Thanks for the Memory

Was New York in the 1950's really as glamorous as we here at SSUWAT like to think it was? Listening to the fabulous anecdotes of our beloved friend Merle Bassett, the answer seems to be a resounding "Yes!" Over the next few months, we'll be sharing some of Merle's memories of a bygone Manhattan with you. We'd like to thank him for his time and graciousness in this endeavor, which we admittedly begged him to participate in! We inaugurate this series with what may not be the dishiest or raciest of his tales (keep watching this space!), but one which describes his (near) encounter with the most elusive superstar of them all.

Greta Garbo by Cecil Beaton, 1946

"I often dreamed of meeting the great Greta Garbo and in 1959, almost did! She lived on 52nd Street and the East River; I lived on 51st Street and 3rd Avenue. There was a Swedish delicatessen near my studio and I often went there to get sandwiches for me and my model. One cold winter afternoon I went to this delicatessen for sandwiches. When I got there I saw Garbo smiling and chatting (yes, chatting!) with the counterman! I froze in my tracks as I was about 15 feet away from this film icon, trying desperately not to stare. I stood there, watching the lady out of the corner of my eye. I was unsuccessful in hearing what she was saying and decided to leave before I made a complete fool of myself. When I returned to the studio, my model asked 'Where's our lunch?' I had forgotten all about our sandwiches." - Merle Bassett

Merle Bassett, 1950's

Spring is Here

What can we possibly say about the remarkable Marilyn Maye that we haven't told you before? We could tell you (again) that she's an octogenarian dynamo who looks, shimmies and sounds at least two decades younger. We could tell you (again) that she has a seemingly inexhaustible set of pipes that put most singers half her age to shame. We could tell you (again) about her bawdy sense of humor, her sharp wit, and the mass adoration she inspires from her audience.

But the most helpful thing we could tell you about Ms. Maye, and her new show at Feinstein's at the Regency, It's Maye in May, is to simply buy your tickets now. It is an absolute do-not-miss event.

At first glance (or hearing), this program didn't seem to have the same structure as some of Maye's other, now-legendary shows, i.e. devoted to a single composer (Johnny Mercer the Maye Way) or a story arc (Love on the Rocks, dedicated to mostly torch songs). Then, going over the set list once our dizzying state of euphoria lifted, we realized that this breakneck show was light on the ballads, and jam-packed with zingy, springy arrangements -- Maye in May, indeed.

Ms. Maye -- glittering in sequined black -- broke us in gently, with a lightly swinging medley of "You Make Me Feel So Young" and "Young and Heart." But the number of rafter-ringing showstoppers which followed was astonishing: not only for Maye's vocal stamina, but for their clever pace and placement. In lesser hands, so many Big Numbers would have been overwhelming for the audience. A savvy pro like Marilyn Maye cooks up medleys which begin at a moderate tempo, and then gradually build to a wild climax ("Honeysuckle Rose," which capped off a brilliant Fats Waller medley, had the room practically standing on their chairs, cheering); while standalone gems like her incredible arrangements of "Get Me to the Church on Time," "On the Street Where You Live," "Blues in the Night" and "Come Rain or Come Shine," are bookended by slower and/or lighter moments.

It must also be mentioned that Ms. Maye's virtuosity is more than well-served by her flawless trio: her unflappable drummer Jim Ekloff, who has been with Maye for almost 50 years; the always-dignified Tom Hubbard, superbly supplying bass; and the whiz kid, Tedd Firth, musical director and pianist par excellence, whose jaw-dropping playing matches Maye's vocal flights of fancy to a tee.

By the time we get to the 11 o'clock torch number, "I'm Still Here" from Follies, it seems almost anti-climactic, essentially putting the brakes on suddenly after so many scorching, sizzling-hot highlights. But there's no denying Maye's well-won right to perform this warhorse, especially after her incendiary performance of it at composer Stephen Sondheim's birthday celebration at Carnegie Hall last year. And, of course, she absolutely nails it, wringing every last drop of wry wit and bemusement from the lyric.

We've often mentioned our dislike for this particular venue; its shortcomings almost always color our experience, no matter how good the performer. When Marilyn Maye made her Feinstein's debut last year, even her magic couldn't make us completely overlook the charmless setting. But this show is too darn hot to miss, and Marilyn Maye, if you'll forgive a cliche, has never been better. We've been twice since she opened this past Tuesday, and will be back two or three times before her run ends on June 4.

