—EMILY DICKINSON, ca. 1879

Once again, here is a selection of old photographs. Culled from forgotten albums, scrapbooks, and overstuffed boxes of miscellaneous memorabilia, each eloquently supports Dickinson’s thesis in its own quiet way.

Where and when were you born? Where did you grow up?

I was born in Washington, DC. If I’d been born two minutes later, I would have emerged in an elevator, because they were taking my mother down for an X-ray in the basement of the hospital to see why I was taking so long.

My parents moved us to Merritt Island, Florida, in 1968 because NASA was hiring. My mother was a secretary there and my father checked out camera equipment to the men who photographed the Apollo launches.

As a child, was there a particular adult who inspired you—told you stories, read to you, encouraged your creativity? Any specific memories about this?

I don’t want to sound unappreciative of the people around me, but my greatest inspirations came from television characters. Only two, really. Rob Petrie on The Dick Van Dyke Show, and John-Boy Walton on The Waltons. Rob Petrie put on a suit every day and commuted to New York from the suburbs to write on a manual typewriter in an office; John-Boy lived on a mountain and started his own printing press and wrote the novel that took him out of his hometown. Both those things were wildly appealing to me. Those characters became my role models before I realized their influence.

What were your favorite stories and books growing up? A little later on, did you have favorite writers?

The first novel I remember reading—other than Hardy Boy and Nancy Drew novels—was The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. I read some of Mark Twain’s stories, too, in an anthology we had in our home in Florida, and I appreciated his rich characters and his story-telling arc in a way I couldn’t articulate. Later, as a teenager and in my early twenties, I was fortunate enough to discover some novels at just the right time, in terms of my development as a reader and a writer. On the Road was one. Look Homeward, Angel was another. The Sun Also Rises. And when I discovered Flannery O’Connor, the roof was blown off my understanding of what a short story could do.

And speaking of favorite writers, who would you choose today? Which books—both contemporary and classic—did you most enjoy? Which books do you return to time and again for sheer pleasure?

I am an enormous fan of Richard Yates, a writer who is now primarily known for what I think is one of his less cohesive novels, Revolutionary Road. His novel The Easter Parade is a masterpiece. I would recommend it to anyone. Also A Special Providence. I adore and come back to Graham Greene, Willa Cather, Eudora Welty, Truman Capote, Raymond Carver, Joy Williams. And I love Alice Munro, who writes short stories that feel as satisfying as novels.

When did you decide that writing, editing, and words were to be your profession?

Up until the age of sixteen, I wanted to be an illustrator, a cartoonist. Then, at sixteen, I had a wonderful writing teacher who showed me the gratification writing fiction can bring. At that same time, I’d decided I didn’t like my art teacher (specifically, I didn’t like his mustache). So it all clicked. I started writing vignettes—just scenes with characters, no story arc—and I fell in love with the process. Somewhere along the way, I realized that my love for writing outweighed my love for what other people felt about what I wrote. So I worked job after job—painting houses, glazing windows, tending bar, teaching college, clerking in a law firm—while I wrote story after story, novel after novel, and I managed to publish a story here and there, in literary journals.

My first book came out after I’d turned forty. And I didn’t start working in publishing, as an editor, until several years after that.

What was appealing about that choice of profession?

Working as editor exposed me to other people’s writing all the time. Not their published writing but their work in progress. I love working with writers—editing, discussing, brain-storming ideas for how to make something better on its own terms. It’s one thing to read a piece of writing by Don DeLillo, say, or Alice Munro or Joy Williams or Stephen King, and it’s another thing entirely to read their work and know that they’re going to be expecting you to help them improve it. You have to wrap your head around that before you can even begin to think properly. And then it just becomes a mutual love fest of language, even when you aren’t in agreement with the author on a line-by-line basis.

Which was your first published effort? To date, which is the published work of which you are most proud?

My first published short story was in a tiny—tiny!—magazine called The Gaslight Review. It came out of Toledo, Ohio, and had a circulation of around a hundred. Printed on newspaper stock. I still have a copy and it’s browner than a Hershey bar. But it gave me great encouragement.

After four books, the thing I’m most proud of is my collection of interwoven short stories some readers felt comfortable enough to call a novel, titled Send Me. Something happened while I was conceiving of and writing that book—a moment of very private wisdom about how I want to render the world, as I know it, in fiction. I’ve been trying to hold onto that ever since.

Young Adult literature is a specific category and to date you have had three novels published in this category. Is writing for this audience something you had set out to do? How did it happen?

It was a lark. I’d sold my first book—for adults—and was waiting for edits from my editor. Suddenly I had nothing to work on, and I’m not good at being idle. I took down my first novel—written when I was twenty-two—and started to reread it. I had two thoughts at once: one, this isn’t very good at all; and two, this reads like a YA novel though I hadn’t thought of it as that at the time. I tinkered with rewriting it but had to face the fact that the story itself was ridiculous. After a few days, I’d given up on it, but I found myself latched onto the idea of writing a novel for teens. So I came up with a story, mapped it out, and wrote it. That became my first Young Adult novel, Saints of Augustine.

Your first novel for a general audience, Send Me, was critically well received. Were any of the many favorable reviews particularly pleasing for you to read? Why? 

There was one, in particular, that was both flattering and damning, and that amused me to no end. The reviewer started out by comparing my work to Faulkner’s—and let me just say that, while I’m a fan of Faulkner, I have never once thought there was a shred of similarity between his work and mine—but there it was, the comparison. And there was a beautiful “pull quote” from the review that ended up on the paperback version of the book. But at the end of the review, the reviewer again brought up Faulkner, told his readers that I was forty years old, and ended his review by saying that, at forty, Faulkner had written w, x, y, and z, while I had only written this one, promising book. It really was one of the goofiest reviews I’ve ever read. I was thankful for it.

Personally, I think Send Me would make a terrific independent film. Any chance of that happening?

Thank you. I would love to see that happen. As I’ve learned, though, in the world of books that might turn into films, there are a lot of conversations, a lot of pitches, and even a lot of optioning and screenplay writing, but very few films being made. First and foremost, it usually takes a star who is willing to get behind the project. I’m still hoping to get a copy into the hands of Susan Sarandon and Ben Whishaw.

What are you working on currently?

I’m working on another collection of interwoven stories, a few of which involve the same characters in Send Me. Essentially, it’s about a woman who’s always been unlucky in love and a man who’s always been unlucky in health, and how they interact.

How do you manage to work full-time and still produce fiction?

I recently finished a long short story, and it took me six months to write it. After that I embarked on a story that ended up being about twenty pages, and even that took me three months. I write very slowly anyway, and having a job a full-time job means that I only get to carve out two hours, at most, per day—early in the morning. That’s when you know for certain that you’re writing because you truly want to write: when you do it regularly despite being exhausted.

I am, however, soon to leave the magazine I’ve been working for, and I’m looking forward to having both more time to write and more time to work as a consultant with other writers, as a freelance editor.

And the inevitable question: what advice would you have for aspiring writers of fiction?

Don’t take rejection too hard. It’s always just one opinion and is often dictated by someone’s mood or what they’ve just read before your piece or whether or not they’ve had a good breakfast. Don’t enter writing contests with entry fees. Don’t take out student loans to get an MFA. Don’t write with a sense of obligation; write with the curiosity of an explorer. Most important of all, I think: Write because you want to constantly discover how you—through your characters—process the world.

The long-suffering wife? The Lord of the Manor? The respected physician? The ex-detective? The frustrated spinster daydreaming of a proper tea shop?

Who?

No need to wonder or worry.

For those addicted to the deceptively innocent pastime of detective fiction, there’s always a sleuth around to navigate the (sometimes) treacherous labyrinth of clues and to discover THE TRUTH.

For sure, Peter Diamond or Miss Silver or Inspector Murdoch or that old-timer C. Auguste Dupin or any of a host of others will make solving the most complicated crime appear remarkably easy, but the great fun for devotees of the genre is trying to figure it out before the author reveals all.

Edgar Allan Poe is credited with introducing the first fictional detective in 1841—the aforementioned C. Auguste Dupin. First called on to investigate “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” in the short story of the same name, Dupin later proceeded to star in two novels—unraveling The Mystery of Marie Roget (1842) and discovering everything about The Purloined Letter (1845).

The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins (1868) is regarded by many as the first true English detective novel, and it features two sleuths—Franklin Blake, the gifted amateur and first in a long line of gentlemen detectives, and Sergeant Cuff of Scotland Yard. Talented as these gentlemen undoubtedly were, however, they were never destined to attain the renown of a genius who first arrived on the scene in 1887.

Who was that?

Elementary.

Arthur Conan Doyle introduced the perennially popular Sherlock Holmes to the world in A Study in Scarlet (1887), a novel known to be the first work of fiction to incorporate the magnifying glass as an investigative tool.

With his brilliant mind, devoted sidekick Watson, and even his debilitating cocaine habit, Sherlock Holmes has been known and loved by countless millions of fans—some of whom undoubtedly would not be able to name another fictitious detective. And the Baker Street sleuth has recently been reincarnated by the BBC in a hip and happening television series starring Benedict Cumberbatch.

But who else can be recommended to those interested in discovering the joys of detective fiction, either in books or in television adaptations?

First to come to mind is another “gentleman detective”—Roderick Alleyn.

Unabashedly and unapologetically upper class, this younger brother of a baronet is the policeman hero of thirty-two novels published between 1934 and 1982. The output of New Zealand native Ngaio Marsh, these beautifully written and ingeniously plotted tales provide rewarding escapist entertainment. Some favorites: Death in a White Tie (1938); Spinsters in Jeopardy (1954); Singing in the Shrouds (1958); and Grave Mistake (1978).

Between 1990 and 1994, the BBC aired a series adapted from nine of the Alleyn novels, eight of which featured the perfectly cast Patrick Malahide as the elegant and erudite detective who manages to remain impeccably dressed no matter what the circumstances. In each of these frothy delights, William Simons plays Detective Sergeant Fox, Alleyn’s able assistant who provides just the right working-class contrast for his posh boss.

Another “gentleman” busy solving crime in the seductive world of crime fiction is the deceptively vapid Albert Campion who, with his rough and tumble ex-burglar man-servant Lugg, manages to unravel all manner of nefarious intrigues. Margery Allingham introduced Campion in The Crime at Black Dudley (1929) and featured him in another seventeen novels and over twenty short stories. In 1989 and 1990, eight early novels were adapted for television and starred Peter Davison as Campion.

The equally well-born and esteemed Lord Peter Wimsey was the creation of Dorothy L. Sayers, the scholarly writer who considered a translation of Dante’s Divine Comedy to be her best work. Lord Peter collects incunabula, created a successful advertising campaign for cigarettes, knows a great deal about food and wine, and played cricket at Oxford while still managing to earn a First. How can you help but love somebody like that?

Novelist and mystery connoisseur Mike Ripley’s pronouncement in The Strand magazine that Allingham’s Campion was conceived as a “tongue in cheek nod towards Dorothy L. Sayers’ Lord Peter Wimsey” is worth noting, but most devotees of the genre would seem to agree that both characters are great fun to read about.

In the same article, Ripley expands on the similarities of the two detectives further:

“Wimsey is known to have spent time overseas on vague secret missions for the government. Albert Campion admits that he spent the war years overseas . . . on a mission so secret that even I never discovered what it was.” Where Lord Peter had a loyal butler/batman and occasional Watson in the person of Bunter, Albert Campion could boast the companionship of reformed burglar Magersfontein Lugg, whom he once described as a man “having the courage of his previous convictions” and who “in spite of magnificent qualities, has elements of the Oaf about him.” Where Wimsey is the second son of the Duke of Denver, Campion goes one better and lets it slip that his real name is Rudolph and it is not inconceivable that he is somewhere in line for the English Crown!

With these similarities in mind it might be easy to think that Campion was merely a spoof of Wimsey or that Margery Allingham was continually raising the stakes in some literary poker game with Dorothy L. Sayers (who, incidentally, lived less than a dozen miles from Allingham, although the two seemed to have very little to do with each other). Yet even though Albert Campion may have started life as a gentle prod at Lord Peter, Margery Allingham realized very quickly that she had created an extremely versatile character, one who eventually dominated her writing career and engaged several generations of readers. Despite Campion’s primacy in her writing, Allingham never allowed herself to fall in love with her character, a charge still leveled at Sayers.”

Also very much in this tradition of gentleman detectives is the “Eighth Earl of Asherton,” Detective Inspector Thomas Lynley of Scotland Yard, a character created by the contemporary American writer, Elizabeth George. Introduced in 1988, Lynley has a large following and a popular BBC series chronicles many of his adventures.

Undoubtedly the most snobbish of all the sleuths is the American Philo Vance. The creation of Willard Huntington Wright writing under the pseudonym S. S. Van Dine, Vance (described in The Benson Murder Case, the first of the novels chronicling his adventures as “an aristocrat by birth and instinct”) personifies “grand.” Interestingly enough, despite his monocle, his chamois gloves, and his peculiar speech, the books, movies, and radio programs devoted to him were all immensely popular in the twenties and thirties. Maybe it was his money. Alas, his appeal in today’s world (even with all his money) is mostly to connoisseurs of period curiosities. Those who wade through the tales might well agree with Ogden Nash’s assessment of the foppish detective:

“Philo Vance
Needs a kick in the pance.”

In sharp contrast to the effete Mr. Vance is Peter Lovesey’s amusing portrayal of Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, certainly the aristocratic private eye nonpareil. In a delightful series of three books, the eldest son of Queen Victoria stars as a high-living royal who has a passion for amateur sleuthing.

Lovesey, a personal favorite, has also created other fictional detectives, one of whom, Peter Diamond, may well be one of the most clever and endearing of all. Certainly not part of any posh social set, Diamond is a hard-working, likable chap who overcomes assorted personal problems and keeps us readers very much in his corner. Anyone who has not dipped into this wonderful series of—so far—twelve books (the latest title, Cop to Corpse, was released in 2012) has a real treat in store.

Another contemporary sleuth (and another personal favorite) is that funny, food-loving Sicilian, Inspector Salvo Montalbano—just about the most lovable of all detectives in fiction.

Easily available in the United States, the Montalbano novels are written by Andrea Camilleri and have been well translated by Stephen Sartarelli. All fifteen books currently available in English are fast-paced, engrossing, and thoroughly amusing.

Interestingly, Camilleri has said in an interview in the British newspaper The Guardian, that in this series of books social commentary “was always my aim. In many crime novels, the events seem completely detached from the economic, political and social context in which they occur. . . In my books, I deliberately decided to smuggle into a detective novel a critical commentary on my times. This also allowed me to show the progression and evolution in the character of Montalbano.”

This scholarly purpose, however, never detracts for a second from the entertainment value of the well-plotted narratives.

One charming bit of dialogue that is worth repeating from The Dance of the Seagull (2013) illustrates the appeal of the series and also pokes fun at all television adaptations. Here, Montalbano is talking with his quintessentially patient mistress, Livia, who lives miles away in Bologna and they are discussing his portrayal in the television series based on these books.

“I wouldn’t want to run into a film crew shooting an episode of that television series right as we’re walking around there. . . .”

“What the hell do you care?”

“What do you mean, what the hell do I care? And what if I find myself face to face with the actor who plays me? . . . What’s his name—Zingarelli . . . ”

“His name is Zingaretti, stop pretending you don’t know. . . . But I repeat: What do you care? How can you still have these childish complexes at your age?”

“What’s age got to do with it?”

“Anyway, he doesn’t look the least bit like you.”

“That’s true.”

“He’s a lot younger than you.”

Enough of this bullshit about age. Livia was obsessed!

Montalbano felt offended. What the hell did youth and age have to do with any of this?

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean? Anyway, as far as that goes, the guy’s totally bald, whereas I’ve got more hair than I know what to do with!”

Still another noteworthy international sleuth of the moment is the late-Victorian detective William Murdoch. Maureen Jennings created this cerebral, Jesuit-educated, ostensibly conservative, and humorless Canadian in a series of seven novels—all of which are a tad bleak and ponderous. Interestingly enough, however, the new television series based on the novels is head and shoulders more entertaining than the books. Thanks to a first-rate and likable cast, Murdoch and his colleagues are infused with a humor and style that is lacking in the printed version. Thomas Craig as Murdoch’s opera-loving bad boy Yorkshireman boss is particularly engaging.

Three series of novels that are sometimes forgotten today but that feature memorable sleuths are Earl Derr Biggers’s Charlie Chan books, Stuart Palmer’s Hildegarde Withers chronicles, and Patricia Wentworth’s Miss Silver books.

The Honolulu-based detective Chan was introduced in 1925 in a book called The House Without a Key. This novel still delights as do many of the successive books like The Chinese Parrot (1926) and Keeper of the Keys (1932). Biggers created this sweet-natured sleuth as a counterpoint to the “Yellow Peril” characters such as Dr. Fu Manchu that were popular at the time. And the series of books spawned many movies, radio programs (Charlie was heard in different series on four networks between 1932 and 1948), TV shows, comic books, and even a board game.

Stuart Palmer’s first novel, The Penguin Pool Mystery, was published in 1931 and filmed the following year as Penguin Pool Murder. Palmer’s heroine, Hildegarde Withers, is a comic and caustic spinster schoolteacher and amateur sleuth who has an amusing semi-romantic friendship with Inspector Oscar Piper of the New York City police.

Palmer wrote some fourteen Hildegarde Withers novels and also featured her in short stories that were published in newspapers and mystery magazines. Several of these stories were made into movies.

Ferreting out clues and solving mysteries while knitting up a storm was the forte of still another spinster sleuth, Miss Maud Silver. Created by Patricia Wentworth in 1928 and continuing to appear in her writings until 1960, this formidable retired governess was a contemporary of Agatha Christie’s beloved Miss Jane Marple. Miss Silver works closely with Scotland Yard, especially Inspector Frank Abbott, and is fond of quoting the poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

And , of course, no celebration of this sort could possibly ignore the impressively prolific Agatha Christie and her two superstars: the aforementioned Jane Marple and Monsieur Hercule Poirot.

