The location of dad's tale: A restaurant that used to be at 8284 Melrose Avenue, in Los Angeles, Le Chardonnay. It was a dark and comforting beautifully appointed shimmering space. Today, the vegan restaurant Crossroads occupies the corner lot.
It is rare that I appear in any of Dad's stories. I do remember this particular evening well, and much he relates in his rendition of it. Funny how his bemused critique of me and my spending habits in the context of this story, so many years after his death, still rankles, almost as much as it did back when he was alive. I had to remember, then, as I do now, that he was a product of the Depression and any price above that of the first half of the century would always be understandably immoral to him. And like all human beings, he had his moments of contradiction between word and action.
Allow me preface with a few other things he either did not remember or did not think significant for this tale of two Gullivers. The evening was the result of a bet, about what I can no longer recall, between us. My father was given to pronouncements about an abundance of subjects and in an impulsive moment in which I disagreed on whatever it was that was causing a debate between us, we bet that the loser would take the other out. I did indeed pick the place. My father is correct that I enjoyed the restaurant scene, but really, he must have forgotten that he and my mother were the ones who developed those tastes. When I was a child in the Bronx, in the days before the expectations of baby sitters, I used to go with them to various Manhattan locales, like the Rainbow Room, The Top of the Sixes, the Cave Henri IV (37 East 64th Street), the Cattleman, along sometimes with my younger cousins. And, as well, my father was our weekend gourmet cook. I developed an, let's say, "educated" palate way back in the 1960s. It was a source of some irritation for me as an adult daughter, that my father would chide me for being a spendthrift at a restaurant, when my entire immediate family used to go out to the well known eateries on a regular basis as I was growing up, up to and including El Morocco while insisting that I should have known that they didn't have much money. On the other hand, at this stage of my life, I recognize the gift he gave me in reminding me to save, to make wise decisions about jobs and pensions and medical benefits along with the value of the 99 Cents Store (which I did not concede to until late in my life; alas they are gone now). God willing and the creek don't rise, should things remain as they have been, I won't be the bag lady he worried mightily I might become. As to the interaction with Mr. Leonard, Dad has it mostly the way I recall it, except, when I saw Mr. Leonard, my father wasn't facing me or him, but looking into the restaurant chasm in a rather distracted way. I had to draw his attention to Mr. Leonard. And it was this quick response when I said, "Dad, this is Sheldon Leonard," and Dad simply uttered, "Tall, Dark and Handsome" without preamble. I definitely agree that if the ladies with Mr. Leonard hadn't been so downright disagreeable, that Mr. Leonard would have invited us to share their table.
A note on Sheldon Leonard. He wasn't just an actor with a New York hard edge and accent (e.g It's A Wonderful Life), but he was a major television producer, The Danny Thomas Show, Andy Griffith, Gomer Pyle, Dick Van Dyke, I Spy. He also was a director. He was about 90 when we met him. He looked strong and well, taller than his 6 foot frame. I found him charming. I believe he died shortly thereafter. I was surprised since he had seemed so hale and hearty
Dad clearly enjoyed the meeting and the meal--though as you can see, the tone has always seemed, as it relates to me, a bit of a left handed compliment.
Given a choice between two identical items, my daughter, Djinna, will choose the more expensive.
It is as if some shadow of opprobrium affixes itself to a bargain. I feel as if I am engaged in "heresy"; that I am ungrateful, particularly since I have been the beneficiary of this profligacy, to wit, an eight hundred dollar refrigerator, a cruise to Ensenada, a bowl full of book-matches that announce to the world that I have been treated to the most trendy restaurants of this town, and then some.
I am not surprised, therefore, at the oppulence of her choice, one evening, a very French locale, called "Le Chardonnay". The restaurant does not solicit notoriety or patrons. It has a narrow anteroom, rather like Gibraltar is to entry to the Mediterranean, a Scylla and Charybidis the patrons must pass through before the reservation is verified.
A well-appointed gentleman arrived just behind us, accompanied by two elderly women, one assisted by a walker.
"Excuse me," says the more ambulatory lady. "I'm sorry", says my daughter to no further acknowledgment from the impatient ladies who squeeze themselves to the front, where a Maitre d' posts himself, as if to protect from further assault.
"Sir", I her Djinna's voice. "I do not generally do this, but are you Sheldon Leonard?"
"I am", says a very pleased Sheldon Leonard.
"My father is a long-time fan" she adds, though I would characterize my interest in celebrity as somewhat less than the adulation of fandom, generally people whose names I do not remember, and recognize by associations, a movie, or some other conditioned stimulus.
"Yes", I say. "Tall, Dark and Handsome", which is one of his films.
The pleased Sheldon Leonard addresses the indifferent ladies in a loud familiar voice. "The gentleman remembers a 1941 film!" My daughter recalls that he refers to it as his first film. No matter.
The ladies are now visibly annoyed, and make no response.
Sheldon--I feel I may take this familiar tone--shakes my hand. He has a strong handshake. He is led--before us--by the Maitre d' but I do manage a parting comment.
"Mr. Leonard, you were indeed a great 'bad guy'". I know he would like to hear more about the days when his bulging eyes, sneering lips, and menacing Bronx accent brought terror to the screen "good guys", as in this film, Cesar Romero. I would have liked to have pursued this discussion. I have always been curious about the female lead, Patricia Gilmore, whom I suspect stems genealogically to the Gilmore Bank. While I sense he would like to talk about yesteryear, I suspect also that one of the impatient ladies is his wife, and perhaps the other his mother-in-law. What mortal man can deal with this combination? We are not invited to join them.
How does that saying go--that a prophet is least regarded in his home town?
We are seated. Our waiter is French, wise and experienced. His outer conformation, though, gives him the look of an Irish leprechaun. He is formal at first, but seems to warm up.
The splendor of the high ceilings, the enorous plate glass windows, the elaborate wine list, from an already expensive twenty-five dollars, "Ad Astra", to the stars, to the a la carte menu of gastronomic opulence, with their prices to match--I could not have expected less from my daughter.
I do not recall what Djinna ordered. For me, I saw a futility is looking for moderation on the menu, so I went for the best--a Gibson, with three onions, to submerge intimidation, Lobster Bisque, superb and only ten dollars, Filet Mignon, perhaps two inches thick, a bottle of Puilly Fuisse, wrong with red meat, and likely to raise the eyebrow of the impish waiter, but a wine I like, expresso, two brandies, Remy Martin, the most expensive I could think of, to top it all off. The cost for two, one hundred and forty nine dollars. I left the tip, out of mercy. On the way out, a sartorially elegant proprietor beamed and bid us a good night.
Perhaps a matter I should have mentioned previously--Djinna sighted a graying Rory Calhoun at some point in the evening. I am not quick to record these sightings. Still, I have to give her credit, how many people do you know who know who Sheldon Leonard and Rory Calhoun are?