If you want a perfect evening, we can think of none better than this: start with dinner at Le Veau d'Or on East 60th and Lexington -- another all-time classic which just keeps going. Order the vichyssoise and the poussin, baby roast chicken; or maybe the celeri rémoulade and the divine monkfish special. After you polish off your Pêche Melba or œufs à la neige, walk one block west to Feinstein's at East 61st and Park. Bask in the younger than springtime glow of Maye. Then, if you're anything like us, repeat.

Buy tickets HERE.

As Time Goes By

There comes a time, particularly for a New Yorker, when one wants and needs a respite from the never-ending onslaught of trendier-than-thou eateries. Deliver us, o Lord, from fusion and microbiology; from self-righteously sustainable this and smugly, locally sourced that; from DJ's and bouncers; and, most especially, from diners taking pictures of their food.

There comes a time when one longs for a grown up meal, served in hushed but welcoming environs, by efficient yet impersonal, professional waiters who don't tell you their names; surrounded by well-dressed, well-mannered adults who most likely have never heard of Facebook or Twitter, much less ever broadcast their dining habits on them.

There comes a time when one yearns to see dishes on a menu which, in 2011 New York, would read like hieroglyphics to most diners if they came across them. Céleri rémoulade. Tripe à la mode de Caen. Floating Island!

Praise be -- this utopia actually exists.

Le Veau d'Or, discreetly tucked away just off the corner of East 60th St. and Lexington Avenue, first opened its doors in 1937; it was already a veteran when, in 1950, the legendary style bible of its day, Flair magazine, included it in their round up of the best Gotham had to offer.

September 1950 issue of Flair, with accompanying article

In a roundabout way, it is one of the last links to the legendary Henri Soulé, whose Le Pavillon restaurant in New York, opened in 1941, stood for years as the standard-bearer in excellence of cuisine, luxury of appointments, impressiveness of patrons, and glacial impenetrability to mere mortals.

Henri Soulé outside of Le Pavillon, 1962

Le Veau d'Or's owner, Robert Treboux, worked for five years under Soulé at Le Pavillon. This glittering establishment eventually spawned a host of equally-vaunted off-shoots: chief among them, La Grenouille, Le Périgord, La Caravelle, and the sole Soulé-owned and sanctioned sibling, La Côte Basque.

William and Barbara "Babe" Paley leaving La Côte Basque, circa 1970

Only La Grenouille and Le Périgord still survive, the former in a buzzy, eye-popping, refurbished, relatively new space. The food, service and room are all fabulous, but the operation seems too frenzied and self-important to indulge in any nostalgia. The latter, by contrast, is still clinging to life in what seems to be an excruciatingly prolonged last act, complete with dust, cobwebs and corpses (a withered, charred carcass which supposedly once was Duckling a l'Orange).

Le Veau d'Or, which Treboux has owned since 1985, was never as expensive or important as those Soulé-inspired temples to haute cuisine; but today, it has all the deliciously faded glamour that La Grenouille has carefully polished and renovated away, and the brisk warmth and energy that completely elude Le Périgord.

Yes, we used the word "energy" to describe the feel of Le Veau d'Or, which would no doubt shock the hipster foodies who, in the wake of Anthony (Kitchen Confidential) Bourdain's televised recommendation, scurried over to 129 E. 60th, only to be left completely baffled by the unhurried pace, sedate clientele, and straightforward, sometimes severe food.

The energy, muted yet still crackling under the surface, is supplied by the proprietor, Monsieur Treboux, who keeps a watchful eye, every night, on the proceedings. He resembles no one so much as a French version of Sam the Eagle from The Muppet Show: tall, dignified, imposing, bald, stone-jawed. Now in the middle of his eighth decade, Monsieur Treboux is alternately grouchy and courtly, but always, always keenly aware of what is happening in his restaurant. His daughter, Catherine, is now also a daily and nightly fixture, acting as hostess, and a charming, ebullient one at that; it's as if they have an act, these two -- Catherine supplying the fizzy yin to her father's gimlet-eyed yang.

Robert Treboux at Le Veau d'Or

The menu is an old-fashioned table d'hôte, with the price of the entree also including an appetizer and dessert. The coq au vin is absolutely superb, one of the best we've ever had -- it is, truly, a dish we dream about. The kitchen also turns out commendable rognons de veau Dijonnaise (veal kidneys in mustard sauce), and although we haven't personally tried them, the moules marinière (mussels in white wine and cream) were ordered by a young lady at a neighboring table when we last ate there, and she did everything but hold the bowl to her lips and slurp down the last remnants of the broth.