Miss Marple’s first appearance was in a short story, “The Tuesday Night Club,” published in The Sketch magazine in 1926 and she went on to appear in twelve novels and nineteen more short stories. The quintessential English gentlewoman, Jane Marple is ostensibly all lavender, gentility, and elderly sweetness, but in reality she is a shrewd and cynical observer of human nature. Reading of her exploits never ceases to amuse and Joan Hickson’s turn in the title role in the TV series is brilliant.

Hercule Poirot would certainly have applauded his placement in this piece saying, “But of course, mon ami. You have saved the best for the last!”

Introduced in 1920 in the novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles, Poirot continues to attract an enormous following. According to one scholar of the genre, the name was derived from two other fictional detectives of the time: Marie Belloc Lowndes’s Hercule Popeau and Frank Howel Evans’s Monsieur Poiret, a retired Belgian police officer living in London. Perhaps even more important is the influence of Poe’s C. Auguste Dupin, who was mentioned above. In any case, this “little Belgian detective” was able to use his “little grey cells” to unravel (mostly) baffling mysteries in thirty-three novels, fifty short stories, and one play.

This celebration of sleuths is far from complete despite being one of the longest pieces ever appearing on the website. It might be, therefore, that a sequel is in order. In the meantime, here are some of the characters and their creators (in parenthesis) who didn’t make the first cut.

Detective Inspector William Edward “Jack” Frost (R. D. Wingfield) . . . Nero Wolfe (Rex Stout) . . . Inspector Joseph French (Freeman Wills Crofts) . . . Father Brown (G. K. Chesterton) . . . Chief Inspector Reginald Wexford (Ruth Rendell) . . . Yashim the Ottoman (Jason Goodwin) . . . Detective Inspector John Rebus (Ian Rankin) . . . Kurt Wallander (Henning Mankell) . . . Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Geoffrey “Tom” Barnaby (Caroline Graham) . . . Commissario Guido Brunetti (Donna Leon) . . . Philip Trent (E. C. Bentley) . . . Mike Hammer (Mickey Spillane) . . . Inspector Morse (Colin Dexter) . . . Brother Cadfael (Ellis Peters) . . . Beatrice Adela Lestrange Bradley (Gladys Mitchell) . . . Inspector George Gently (Alan Hunter) . . . Dr. Gideon Fell (John Dickson Carr) . . . Kate Fansler (Amanda Cross) . . . Adam Dalgliesh (P. D. James) . . . Philip Marlowe (Raymond Chandler) . . . William Monk (Anne Perry) . . . Grijpstra and de Gier (Janwillem van de Wetering) . . . Dalziel and Pascoe (Reginald Hill) . . . Inspector Ian Rutledge (Caroline and Charles Todd) . . . Inspector Alan Banks (Peter Robinson) . . . Roger Sheringham (Anthony Berkeley) . . . Jules Maigret (Georges Simenon) . . . Charles Paris (Simon Brett)

It was at the home of David and Kathryn Woodrow in the idyllic Norfolk village of Castle Acre, a few hours northeast of London. And it was Max, their gorgeous and formidable German Shepherd, who was doing the staring.

“Why is he so interested in me?” I asked. “Should I be concerned?”

“No,” Kathryn explained, “it’s just that you’re seated in his favorite place and he’s waiting for you to get up.”

Well, sensitive to the desires of dogdom, get up I did and found another place to sit. Max leapt up on the sofa, snuggled in, and went to sleep.

We all laughed and started to talk about the roles of various dogs in our lives.

David, a builder by trade, did not grow up with dogs but having learned about their charms since he married Kathryn eighteen years ago, wishes he had. Max was his first great canine love and no doubt will always be his favorite.

Kathryn, on the other hand, is a different story.

Born and raised at Fengate Farm, a 1,000-acre family property in Weeting, Norfolk, she reminisced, “I can never remember not being around dogs. Father has always had Labradors and mother had several Border/Lakeland Terrier mixes. And, in fact, it was often told to me that one of the first things my parents did when I was brought home from the hospital was to be introduced to Bess, my father’s Labrador. They wanted to see if I met with her approval. Luckily, I did.”

I asked her about the first dog she actually remembered.

“That would be Kim, a golden Labrador who belonged to my parents but became my devoted companion. Apparently I was a child who needed little sleep but as long as Kim was upstairs keeping me company I was always happy and would never cause a problem. My mother always said she was the best nanny around and very long suffering. Again there are numerous stories about my parents having friends round for dinner and Kim would come down the stairs hoping for a bit of food only to have a child’s voice calling for her to come back upstairs and so the dog would look at the dining table and then turn back up the stairs to gales of laughter from the humans.”

Alas, often the saddest fact of life for a child to learn is that dogs don’t live as long as humans. At age nine, Kathryn was devastated when Kim died, but her parents wisely decided that it was time for her to have her own dog. There were certainly plenty of dogs around the property, but Bobby, an eight-week-old black Labrador puppy was to be hers entirely.

“On some farms there is a definite difference between pets and working dogs, but on ours there has always been a definite blurring. As a matter of fact, we will keep a dog as a pure pet if it turns out to be unsuitable for working. Bobby was a really marvelous dog and he got along with all the others on the farm—both workers and pets. And he was always waiting for me at the door when I came home from school.”

Considering her obvious affection for the species, I could not resist asking Kathryn if she remembered not getting along with any dog while she was growing up.

“My grandmother’s West Highland Terrier,” was her immediate response. “I was very young,” she explained, “and he was very protective of her. I think he saw me as a threat for her attention, but, in any case, the dislike was mutual.”

The formidable Max died a few years ago and there was some question as to whether or not it a successor should arrive immediately. David felt that a mourning period—a waiting period—was in order, but Kathryn felt differently. She needed another dog right away and so Otto arrived on the scene.

“When I looked to replace Max I didn’t want another German Shepherd as I felt that we would compare it to Max and that would be unfair. About that time, I had been invited on a day’s game shooting and was introduced to the Vizsla breed. The host’s gamekeeper had six working Vizslas and I found them intriguing—lively and very good at their job.

“When looking for a pet/house dog, I wanted loyalty, willingness to adapt to different environments, and a good nature. These Vizslas seemed to have it all and I set about searching for the right puppy. When I went to inspect one litter, I was taken into the room where I met both the mother and father and six very adorable puppies. I got down on the floor to meet the puppies and look them over when this one puppy decided that my handbag was worth investigating and promptly put his head and shoulders into it and then stole my handkerchief! He was so inquisitive that my heart melted and I decided he was the one for me.”

Clearly, it was the right decision.

Kathryn, the Estate Administrator at The Wicken, a 4,000-acre property located in the heart of classic Norfolk partridge country, explained, “Otto adjusted to farm life quickly and is very eager and keen to meet humans. Wherever we go people are always interested in him and he laps up the attention. He has boundless energy and loves everybody and yes, he has been spoiled. He is not on a lead very often and is well known for sitting on the farm office chairs when he comes to work with me instead of the floor. I often go out of the office and come back and find him sitting on my chair looking at the computer screen.”

Curious, I ask if there are other dogs at The Wicken.

“Yes, there are three Labradors, four Spaniels, and a couple of Jack Russell Terriers. The owner’s year-old Lab spends a lot of time with Otto and they are great friends.”

Stroking Otto, Kathryn continued, “I’m really happy to be around any dog. I like Borzois, and I really love German Shepherds, Labradors and now, of course, Vizslas.”

But, just like with people, there are always some dogs that will carve special places in the hearts of its owners. For David, it will always be the German Shepherd Max, a very social animal who loved to be around people even when they dared to sit on his sofa. He was famous in the Norfolk countryside as the dog who would line up with the other guests at a hog roast and wait for his helping.

He was also known for going back for seconds and even thirds!

Recently retired from Magic 1170 (Stockton-on-Tees, UK), radio broadcaster Alan Ross had an earlier article, “The British Invasion,” in Issue 5 of this website.

“Breakfast in America” was a hit song in Britain from the band Supertramp, and just over a quarter of a century ago it was the closest I’d ever come to American cuisine. Of course, like all Brits, I thought I knew all about it. Or at least I knew all the clichés and stereotypes. 

Over here we’d been enjoying McDonald’s since the early 1970s and Colonel Sanders had been purveying his secret mixture of herbs and spices as Kentucky Fried Chicken outlets made their way across the UK. Back then, it wasn’t called KFC, and they still used the “finger lickin’ good” slogan. 

Fast forward to the spring of 1988, and as part of the Yorkshire Radio Network team broadcasting back to Britain from Disneyworld’s Magic Kingdom in Orlando, Florida, I flew in for my first taste of the USA.

Breakfast in my hotel was such a culture shock that I took a photograph and wrote down the ingredients: “Eggs Louisiana: fried eggs, sausages, green and red peppers casseroled in a tomato sauce with smoked ham.” Wow!

The team got another shock after venturing out of the hotel that evening for our first meal on International Drive. Greeted at the door of the restaurant by our waitress, she was so keen to tell all of us what we were going to have (including the iced water and the salad) that I was convinced for a moment that she was going to join us for the meal. Being used to British standards of service, here was something unusual—enthusiasm!

 Two other meals of that long ago and humid May stand out in my memories.

Having driven down the turnpike past Miami and out along the coral to Key West, I spent a very happy time looking at the ocean from the terrace of the Angler’s Seafood House (3618 N. Roosevelt Avenue, Key West, FL). It’s still there, but I suspect the price of the Surf and Turf (a T-bone steak and half a stuffed lobster) may have gone up slightly from the $16.95 it was back then. 

Then, back in the Disneyworld area, there was The Cattle Ranch Steakhouse, home of the “Six Pound Challenge.” It was where the group enjoyed our final meal before boarding the plane home. Alas, none of us felt up to that establishment’s challenge: eat a six-pound steak dinner including steak, salad, potato, and bread in one hour and fifteen minutes. If you succeed, the meal is free. Many photographs of proud patrons who had succeeded lined the paneled walls. Ever British, we each opted for a 32 oz. porterhouse steak. More than enough for me! The Cattle Ranch Steakhouse is still in business, but moved up the road a while ago (2700 South Sanford Avenue, Sanford, FL).

The steakhouse is, of course, an American phenomenon, and many of the dozens I’ve tried over the years have their own gimmick or quirk. One example, in Lake George, New York, of all places, boasts a big and blatantly kitsch collection of hanging faux Tiffany lamps interspersed with moose heads (George’s Restaurant, 3857 Route 9L, Lake George, NY).

Having returned to the United States many times since that first trip, I’m happy to report that there is much more to the fare offered on “the other side of the pond” than steak and fast food.



New York is obviously a mecca for foodies of all tastes.

For Brits feeling a little homesick, a couple of “must visit” places are Tea & Sympathy (108 Greenwich Avenue between 12th & 13th Streets), which is tiny and has the ambience of a 1960s transport café—complete with oilcloth table fittings. It is conveniently next door to a British food store as well as a fish and chippy.

 Rather more upmarket but in the same vein is the splendid Jones Wood Foundry (401 E. 76th Street), which is done out like a real pub, with proper beer and great food—kedgeree, steak and kidney pud, and cottage pie. During the run up to the wedding of William and Kate, you could have your photo taken beside a cardboard cutout of the happy couple while supping your pint of “Old Speckled Hen.”

Then there was the original Gordon Ramsay’s restaurant at The London Hotel (when Mr. Ramsey was still at the helm). It was an absolute gem. The beautiful starter of salmon and whitefish presented as a “mosaic of tiles,” which I tried, was real perfection—the memory of it will forever stay with me.

With that level of exquisite presentation in mind, provided your wallet can stand it and you don’t mind booking well in advance, the meal of a lifetime awaits you at Per Se (4th floor, Time Warner Center 10 Columbus Circle). A meal here is a truly extraordinary experience. There are two tasting menus, meat or vegetarian, either of which results in an evening of wonderful food, served by a staff who are the standard by which to judge others. Words can’t do justice to this place, it really is “food as theater.” Astonishing!

Museums might not be the first choice in Britain for a meal, but in New York their restaurants are very often excellent. The Modern at The Museum of Modern Art (9 W. 53rd Street) boasts a cheese board so extensive it comes on a two-level trolley and takes the waiter a full ten minutes to explain.

A particular favorite of mine is the marvelous Garden Court Café at The Asia Society (725 Park Avenue), where the food is a mirror of the museum itself—a fusion of all things Asian. It’s a good choice for lunch with a tasty black vanilla tea, one of the many varieties available.

If you are a Brit in search of a curry, in my opinion your options are rather limited. Dawat (210 E. 58th Street) does a very good value lunch menu, and if you find yourself on Long Island, the Curry Club (10 Woods Corner Road, East Setauket) maintains the correct somewhat dated and frayed colonial chutzpah and the chapatis to go with it! The food at both restaurants is great.



On a recent trip to Pennsylvania, a little off the beaten track in the Lebanon area and just down from a cluster of motels and a rather depressing Wendy’s, I had a meal in one of the most unusual restaurants I’ve ever come across. If you fancy stuffed boar or an alligator stew, then head for the Woods Creek Grill (3275 State Route 72, Jonestown, PA) and while you are waiting for the proud host to serve you, look around at the taxidermy on the walls. (Note: there are more examples upstairs as well.)

Washington DC’s eateries have been extensively covered on this site in issue 10 by the vivacious Mary Mendle Bird. I can vouch for the truth of her praise of some of those chosen and especially of the 1789 Restaurant (1226 36th Street NW) with its mouthwatering food served in an elegant and charming setting. For those interested, the proprietors make a point of listing their organic sources.

With a very different ambience but the same aim of sustainability at its core is Founding Farmers (1924 Pennsylvania Avenue NW). Hip and happening, with delicious diner-type food (try the trio of mini hot dogs!), this restaurant is understandably very popular. If you want to hear yourself think, however, let alone have a conversation, opt for an upstairs table where things are less frenzied. On a recent visit our waitress was the spitting image of Anne Hathaway—another plus!

Charlottesville is home of the University of Virginia and is resplendent with wonderful architecture. Jefferson’s legacy is much in evidence and there are notices commemorating former students such as Edgar Allan Poe. There’s also a vibrant downtown shopping mall with distinctive local shops as opposed to the usual globalized brands, and here you’ll find Hamiltons’ at First & Main (101 W Main Street). Sleek, pleasant modern decor, with paintings from local artists on the walls, likable and attentive service, live jazz on some evenings, plus delicious locally sourced produce all combine to make this a restaurant well worth seeking out.



Provincetown, at the very tip of Cape Cod, was originally a fishing village occupied largely by Portuguese settlers. It is now justifiably famous as a Bohemian artists’ colony but it also can boast activities like whale watching and special themed weeks and weekends organized by a refreshingly inclusive Chamber of Commerce. You’ll find the Portuguese influence in many forms, including a local bakery, and the kale and sausage soup that is a starter at the iconic Lobster Pot (321 Commercial Street). Slap bang in the middle of town, this is the place to enjoy seafood at its finest—particularly the namesake lobster cooked in many different ways. Opt for a whole one and you’ll be supplied with some lethal-looking cutlery and a necessary bib—enjoyment is a messy business! They also do the best Bloody Mary you’ll find anywhere.

Two other places in the center and West End of Provincetown are well worth a mention: Café Heaven (199 Commercial Street) for superb breakfasts and brunch; and, for coffee and snacks with extensive outside seating, Joe Coffee & Espresso Bar (148A Commercial Street). Joe also has free wi-fi!

Still in Provincetown, and for general all-purpose dining from lunchtime onwards, you could do a great deal worse than Fanizzi’s (539 Commercial Street). The menu there is comprehensive and the service always welcoming. As at the Lobster Pot, you may be lucky enough to have some marvelous sea views to go with your food. Just a word to the wise: if you go out of season some of these restaurants have very limited opening hours and many are shut completely.



So, in America, be assured you don’t need to limit yourself to fast food—far from it! I am not going to pretend that I don’t occasionally fall prey to the delights of a Nathan’s hot dog when making a rest stop on the road. But praise where praise is due—after traveling through fifty miles of dense forestry in the very north of Maine, despairing of ever seeing civilization again (let alone getting a coffee and a bagel), the lights of the ubiquitous Dunkin’ Donuts sign were very welcome, as were the coffee and the bagel.

At least sometimes, America runs on Dunkin’!

Joe Arnstein

My passport has fifty-two pages. It replaces my old one that had forty-eight, which I renewed before it expired because it was almost full. Well, also because I was hoping for a less frightening photo.

Anyway . . .

Sometimes I look at the stamps on all the pages and think of the adventures that went with them. (Though some of the best adventures didn’t get stamps.) 

Remember the Pan-American Highway?

This was the “four-lane ribbon of concrete” we learned about as schoolchildren that was going to connect Alaska’s remotest outposts with the southernmost settlement in Patagonia. It was to create a kind of NAFTA in pavement, where trade and commerce could blossom the length of two continents. Where American adventurers would cruise the Andes in the comfort of their station wagons. Where a Chilean family, perhaps seeking fast food and the ozone layer, could drive all the way to our most magnificent wilderness. Just imagine their delight: salmon, grizzlies, eagles, and gas stations probably owned by Dick Cheney.

This is not something I think about every night before bedtime. But it’s all coming back to me now. Maybe that’s because at the moment I’m sitting in a bus looking out the window at Costa Rican rain forest. A couple of hours have passed since we left San José and we’ve just started down the mountains that make up the Continental Divide, headed south to San Isidro de El General.

And the bus has stopped.

So, because I have nothing else to do, I’d like to set a few things straight.

