see I can’t talk right now! Tell her—”
“I’m sorry, Jean, but she said it’s urgent.”
The warmth of that July morning wasn’t what had provoked Jean Leon’s heated reaction as he stood in the middle of the large dining room reserved for the Democratic delegation, who would be dining there that night. The team of waiters following his orders for the preparations stopped at once. Everyone knew Jean couldn’t stand interruptions, and it wasn’t the first time they’d seen their boss fly off the handle.
“Goddamn it!” He cursed, rolling his eyes. “I’ll take it in my office.”
He left in a fury, slamming the door so hard the bottles and wineglasses decorating the dining room clinked loudly in protest.
“What is it, Donna?” he asked impatiently.
“I’m going to the hospital.”
“What? Are you all right? What happened?” His fury abated slightly as he bombarded his wife with questions.
“It’s Jean-Georges. He fell on the playground at school and broke his arm. They took him to Saint John’s.”
“But . . . it’s only his arm, right?”
“Yes.” Even in that single word, Donna couldn’t conceal the disappointment in her voice, which quickly became more strident. “Yes, Jean. Only his arm. I called you because you need to go home and take care of Cécile. She’s too little to come to the hospital with us.”
“What? Are you crazy? We have an extremely important group of customers to take care of in a few hours, Donna. You know that.”
“Then I’ll bring her to the restaurant and someone there can take care of her,” his wife said cuttingly.
“Impossible, Donna. It’s not like we have extra staff just sitting around—everyone’s already working like crazy. A two-year-old kid can’t be here . . . Why don’t you take her to your sister’s?”
“Of course. You’re right. I’ll just dump her off on Vera again. Thanks so much, Jean!”
Donna hung up.
Leon counted to five and let out a breath. It’s like she thinks I’m doing this on purpose. Maybe if she had called him on a less busy day . . . It was true that Donna took care of raising the two kids almost on her own, and he knew she resented the time he spent away from his family—all day in the restaurant, countless late nights, forever at the whim of the needs of the stars. His family always came second to La Scala, and they all knew it. That persistent headache of his grew worse.
He concentrated on a point behind his eye sockets, breathed deeply, counted to five again, and let the matter drop. He went back to ordering his team around the banquet room, trying to keep his anxiety about the evening’s event under wraps so it wouldn’t affect the staff.
He’d had his fair share of important guests before, VIPs of all sorts. But tonight was different. Tonight, the person likely to become the next president of the United States, John F. Kennedy, would be there. That same month—the very next night, in fact—JFK, the young senator from Massachusetts, would be named the Democratic nominee at the party’s convention right there in the city. He would be facing the Republican Richard Nixon in the election, and Nixon would have the advantage of his eight years as vice president under Eisenhower. Experience, homespun rhetoric, and mediocrity would be up against a six-foot-tall senator with good looks, elegant clothes, and a magnetic smile full of ivory teeth that gleamed out from a face and body carefully tanned at the family hom
e in Palm Beach.
“They’ve talked this place up so much that I couldn’t wait to try it myself,” JFK said to Jean when they arrived that night.
Jean Leon, who was more than used to dealing with the most charming personalities of the Hollywood establishment, felt unusually small in front of that man, even with his kind and familiar manner. Jean knew right away why he’d been called upon to lead the country. Never, since his arrival in America, had Jean taken an interest in politics, but for some reason the upcoming elections seemed like his elections, too. He felt a kinship with the candidate that he couldn’t ignore.
Kennedy was more like an expression of Hollywood vitality than of Washington, with its distant formality. The daily papers were filled with unsettling reports of the world dividing into blocs, of the arms race, of a climate of fear threatening a nation tired from more than a decade of armed conflict—a nation that now, in the 1960s, was looking to leave all that behind. Kennedy represented youth, determination, and the recuperation of the American way of life. And the electorate was ready to embrace that. I wouldn’t bet against him, Jean thought.