Not surprisingly, given the structure and pricing of the menu, appetizers and desserts are given somewhat less attention. There's a fine cold artichoke, and a very good, surprisingly light rendition of soupe à l'oignon gratinée. The pâté is nicely gamey, but served ice cold. Escargot are passable, but not entirely deserving of the $8 surcharge -- yet when we do break down and order them, we can't help but polish off the pools of the delicious garlic butter with our bread. The desserts are all ready-made and straight from the refrigerator or freezer, yet somehow appealing in their defiant anti-trendiness. Peach Melba is a scoop of store-bought vanilla ice cream topped with raspberry sauce, canned peaches and slivered almonds -- and it was delicious. Similarly, that Floating Island (œufs à la neige, if you want to be properly French) is served suspiciously quickly after one's order is placed, but it's not merely a culinary relic, it's a surprisingly tasty one.

During their glory years, the restaurant's atmosphere truly was charged with palpable excitement: the New York Times' venerable food critic, Craig Claiborne, declared it the one restaurant in town he couldn't live without; in 1962, the Times informed their readers that "In the minds of many Frenchmen and francophiles, Le Veau d'Or is the best French restaurant in town..."; and in 1968, Le Veau d'Or was one of only seven restaurants the Times deemed worthy of four stars.

Craig Claiborne

Today, the mood is obviously much less frenetic, and the kitchen perhaps touched less frequently by magic, but if you close your eyes, you can still see the ghosts of a glittering, bygone Gotham seated along the red banquettes, drinking cold martinis and good bottles of Bordeaux. A gruffly efficient, tuxedoed, grey-haired waiter still attends to tables of Park Avenue socialites, French expats, and regulars of all stripes.

As you may have already guessed, we're crazy about Le Veau d'Or, chiefly for its ambiance and our desire to keep a disappearing epoch in Manhattan history alive. The food? Choose wisely, and you can have a superb meal. Choose poorly, and if you're of the correct mindset (i.e., one that would bring you to SSUWAT, where time stands still in 1962, in the first place), you'll still have a good time.

After all, Jackie, Oleg, and Orson all ate here. So did Princess Grace and Bobby Short. Truman Capote passed out once in a booth. And one of the most devastatingly elegant men we know also loved and frequented Le Veau d'Or: our own Mr. Toby Worthington. We were delighted to learn, by sheer coincidence, of Mr. Worthington's affection for Le Veau d'Or, but not necessarily surprised; our tastes converge with Mr. Worthington's in so many areas of importance. And, upon receiving a spectacularly stylish photograph of him "back in the day," leaving Le Veau d'Or with an equally-chic luncheon partner, we felt compelled to re-enact the scene, as it were.

Timeless style: Toby Worthington and friend, 1970's (top); SSUWAT's TJB, February 2011 (bottom)

Le Veau d'Or will likely only continue for as long as Monsieur Treboux is willing and able to preside over each dinner seating -- and then, as he says, "Après moi le déluge." So one evening, if you're eager to sit at the grown ups' table, visit him at Le Veau d'Or. We'll probably be there, too, happy that it's still with us, and sad that once it's gone, a little bit of the Manhattan we never knew, but love so well, dies with it.

Little Miss Evil

"There was only one bitch in the cast [of All About Eve] -- Celeste Holm." - Bette Davis

A Glamorous Life

In a grand, glamorous tradition...

Cristobal Balenciaga

Baron Nicholas "Niki" de Gunzberg

Gore Vidal

Hubert de Givenchy

Van Day Truex

Michael Greer

Roy Halston

We present, back by popular demand, Merle Bassett: The New York Years.

Amayezing

Marvelous Marilyn Maye and her brilliant musical director, Tedd Firth

What do you get when you perfectly blend Kay Thompson's wildly clever wordplay and tempo-changing fearlessness; Peggy Lee's precise attention to every detail of lighting and presentation; Julie Wilson's sly rapport with the audience; the interpretive wisdom of Sylvia Syms; the chiffon-and-shot-silk huskiness of Rosemary Clooney; Doris Day's immediacy, Ella Fitzgerald's swing, and Judy Garland's throb? You get the complete nightclub performer, one who ultimately renders all comparisons moot because she is uniquely Miss Marilyn Maye.