First, nobody calls this the Pan-American Highway. It’s known as the Inter, nothing else.

Secondly, it never connected the Americas. Somewhere in Panama the construction crew disappeared into the Darién Gap. Or quit to become drug smugglers. Probably both.

Finally, the four lanes of concrete are really two of asphalt, except where they’re one of gravel. Or none, of mud.

Which is right here, because it’s rainy season in the rain forest and about one hundred feet of Inter have just washed off the side of the mountain. Eventually they’ll wind up in the Atlantic Ocean. Oops. Make that the Pacific. And I’m kind of glad they left without us.

Listen, if you’ve never experienced bus travel in Latin America, you should definitely read about it.

The main thing to know is that buses are ubiquitous. You could probably catch one in Tijuana, keep transferring, and make it all the way to Tierra del Fuego without ever having walked fifty feet. (Well, except for that Darién Gap. But even there, I understand, some ex-construction workers will carry you to Colombia for a price.)

Also, remember that “bus” is a very big three-letter word. It encompasses a multitude of vehicles ranging from air-conditioned luxo-liners to pickup trucks with benches in the back. The latter are especially recommended if you really want to experience the rain forest.

I once spent forty minutes in Mexican jungle “donating blood” by the side of the road. What eventually saved me from death by mosquito was an old VW camper with an interior completely done in purple tufted vinyl and matching shag carpet. In any case, one hour and seventy cents later I was let out at the door of my downtown hotel.

Oh yeah, bus travel down here is cheap. In Belize, for example, the Batty line will take you across the entire country for about what a New York taxi charges to go around the block. Some other countries are even less expensive.

Naturally, there’s a reason for the low prices.

Did you ever wonder what happens to American school buses that can no longer pass inspections? Run your hand under the seat of a público in Caracas and you may find the gum you parked there when you were in seventh grade. Unless someone already used it to fix the transmission.

Bad brakes and bald tires are the norm whether you’re riding in a bus, autobús, or buseta; camioneta, carro, or expreso; guagua, porpuesto, or voladura; van, combi, or in a camelo. That last one is a Cuban humpbacked trailer that holds up to three hundred passengers in a pinch.

Make that “in a squeeze.”

Whatever the name, be sure that no matter where you stop, vendors will clamor aboard to sell you everything from coconut candy to ham sandwiches to little stuffed frogs wearing serapes and sombreros.

Which is what is happening right here, right now, on the side of this mountain.

And from past experience I know that as soon as we’ve bought all they have to offer, a big old earthmover will magically appear. Within minutes it’ll push the uphill part of the landslide into the gap where the road used to be and off we’ll go.

Thinking about my Latin American travels, I remember that in Caracas there is a very wide street that has been converted entirely to pedestrian traffic. I never had a bad meal in Venezuela and this particular street is lined with great places to eat. Perhaps the most popular being the Café Gran Via. Yet, because of the way patrons chose to situate themselves, it always reminded me of Dante’s nine circles of hell.

Nearest the kitchen sat the typical tourists. They dressed the part, kept at least one guidebook on their table, and communicated with the waiters by pointing.

Next were the serious businessmen, suit wearing and cell talking.

The third group were the harder core travelers who didn’t need guidebooks and would probably be embarrassed to carry one.

Fourth were the so-called business people who were always looking for the fast dollar. Or bolivar. These blended into the outright hustlers, who in turn led to the criminals, and finally, in the seventh circle were some beautiful people in their own category.

Yeah, I know. Only seven circles while Dante had nine. I figured the last two, the depths of hell, logically belonged to the eatery on the other side of the street—Tropi Burger. Maybe it was possible to get bad food in Venezuela. Tropi Burger?

One day I was seated in one of these circles—your guess—sipping, well actually guzzling, batido de fresas. Fresh strawberries, condensed milk, and some ice, all whipped smooth in a blender. Also at my table were a British woman who read tarot, a street performer from Guyana, and Anson, who hailed from Trinidad. It was Anson who insisted that we huddle up and converse very seriously whenever the police walked by.

When I asked why, he explained that this made him look like he belonged with us.

“But why do you need to do that?”

“Because I have no papers.”

“Anson, you mean you’re in a foreign country without a passport or anything? How is that possible?”

Another of life’s epiphanies.

“I take the green road, mon.”

The green road. What a concept. You may think security at Kennedy is a pain. Just imagine that you’re in Central America, standing for an hour under a sweltering tropical sky while waiting for a petty Third World–bureaucrat to finally open the window of his air conditioned hut and ask for your documentos. To make matters worse, you can see him playing video games while you’re risking sunstroke, malaria, dengue fever, and possibly the vapors. I’d done this way too many times but now there was an alternative. Fantastico.

Since then a number of my adventures have been as an indocumentado, an illegal alien. Though, I must admit, these started by accident.

Not knowing how many separate lines were involved the first time I crossed into Panama, I thought I was done after dragging my wheelie bag through four of them. Then I climbed onto a little bus. It was only after we’d gone about ten miles that the immigration police stopped us, came on board, and checked our visas. Oops; busted. They escorted me to the other side of the road and waited until I got on another buseta that took me back to the frontier.

I’d gotten off easy. A guy I know had the same thing happen, but he was detained, taken to an airport, and shipped back to the US. You’d think he’d be grateful for the free ride, but no. His car, his wife, and his kids were still in Costa Rica where they’d been living for months.

Some years ago I’d taken a path between Southern California and Tecate, Mexico, simply because I felt like going on a walk through the hills. This was before September 11 and before narco homicides. Right now I wouldn’t go to Margaritaland in anything less than an armored personnel carrier—if that.

In any case, I was ready to apply the green road concept to a rematch with Panama. And, in fact, have done so twice.

The first time I was with a lady friend who had no passport. No problem. We bused into the mountains and walked through the coffee grounds. Sorry. Poor choice of words. Through the coffee fields, or maybe the coffee plantations. The result was a very comfortable, if caffeinated, three-day weekend in the country.

More recently, near the Caribbean coast, I used an old railroad bridge to cross the muddy river that was the border. If you’ve ever seen Stand by Me you know what I was thinking. Multiple choice question: Would you rather get hit by a train or jump into a crocodile condo? Correct answer, fortunately, was “none of the above.”

There does remain yet another green alternative for ignoring boundaries. I resorted to this one while again in the company of senorita who lacked a passport.

Even though there’s a path that sees so much traffic that you can buy cold drinks along the way, she would not walk through the jungle to Nicaragua. Something about green roads, green snakes.

So I met an official who, for 1,000 cordobas (about ten green dollars in those days), wrote my friend a salvo conducto, a safe conduct.

Was it a bribe? Well, let’s call it a contribution. Like the little cooler of sodas I bring when going to Haiti.

As an American, I am, in fact, opposed to any form of bribery and once sat in a Belize customs shack for three hours because I was unwilling to come up with a five-dollar tip. Thanks to an engrossing James Lee Burke novel, one I was obviously willing to read until the vacas came home, the inspector gave up and sent me on my way.

Bottom line, I probably could get along fine without the green road just as I’ve gotten along without the Pan-American Highway. But why would I want to do that?

Axel Munthe (1857–1949), the beloved author of The Story of San Michele (1929) and, unsurprisingly, an early advocate of animal rights, wrote this about dogs: “They are all representatives of the most lovable and, morally speaking, most perfect creation of God. If you loved your dead friend in the right way, you cannot do without another.”

Sparky, Linda Heller’s black and white Cocker Spaniel, had had a long and happy life, but when he died a few months ago at age sixteen, his owner was understandably distraught.

However, when I ran into her on Madison Avenue one recent morning, Linda had started to consider Sparky’s successor. Should this next best buddy be a Cocker Spaniel as well or should it be another breed?

Years ago, English Bulldogs had been my own breed of choice when I daydreamed about a canine companion. And then, after a while, I started to consider Golden Retrievers and then Afghan Hounds, Border Terriers, then Beagles.

But wait a minute.

When the time came that having a dog was a real possibility, that I was free to adopt the first actual successor to Rebel, my childhood Cocker Spaniel, there were certain practical issues to be addressed.

Having a rather active social life at that point in my life, it seemed to be a good idea to have a dog who was more or less portable. That is to say, it should be a breed that would not frighten taxi drivers and that would be content and easy to deal with in a canvas sack as we rode out of the city together on Metro North or the Long Island Railroad.

Unfortunately, that left out the Bulldogs, Goldens, and Afghans.

Also to be considered was the fact that I lived in a Manhattan apartment. Certainly the dog chosen would get exercise, but it would be difficult to provide the kind of activity some dogs really required.

Goodbye to the Beagles and Border Terriers.

More and more it looked as if small dog would make the most sense. Alas, I was not particularly drawn to most small dogs.

In those days before the Internet, books were the way to research dilemmas of all sorts, and I started to seriously consult them to look for an answer to the question of which was the best breed for me. It was a fun project actually, reading about all the different dogs, their histories and dispositions, their standards and peculiarities.

And then one day, reading though some breed descriptions, one phrase blinked out at me as if it were written in neon letters: molto in parvo.

A lot in a little.

The breed motto of the Pug.

So I started reading everything I could about Pugs and, indeed, the more I read, the more the breed seemed a wise choice: Learns quickly. Alert. Exceptionally good with children. Stubborn and bold but essentially easygoing. Gentle with everyone. Fairly inactive indoors. Needs little outdoor exercise. Larger, more sturdy and stable than most other toy breeds.

Moreover, it was also said that Pugs did indeed have big dog personalities in relatively small but compact bodies. Exactly what I wanted.

Now, three Pugs and more than thirty years after that initial consideration, the reading and research has irrefutably proven that I went about selecting a breed in the right way and I urge others, like my friend Linda, to take a similar approach.

The single book that proved the most helpful in my particular quest (and one which is still available on Amazon.com) is Choosing the Right Dog by John Howe. Dedicated “To Limit, the right dog for me,” the book was first published in 1976 and has one page assigned to each breed and includes a photograph and a detailed description.

Today there are certainly many similar books available and moreover the Internet can come close to bludgeoning you with information.

Once the choice of a breed is decided on, the next step is to learn all you can about what’s out there and available.

Most experts agree that it is unwise at best to buy from a pet shop. You simply don’t know what you’re getting and can end up adopting an overpriced animal with serious health problems. Pet shops also have the unfortunate reputation of sometimes obtaining their animals from puppy mills—those commercial breeding facilities that are operated with an emphasis on profits over the welfare of the animals. A careful study of breed-specific kennels and their reputations is definitely the intelligent alternative and this involves still more research.

Go to dog shows (both general and breed-specific) and talk to as many people involved with your choice of breed as possible. Listen to advice, news, and gossip. Learn which kennels emphasize which traits. (Some German Shepherd breeders, for example, breed for aggressiveness whereas others breed for even-temperedness.) If at all possible, visit some breeders and see how the dogs are treated and how hygienically the facility is maintained. Additionally, every breed has local, national, and even international clubs peopled with enthusiasts. Think about joining one or more of these clubs and listening to the chitchat. There are also breed magazines and newsletters that can provide a lot of useful information and many informative illustrations.

The next step is to decide if you want a puppy or an older dog that is looking for a new home. Puppies, of course, require more training, but sharing those early days adds real substance to the relationship. An older dog will most probably be already trained and the personality traits will be more apparent.

And will it be a male or a female? Do you already have another dog or cat in your household? Are you interested in showing your dog?

Questions, questions, questions.

Tiresome, perhaps, but the quest should be almost as much fun as the eventual adoption and the more information you can glean from answering all these questions, the happier choice you will eventually be able to make.

In today’s world it is almost politically incorrect to opt for a purebred, AKC-certified puppy from an established breeder.

“Why not a rescue?” people will ask, understandably alluding to the enormous problem of unwanted dogs.

Why not indeed? It is certainly an admirable thing to give some unloved creature from a shelter a loving home.

However, for those of us who want to know more about the dog’s background, where he came from, what he’ll grow into, what personality traits he’s likely to exhibit . . . well, a journey into the world of purebred dogs is clearly in order. Personally, I’m a visual person and I want to know what my dog is going to look like in addition to what traits he’ll exhibit. This is only really possible in the world of purebred dogs.

So Linda, if you’re reading this, beware. Choosing Sparky’s successor could take some time. It will involve a lot of research—online, in libraries and bookstores, and in random conversations. But that effort will be well worth it.

After all, Sparky’s successor must be up to his standard. You wouldn’t want it any other way.

This bit of insight introduces a cozy, appealing, and easy-to-follow cookbook which, despite the title, has unexpectedly wide appeal: Delicious Dishes for Diabetics by Robin Ellis.

Robin Ellis. The name, understandably, is familiar.

Fans of Fawlty Towers (and I’m sure there are many among the followers of this website) will remember “A Touch of Class,” the first episode of that classic television series. In it, Ellis played Danny Brown, the Cockney lawman with a convenient fluency in Spanish who saves the day. That’s the episode where Basil (John Cleese) is embarrassingly bowing and kowtowing in his attempts to impress a purported aristocrat.

In 1975, soon after his appearance in that landmark television series, Ellis went on to star in Poldark, one of the most successful British adaptations of all time. This romantic saga, set in Cornwall at the end of the eighteenth century, was based on the novels of Winston Graham and, as Alistair Cooke noted in his introduction to the series broadcast in the United States, it provided “the time for the party to settle in to a spate of loving, dueling, poaching, smuggling, wenching, and marrying, not to mention banking and copper mining.”

Following in the tradition of The Forsyte Saga (1967), the original Upstairs Downstairs (1971), and The Pallisers (1974), Poldark was enormously popular and, indeed, was recently voted by PBS viewers to be included in the list of the ten best series ever broadcast on Masterpiece Theatre. The role of Captain Poldark made Ellis a very big star and a serious heartthrob around the world. Speaking recently in an interview about that time in his career, Ellis recalled, “I was just a bit embarrassed by it. I remember one time I was visiting the Aldwych Theatre, in London, and there was a crowd of Irish schoolgirls with their two nuns and they chased me around the theatre, with the nuns trying to catch up. I hid up in the upper circle because I couldn’t really deal with it!”

Be that as it may, to this day fans of the series, of Ellis and, indeed, of the fictional Captain himself, follow his activities with rapt attention, even devotion.

Robin Ellis was born in January 1942 in Ipswich, England. He began his theatrical career at Fitzwilliam College, Cambridge, where he read history and acted in more than twenty plays. Since then, and in addition to the aforementioned Fawlty Towers and Poldark, he has appeared in many other television roles, the Merchant Ivory film version of The Europeans, and several West End productions including the beguiling Sylvia by A. R. Gurney.

Now, more than thirty years after playing the good Captain Poldark, a lifelong interest in food has led Ellis to a new role—that of gourmet and cookbook author.

Ellis credits his mother, Molly, with inspiring his interest. “Molly loved to cook and to entertain,” he writes. “Thanks to her I grew up enjoying well-prepared simple food, eaten with family and friends around the kitchen table. . . . Those convivial meals with my parents were the start of my love affair with food.”

In Making Poldark: Memoir of a BBC/Masterpiece Theatre Actor, Ellis shares further autobiographical tidbits:

I learned to cook at my mother’s knee. That’s about where I came up to the first time I remember being allowed to lick out the cake bowl. What ambrosia it seemed, that delicious, buttery mix—crunchy with undissolved sugar—that clung to the sides of the big, brown bowl.

My mother made all manner of cakes. Fruit cakes with icing for festivals like Christmas, sponges for Sundays and scones for special teatimes.

One such tea ended with a ticking off for me—or should have.

Auntie Rita—no relative, I’m sure—was due at 4 pm for tea and scones (how times have changed!). Ma was flustered and as the hour approached she sighed to herself, loud enough for big ears to overhear: Oh, Rita’s the last thing I need . . .

The front bell rang and I ran to open the door. There was Rita. “Mummy doesn’t want you to come to tea today, Auntie Rita!”

I don’t think we ever saw Rita again.

Alas, Molly Ellis died of a heart attack linked to her long struggle with Type 1 diabetes when she was only sixty-seven. When Ellis himself was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes, in 1999, he naturally took his condition seriously and substantially adjusted his own way of eating. “I’ve always loved food,” he says, “and have always cooked, so we’ve always eaten well. I didn’t want to change so I began to adapt a bit. White bread and rice had to go. I read a book by Michel Montignac who said you should never diet. You just need to develop a new way of eating. Rather than feeling deprived this opened up new culinary paths—the discovery of the sweet potato for instance.”

Delicious Dishes for Diabetics is a small and friendly paperback that really does make for mouthwatering reading and provides a little bit of show business chitchat. Introducing Donald’s Cold Cucumber Soup, for example, Ellis writes: “Donald Douglas, who, as Captain McNeill, chased me in vain, through many Poldark episodes, has finally come to terms with the hopelessness of his pursuit and, in fact, lives close by. He’s much better at making soup than he ever was as a soldier and, as a way of letting bygones be bygones, has given me permission to include this wonderful summer soup!”

For diabetics, for their friends and family, and for just about anyone else who wants to eat healthy and delicious meals, Delicious Dishes for Diabetics offers a variety of wonderful recipes. Here, to literally whet the appetite, are three recommended especially by the good Captain himself. The introductory notes are his own.

Salmon Fishcakes

Serves 2

A recipe based on one by Nigel Slater. I have always loved fishcakes—must be the comfort food factor kicking in—but these days of course the fact they usually contain 50 percent potato causes trouble for me as a diabetic. This recipe solves the problem by leaving the potato out! The dill and the grain mustard make the fishcakes special and they sometimes serve as a tasty starter. If you keep them small and cook them quickly, they’ll be crisp and brown on the outside and still succulent inside.