That night at La Scala, the future president and two of the Kennedy brothers, Robert and Edward, would go over the details of the nomination. Tagging along were several movers and shakers from the party, like Lyndon B. Johnson and Adlai Stevenson, as well as Hollywood figures who supported the candidacy.
Confirmed attendees included Liz Taylor, Marlon Brando, Robert Wagner, Natalie Wood, Peter Lawford, and his wife, Pat Kennedy, the candidate’s sister. All of them were friends and regulars of Jean Leon’s. The Lawford-Kennedys had been coming in ever since La Scala first opened its doors. They were the ones who had insisted on holding Kennedy’s nomination party there—but to avoid word getting out, they had only told the candidate the day before. Leon was a master at dealing with contingencies, especially avoiding leaks to the press. No journalists, no feature stories, no unwanted photos. A celebration like that would set the press on fire, but nothing would ever come out except the menu and a few images Leon and Lawford had authorized.
“Kennedy had a salad, fettuccine Leon, and a steak. He didn’t order dessert. He had a coffee to finish,” the owner of La Scala told a group of journalists waiting outside when the night was over.
“Did the senator enjoy his dinner?” one reporter asked.
“Of course!” Leon assured her. “He asked me to make the same thing tomorrow!”
Leon’s brief appearance ended with chuckles. Everyone seemed satisfied: the press because they could fill out their articles with the few details he’d given them, and John Fitzgerald Kennedy because he’d found a place where he could be himself, a place he would return to on future trips to the West Coast. Not as a mere politician, but as president of the United States.
Jean returned home elated. Long gone were the days of struggling to turn tables, of countless hours behind the wheel of a cab, of groveling for tips. He was rubbing shoulders with people who held the world in their hands. And he’d made it all by himself, he thought as he pulled into the drive. The lights were off and the house was quiet and dark. On the kitchen table lay a note telling him dinner was in the oven. But he wasn’t hungry—he was eager to share the news of the big event with his wife. He poured two drinks, walked to the bedroom, flicked on the lights, and said, “I’m home!” Donna looked up at him with swollen eyelids. “Turn off the light.”
“But Donna, you’ve got to listen to me, we didn’t miss a beat, and everybody was there, I mean everybody . . .”
“Jean, cut off the light,” Donna said.
“This guy’s going to be president, Donna. You’re not listening to me—”
“No, Jean, you’re not listening to me. I’m tired.”
“Fine,” he said and returned to the living room alone, shutting the door quietly behind him.
CHAPTER 9
“This table was Warren Beatty’s idea,” Leon explained to Sinatra, who had just wandered into his kitchen. “Now everyone wants to eat here, in the kitchen.”
That night, six years since Leon’s departure from Villa Capri, Sinatra had finally decided to dine at La Scala. He showed up with his usual retinue, on this occasion four men and two women, all of whom stood discreetly at one end of the bar. The bartender took care of them while a waiter accompanied the singer into the kitchen, where Leon was going over the list of reservations for the next day. The way he moved through the place, Sinatra seemed like a regular, but in fact it was the first time he’d set foot in the place. Sinatra and Leon greeted each other by name and shook hands, a bit too formally, dispassionately.
The maître d’ came over and nodded as Leon gave the orders, moving his arms with determination, like an orchestra director. Draped in an immaculate suit, with a dark jacket and matching tie, Leon was a far cry from the bumbling, obliging young waiter Sinatra had gotten a job for so long ago, the one who used to struggle to get a word out in English. But he still had that innocent baby face that belied his years, that same clear-eyed stare, the natural elegance and kindness that had caught Frank’s eye the day they met.
The kitchen table was set for two, with glasses for a wine Jean Leon opened himself, nodding approvingly after examining the cork. He served his guest first, then passed him the bottle to examine, as he’d seen Sinatra do so many times before—the original consummate host.
“A Barbaresco,” Leon said. “A recommendation from someone who knows his way around wine. A case came in this morning. I’m thinking of putting it on the list.”