Having witnessed Miss Maye's triumphant closing night performance at The Metropolitan Room yesterday (read our recap of her Sunday night show here), we are now sated but weary: from chafing our hands raw from clapping; from running our vocal cords ragged from cheering.

Never one to rest on her laurels, Miss Maye continually delights and astounds. We've seen this current show, "Her Kind of Broadway," four times -- and each experience is a surprise. The four songs which form the emotional core of a show with a higher ratio of upbeat swingers are the radiantly hopeful "Ribbons Down My Back," the bruised "I'm Thru with Love," the wistful "Joey, Joey, Joey" and the naked "Losing My Mind." Miss Maye devastates the audience with these numbers each and every time, but the interpretation is constantly evolving. One night, "Losing My Mind" might seem rueful, the next painfully desperate. "Joey, Joey, Joey" might evoke the title character's wandering soul one night; another, the quiet longing of one special "lady in the neighborhood" who cannot tie him down. "Ribbons" and "I'm Thru with Love" seem to always come from the same place in Maye's interpretive soul, but a flick of a phrase here, a switch in emphasis there, and the same song sounds entirely different from the previous performance.

We realize that we're cheerleading here, but Marilyn Maye is the one ticket in town which we will always vouch for with the utmost confidence. She's making an rare, unscheduled return on December 13, again at The Metropolitan Room, in a one night only holiday-themed show. If you haven't seen her yet, we can think of no better Christmas present to give yourself!

Maye in December

The unsinkable Marilyn Maye is back in New York with a show called "Her Kind of Broadway," chock-a-block with emphatically upbeat Broadway show stoppers, performed with a trio of musicians at the very intimate Metropolitan Room cabaret. It shouldn't work, but it does.

Broadway and cabaret have an uneasy alliance -- although some of the material may overlap, traditionally, the Broadway-style performer is all about razzle dazzle showmanship, brassy belting and the full frontal attack; whereas cabaret is more intimate, sometimes precious, and allows the singer to delve deeper into the subtext of a song.

It's this essential difference in approach that causes most Broadway-themed cabaret acts to misfire: either the arrangements and the playing of the musicians can't compensate for the lack of the 40-piece orchestra that many of these songs seem to require, or the singer belts as if playing to the balcony -- which may work at the Shubert, but when the tiny room doesn't even have a balcony, the audience is simply flattened against the wall. Miss Maye's trio (led by the ever-astonishing Tedd Firth) made the Metropolitan swing so hard that even a full brass and string section couldn't possibly have been anything more than superfluous; and while Miss Maye herself let loose with the kind of belting that made every show tune queen in the house alternately turn green with envy and start swooning with delight, it was never at the sacrifice of her warm, intimate connection with the audience. We can think of no other performer who can bridge the gap between Broadway and cabaret so seamlessly, satisfying both crowds equally.

This 82 year old dynamo comes on like a tornado right from the start, opening with a sizzling arrangement of "Put on a Happy Face" from Bye Bye Birdie. As performed in the show, it's a cute, perky number which comes perilously close to taking its lyrics so literally that it can sound like a nursery rhyme. In Marilyn Maye's hands, it's almost defiantly upbeat, raucous, intense -- a command, rather than a suggestion. If the power of positive thinking will result in our looking, sounding and high-kicking as spectacular as Miss Maye when we're in our eighth decade, we'll gladly follow any directions she gives us.

Maye's hearty optimism and full-throated style are ideally suited to the music of Jerry Herman, so it's no surprise that she has essayed the role of Dolly Levi countless times on stage -- although, as she admits, never actually on Broadway. Listening to her poignant take on "Ribbons Down My Back," or watching her slyly camp her way through "Elegance," one wonders how the Great White Way powers-that-be possibly overlooked Maye for a starring vehicle on Broadway.

Frank Loesser, who would have celebrated his centennial this year, is treated to a lengthy clutch of songs from Guys and Dolls and The Most Happy Fella. "Luck Be a Lady," from the former, is effectively wrenched from Sinatra's singular hold -- no mean feat, that! From the latter, a haunting "Joey, Joey, Joey" was a master class in painting pictures through words: as Maye sang, you could positively smell the Oregon cherries, Texas avocado, and Arizona sugar beets.