Yogurt Sauce

2 small containers (about 5 fl. oz. each) plain low-fat yogurt
1 teaspoon grain mustard
Good pinch finely chopped dill (from the main bunch)
salt

Fishcakes

400 g/1 lb skinless salmon fillet checked for bones
1 egg white
1 tablespoon chickpea flour (of course, plain flour works as well)
1 teaspoon grain mustard
Juice of 1⁄2 lemon
1 bunch dill, finely chopped
Salt and pepper
2 tablespoons olive oil

1. Mix all the yogurt sauce ingredients and refrigerate until you are ready to eat.
2. Cut up the salmon fillets in roughly equal-size pieces. Put these in a mixer and pulse three or four times. Avoid working them too much and producing slush at the end. You could just cut them up in small pieces if this suits better.
3. Put the salmon in a bowl. Turn in the egg white and the flour, and then the mustard, lemon juice, and the dill. Season with salt and pepper.
 It’s a good idea to taste the mix for seasoning at this point—the dill and the salt should come through. Refrigerate if not using immediately.
4. Heat the oil in a frying pan and, using a dessert spoon, scoop out a dollop and make a ball. Put this in the pan and flatten it gently. Cook on a medium-high flame, crisping and browning the outside while making sure the interior cooks through.

Serve with a fennel salad and the mustardy yogurt dipping sauce on the side.

Fennel Salad with Parmesan Shavings

Serves 4

Fennel salad from the book is a good counter to the richness of the salmon.

4 medium fennel bulbs, tough outer layers removed, but soft green tufts saved
4 tablespoons olive oil

1 lemon, juiced and zested

Parmesan cheese shavings

Salt and pepper

1. Halve the fennel bulbs and lay the cut sides down flat. Slice these halves finely and put them in a bowl.
2. Whisk the oil and lemon juice and pour over the fennel bulbs.
3. Add the Parmesan shavings.
4. Season generously but with care.
 Turn the salad over several times to coat everything in the mix.
5. Turn into a serving bowl. 
Sprinkle the chopped tufts of the fennel, some extra shavings of Parmesan, and the lemon zest on top and set aside to marinate for perhaps an hour if there’s time.

Charlotte’s Chicken Tagine

Serves 4; for 6 or 8 add a few extra pieces

Our friend Charlotte Fraser—a wonderful cook and author of Flavours of the Sun—put me on to this popular and simple chicken dish. It’s spicy and delicious and a good dish for company because it gently gets on with cooking itself and needs only rice as accompaniment.

1 large chicken, jointed in 8–10 pieces
3 onions, peeled and quartered
2 medium fennel bulbs, cored and quartered after removal of tough outer layers
6 garlic cloves, chopped
1 teaspoon each turmeric, cumin, paprika, cayenne, and ground ginger
1 teaspoon saffron threads
Salt and pepper
228 ml/8 fl oz/1 cup vegetable stock
Olive oil
Good handful green olives
1 preserved lemon (rind only), cut in strips
2 tablespoons coriander or parsley, chopped

1. Put the chicken pieces in a casserole or, even better, a tagine if you have one. 
Pack in the onions and fennel pieces.
 Sprinkle over the garlic and spices. Season with salt and pepper.
2. Pour over the stock and drizzle over some olive oil.
 Bring to a very gentle simmer. Carefully turn over the contents in the liquid.
3. Put the lid on and cook for 1 hour, basting occasionally. The chicken pieces should be sumptuously meltingly collapsed when ready.
4. Add the olives and lemon rind and continue cooking for 10–15 minutes more.
 Add the coriander or parsley just before serving with a steaming plate of brown basmati rice.

Thank you, Robin Ellis, for being good Captain Poldark and all those other characters. And thank you for the mouthwatering suggestions!

Diana Hutchins Angulo

Diana Angulo, the subject of the first in this series of Portraits, had been watching Downton Abbey, and was reminded of another aspect of her childhood in colonial China. As a result, she has jotted down some further recollections.

Oh those happy and wonderful days!

In today’s world, it is sometimes difficult to understand the close and affectionate relationship that once existed between servants and families in many homes. But as a child and as a teenager, I was delightfully cared for by an array of well-trained and dedicated domestic staff. And these people were very much a part of the fabric of our lives, just as we were a part of theirs.

This may have been particularly true in China. You have to understand the mentality of the Chinese in domestic service. They were very proud. There was great dignity.

I was quite small when my father, a career Naval officer, was stationed in Peking—we’d moved there when I was two—and we lived in a large Chinese house with three courtyards and had about eighteen in help. And I loved them all.

I’ll start with the watchman. The house was hutong, down-laned, and walled, and the watchman was stationed at the moon gate. People today will have seen pictures of moon gates, I’m sure, and the watchman was there in a little cubicle. Where he lived, what he did when he wasn’t being a watchman, I can’t tell you, but I loved that watchman. He was very attentive to me.

Then we had the Number 1 Boy—he was a steward, a butler of sorts, and he was the controller. And there were also Number 2 and Number 3. This was all rather standard in embassies and in foreign households of a certain level.

As we were dependent on fireplaces and stoves for heating (fireplaces were integral to the lifestyle), we usually had about three coolies. “Coolies” was not considered a derogatory term then. It was from a Hindi word and spelled “Kuli.” These people were very much a part of our household and very important for its efficient running. They handled the cleaning and the polishing and they would also sometimes walk the dogs.

Then we had a cook, and a chauffeur, and for the ponies there were grooms (mafoos) and Mr. Popoff, a Russian, a Cossack originally, who was a horse trainer. And of course I had a governess, Antonia Hartung, a beautiful young German woman.

We had amahs—they were known in the Chinese vernacular as “aunties.” We had a washie-washie amah who did nothing but laundry, which was all done by hand and put out on a big line in the hope that the sun would dry it. Then there was an amah who was really a personal maid. She’d help you get dressed, undressed, get your riding clothes on, get your riding clothes off. She also became your advisor and told you what to wear.

These amahs were vital!

When we left Peking I remember that my mother found jobs for all of the people who had worked for us.

In Shanghai, the superstar among our staff was Cook, known as the cuisiner, who had been trained in French households. We never knew his name and neither did any of the other people for whom he’d worked. He was simply “Cook.” He was an elegant and imposing Mandarin who spoke impeccable French. He would confer with my mother daily, jotting notes on a strange little pad as their conversation progressed. They would plan luncheons (called tiffin, a leftover from colonial India), family dinners, or dinner parties where even last-minute guests were provided for and were never a cause for drama.

This cuisiner was capable of not only cooking superb and sophisticated French fare but also simple Yankee meals: fried eggs, sunny-side up with sausages; pancakes and waffles; perfectly done hamburgers. He was something of a celebrity among the other cooks in Shanghai at that time but he never permitted any sharing of his recipes even if Mother asked. Sometimes, if pushed, he’d give a recipe but it had some small mistake in it and he would apologize saying, “J’ai oublié.” There was, however, a great amount of inter-household borrowing of silver platters and dishes. These were always returned. (Unexplainably, however, I still have a lovely tray belonging to the British Embassy in Beijing.)

My father was an an aficionado of fine cuisine and was, without question, one of Cook’s most ardent admirers. He delighted in the elaborate and splendid menus—the soups, the fish courses, the entrées (game, pheasant, partridge, roasts), and always a savory. And of course we had an extensive wine cellar. (Shanghai was renowned for well-stocked cellars and ‘tis said there were enough spirits and wines in the city to float the warships!)

Sometimes Cook gave us and our friends a purely Chinese banquet and it was a gourmet triumph. To this day my favorite dish is what we called “luncheon buns,” those lovely, delicate, steamed spring rolls.

I shall always remember one particularly delectable dessert that this remarkable man made for us. It was known as Peking Dust and it consisted of baskets made of hard candy filled with a puree of chestnuts and topped with whipped cream and spun sugar. They were a magnificent sight to behold and a real joy to the palate. When the Number 1 Boy would serve, he’d cut directly through the hard candy and lift out the puree. And it really looked exactly like Peking dust.

Cook was never referred to as a chef, though his sous-chef was called “le petit marmiton.”

Another memorable member of the staff in Shanghai was the Number 1 Houseboy, Chin. He was a master of household protocol and always very dignified but with a real sense of humor.

Though he spoke Mandarin as well as fluent Italian from years with an Italian family, Chin sometimes chose to express himself in pidgin English—the much abused argot introduced by the Chinese in the early days of the China trade in Canton. I was called “Young Missy,” my sister “Missy Babs.” He kept our Shanghai world in order with the help of Lao Kai, the Number 2 Boy. Lao served at both meals and parties and was almost a valet de chambre when my father was at home.

Of course, the indisputably most important person in our daily life was Jingpo, our amah, who, in her humorous but firm style directed the details of our lives. Dresses were selected, boots and shoes shined, hair brushed forever. Sometimes a chignon, sometimes a pageboy. My older sister Babs did not always appreciate Jingpo’s ministrations and she also resented her criticism of some of the young chaps coming to fetch us. Amah liked, however, all those gentlemen in uniform, especially those who brought flowers for my mother.

Our chauffeur, Mar, a Muslim (or a Mohammedan as we would have called him then), was a stately and quiet gentleman and a very special part of the household. He would also often serve as a butler. I remember that during the early Japanese invasions he was always able to differentiate between the Japanese and the Chinese planes.

Perhaps the most telling of all the stories about our family’s relationships with those who worked for us is a kind of postscript.

My mother had been widowed before the bombing of Pearl Harbor and initially stayed in China. I left Shanghai for the United States just before World War II and Mother was to follow shortly. Alas, she ended up being trapped there and several months later was interned along with hundreds of other expats in a Japanese camp. When she said good-bye to the remaining staff as she was leaving for the camp, Cook stepped forward, his eyes brimming with tears. He looked affectionately at Mother and said, slowly, and in his Mandarin French, “Please, I shall go in your place to the Japanese camp.”

—JANE AUSTEN, Pride and Prejudice

—ROBERTSON DAVIES, The Rebel Angels

Once again, here is a selection of old photographs. Culled from forgotten albums, scrapbooks, and overstuffed boxes of miscellaneous memorabilia, each eloquently supports Davies’ thesis in its own quiet way.

Twentieth-century wars and conflicts.

For my generation, it was all about Vietnam.

In the spring of 1968, friend Dave McCormick, then a nineteen-year-old college sophomore from Dobbs Ferry, New York, received his notice to appear for his pre-induction physical.

In those days, the Vietnam conflict and a military draft were very much facts of life and the prospect of being selected to be sent to the jungles of Southeast Asia was terrifying.

“I went down to lower Manhattan,” Dave recalls, “to Whitehall Street. We were given physical exams and all these forms to fill out about our health history and our family and things like that. And one of the questions was: ‘Are you a homosexual?’

“Now at that time I did know, in my heart, that I was. I hadn’t really accepted the fact, but I certainly knew what my preferences were. I was conflicted about admitting it but the sergeant who had distributed the forms repeatedly stressed that all our answers should be honest.

“I didn’t want to lie, so I checked the box admitting that yes, I was a homosexual. It took some courage.

“After a little time, the sergeant called me to the front of the room for a private word.

“‘Is this a mistake?’ he asked and when I said it wasn’t he informed me that I’d have to see the psychiatrist. I did. That psychiatrist asked me again, ‘Is this true? Are you a homosexual?’

“When I answered that I was, the psychiatrist told me that it was my ticket out of military service. ‘We don’t accept homosexuals,’ he said. And then he stood up. ‘You realize you’ll be out of the service but you’ll never get a job in this country again. These records are going to follow you wherever you go. No reputable firm will want you.’

“Then he paused and tapped the papers on the desk. Finally he said ‘I’m going to give you a few moments to think about it. If you have any doubts, you can remove this statement from your form and no one will ever say anything.’ And then he left me alone.

“When the psychiatrist left I was totally bewildered, and indeed intimidated. I was facing my entire future and I certainly didn’t want any hopes of a career ruined.

“So I altered the form, erased the admission and started a US government job on a lie.”

Welcome to the army.

Now sixty-five, Dave smiles and recalls that immediately after this disguising of sexual preference, he was ushered into an auditorium where an enormously fat and physically repulsive sergeant addressed the about-to-be soldiers.

“I remember,” said Dave, “that this grotesquely fat guy with a disgusting pimple on his nose and a front tooth missing was talking to us and going down a list of things that was of concern to the army. ‘Are you heterosexual or homosexual?’ he asked. ‘You all checked heterosexual because you’re here now. What’s a homosexual? Well, a homosexual is someone who’d rather be up here on stage now kissing me than to be kissing Marilyn Monroe.’

“I turned to the guy next to me, a total stranger, and said, ‘I guess I’m straight.’”

Dave went through eight weeks of basic training at Fort Jackson in South Carolina and toward the end of that period, the war’s emphasis shifted to jungle combat. The writing was on the wall. And indeed on October 15, 1968 he was on his way to Vietnam where he was to stay for 366 days and where he was one of the few to serve on the front lines for eleven and a half months.

“Our division, the 25th, saw a lot of combat,” he recalls. “Our company went out on 80% of the missions—the heavy stuff, two to four times a week. No showers, canned food, no clean clothes. It really got nasty out there. And frankly, before all this started to go on I’d asked myself how I could mentally survive. And you know, it was my mother’s sense of humor. She never missed a beat and I tried to look at things from her perspective.”

About the same time, I was living in Washington, DC, and received my own notice to appear for a pre-induction physical. I remember the real panic I felt as I crowded onto a bus that would take me and others similarly chosen out to a military base in Maryland to see if we were physically qualified. It wasn’t that I didn’t love my country or wasn’t willing to serve it. I just didn’t want to end up dead quite yet.

Fortunately for me, because of a long documented history of asthma and allergies, I failed the physical and was classified 1-Y. That meant that I would only serve in the military in case of an out-and-out war and that if so, I would be restricted to a desk job. Vietnam was considered a conflict—not an out-and-out war.

When I asked Dave about the most difficult aspect of his time on the front lines he answered that it was the uncertainty of it all. “Coming to terms with not knowing if your group was going to make it through the night was the biggest issue. That, along with trying to keep yourself mentally stable. You had to understand that you might never get home again and you had to be comfortable with that if possible.

“Of course,” he continued, “the camaraderie was extraordinary. You met up with people you thought you had nothing in common with and discovered that if you allowed yourself, you could really connect with them. You discovered that you had this bond.”

In A Walk on the Sidewalk, the book Dave wrote about his experiences in Vietnam (available from Amazon), the most extraordinary chapter tells the story of one particularly frightening mission.

Smack in the middle of a jungle swarming with enemy troops, his company was ordered on a march in the middle of a particularly dark night. He writes:

That’s just great, I thought! Let’s see, we’re walking in the middle of a known enemy territory. There’s a chance I might be shot by one of our own men. A B-52 strike is about to happen soon, with a likelihood of hot bits and pieces of flying scrap metal landing on me.”

By 2:30 AM my entire body was overcome with exhaustion. I had been up and without rest for nearly twenty-four hours. . . . Using the coverage of darkness, I considered getting rid of some of the supplies I had been carrying. . . .

My exhaustion turned to alarm when I saw well over half the stars were now covered by an enormous bank of clouds. What little light we had remaining from the few stars I could see would soon be covered for sure by a second bank that was rapidly moving in. Sensing my concern and knowing the very valid danger of moving in absolute darkness the captain spoke, “Mac, we’ve got to keep on the move. Stay in touch with all units. Hands on shoulders if necessary. No one fires without my orders. Understand? No one! We can do this. . .  .”

Come on Dave, I thought. Keep it together. Don’t lose it now . . . . But it was so very dark and I truly could not see where I was going.

By a curious intervention of fate, however, things were to change rapidly.

“The boots, the boots, check out the boots!” one of the other men cried and indeed all the boots of the company were miraculously glowing with some kind of luminescence. The soldiers were able to follow each other without problems.

“Surprisingly, no one talked about the boots,” Dave wrote. “I couldn’t say for sure what happened to us on this particular mission . . . if you believe in fate, well then perhaps what took place on that night was nothing more and nothing less than what was supposed to have taken place.”

Dave shares many other stories in his book and it’s obvious that there are also many he chooses not to share, stories perhaps too painful to recollect.

“There’s rarely a day that goes by without me thinking about Vietnam and the war. I don’t harp on it, but it comes up again and again.”

On October 15, 1969, Dave was in the process of leaving the army. His military obligation was fulfilled and he was headed home to Dobbs Ferry. And that was the day of the Vietnam War Moratorium, the massive demonstration against the United States involvement in the war when millions of people around the world were singing John Lennon’s new song, “Give Peace a Chance.”

By some quirk of fate, on the following day, October 16, 1969, the underdog New York Mets won the World Series and after all the sorrow italicized by the moratorium, the city responded with abandon.

The “Talk of the Town” in the New Yorker of October 25, 1969 brilliantly contrasted the two days in an essay which concluded emotionally:

In the distance, from the direction of Times Square, we could still hear rhythmic shouts of “Mets! Mets! Mets!” But as we passed in front of the Library, we still heard from behind us those hoarse voices . . . telling over the names of those who, if things had been better managed, might well have been among the shouters and the jubilant litterers—might have been on hand to celebrate the glorious victory.

Gay or not, Dave served his country and came home to a world that often did not appreciate his contribution.

“People didn’t seem to understand,” he said. “Sometimes it seemed as if they didn’t even know there was a war going on. And there were plenty who criticized me for taking part in a conflict they didn’t approve of. Sometimes I even denied I was ever in the service.”

I asked Dave if he thought that there were lessons to be learned from Vietnam and he grew noticeably pensive. “We got involved in Vietnam for the wrong reasons—reasons that not everybody agreed on. Yes, we as a country should certainly stay strong, but that wasn’t the way to go about it.

“Funny,” he added, “we’re not the same country anymore. The lessons from Vietnam are no longer so important.”