Leon noticed his guest was acting shifty, but Frank was like that when he wasn’t in control. Leon knew from experience that direct questions wouldn’t get him anywhere. It was better to let the conversation flow toward his old friend’s interests, without forcing him to say anything.
Anyway, Sinatra was content to let himself be flattered, and that had always been one of Leon’s talents. After a few minutes, the two settled into an easy back-and-forth. Leon told him—as though continuing a chat from the day before—how they made the fresh pasta. The wine was going down well. He recommended Frank try the fettuccine—Emilio made it just the way he liked, the former waiter told him.
Little by little, the Voice relaxed. Maybe it was the food—the kitchen table in La Scala boasted a culinary repertoire that could disarm the gruffest character. Or perhaps it was the wine that loosened him up, especially after the arrival of the second bottle (and not the last)—a fantastic Bardolino, a beautiful ruby-colored pour with notes of balsamic and cherry.
“You and Donna still together?”
Sinatra had a knack for that: remembering the names of all the people he cared about, along with their spouses, exes, and children. In case anyone doubted it, he wanted to make clear that he knew everything about everyone, that nothing got past him. Then again, that subject—family relations—touched both men’s weak spots. For the first time, Jean didn’t know how to react. He didn’t even try to look convincing when he nodded. The singer gazed at Leon sympathetically. He dropped his forced indifference, leaned over to refill the two glasses, and offered a toast:
“To our wives, who haven’t driven us completely nuts.” Sinatra’s tone was impish. “Unlike Marilyn with poor DiMaggio, remember?”
“Of course I do,” Leon said, toasting as well, laughing as he thought back to that night. “I heard that a rumor made the rounds in the editors’ room of Confidential that Marilyn actually was at those apartments that night.”
“Hal Schaefer himself told me the same thing sometime later. They were both there, and they heard the whole thing. He said to me, ‘If you guys had caught us, I’d be a dead man right now,’” Sinatra recalled.
“I saw you guys when you left and when you got back. I’d say the poor bastard was right,” Leon added.
Sinatra lit another cigarette while the previous one went on smoldering in the ashtray.
“I’ve always valued loyalty and discretion,” Sinatra said, taking the conversation down a
different path. “That night, you showed me you were someone I could trust.”
“I guess I’ve learned it’s important to be able to keep a secret,” Leon said. “Years back, someone saved my life, and he told me knowing how to keep a secret is what makes a person strong.”
“You got that right, Jean.” Sinatra paused and finished his cigarette with two last drags. “I gotta say, you’ve done pretty well for yourself,” he conceded, taking a quick look around the restaurant. “Who would have thought it . . .”
“I learned from the best,” Jean said.
When he said the best, he meant Sinatra—but also one of his sidekicks, Jimmy Van Heusen. After Jean’s role in the high jinks with DiMaggio and the police, his star had risen, and more and more people started offering him work. On nights when Villa Capri was closed, Sinatra sometimes hired Jean as a driver and waiter for private parties at the home of Jimmy Van Heusen, where Sinatra was staying after divorcing Ava Gardner.
Van Heusen—Chet or Chester to his friends—was Sinatra’s composer and songwriter. He had a gruff appearance that didn’t match his personality. Tall and stocky, with a thick neck, shaved head, and deep voice, he looked more like a roughneck than the puppy dog that he was. He was an elegant dresser with a gift for gab. He was strangely magnetic—especially with the ladies, who thought him a gentleman, and he could play them as easily as he played the piano.
Sinatra threw many a private party in Chet’s home, and there, Jean got a rare peek into the less glamorous side of the Hollywood myth. He saw stars and political bigwigs lose their grace and their sense of shame. Jean was discreet, he forgot what he had seen and never repeated what he was told—not even to Donna. That reserve put up yet another wall between him and his wife. What ground he gained among the celebrities, seducing them with his unobtrusive manner, he lost with Donna.
Stars in His Eyes Page 11