Nearly every number was a bona fide crowd pleaser, but perhaps no segment was more disarming and delightful than a string of songs which Maye recorded for RCA in the 1960's, before the Broadway shows they were written for had opened. "Cabaret" was a major Adult Contemporary hit for Maye back in 1966, not only before the show opened, but long before you-know-who starred in the film version. "She knows it's really mine," Maye wryly remarked; and you got the feeling she was only half-joking! Similarly, "I'll Never Fall in Love Again" was written for the score of Burt Bacharach and Hal David's Broadway bow, Promises, Promises, before becoming a hit for "that Warwick girl," as Maye commented dismissively in jest; and, yes, Maye got there first. "Sherry" was the title song to an ill-fated musical version of The Man Who Came to Dinner; the show was a flop, but the single was another turntable hit for Maye, and an utterly charming one, at that. Capping things off was the flag-waving "Step to the Rear," an unrelentingly celebratory number from another obscure show, How Now, Dow Jones; it was another Adult Contemporary hit for Maye, but more important, was picked up as a commercial for Lincoln-Mercury for four, lucrative, residual-earning years! Maye began the song straight, then treated us to the re-written jingle lyrics.

The emotional highlight of the program was undoubtedly Maye's gut-wrenching interpretation of Sondheim's "Losing My Mind" from Follies. For all of her sunny optimism, Maye is no Pollyanna; her determination to focus on the positive comes from understanding the reality of life, not being blind to it. And when she sings of loss and heartbreak, the effect is absolutely devastating. Also from Follies, albeit from a completely different character and motivation, is the warhorse, "I'm Still Here" -- de rigeur in any cabaret act performed by a female of A Certain Age. Frankly, we thought we could live another hundred years without ever hearing anyone try to tackle this song again; it's become such a cliche. When Bea Arthur did her one woman show on Broadway a few years back, she pointedly informed the audience that she would not be singing "I'm Still Here"! But, ah, the magic of Maye -- she can make almost any song not only sound better than ever, but also fresh and new and exciting. Marilyn Maye can now claim to completely own "I'm Still Here" -- just as she owned it at Stephen Sondheim's 80th birthday celebration at Carnegie Hall a few weeks back, when Maye brought the house down and was received ecstatically by the audience with a thunderous ovation.

Of course, the final number was another Jerry Herman chestnut, "It's Today" from Mame, which finds Maye not only exhorting the crowd to "live life all the way," but also indulging in high kicks that a Rockette would envy. It was a thrilling, 90 minute whirlwind of an evening, and better than most of the actual shows on Broadway today! Adding to our excitement was being seated next to one of Miss Maye's most loyal fans, Freeman Gunter, who has been following the great lady's career since the mid-1960's. Freeman was kind enough to share this utterly fabulous photo, taken backstage during Marilyn's engagement at the Shoreham Hotel in Washington, D.C., circa 1967. We want his tie, and her caftan!


And, coming full circle, last night at the Metropolitan, Miss Maye gave a slightly-less-hirsute Freeman the souvenir of a lifetime:


The marvelous Marilyn Maye is packing them in for just one more night, December 7, at 7:00 p.m. We hope we'll see you there!

Behind the Mask

The first word that springs to mind when speaking of that delightful star of stage, screen and television, Miss Arlene Francis, is "charm." Miss Arlene had it in spades, and at the risk of minimizing her very real talent and keen intelligence, charm was the foundation upon which her long, versatile career was built.


Born Arline Francis Kazanjian on October 20, 1907 in Boston, MA, the daughter of an Armenian immigrant, the future "First Lady of Television" began her career determined to become a serious actress. A New Yorker since the age of seven, Arlene was well-positioned to make the rounds as a Broadway hopeful, and she first graced the boards in the 1928 flop, La Gringa. It was a disaster, running for only 13 performances, but Arlene's charm and perserverance carried her through; after her 1932 film debut in Murders in the Rue Morgue (playing a prostitute terrorized by Bela Lugosi!), Arlene was rarely left wanting for work. (Her La Gringa co-star, one Claudette Colbert, did pretty well for herself, too.)


Arlene was kept busy during the 1930's with a score of Broadway credits, including the original run of Clare Booth Luce's legendary bitchfest, The Women (1936). The work was steady, if not spectacular; but a big break came in 1942, with The Doughgirls, George Kaufman's warmly-received comedy about four women living together in wartime Washington. Arlene's comic timing was given full reign in her role as Russian sniper Natalia Chodorov, described as a woman "who has shot 397 Nazis, [and] is a vigorous, forceful woman who, for exercise, takes short hikes to Baltimore and back."