Perhaps the most valid comment on that period in history was made by a fellow rejected recruit as he boarded the bus I was on to return to Washington all those years ago.

A heavy-set black guy with a big smile, he stood and looked around him at a sea of all white collegiate faces.

“You know that hearing test they gave us?” he announced in broadcaster tones.

“I didn’t hear shit!”

The bus exploded in applause, laughter, and congratulations as everybody rushed to shake his hand.

Jinx, of Stony Brook, Long Island, is a very beautiful black Pug and certainly has the look of a breed champion. But every time she was put into a show ring, her tail went down and her whole demeanor spoke of misery. So her breeder allowed Jinx to be adopted by the loving family with which she now resides. And these days Jinx radiates happiness, never thinking, I’m sure, of the show ring.

As Paul MacLean of Ocean Spray Labradors of Norton, Massachusetts, a breeder of award-winning dogs explains it, “A show dog is a special dog, no matter what breed. It has to have breed type, an outgoing personality, correct structure, and that ‘here I am, look at me strut my stuff attitude.’”

Kathy Kiley, the owner/handler of Rory, her Champion Irish Setter agrees. “The personality of any dog plays a role in how they show,” she explains. “Do they enjoy the ring and the attention? Winners do. It will be evident in the way they move in the ring . . . the look they give the judge when he examines them . . . the sparkle they have while doing something they love. Some lovely examples of breed just aren’t happy unless they are at home with their people. The dog show world isn’t for them.”

In The AKC’s World of the Pure-Bred Dog (New York, 1983), Steve Cady sums it up: “Make no mistake about it. Show dogs may be the snobs among America’s fourteen million registered pure-breds, but they are athletes competing in athletic contests. In addition to being outstanding specimens of their breeds, top dogs must have the temperament to handle the stress of crowds, the stamina to survive constant travel by land and air, and the showmanship to exude happiness in the ring day after day. They must look like a winner and act like a winner.”

Show dogs are indeed very special. But in today’s world, criticism of dog shows and breed standards is commonplace.

“Showing dogs is so cruel!” moan those who don’t know any better. Clearly, they’ve never seen the enthusiasm certain animals have for flaunting their good looks before the world. They also don’t realize that the same glamorous show dogs are also usually beloved and pampered pets. An animal cloistered in a kennel just wouldn’t show well.

And I like to think the criticism from people who complain, “Why didn’t you get a rescue? There are so many unwanted dogs in the world!” is equally unfair. Why is it better to take a chance on total unknowns rather than select a puppy where you can be reasonably sure of what you’re getting? If you love dogs, the choice is personal.

Paul MacLean concurs. “While people like us love the purebred dog, there are others who just love dogs in general. Our son has a poorly bred Pug and a mongrel that resembles a large rat and he loves them both and so do his wife and children. But there is a downside to a dog of unknown lineage. You have no clue about the personality or any other family traits. Nor can you predict what health problems may be lurking in the pet.”

What prompts people to get involved in the world of show dogs?

For some it is undoubtedly the love of a specific breed and the traits for which that breed is known: the elegance and speed of the Afghan Hound, the intelligence and chic of the Standard Poodle, the feisty nature and leprechaun looks of the Chihuahua. For others, both the camaraderie the show circuit fosters and the wholesome, competitive spirit provide the motivation. There are also those animal lovers who see it as a pleasant way of making a living and, sadly, there are even some who see easy profits as a goal. Alas, this last group, apart from being the least sportsmanlike, are also the most apt to be disappointed. Breeding show dogs could hardly be called a profitable business.

Kathy Kiley tells how she was inspired to be part of the show world. “When I was eight years old I read a book called Champion Dog: Prince Tom, a story about a show Cocker Spaniel. I knew then that I wanted to own my own show dog one day.” And she has managed to do just that despite some earlier setbacks: puppies with impeccable lineage who didn’t look quite right or beauties who preferred home and hearth to the world of show business.

“In the eighties, after having owned and loved two of the nicest Labs anyone could ever have wanted (but neither of which was of show quality), we decided we wanted to be part of the dog show world,” recalls Paul MacLean. “We then bought a nice female, but as anyone in the game will tell you, they do not all work out. She was a lovely girl and she warmed our bed for fourteen years, but she did not produce a show dog of merit.”

How exactly does the world of show dogs work? That is, how does a dog earn the prefix “Champion” and are there specific degrees of excellence even among champions?

Kathy Kiley, who was once a teacher, outlines the basics with precision and clarity:

Dogs who are not yet champions compete against those of their own breed and sex. The winners of each class then come back to the ring and the judge will choose one of those to be Winner’s Dog (or Winner’s Bitch for the females) and that dog is awarded points toward their title of champion. Depending on how many of each sex are entered will determine how many points the dog wins at that show. A dog must get fifteen total points to become a champion and at least two of the wins must be three to five point wins. Those are called majors. Once a dog is a finished champion, he can then go on to earn his grand championship where he competes with others who have achieved that status. At that stage, the dog must win three majors and a total of twenty-five points.

There was a time when the world of showing dogs was elite and private. People with names like Geraldine Rockefeller Dodge, Mrs. Frothingham Wagstaff, and August Belmont held sway over a small, insular universe. Today all that has changed and anyone can participate. It is, however, a time-consuming endeavor and can mean three or four weekends a month on the road and many show weekends are three or four days long. It can also be quite an expensive proposition. Although the cost of entering a show is relatively modest (usually $30 or $35), once you figure in hotel rooms, food, gas, tolls, and equipment, expenditures escalate. Furthermore, if you’re campaigning a dog to be number one in breed rankings, the cost of professional handlers and advertising enters the equation and the total can climb into tens of thousands of dollars.

Is it all worth it?

Why not?

If the dogs enjoy the recognition and applause, if the breeders like the excitement and challenge, and if people like me savor the pride of having the prettiest dog in town, why not indeed.

“I was born in San Francisco in 1923,” he said. “But the Brawners were a Maryland family. If you go to Washington, DC, the capitol building is situated on land which the Brawners once owned.”

Known as Harry, this lean and elegant gentleman was the son of the late A. H. Brawner, Sr., one time chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank of San Francisco and chairman of W. P. Fuller & Co., a paint manufacturing company founded by that gentleman’s maternal grandfather.

Talking to him, in the early part of the twenty-first century, Harry spoke more of his early life and his family than of his business achievements, his globe trotting adventures, or his wide variety of interests.

“In 1922, my father had decided to go to work for the family company and after I was born he and my mother bought 3680 Jackson Street, which is a large red brick mansion facing the Presidio. It was far too big a house for the three of us, but they were planning to have a good-sized family.

“My mother, however, being an Eastern girl, did not realize that for five or six months of the year, San Francisco is encased in fog. So as soon as the fog came, she insisted we spend time elsewhere.

And so, for five summers we rented houses in Hillsborough and eventually she convinced my father to move out there in 1931 to a house called Oak Knoll. They were to stay in Hillsborough until shortly after World War II.

“My mother,” he continued, “the former Virginia Lowry, was from Blairsville, Pennsylvania, where her father was the town dentist. He was an important citizen, but anything but wealthy. When my parents married it really became quite clear for the first time that the backgrounds of the two families were very, very different. But my mother quickly adapted to the style to which she had not been brought up.

“In those days if you had money, even in the Depression, there was a way in which you did things and my mother always aimed to do them in that way, but she always aimed to do them one better. Sometimes that was a little hard to deal with, a little bit gauche. When her family came to visit us, she would repeatedly say to her mother, ‘You’re not dressed properly,’ and make her change her clothes to go shopping or to go to lunch.

“My mother was not politically correct in the slightest degree at any time and would have fitted in quite well with Marie Antoinette. She was very charming when she chose to be, however, and a great lady in some sense, although it was almost stage acting. But my father was forever madly in love with her.”

A lifelong friend of Harry Brawner’s, a literary agent in New York, recalls that, not unexpectedly, his mother was also a superb housekeeper and that her chefs were always first rate. At their house on the peninsula, that lady remembers that “the meals were always delicious, beguilingly presented, and impeccably served.” (Interestingly enough, however, food and its presentation meant little if anything to Harry and his brother. Neither was particularly interested in what they were served to eat. And during the many years of his happy marriage, Harry was known to remark, “We have pass-the-ketchup dinners.”)

But despite the opulent setting in northern California and his mother’s exquisite housekeeping, life was not always joyful for young Harry.

“Christmas Day was an extremely painful event,” he recalled. “My father’s mother’s family, the Fullers, is a fabulous family—terribly inclusive for anybody who is a member of the family but rather exclusive for anyone who isn’t. And from the moment my mother and father moved back to California we celebrated every single Christmas with the Fullers.

“At that time William Palmer Fuller, Jr. was acting senior member of the family and he and his wife Adeline had a house in Hillsborough. And it was there that every Christmas those of us under fourtten had to perform. These were compulsory performances. We played the piano badly, we recited poems badly, and we were all embarrassed greatly. Palmer and Adeline, along with their sons, would sit there and critique each performance. That made it quite humiliating because the sons, although older than I was, were of the same generation. And what made this all particularly unpleasant and actually frightening was that this tradition was not a casual thing but actually billed as a performance. We were competing with every other kid who had ever been there—even those who had been there years before.”

And then there were the sleeping porches.

“Sleeping porches were very common. They would be off one of the main bedrooms—complete in themselves but screened in and without heating. If it was really cold in the winter, we were sometimes allowed to sleep in our own rooms, but otherwise it was considered healthy for us to get the night air. That sleeping porch was part of the structure of our house which had been built originally in 1910.”

Harry Brawner also had some pretty spectacular memories of travel. To begin with, he recounted the procedure of getting from the West Coast to the East.

“When you got on the Overland Limited it had to stop a number of places to pick up water for the huge water tanks. So the train would stop and you would see them hook up the water tanks. And while that was going on you would walk along the platform outside until you were whistled back on board. One of those stops I distinctly remember was in North Platte, Nebraska. We always stopped there. It was a ritual to get off the train and walk back and forth. The first time I did this was in 1925 when I was just two years old, but I seem to remember that much about the trip because we were on our way to Blairsville, Pennsylvania, to visit my mother’s family.”

Later, in 1931 the Brawner family was to go further afield. It was on this extended trip early in Harry’s life that he was to discover how fortunate he was.

“The stock market crashed in 1929, but my father had sold most of his holdings shortly before the crash. He and my mother decided to take an extensive excursion to Europe and North Africa beginning in February 1931. I was to go along with my governess, Anne Marie Schulz (and I was gratified because my younger brother, only fifteen months old at the time, had to stay at home).

“When we stopped off in New York it became obvious to me for the first time that the depression was going on. We stayed at the Plaza Hotel and just outside of the hotel were beggars. That was the first time that I had ever seen beggars in my life. I had to ask questions about who the people were and what they were doing and why they were on the street. I had not known that everybody in the world was not completely well fed. It was the first experience I had to that other world and I was quite shocked by it.

“While we were at the Plaza, my mother became ill with a flu which almost caused our group to miss sailing on the Île de France. We did make it however, and just imagine how exciting it was for a seven year-old boy to cross the ocean on the Île de France. Since it was a very rough crossing and my parents both became deathly ill, my nursemaid became deathly ill and I, as a kid (and even now as a father, grandfather and great-grandfather) never got seasick, I had the run of the ship!

“After a brief stay in Paris at the Meurice, there was another rough crossing from Marseilles to Algiers. A car and driver were engaged there to take our party on a twenty-one-day expedition all the way across Algeria and Morocco to Tangier. We stopped in Fez (at the Palais Jamaï, which remains one of the world’s finest hotels) and on the morning after our arrival strolled into the Kasbah. My mother’s paranoia about health, however, detracted from my visit there. She had decided that the place was germ-infested and wrapped me so completely in the folds of her own garments that I was not only blinded but nearly suffocated as well.

“Interestingly enough, however, we received word when we returned to the hotel that our family was to dine with the local emir, an enterprising entrepreneur who used the toil and talents of his many wives and concubines to produce goods for sale. This invitation was clearly a command.

“It was announced when we arrived at the his palace that the ladies would be permitted to dine with the emir and his male visitors—definitely a rare honor. However, it was also decreed, that the ladies would withdraw to be dressed in proper Arab attire. I assumed that since the women in the streets had been well covered that that would be the case in the evening. Not so. The ladies returned dressed so sparingly as to cause my jaw to drop. My father looked like he needed a martini.

“The emir’s interpreter informed us that we were to be treated to five courses of chicken—each prepared in a different fashion. Each of these courses was presented on a bed of rice. Unaware of my mother’s fastidious ways, the emir, seated next to her, proceeded to feed her himself. With great élan he clawed into the rice with his right hand, extracted a huge hunk, squeezed it into a ball, and plopped it into my mother’s mouth.

“Can you imagine that ‘great lady’ being fed from his hand?

“But she coped.

“She then began to fidget because, I learned later, she felt that someone was trying to play footsie with her. This contact continued and moved up her leg. As it reached a critical point, my mother let out a piecing cry and as she did so, a cat jumped from beneath the table and ran away. An international incident was thereby avoided and the identity of the guilty party—cat or emir—was never revealed. I always believed it was the emir, but the cat was very convenient.”

Harry smiled, leaned back, and continued his reminiscences.

“That story was rather typical of my mother. In a real crisis, she was quite good. But it was with manufactured things of her own imagination that she got into trouble.

“My relationship with her was a very interesting one. After I was a schoolboy, she encouraged me in writing and she was the one who gave me sympathy in my struggles in school. But there was always tension because I never knew what to expect. When she slapped me it hurt both physically and otherwise. Once or twice during my early days my father spanked me and it hurt physically, but it never hurt otherwise. He made it clear that I deserved it and I realized he was right and that was that. With my mother it was different.

“She was an amazing woman in that at moments she realized how lucky she was, but she was also terribly jealous whenever something involved the slightest social implication. She could literally became hysterical. And it was exceedingly difficult to please her but we all tried very hard to do so.”

Harry Brawner left Hillsborough to go to Princeton but his education was interrupted by World War II, during which he served in the army. He returned to Princeton, graduated in 1947, and shortly after married Alice Ann Lowry, a distant cousin, the great love of his life, and the mother of his four children.

Mary Mendle Bird

Washington has been transformed since I first landed here as a post-graduate student in the mid 1960s. In those days, the fare was quite plain and very Southern influenced. Sundays meant roast beef or turkey and was not washed down by a libation. My late husband, Collins Bird, was at the helm of the Georgetown Inn when he discovered a local mom-and-pop operation with great breakfasts. Inspired, he soon began serving eggs, etc. for brunch at the Inn and lines formed.

Rare exceptions venturing beyond the mundane in those days were the still-flourishing and quite venerable 1789 (1226 36th Street, NW) in the shadow of Georgetown University and Rive Gauche, long since gone, which exuded a French essence from the Camelot era. That restaurant occupied a corner of M Street and Wisconsin Avenue in the heart of Georgetown—now home to a Banana Republic branch.

Other long-departed stalwarts include Harvey’s with impeccable seafood next to the Mayflower Hotel, Duke Zeibert’s eponymous landmark for haute deli, and the elegant Jockey Club frequented by diplomats and cave dwellers, those native Washingtonians who tend to stay in their own private worlds.

I am not certain when the restaurant scene shifted. Perhaps the advent of new office buildings on K Street brought an influx of very good dining options. From those early days, The Prime Rib (2020 K Street, NW) is one of the remaining bastions of predicable fine dining in an elegant setting with superb service. Important, too, is the fact that it’s a place where one can actually be heard. (In this regard, Washington Post food critic Tom Sietsema became so aggravated when noise levels at several other places made diners feel hearing impaired that he has added a decibel rating to his reviews.)

Today, for glamour there is no parallel to Café Milano (3251 Prospect Street, NW). Proprietor Franco Nuschese came here to open Bice but swiftly moved on to establish this current haunt of visiting and local superstars: presidents, divas, moguls, and the rest. I recently had the pleasure of a post-theatre benefit dinner in the desirable Domingo room, named for frequent diner Placido of opera renown.

Remembering Collins and to update the brunch scene (please bear in mind that I don’t care for overladen buffets), a chic crowd at Peacock Cafe (3251 Prospect Street, NW), next door to the aforementioned Café Milano, basks in the warm attention of the Farivar family. Ris (2275 L Street, NW), the brainchild of esteemed chef Ris Lacoste of the aforementioned 1789, offers eggs Benedict in many guises as “small plates.” Wolfgang Puck spoils all of Washington with his Asian fusion at The Source (575 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW) where executive chef Scott Drewno produces sensational dim sum adjacent to the Newseum (Washington’s celebrated interactive museum) and easily walkable from the National Gallery.

More suggestions. I often tease that Washington must now have more Ethiopian restaurants than that homeland and they can be delightful. And crossing into Northern Virginia, there’s the Eden Center (6751 Wilson Boulevard, Falls Church), which offers a wide choice of Vietnamese options. Peking Gourmet Inn (6029 Leesburg Pike, Falls Church), also in nearby Virginia, was a favorite haunt of the George H. W. Bushes and continues to draw a loyal clientele. I happily feasted at a many-course luncheon repast during the summer.

Still speaking personally, and back to Washington itself, I love taking a “private holiday” to sit solo with something special to read and savor variations of bouillabaisse at Black Salt (4883 MacArthur Blvd, NW) or mussels at Et Voilà! (5120 MacArthur Blvd, NW) or steak tartar at Central Michel Richard (1001 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW) or any special treat at Bistrot du Coin (1738 Connecticut Avenue, NW).

My own hood is near the National Cathedral and we have a number of tempting options. The closest choice is Chef Geoff’s (1301 New Mexico Avenue, NW), manned by Geoff Tracey, who is forming a mini empire. His newscaster spouse Nora O’Donnell and their pals and offspring can on occasion be found enjoying a relaxing moment on the canine-friendly landscaped patio.

John Warner mans Le Zinc (3714 Macomb Street, NW), a French bistro that instantly acquired a following. The stunning black-and-white gallery-quality photographs are equal to the cuisine. The restaurant recently closed on a Sunday evening as Jim Lehrer and Bob Schieffer hosted “a non-partisan party to celebrate the conclusion of election 2012.”

As a committed urbanite, in a heartbeat I would venture to recently opened The Grilled Oyster Company located in the Cabin John Shopping Center in Potomac, Maryland. The oysters there are impeccable. Friends spoiled me on a recent birthday luncheon in the private room and some thought that the second of their two world-class crab cakes might go home to spouses—that did not happen!

Generally speaking, Italian options in DC are a bit lacking. I still moan the demise of A .V. Ristorante Italiano in what was then a dreadful, and now booming, downtown neighborhood. It had the world’s worst parking lot sculpture, a jukebox with eclectic selections heavy on opera, and questionable hygiene but the first and, in my mind, still best white pizza to grace the nation’s capital. Today’s winner in the authentic Italian category is Al Tiramisu (2014 P Street, NW) near Dupont Circle, overseen by the ever gracious chef/owner Luigi Diotaiuti (his photo graces the top of this article and his surname translates as “God help you”). I discovered the restaurant last year when Luigi, a proud dual Italian/US citizen, honored the 150th anniversary of the unification of Italy with a series of cooking classes showcasing the nation’s twenty regions. The compact and totally functional kitchen produces miracles of fresh pasta and imported delights. Luigi recently hit the news when it was revealed that George Clooney has dined there multiple times without benefit of paparazzi. Fortunate New Yorkers can sample Luigi’s cucina on March 14 when he will be the featured chef at the James Beard House in Greenwich Village. Luigi, the first professional sommelier in Washington, DC, to be certified by the Association of Italian Sommeliers, is planning his menu and wine pairing, which may well include a salt cod specialty from his native Basilicata.

So yes, I can happily declare that the restaurant scene in Washington today has come a long way from the days when Roberta Flack was entertaining the cognoscenti at Mr. Henry’s on Capital Hill. People have many, many choices of where they go to enjoy the kind of quality fare the city deserves.

Little did I know when I met Mary on a terrace at Sarah Lawrence College all those years ago that our friendship would be one of those that last a lifetime. And how happy a fact that it has! A society reporter for The Georgetowner, Mary is retired as the Chief of Translating at the Department of State.

It’s a word that is seldom used anymore, but it is the first word that comes to mind when thinking of Robert Treboux, the recently deceased proprietor of Le Veau d’Or restaurant on 60th Street between Lexington and Park Avenues. And indeed it was inevitably one of the first words used when certain of his long-time loyal customers learned that he had died this summer and were remembering the man.

The dictionary defines courtly as “polished or refined, as befitting a royal court” and the thesaurus equates this adjective with “civilized, gracious, and suave.” Yes, indeed, all those adjectives could describe Monsieur Treboux.

At least, they could describe his public personality.

But since he was a restaurateur, there aren’t really too many people who would be privy to (or interested in) his more private side. And when a man spends so much of his life, so many hours of every day, at his restaurant, is there really any other measure by which to judge him?

After all, this was an individual who lived above his place of business and who once told a reporter, “I take a nap in the afternoon, I come down for dinner, then I close the place. To me, that’s living. Going on vacation is not living. This is my life. I like to talk. I like people.”

Robert Treboux, the son of dairy farmers, was born in 1924 in Vinzier, a village in the Rhône-Alpes region of southeast France. While still in his teens, he left the farm and went to work in Paris at a hotel managed by one of his cousins. The hospitality business being what it is, this led to a series of restaurant jobs—each a bit more demanding and prestigious than the last—at such well-known places as Lasserre in Paris, the Palace in Madrid, and Claridge’s in London.

Eventually, and while still quite young, Monsieur Treboux was hired by the French Line to serve as maître d’ in the first-class dining room of the liner SS Liberté. It was while doing this that he met Samuel Silverman, the famous New York judge who sponsored him for citizenship in the United States. Once there, his first job was at Le Pavillon, the New York restaurant that was the undisputed benchmark of haute French cuisine in America from 1941 to 1966. He worked there for five years and later at Maud Chez Elle, another popular and well-reviewed restaurant of the period.

Toiling for others, however, was not to Robert Treboux’s liking. In the late 50s, he opened Le Manoir on Park Avenue at 56th Street, and eventually Le Clos Normand, and then La Rotisserie Française—all of which were favored and respected restaurants of the Mad Men era.

And then, in 1985, he bought Le Veau d’Or, the celebrated small bistro that had first been opened in 1937 and which, in its early days, was one of the most glamorous and popular places in town. By the mid-80s, the restaurant was far from the hot spot it once was, but Mr. Treboux was able to infuse it with a new vitality and relevance. Curiously, and perhaps paradoxically, he did this without changing very many of the basics. Indeed, even today the room looks substantially the same as it always has and the menu is still classic and predictable. Undoubtedly what accounted for the change was his own personality and the personality of his daughter Cathy with whom he co-hosted. By the early 90s it was no longer “Oh. Le Veau d’Or? Let’s go someplace new.” Under his direction it became “Let’s go to Le Veau d’Or. We know what we’ll get and it’s always good.” He was able to keep the place very much alive and popular with succeeding generations of clientele.

Readers of this website will know that Le Veau d’Or is a personal favorite of mine. The food is reliable, consistently delicious and comforting. The lighting flatters and the noise level makes conversation not only possible but, depending on who’s talking, a delight. These qualities are becoming more and more rare in today’s world and it was undoubtedly Monsieur Treboux’s genius that he knew they would always attract a loyal and content group of followers.

Liz Smith, the popular columnist, paid tribute to Le Veau d’Or in May 2011 when the restaurant received the prestigious James Beard award:

This week one of my all-time favorite restaurants in Manhattan was awarded the coveted James Beard “Lifetime Achievement” award before a crowd of 2000 “foodies” in Avery Fisher Hall of Lincoln Center.

The winner was Le Veau d’Or, a little informal French bistro on 60th Street between Lexington and Park. This place was opened in 1937 and is the last of its breed. The “winners” were owners Robert Treboux and his beautiful daughter, Cathy, who bought it long ago from the original creators and have kept it going ever since.

It was once a celebrity haunt where Grace Kelly met Oleg Cassini and Jackie Onassis, Diana Vreeland and Truman Capote hung out. The late Times food critic Craig Claiborne once said it was the one café he couldn’t live without. And I am in agreement.

M. Treboux is still always elegantly on hand to greet and Cathy is the soul of hospitality. They went to the Beard awards against four competitors . . . . I’m not surprised that my pet, “The Golden Calf,” won because not long ago I congratulated my friend Cathy on its being named one of the three best French restaurants in America. This appeared in USA Today and the editors cited Le Veau d’Or with La Grenouille and Daniel of New York City.

Yes, there was also a feisty side to this restaurateur of the old school and none was more aware of it than his aforementioned daughter, who now presides over the restaurant. She knew he could be cranky and she knew he was sometimes difficult. But now, when she criticizes her father, she always adds, with a Gallic shrug and a little self-deprecation, “Les chiens ne font pas des chats.” Dogs do not produce cats.

It was a Beswick figure of Champion Cutmil Cupie, a past Crufts winner immortalized in porcelain that got me started. And I knew right away that I was hooked—hooked on collecting just about anything that celebrated these extraordinary dogs and appealed, for whatever reason, to my own aesthetic sense.

Now thirty years is a long time to be hunting and gathering, and in that time I’ve put together a large and varied assemblage of this, that, and the other thing—items of all sorts with only the theme in common. Some of these items, like the Beswick figure, are relatively commonplace, but others, like an original Meissen figure of a “Lady of the Mopsorden” that was left to me in the will of a friend, are rare and valuable. (The Mopsorden was an eighteenth-century German underground Masonic-styled fraternal group for Roman Catholics who had been forbidden by Papal edict to join the Masons.)

Traditionally there has been some dispute about specifically where Pugs originated, but they’ve certainly been around for much of recorded history. Pug-like dogs are considered second only to the Greyhound type in the matter of ancient lineage. It seems to be accepted that Pugs originated in the Far East and that they were introduced to Europe as Chinese Mastiffs by the Dutch in the days of the great clipper ships. In the sixteenth century, William I, Prince of Orange, was particularly fond of Pugs and took several along with him when he waged war against the Spanish. One of these pets was said to have awakened him just in time to confront would-be assassins and earned the breed special recognition as the official dog of the House of Orange. To this day, the Pug Dog Club of Great Britain has orange as its official color.

Since Pugs have been popular for so many centuries, there are an enormous number of artifacts, artworks, and plain old tchotchkes available for devotees. Just take a random peek at the eBay or Etsy listings for “Pug” and you’ll get some idea. More than with most other breeds, you’ll find oil paintings and watercolors, antiques and handmade craft items, towels with embroidered images, T-shirts, plastic piggy banks, pillows, hand-knitted puppets, ashtrays, pencil holders, and silk-screened aprons—the list goes on and on.

My own collection may be impressive by some standards, but it is relatively small compared to those of people like the late actress Sylvia Sidney, who left her large assemblage to the National Arts Club, or Brigit Berlin, the artist and former Andy Warhol superstar whose parents were serious collectors and great friends of those other Pug devotees, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor.

Comparisons notwithstanding, however, I certainly have a lot of breed-related things that I cherish: a pair of white nineteenth-century Staffordshire figures; a Charles Dana Gibson print; a twentieth-century copper weather vane; an impressive etching found at the Biscuit Factory, a contemporary art gallery in Newcastle, England; a nineteenth-century coach blanket; Pug-themed posters from a museum in the former East Berlin; antique paper Christmas ornaments; a Majolica pitcher; an old German beer stein; a Rainer Gross drawing; two Dora Frost watercolors; assorted pieces of Pug-themed jewelry and many Pug books, among them the very special Pugorama by Enrico D’Assia.

My own three Pugs—Mame, Jicky and Jane—have been immortalized again and again. Carrie Marvin, a London-based artist of considerable gifts, painted Mame at least twice. Gorky Gonzales, the celebrated Mexican potter, decorated a large platter with his portrait of Jicky. Jim Lewis, the Kentucky folk artist, has rendered both Jicky and Jane. Jicky has likewise been immortalized on a hooked rug and Jane has had her portrait painted by New Englander Jeffrey Brooks and cartoonist Victoria Roberts.

Friends have sent a concrete sculpture from Carmel, California; a small collection of unsigned but very special original cartoons; a Hogarth etching; a pair of Limoges bowls; a beribboned order for evening from which dangles a miniature oil painting; and two early figures found in India, undoubtedly left over from the days of the Raj.

Travels have also been a good source of regular additions. Thrift shops and antique fairs, dog shows, auctions, flea markets, and Madison Avenue have all yielded finds. Years ago there was a shop called Three Pugs Antiques outside of Charlottesville, Virginia, and it was there that I found the weather vane. In Paris, Goyard used to have wonderful Pug things in the days before it had redefined itself. There was also a small shop at 229 rue St. Honore called  Aux Etats Unis that could be counted on for unique and precious examples. London, not surprisingly, had and has perhaps the widest variety of Pug things. I’ve found wonderful old photographs, etchings, paintings, and porcelains.

Clearly, Pugs have invaded my home and the theme is immediately apparent to anyone who walks though the front door. One thing I resisted in London, however, was perhaps too exotic.

A dealer there had suggested I try a particular shop on the King’s Road where the proprietress was said to have many Pug things for sale. When I explained what I was looking for this lady was indeed most agreeable and pointed first to a gloomy little oil painting, then to a pair of bisque figures similar to ones I already had. She then smiled and said, “Of course, there’s that. It’s quite special.”

That was on the floor in a dusty corner. It was a glass domed display case housing a scrawny Pug that had been preserved by a taxidermist long ago.

None of my Pugs would have approved. I certainly didn’t.

                                                —attributed to Mark Twain

And commenting on history, the perceptive and well-regarded English biographer Anne de Courcy has observed that it “is made all the time, not just by the noisy clash of politics, economic currents or overpowering personalities but by the everyday texture and attitudes of contemporary life.” Here then is this edition’s selection of vintage photographs that, in their modest way, have recorded history.

How did you initially get involved with rugs?

I had just finished my BA in English at Columbia College, and needed to get a summer job to stay in the city. At that point I lived around the corner from a large rug store and found myself working there and continued to do so far longer than I ever expected. Later, I became the buyer for another retailer and eventually started my own business working with designers, collectors, and private clients. If anyone had ever asked, I never would have thought that I’d still be in the business so many years later.

Is it better to invest in an old rug or a recently made one? What are the advantages of each?

New rugs are a favorite of interior designers because they are designed with the latest colors and styles. Many new rugs are “programmed,” which means that a design can be ordered in custom sizes, and often colors can be changed. This makes them easy to work with, especially when they are only a part (often an afterthought) in the design of a room.

Antique rugs are usually one of a kind works of art with fixed sizes and colors. They were typically designed to be complete works unto themselves, and display lots of color and design. In a Middle Eastern setting, a carpet is often the centerpiece of a room. It has a presence, much like a great painting, and requires a certain amount of accommodation. So I’d say that new rugs offer a great amount of flexibility while antique rugs are unique and can offer qualities that can only be achieved over time. Another difference is that new rugs don’t retain their value, whereas antique rugs often do. (And, in some happy circumstances, they increase in value.)

“Persian” and “Chinese” seem to be the two basic types of oriental rugs. Are there others? What does it mean if a rug is “tribal”? How important is it that the dyes are natural and the knot count high?

Besides Persian and Chinese carpets, rugs are also woven in Europe. Aubusson and Savonneries, from France, are two important types. Rugs are also woven in Greece, Sweden, and the Balkans.
Tibet is known for its brightly colored small rugs. India also produces a wide range of rugs from simple cotton dhurrries (flat woven summer rugs) to very sophisticated carpets such as Agras.

Other kinds of floor coverings, such as hooked and loomed rugs, are made here in the United States.

Knot count refers to the density of the weave. Rugs are knotted on warps (horizontal threads), and each row is finished with a weft (vertical). The warp and the weft form a grid that makes the structure of the rug, allowing the design to be fixed, and the rug to be durable. So the nature of a rug is to be geometric as the design follows this up/down, left/right structure. If the weaver is trying to execute a curved flower, for example, that weaver is attempting something the structure doesn’t allow. As the weave becomes finer, however, the eye eventually is tricked into perceiving that stepped diagonals are actual curves. That’s a reason knot counts are important in more formal floral rugs—they make flowers look like flowers rather than zig-zaggy lines. One important point: the number of knots has nothing to do with what a rug should cost. Indeed, many loosely woven rugs such as Oushaks and Sultanabad fetch quite high prices.

Natural dyes are made from available sources, usually ones found near the weaver. Some common dye sources are: indigo, cochineal (insect), madder root, walnuts, flowers, minerals, and grasses. Each is gathered, ground, and boiled in a large vat. Because there is a variation in the amount of dye in a vat (more sinks to the bottom, less on top), the yarn will have a more saturated color toward the bottom of the vat. Simultaneously, a good hand-carded wool will still retain a lot of the natural fats and oils that vary on different areas of a sheep. Fat repels dye, so different areas of the yarn will pick up more or less dye, so what you get from all these factors is a slight irregularity within the color. This irregularity gives the rug design a dimensionality. Over time this irregularity increases, producing an effect called abrage, which is just a variation within a color.

Because antique rugs are more desirable and command higher prices, dealers will often attempt to simulate aging using methods that can include sun fading, tea washing, and bleaching. These attempts are easy for a seasoned professional to spot because they dull the rug. Actual antiques grow richer over time.

What about kilims?

The term kilim means that a rug is woven (flat) rather than knotted (pile). Kilims are much simpler to weave, and are primarily products of a nomadic lifestyle—most notably in Iran and Turkey. Because of the nature of the weave, they are typically geometric, often with bold colors to contrast with hot and barren environments in which they are produced. They are very utilitarian, and often double as blankets, seat covers, wall hangings, etc. During the later half of the nineteenth century and into the early twentieth century, many of the tribes who wove kilims were (often forcibly) settled. Because of this, as well as other economic reasons, there are almost no nomadic kilims being produced presently.

Kilims are also woven in the Caucasus Mountains. These kilims are generally done in small villages, by several ethnic groups, and are more often used on walls, on beds, or as dowry pieces.

For a good quality room-size rug, what should I be prepared to pay? And, perhaps more importantly in the current financial climate, is this a good time to consider rug shopping at all?

That is a very difficult question, much like asking what a painting should cost. There are a lot of considerations: condition, artistry, age, rarity, materials used, design. It is also important to know if someone is looking for a carpet that is just a decorative object or one that is a work of art. There are so many factors. Rugs as investments are another consideration, as this requires a vast knowledge—historical prices, rarity, desirability, the correct resources from which to buy. Often the best way is to determine a budget first, and then see what’s available in that price range.

Interestingly, now is a very good time to buy an antique rug. The rug market is still recovering from 2008. I think the reason for this is there is still a trend toward economizing. A rug isn’t necessary in the way that a sofa or lamps are, and most people don’t understand their potential as an investment in much the same way as art might be, so rugs are the easiest things to cut from a design budget. Also, the use and importance of rugs isn’t as ingrained in the United States as it is in other areas such as Europe and the Middle East. There is still a very active market today on the highest end of rugs—the best of the best—often with records being set. The lower prices one sees now with most rugs will likely change soon. Many of the sources of the better pre–World War I rugs are being exhausted. Simultaneously, there is also an embargo against importing rugs from Iran—the largest rug producer. The supply is destined to diminish in the future. In the meantime, though, business has slowed enough that sellers are eager to sell.