Perhaps as a direct result of this smash hit (The Doughgirls ran for 671 performances), in 1943 Arlene was asked to be the "femcee" of a new radio game show, Blind Date, which preceeded The Dating Game by over twenty years. The premise had two servicemen vying for the affections of one lucky young lady, with Arlene graciously presiding over the proceedings. Following the end of the war, the format was tweaked slightly, with non-enlisted men from various professions or colleges as the competitors. In 1949, the show was simulcast on television; and Arlene remained the hostess until 1952, although the show carried on for another year with Jan Murray taking Arlene's place.


Arlene's reasons for leaving Blind Date may have been varied, but one is eminently clear: another show she was involved with was taking off like a rocket. In 1950, Arlene appeared on a new quiz show hosted by the urbane, intellectual John Charles Daly, called What's My Line? She took her place on the panel on the second episode ever broadcast, and, of course, the rest is history: What's My Line? remains perhaps the greatest of all television game shows, and Miss Arlene Francis finally became a superstar, remaining with the program until its network cancellation in 1967.


Less successful, but ultimately more innovative and audacious, was Arlene's foray into daytime television, Home (1954-57). Conceived as NBC's complement to their early morning Today and late night Tonight shows, Home pioneered the "magazine" format that would become popular in the 1970's. Although its target audience was female, Home eschewed (for the most part) the stereotypical frivolity of other daytime "women's" programs like soap operas, and aimed for a serious, educational tone, with a feminine slant.


As a well-known celebrity in her own right, as well as being the wife of the polished actor/producer Martin Gabel, Arlene Francis was already "typed" as the quintessential New York sophisticate when she signed on to host Home. The NBC brass was concerned that she might be too cosmopolitan for the average, middle American housewife; to Arlene's credit, her effortless charm never came off as elitist or snobbish, and her quick wit and theatrical training came in handy when, as so often happened on live television, mishaps occured.


Ultimately, though, Home fell victim to the ratings game and its own exorbitant production costs. Competing against the popular, lightweight entertainment of The Garry Moore Show and Arthur Godfrey Time, Home simply couldn't survive. Typical of her positive, but pointed, wit, Arlene later quipped that she "was born in Boston, raised in New York, and died in daytime television."


If Home's cancellation made Arlene want to retreat and lick her wounds, she didn't have time; What's My Line? continued unabated as America's most popular quiz show, and Arlene was soon appearing on Broadway in what would be her most popular star vehicle, Once More with Feeling, opposite screen legend Joseph Cotten.


This production also ushered in a new phase in Arlene's public persona; although she had always presented herself as tasteful and sophisticated, her appearance trod the conservative, matronly line. Suddenly, at the age of 50, Arlene transformed into a sleeker, more seductive vision of high fashion style. It's been alleged that she had a face lift performed around this period; if so, Arlene had the best doctor in town, as her beauty increased tenfold, while never looking artificial.


By the end of the 1950's, Arlene Francis was one of the highest paid women in television, as well as being one of the most famous; TV Guide and Newsweek proclaimed her to be the third best-known woman in the country. She even briefly reignited her film career with two showy, well-received supporting roles in One, Two, Three (1961) with James Cagney, and The Thrill of it All (1963) with Doris Day and James Garner.


After What's My Line? ended its prime time run in 1967, Arlene kept busy with summer stock and television guest appearances; and when WML went into syndication from 1968-75, Arlene Francis was right back where she belonged, on the panel. She penned her memoirs in 1978, and continued to work well into the mid-1980's. In 1986, Martin Gabel, Arlene's husband of forty years, passed away; two years later, the iconic heart-shaped necklace which Gabel had given to Arlene, and which she wore on nearly every episode of What's My Line?, was snatched from her neck as she exited a taxi on Madison Avenue. It was never recovered. Soon after, Arlene Francis retreated from public view, as she battled with both Alzheimer's and cancer. She died, with her son Peter Gabel by her side, on May 31, 2001, at age 93.


We adore Arlene Francis, not only for her charm, but also for her unflappable humor, positivity, and graciousness. We also truly admire anyone who is not a conventional beauty, yet makes themselves beautiful through personality, application, and the thorough embracing of glamour. And, we suspect that Miss Francis was probably as much fun to socialize with as she appeared on the screen.


The lovely Miss Arlene was, as many of you correctly surmised, our latest Mystery Guest; the enigmatic JohnnyLovesRecords was the first to guess correctly. Have those S&H Green Stamps ready, and pick out your magnificent gift, Johnny!

Mad About the Birthday Boy

We're mad about Toby Worthington, who had a birthday this past weekend. In a perfect world, we'd be gadding about a bygone Manhattan with Mr. Worthington in celebration, sipping martinis in smart nightclubs, taking in every sophisticated chanteuse and diseuse in town -- and we would have remembered on the exact date. But it is not, alas, a perfect world; and we are far, far from perfect -- so we hope that this little tribute will suffice. Mr. Worthington has long been a staunch friend and supporter of SSUWAT, and we wish him many more years of wit, style, and unflappable good taste.

Andy Hardy Meets His Match

There is, we are sure, a special place in hell for nasty curmudgeons who would give a 90 year old legend a negative review; but we'll take our chances, as that special place couldn't be more hellish than Feinstein's at the Regency was this past Sunday.

It needn't have been so, which is the saddest part of all. When a still-impish, still-energetic Mickey Rooney took the stage, gamely "belting" out "Nothing Can Stop Me Now" from The Roar of the Greasepant, the Smell of the Crowd, it seemed that, indeed, nothing - not dropped lyrics, not a heavily-miked band which completely drowned the star out at points, not even the obvious effects of age - could stop this indefatigable charmer from putting on a show.

When Rooney eased into a medley of songs associated with his halcyon days as MGM's number one box office superstar ("How About You," "Nice Work if You Can Get It" and "But Not for Me"), all was right with the world. Rooney was never the world's greatest singer, but he could certainly get a lyric across, and that gift was fully intact on Sunday night, even as 90 hard-lived years occasionally lent a wobble or a rasp to his delivery. A tribute to his erstwhile film partner, Judy Garland, was heartfelt and touching. A brief comedy interlude, complete with rim shots from the drummer, was corny, but oh-so-effective: bad jokes made laugh-out-loud funny by the sheer magnetism of Rooney's out sized charisma, his easy professionalism, and his twinkling charm.

And then: disaster. Rooney introduced his wife, Jan, to the stage. A big, blowsy, badly-permed blonde strode into the spotlight, her voluminous, turquoise sequined-and-fringed pantsuit causing poor Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick, seated squarely in front of the stage, to go slack-jawed. And then Mrs. Rooney sang. And sang. And sang.

She sang "Makin' Whoopee." She sang "Moon River." She sang "Walkin' After Midnight." She sang "Crazy." God help us, she sang "Take Me Home, Country Roads"!

Jan Rooney doesn't have a bad voice; but she certainly doesn't have the voice, talent or presence to give what amounted to a solo cabaret performance at an esteemed New York nightclub, before a very prominent audience. Everything, from her appearance, to her phrasing, to her repertoire, smelled cheap and obvious and tacky. It wasn't even Vegas; it was a bowling alley in Reno. And it played like an attempt to grandstand and outshine one of the greatest of Hollywood legends, which made the aftertaste even more bitter.

Things went from bad to worse when Jan finally wound up her solo spot, and she and Mickey engaged in a series of duets. Their Steve and Eydie-style put-down patter fell completely flat; Steve and Eydie's loving barbs are only funny because the two are equals in terms of talent and celebrity status. When Jan Rooney belittles Mickey Rooney's age, or height, or anything else, even in jest, it's painful. A particularly cringe worthy moment wasn't scripted: mid-song, Jan scolded Mickey for supposedly dropping a lyric; it turned out he hadn't.

This dizzying train wreck finally came to a haphazard halt as Mickey played a rambling solo piano piece, and then was feted by Nathan Lane, Donald Trump and Michael Feinstein, each of whom paid tribute to the entertainer, with salutatory messages read from President Obama and Liza Minnelli (surely, the only time you'll ever see those two names linked together).

In the space of about 80 minutes, we'd seen and heard Mickey sing five songs by himself, three of which were part of a medley. For the remainder, we'd been subjected to his "better" half for nearly an excruciating hour. Even at Feinstein's premium prices, we would have been happier just seeing Mickey work his magic for 20 minutes, receive his telegrams, citations and cake, and then take his bows. Stretching the program out as a vanity showcase for his wife was a bait-and-switch of the most ear-splitting kind.