Can you explain the enormous fluctuations in price? What are the biggest bargains around at the moment? What types of rugs are currently overpriced? Why?

There are several factors. Certain things are fashionable in the moment but in retrospect are just fads. An example of this is wool dhurries that were extremely popular in the 80s, but are not so now. They were made in colors that were very stylish at the time (mauve and teal), but are now less in favor. Chinese needlepoints are another. They skillfully reproduced the patterns of (mostly) French design in incredible quality, but were decidedly reproductions. The demand for this more formal and dense look has decreased, so these rugs can be had for a song. You might say that they were trendy reproductions. Interestingly, the original versions of these carpets, antique cotton dhurries and European needlepoints, are as coveted as ever. I think that part of the lesson here is that, at least in a long-term or investment sense, you want to buy something that is original and timeless.

The antique rug market is complex.

I’ll use the example of a Heriz, which is a type of Persian rug—typically, reds and blues, somewhat geometric. It is a classic: the sort of rug you might imagine you’d see in a New England library. There are a fair amount of these rugs around the market, and a perfectly good 9 x 12′ can be had in the wholesale market in the $5,000–10,000 range.

Within this category are older Heriz carpets that are called Serapis. These were made prior to World War I, so are about 100 years old, or older. These rugs are from the same area as the newer pieces, but have a somewhat different aesthetic with a more open design and softer colors. There are perhaps one of these examples for every 100 of the newer Herizes, so the baseline for these types of rugs is more in the $20,000–40,000 range.

The next question to ask is what kind of border does it have? Typically, most Herizes have an indigo border. However, dark borders are considered visually more confining (they enclose and frame a rug), so a light border, which is quite rare, will add a premium—perhaps 30 to 40 percent.

Next question: with the Heriz, the predominant colors used are reds and blue but what type of reds and blue are they? A grounded brick red and a light robin’s egg blue are considered more desirable than a sharper red or a deep indigo blue. Remember, there is no intrinsically “better” red; however, within this market there is a consensus that certain traits are more desirable.

What about other colors? These weavers had access to a lovely light yellow dye, some of which is sometimes found but rarely. Similarly, it is unusual to have lots of open ivory in the field. These things could bring a rug into the $50,000–70,000 range.

And a final, important question: what about condition? These rugs were not terribly thick, and the pile was fairly low when new, so they were less likely to endure over a very long time. One in perfect, or near perfect condition, will command a premium, so we’re getting near the $100,000 mark for the best of the best.

It should also be noted that at this point a certain X factor comes into play. Two rugs may have all the attributes discussed above that make them one in a thousand, but one of them has a special something that is very difficult to convey, but very palpable. You know you’re in the presence of something very special that an artistic genius in a small village thousands of miles away created and that is still (improbably) here a century later.

So that’s how you can have two 9 x 12′ Herizes where one costs $7,000, and one is over $100,000.

Bargain is a relative term. Do you mean actual cost or worth? I think that certain categories are undervalued. A big shift happened toward the end of the nineteenth/early twentieth century when aspects of industrialization and mechanization took hold in carpets: synthetic dyes, machine carding/spinning, and historical events like the settling of migratory tribes. While some of these developments often made rugs less time consuming to produce, much of the quality suffered. These pre–World War I pieces are quite old at this point, and they’ll never be produced in this manner again. So I think that a lot of Persian and Caucasian pieces from this era are very under-priced, and their rarity can only escalate. Even when you take the example of the $100,000 Heriz mentioned previously, when you acknowledge that it’s the pinnacle of its type, it is relatively cheap when you realize that a painting of that caliber would be a thousand times more expensive.

Price-wise, I think kilims are very undervalued—$3,000 will get you a fantastic nineteenth-century piece in beautiful condition. Charming Caucasian village rugs from this era can also be had in this range. Chinese Deco rugs are less in vogue than a few years ago. You can get a good example of one of these for $5,000, which I think is a real bargain.

Any suggestions if I’d really like to buy a rug not only as something to enjoy at home but also as something of an investment?

Whether a rug is overpriced is something that only history can tell. I’d say that things that are very trendy will tend to look so years later, and will often be less appealing. A type of Tabriz (Tabatabai) was produced in the 70s with the sorts of oranges and green that were so popular. Although they’re often good quality rugs, they’re a hard sell today because the colors seem very dated. Recently, there is an epidemic of beiges and taupes—really a lack of color—and that has greatly increased the prices of the few rugs that have this palette. Certain rugs that were considered less desirable in their day, and were very coarse, are now very expensive. Examples include Oushaks and Mahals, many of which were considered very low-end rugs when they were made. These categories now often fetch very high prices. The reason for this change is that interior designers and their clientele often determine desirability and price for much of the market. The openness of both the design and weave on these rugs make them easier to work with in interior design, so the prices of these have dramatically increased. My guess is that they are here to stay, but there isn’t necessarily an intrinsic reason for some of the prices they fetch.

If you want to consider rugs as an investment, I’d say that you should buy the best. This does not necessarily mean spending lots of money, but you should buy the best of its kind. Look for things that are both original and classic. The period before World War I is still usually the most desirable, but you also have to consider someone’s tastes. People have an affinity for certain rugs, floral, tribal, etc.

Part of the fun of what I do is figuring out what the client wants—even though he or she may not necessarily know—and then finding the best example within these parameters. Some clients enjoy the process and become more knowledgeable. There are many other factors, and those can be tailored to an individual’s needs.

Personally, what are your favorite types of rugs? Any treasures you’ve found unexpectedly? Any rugs you hesitated about and now wish you hadn’t? Any stories about you, an expert, being deceived?

I’m particularly fond of tribal rugs. These rugs come from migratory groups that use what surrounds them to make art. They have a very personal and often unexpected and original quality that I like. On the other side of the spectrum, I really appreciate the incredible artistry that has gone into certain antique formal rugs such as Haji Jalili Tabriz or Mohtashem Kashan.

I’m known for being able to find the unfindable, so a lot of these treasures would come under that category.

There are many rugs I wish I had bought. Oushaks, which are all the rage these days, couldn’t be given away when I was first starting out—they’ve probably appreciated twenty times over their original cost.

One rug that I remember that got away was a nineteenth-century Persian Gabbeh. A wholesale dealer had it, and a friend of mine who worked for him called and said I had to see it. Gabbehs are very primitive tribal rugs that were not really well-known back then, and they were asking $3,000, which was a substantial sum for me as I’d just gotten out of school. The rug was magnificent—very spare, with a checkerboard design, large blocks of (natural dye) color, each containing an animal. But most importantly, it had a “special something.” Anyway, it sold the day before I could buy it, ended up going through several hands, and was sold later that year by a very prominent European dealer for about $80,000—an astronomical sum for that category of rug. He declared it the best example of a Gabbeh that he had ever seen!

Now I would trust my instinct and wouldn’t hesitate because great pieces seldom stay around for long.

I’ve seen many carpets that dealers have tried to pass off as something other than what they are. Some are quite good, others less so. On the best of these, it’s often a relatively minor detail which gives them away.

Can you recommend any books or guides on the subject?

My favorite is The Oriental Carpet: A History and Guide to Traditional Motifs, Patterns, and Symbols by P. J. R. Ford (New York, Abrams, 1981). It is a book I learned from early on, and I think it is one of the best. Books on rugs aren’t the best way to learn because the photos often don’t convey subtleties of qualities like hand-carding or abrage—that’s one of the reasons I started teaching a course on rugs at Parsons. It’s a course that’s held entirely in different rug dealers showrooms, so students get to see examples as we talk about them. Books are a great resource to learn about names, areas, and history; they can give you a lot of background.

Fred Blair, a native of Thibodaux, Louisiana, and a friend for many years, is a respected authority on antique carpets and textiles. His classes on oriental rugs at Parsons are deservedly popular and he has a devoted private clientele.

Roy’s father had established Jackson Ranch as a getaway where he and his family could enjoy the tranquility of the desert. And his son continued to use the property in much the same way. He would make the one and a half hour drive from El Paso to escape city life, hike in the mountains, and listen to the quiet. Here he could prepare his meals on an outdoor grill, bathe in water warmed by the sun, and go to sleep in a candlelit room where no telephone rang.

“I was born on September 8, 1917 in Ft. Stockton, Texas,” Roy began, “about 150 miles east of here. Mother and Dad, as poor financially as they were rich in more important respects, were running a farming/ranching venture in the vicinity of a small town named Buena Vista that is no longer in existence. In order to get by from the money standpoint, both also taught, and Dad became superintendent of the school district.”

It was easy to understand why Roy, still tall, handsome, and patrician, had been the great love of Frances’ life. He spoke slowly, in a deep Texas-flavored baritone, and began with describing an episode from his childhood.

“As a lad of ten or so, while on a saddle horse/mule pack trip with adults in a remote mountain area of Arizona, a large diamondback rattlesnake crawled on my back while I was reading inside a tent.

“I had assumed that the sensation of movement was yet another practical prank by one of the grownups. But eventually I looked over my shoulder into the eyes and flickering black ‘tongue’ of the snake.

“Turning my head back slowly, and almost completely paralyzed with fear, I called out, ‘Dad! There’s a rattlesnake on my back!’

“‘Stay still. Don’t move,’ he warned, and I did just that.

“Later on, with misplaced fatherly pride, he often recounted how courageous I had been. The truth was otherwise. I was virtually numb with fear.

“When I felt the rattlesnake moving away from my head and off my leg, I bolted. It did not strike, but immediately coiled and rattled. Dad, using his pistols, shot several holes in the bedding. He then retrieved his .22 caliber rifle and largely removed the snake’s head.”

That first recollection somehow suited both the setting and the man, but he went on to recount other, less dramatic memories.

“I grew up in El Paso, graduating from Alta Vista elementary school in the late twenties.

“Alas, after my freshman year at El Paso High School, I went to a summer camp of the Reserve Officer Training Corps and contracted a throat ailment. Due to improper treatment, I developed rheumatic heart disease that required staying in bed for four or five months.

“When cured, Mother, by then head of the English department at Bowie High School in El Paso, suggested I enroll there and I did so. I suspected, correctly, that she wanted to keep an eye on me. At that time Bowie was the largest senior high school in the United States with a 100 percent Mexican student body. It was located a few hundred yards from the border and most of the students were living in el segundo barrio, then the slum area the northern extent of what was the line of demarcation between the Mexican and gringo populations.

“The unique academic/social exposure proved to be invaluable. I graduated in 1933 as salutatorian, president of the student body, member of the football and track teams, and business manager of the basketball team.”

Reflecting on a period a few years later, Roy turned pensive.

“The only historical event during my lifetime was World War II,” he began.

“I joined the US Navy Reserve and was called to active duty, as an enlisted man, in August 1941. On December 7 of that year, D-Day, I was stationed in San Juan, Puerto Rico, when Pearl Harbor was attacked. There was serious—and completely foolish—thinking that due to the presence of German U-boats, the island would be attacked. I was promoted to ensign and engaged in Naval intelligence related work in various Caribbean islands.

“Eventually, and after additional training, I was assigned to the DD-418 (USS Roe). I took a troop ship to Honolulu and eventually got a ride from there to Saipan on a small old freighter (the USS Absaroka) that had been damaged by a Japanese sub early in the war and could make only about ten knots with a stern sea. The captain and I became good friends during that long voyage. He was one of the last senior mates to handle large sailing vessels.

“During our second bombardment of Iwo Jima, part of a ‘softening-up’ strategy, a companion destroyer to ours hit a sea mine, killing several crew and reducing its ability to make a quick exit. The commanding officer of the cruiser division we were working with at that time ordered us to remain near the island on patrol at a low speed so that the damaged destroyer could be escorted out of range of Japanese aircraft based on Iwo. This resulted in our ship being attacked. One of the Japanese planes dropped a torpedo in exactly the proper location without being hit by any of our fire! Thankfully, the torpedo setting was somehow deficient and it passed under our ship. And before they could mount another attack it was dark. Whew!

“During our third attack on Iwo Jima, we destroyed a vessel alongside the pier. And then there was one of those unexpected developments that happen frequently in wartime.

“One of our aircraft reported that a Japanese war vessel was escaping to the north—well beyond our horizon. A two-hour chase ensued. When we had come within range of our 5-inch 38 cannon, we scored a direct hit that caused a huge flame in the center of the target vessel—a destroyer escort.

“The fire was quickly extinguished, and the fighting became intense—reaching the point where each vessel, guns ablaze, was literally trying to ram the other. Eventually our superior firepower prevailed, and the target vessel went down by the bow. The last view we had was of its still-turning propellers.

“This was offshore of the Northern Marianas. Our executive officer volunteered to try and bring back on board, for intelligence purposes, a few of the thirty or so survivors who were floating or paddling around us without life preservers. But before he could secure a rope around his body to begin this operation, the captain had second thoughts. He was concerned that we were still in submarine-infested waters. I also think he was concerned that some of the survivors who had floated over on empty aircraft gas tanks might be attaching explosive devices on our hull.

“So the captain ordered full speed ahead.

“This literally chewed up the Japanese at our stern and left the other survivors in the water with virtually no chance of being saved.”

Roy had grown pale. “There were many other incidents,” he concluded. “But none as personal and dramatic as that one.”

In October 1945, Roy returned to civilian life and to El Paso. He was not to remain there long, however, for a successful law career and an inherent interest in the world and its people found him relocating and traveling extensively: Latin America, Europe, the Middle and Far East, Africa.

“The El Paso I knew as a boy and a young man was considered home,” he explained. “However, I left there in the 1940s and only returned as a resident in 1988 or thereabouts.”

But somehow the rough and ready city of El Paso and the dramatic desert sprawl of rural West Texas never left Roy. This is an isolated part of the country—driving to Dallas takes eleven hours and it’s about the same to San Antonio—and it seems to instill the kind of strength, independence, and modesty that he personified.

Sitting in the simple adobe cabin on his ranch, far from the upholstered insulation of his wife’s in-town domain, he reflected.

“My trip across the stage has taken place in some of the most interesting decades of recorded history. I was fortunate to have been born when I was, to have had the parents I did, and to have had the good fortune (luck?) to get at least some measure of exposure to different cultures. But if the past is prologue, subsequent generations will be aware of very little of the twentieth century. Nor will they care.”

—JAN STRUTHER, Mrs. Miniver, 1940

Here then is a second collection of assorted photographic portraits—some simple snapshots, others formal studio likenesses. They serve, like those in the last issue, to record particular people and moments in more or less recent history—not, perhaps, earth-shaking moments but rather the kind of ordinary instants that are part of everyone’s life. These pictures have been assembled from my own albums as well as from those of Claude Carrier, Diana Hutchins Angulo, Richard Barker, Adolfo Garcia, and other friends here in the United States and Europe.

By listening to people and reading their expressions, events take on personal meanings and it doesn’t take too much imagination to transport you further and further back. History is, after all, about people and their stories, and their stories often show up vividly in their faces.

Nothing illustrates the truth of this as well as spending time with old photographs. And certainly it’s reason enough to put together miscellaneous selections of these culled from dozens of albums, boxes, and scrapbooks. In this and future editions of the website you’ll be offered assorted glimpses of the past. Enjoy!

Now I certainly was not a standard food professional.

The extent of my serious experience in the kitchen was once catering chicken curry for fifty people with the help of a friend who was taking a course at Cornell in Quantity Cooking. Fortunately, nobody got sick. However, as a single professional living alone in Manhattan, I certainly ate out a lot, knew what tasted good, and had a sense of value for dollar.

Looking back on those years and the huge quantity of meals I consumed (and yes, I was diagnosed with gout along the way), it’s interesting how few leap immediately to mind.

Parioli Romanissimo on East 81st between Fifth and Madison was one of the very few restaurants to have been awarded four stars by the New York Times’s demanding critic at the time, John Canaday; it certainly deserved them. Perhaps the most memorable meal I have had anywhere—and that includes eating out in Paris and Rome and even Istanbul—was in that exquisite space one Christmas Eve: perfect scrambled eggs lavishly garnished with fresh white truffles.

This masterpiece was very much in keeping with the philosophy of Rubrio Rossi, the restaurant’s courtly proprietor. “Food should be straightforward,” he was quoted as saying. “We attempt to emphasize the primary ingredient of each dish, not camouflage it. Generally, when you include more than five or six ingredients in a dish, the flavors tend to fight one another. Then you simply have clutter.”

Rossi was right. And the fact that I’m still salivating over food sampled at his superb restaurant, which closed more than twenty years ago, says a great deal.

Interestingly enough, one of the other remarkably good places that I remember was located at 24 East 80th Street, only a few blocks away from Parioli Romanissimo: The Gibbon. According to the New York Times, this was “one of the first restaurants to apply the esthetics of Japanese cuisine to the canvas of French gastronomy.” And the results were sensational. Seldom have I encountered more consistently delicious and innovative fare and never in a more tranquil and pleasing ambience.

A memorable Japanese restaurant without the French ingredients and one which is still around is Donguri. Personally, I find this tiny gem far more commendable than the excruciatingly expensive and far more famous Masa in the Time Warner Center.

As I wrote in an earlier edition of this site, when Donguri first opened in 1998 and was run by chef Shuji Fujita and his lovely wife Michiko, it was truly special—a tiny Asian country restaurant that had somehow materialized off Second Avenue. Unfortunately, Mr. Fujita had severe back problems and he and his spouse returned home to Kyushu, Japan, in 2005. Little Donguri was then bought by prestigious Ito En, a multinational beverage company specializing in tea production. Although perhaps no longer quite so special, the restaurant is still very good and certainly worth seeking out by those interested in excellent Japanese fare.

All of the aforementioned restaurants have had reasonably long runs. Manhattan, however, can be fickle, and constant turnover is very much part of the scene. In April, 2008, for example I submitted reviews for Allen & Delancey, a superb eatery housed in a former Salvation Army storefront on the Lower East Side as well as the “pretty, stylish and disappointing” Zoe Townhouse on East 62nd Street. Both have left town for good; this sort of coming and going is something you have to get used to.

“How do you go about being a restaurant reviewer?” is often asked and the answer is relatively simple even if you don’t have the good luck of serving as Malcolm Forbes’s understudy.

To begin with, you should have a naturally critical point of view. You notice things. And notice, too, whether those things match up to your own standard of what they should be. In one way or another, most people are blessed with some of this, so logically most people can be restaurant critics—  at least for themselves and for their like-minded friends. So you’ve already cleared the first hurdle.

Next, you find a place that looks interesting, or one somebody has said nice or encouraging things about, or a tried and true establishment that’s been around for ages or a new kid on the block that has just opened and that is being hyped.

Once there, you start with the basics: the freshness and quality of the ingredients and the preparation and presentation of the dish. Although restaurants are about a lot more than food, food is, of course, the most important thing to consider.

This is elementary stuff. Nobody wants to tolerate tough beef, undercooked chicken, or canned green beans. Unfortunately such things show up— sometimes in the most unexpected places. When they do, or when there are noticeable lapses in cleanliness or hygiene: RED LIGHT.

Happily most restaurants on your list will pass this initial test. (Although over the years there have been some startling surprises: inedible tough steak at a recent incarnation of the Palm Court, burnt escargots at Jubilee, and the waiter’s nauseating B.O. at La Cote Basque come to mind.)

The next step is to consider the ambience.

Is the place attractive and welcoming? Is the lighting good? What about the noise level?

Per Se may well be stratospherically expensive, but is easily passes all these tests. Similarly, in the super-expensive category, Gilt is worth every penny. But restaurants don’t have to be super expensive to be winners. Ithaka, an unassuming Greek taverna on East 86th Street consistently delights and so do the venerable Le Veau d’Or (recently being discovered by a whole new group of celebrities) and, for lunch, the Zen-perfection of the restaurant at the Asia Society.

Over the years, many restaurants offering wonderful food did not pass one important test or another and this was often a problem with the service. At one of Alain Ducasse’s early efforts in Manhattan, the waiter embarrassingly corrected an elegant female guest on her choice of a spoon. The critically acclaimed Le Bernardin also has exquisite food and a beautiful setting, but the arrogance of the staff I have encountered on several occasions always succeeds in leaving a very bad taste. Once, when anonymously reviewing with a party of six, we were given a bad table and treated with unacceptable disdain. Suddenly a busboy who’d worked someplace else recognized me and the unctuous posturing commenced. Ugh.

Personally, I don’t like places where I can’t hear my dinner companion’s conversation and have criticized some of the hottest spots in town over the years for this reason. I’m also not fond of places where the lighting is poor—either so dark that you can hardly read the menu or so bright that both you and your companions look less than your best. But these are personal things and others may not be bothered by them. It’s your call if you’re reviewing.

One thing to watch out for, as a critic or simply a customer, is the all too common occurrence of padding the bill. If this is going to happen, it usually happens at an expensive restaurant when you are entertaining a group of four or more and enjoying some alcoholic beverages. Perhaps it’s then assumed that the check won’t be read. Over the years I’ve noticed with depressing frequency items added that were not ordered and certainly not served—expensive wines, additional entrées. I’m told that this trick is often the ploy of the wait staff who reason that a bigger bill will result in a bigger tip, but whoemver is at fault, it’s pretty despicable.

In today’s world you have an excellent opportunity to hone your restaurant critic skills by submitting comments to websites like Yelp or Trip Advisor. Seek out restaurants you haven’t tried and keep a notebook of your unedited comments. As you write up more and more, you’ll find that your style becomes more professional and your point of view more knowledgeable, more sophisticated. You’ll learn to savor matsutake mushrooms, huitlacoche, and pâté chinois. Offering your comments online is an excellent way to practice being a critic and I regret not having had access to such websites early in my career.

According to her granddaughter, Claire Carpenter, “while death is never welcome, it was not unexpected by her, and she was ready.”

Being ready would have pleased her; Frances liked being prepared and she had told me years before that “personally and selfishly, I would most like to die a quiet, healthy death. Of nothing very serious, just something that takes place while not much else is happening at the moment. But, having said that, I would first want to reserve a twirl around the world with the incomparable Fred Astaire, all to the tune of ‘New York, New York’ as belted out, nonstop, by the equally incomparable Frank Sinatra. Now that would be truly heaven!”

A great fan of this website, the beautiful Frances Hoard Glasier Jackson was born on October 4, 1916, in Charleston, South Carolina, but moved with her family to El Paso, Texas, early on. Her father was president of the Mexican-Northwestern Railway and she was one of five daughters who were regarded as the great beauties of their set.

“There was a family story,” Frances recalled when I interviewed her some years ago, “that during the Mexican Revolution, my father was staying in a little village that had been overrun by Pancho Villa and his men. He was taken to Villa’s headquarters by two burly bodyguards. Fortunately, my father spoke excellent Spanish and he was a born diplomat. Anyway, when he saw Villa, he started talking very rapidly in Spanish—telling all the reasons he shouldn’t be killed. Villa seemed to enjoy this—he apparently regarded it as a cat and mouse game. But finally he decided to let my father go although he kept most of the others he’d rounded up and had them shot. It was reported that Villa said, ‘I would have killed the little son-of-a-bitch, but he kept talking and I couldn’t shut him up long enough to do it.’”

Frances delighted in talking about her childhood and particularly enjoyed describing small details and pointing out why they were special to her.

“There were so many children running around through our house—a large two-story Spanish-type home with thick walls which muted the noise and heavy carved furniture which stood up to all those children. We would spend three months of the summer out of El Paso, leaving the day after school let out and coming back the day before it opened. This was much to my father’s delight—it gave him three months when he did not have to hear five girls racing up and down those tile steps!

“In the early twenties, I remember I would go with my sisters to spend the summer months in our house in Madera, Chihuahua, Mexico. One of the perks of my father’s position was having a private railroad car staffed with eight or ten Chinese and we traveled that way. The bridges were dynamited on a regular basis by the friendly neighborhood bandits but no one seemed to notice until it was time to cross one. Then there were regular slowdowns as repairs were made. But the trips were always great fun and we learned a lot about Mexico’s wildflowers since the train chugged along so slowly that we could leap out, pick bunches, and climb back in.

“As teenagers we spent the summers on the California coast. My mother loved to drive, so that was that. To get to California we took one of our maids with us and drove for miles across the desert, across New Mexico and Arizona. There was no air conditioning, so we put a block of ice in the window and let the air blow around it. There were no real roads for many, many miles—just wooden tracks, three or four feet wide, with sand in the middle. Your car would just straddle those tracks while you fervently prayed that there would be no flat tires.

“We must have made quite a sight driving across what looked like miles of uncharted moonscape, my very feminine mother behind the wheel of that big car with five daughters and Emma, the maid, who was dressed in a pristine white uniform complete with a scalloped headband laced with black satin ribbon. It was probably real silk back then. Emma loved wearing her headband. We thought maybe she was covering up a bald spot!”

Frances almost always spoke lovingly of her mother, even when she was gently censorious: “Our mother was something of a drill sergeant. When she did let us date we had to report in at ten o’clock. She’d be at the head of the steps, checking us.”

More often her reminiscences were free of any criticism.

“My mother was an inspired cook in that she took the ‘art’ of cooking seriously. I remember the real reverence she showed when preparing and cutting vegetables. She would slice a carrot and call us into the kitchen, hold it up to the sunlight, and point out the radiantly beautiful patterns. Many years later, in the Rheims Cathedral, I was reminded of my mother and her carrot slices when I looked up at the exquisite stained glass windows. I remembered the thrill I had  experienced the first time she showed me how to appreciate nature’s configurations in vegetables—carrots, tomatoes, and glistening white onions.”

And then there was this evocative snapshot of a Christmas long past.

“Each Christmas was—and still is—enchanting. Of course then there was a fresh tree and long pine boughs brought down from the mountains of Cloudcroft, New Mexico. The house was filled with wonderful fragrances, of pine and apples and proper tangerines. I still have a flash of Christmas when I peel a tangerine!

“Many weeks before, we would all start hoping for enough snow so that we could make a whole snowman. We always ran out of snow before we got to his head. You know, El Paso is not snow country. Or even rain country. But when it does either, magic happens.

“I was always self appointed to organize the gifts—for the family, for the teachers. I usually lost money because my little pals would ‘forget’ to pay me back, but I thought my choice would be better than anyone else’s. One year I picked out this beautiful antique lace fan for our mother. It had belonged to Henry Wallace’s mother. ‘I never did like Henry Wallace,’ she said when she opened the box, but then, after a minute, she smiled and added, ‘but maybe I would have liked his mother.’”

From all our conversations, two adjectives come to mind which describe Frances. The first, “stylish,” pops up when you initially picture her. Even well into her seventies, she exuded a special kind of chic that is hard to describe and indeed she may have summed it up herself: “The word style cannot be defined. It is just something that is.”

In any case, one story she told, a personal favorite of mine, certainly goes a long way toward a definition of that elusive quality.

“In the forties, I could buy a pair of shoes in any shoe store. The sample size was then four, and since that was my size, I could buy almost anything I wanted. In those days all the smart labels—I. Miller, Delman, David Evins come to mind—would have trunk shows in El Paso and often they’d ask me to model their shoes.

“Later getting my size was more difficult and the salesmen would look down and then walk away from me to a more probable sale. Fortunately, when we were living in Madrid, my husband and I were often in Paris.

“I had always loved Chanel (before Lagerfield!) and I particularly loved her shoes. In the late sixties, she only had her classic color combination of black and beige and at that time they were being shown with a square toe and a block heel.

“Being in Paris, I found out where her shoemaker was: Mr. Massaro, 2, rue de la Paix.

“I raced to the tiny, almost hidden store, and told Mr. Massaro I wanted eighteen pairs of Chanel’s bespoke shoes but with a slightly oval toe and a graduated, shaped heel. Since I intended to wear them forever, it seemed to me that this combination would be less likely to go out of style through the years.

“I then told him that although I wanted four or five pairs in the classic black and beige, I also wanted other color combinations. 

This is when Mr. Massaro started to grow pale.

“My list included white with lavender toe, white with pink, white with yellow, and white with red. I also asked for a vinyl body with black satin toe and black satin with a rhinestone trimmed toe and a few others.

“After he took a really, really deep breath (and maybe even shuddered slightly), Mr. Massaro said he would have to clear all the color and fabric combinations with Madame Chanel.

“It took weeks of negotiation, but I got the eighteen pairs.’”

Along with “stylish,” the other adjective that comes to mind when remembering Frances is “romantic,” and this trait, although perhaps less initially obvious, was most apparent when she spoke of the great love of her life, Roy Jackson.

“Roy and I first met at a mutual friend’s birthday party in El Paso. I think we were seniors in high school. He was quiet and shy that evening, but I rather hoped he would call and ask me out. He didn’t.

“A year or so later, I’d gone to the College of Mines and Metallurgy there and was strolling on the campus. I saw him sitting alone in his car. He was writing something.

“I walked over, he looked up, opened the door, and I got in and sat down. Not a word was spoken. I’d never done anything like that in my whole life and I’ve thought about that moment many times. It was as if his magnetic field just drew me in. And that was that.

“We then started dating. In those days, ‘dating’ was such innocent fun. We would go to a small club and dance a bit and talk a lot. He was incredibly articulate and had such a keen sense of wit. He would order a rum and Coca Cola and since I couldn’t stand the taste of alcohol, I’d always ask for a coke and a small dish of black olives. I’ve never been sure why the black olives. I guess I just liked the taste.

“Well, after dating for a while, Roy asked me to marry him. But he was going to law school the following year and the family asked me to wait because we—my sisters and I—had led such sheltered existences. They suggested I go to a university of my choice for two more years and then come home and get married if I still wanted to. Actually that idea was OK with me and, predictably, I chose the University of Texas since Roy was already working on his law degree there.

“What I hadn’t anticipated, however, was the sense of freedom I felt after leaving the strict rules of family life. I decided I was suddenly the belle of the ball! At university, I was just so excited to be out of parental control.

“I joined Kappa Alpha Theta and was voted best pledge of the year, made president of the house and, finally told that the sorority wanted me to run for ‘Sweetheart of the University.’ Now that meant that I had to go out with the presidents of all the fraternities in the hope that they would pressure their members to vote for me. Needless to say, I saw less and less of Roy. Our paths went in different directions.

“After two years, I returned to El Paso and met William Glasier, the brother of my older sister’s husband. He was blond, had green eyes, and a marvelous sense of humor. He had just started his medical practice and soon spoke of marriage. In 1947, eight years, two children and one war later, he was killed when a small plane he was piloting crashed into the Guadalupe Mountains.

“Years later, at exactly 10 AM on a Monday morning, the doorbell rang. My maid was on vacation and I opened the door myself, wondering who on earth could be ringing my bell at 10 in the morning. Roy was standing there.

“I think I went into shock. I just stared and stared and was literally speechless.

“’Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?’

“Except for a brief encounter after his father died, we had not spoken for some thirty years. He had married a girl from Dallas, had four children, and, as an international lawyer, had lived most of those years in Europe. He asked me for dinner that night.

“When we arrived at the restaurant and were seated, the waiter immediately came over and brought Roy a rum and coke and me a plain coke and a dish of black olives. He’d remembered the olives after all those years! I looked at Roy and he reached over and touched my hand and this electric shock just ripped through me. It was magic.

“A year or so later, after a long illness, Roy’s wife died. Six months afterwards, he called from Madrid and said ‘Let’s get married.’

“Almost every day of our married life, Roy would leave me a note. Some were long; others simply said ‘Te’ for ‘te amo.’

“Later on he went to the hospital and did not come back. And I treasure beyond words one of the last notes he wrote. It was written on the night of our thirtieth wedding anniversary.

‘Mi Amor:
I have never felt more inadequate. Many greeting cards, profound quotations, nostalgic photos, all fail utterly to express, or even partially reflect, my indescribable love and boundless respect for my girl. So, fortified, if not inspired, by a heavy shot of rum, I selected this one. I will always remember the numbing joy of our first visit to London, including the bunch of your favorite tulips I handed you in Hanover Square. And so, as I near the end of the trail, these other thoughts: 1) Although your Christmas extravaganza tonight will be an exceptionally elegant affair, I would prefer, once more, an informal meal—just the two of us on a balcony overlooking the Mediterranean coast. 2) I loved you profoundly when, 30 years ago, I finally accomplished what should have occurred 60+ years ago. And 3) I love you even more today.
Te, Roy.’”

And now, perhaps, Frances and Roy are together again.

In those days, when you could still see uniformed nannies with proper prams strolling in Central Park, a profile in “The Talk of the Town” of the New Yorker of February 6, 1965 reported that at that time Buck’s dog-walking, exercising, and training service was the only such enterprise in the city that was locally and federally registered and that he employed a dozen young assistants who took out packs of five to seven dogs through Central Park and home again.

When that profile was written, Buck was thirty-three years old and worked from his apartment in a brownstone on 80th Street off Madison Avenue where he lived with his wife Ann, three young sons, and three dogs: two champion-bred Great Danes and Lisa, a mixed breed.

Just over twenty years later, Buck had achieved almost celebrity status.

In a New York Times article of July 1987, he was referred to as the man who defined the profession, “the grandmaster of New York dog walkers . . . believed to have invented the idea.”

Later still, Buck, a self-described “Park Avenue brat,” was the subject of a Seattle Times profile published in 1996. It reported that although he was the descendant of leading banking and shipping families, dog handling was a “birthright” for him. It seems that his patrician family members bred and showed a wide variety of breeds and that Buck himself entered the dog-show circuit at age six.

A former Navy man, the slender and athletic Buck ran his business like a military operation and often treated the dogs like recalcitrant recruits. A far cry from the lackadaisical style exhibited by most practitioners of the trade seen around today, he and his employees speed-walked their packs with strong discipline and those who worked for him sported matching yellow corduroy trousers and forest green hunting coats with crests that said “Jim Buck’s Dogs—Fitness First.”

Today, at the other end of the spectrum from Jim Buck and his spiritual successor (a laconic woman of late middle age who marches large groups of perfectly behaved canines up and down Fifth Avenue with a riding crop firmly held in her hand) are many inattentive walkers, clearly more interested in their own cell phones, private concerns, and daydreams than in the well-being of their charges. Worse still are the clusters of disinterested practitioners who lounge on park benches, chatting with each other while their canine wards wait patiently for a little more robust activity.

Is there a middle ground between the rigid discipline of Buck and the sometimes sloppy practitioners around today? And how do you go about selecting an appropriate walker for your particular dog?

The answer to the first question is “Yes, there is certainly a middle ground.” There are dog walkers who maintain discipline but do it in a more gentle manner. After all, those of us who tend to anthropomorphize our pets are generally uncomfortable with the boot camp idea.

And the answer to the second question is that selecting a dog walker takes some serious research and a good deal of observation.

Go to the park around eight or nine in the morning and again in the late afternoon. Watch. The best dog walkers are those who aren’t immediately recognizable as dog walkers—they look like owners out on their daily routine. There’s the grey haired lady with the Scottie, the pretty blond with the pair of jolly and slightly rambunctious Golden Retrievers, the earnest young man dutifully keeping up with Sherlock (small white dog) and Watson (big white dog). They, and others of their ilk, clearly love their charges and enjoy their jobs. They talk to the dogs, play with them, discipline them if necessary, and have special treats in their pockets for rewards when deserved.

Almost without exception, these four-star walkers work independently and are not part of any large company. Their services are advertised pretty much entirely by word of mouth and they are generally quite good friends with the families for whom they work.

There are also certainly some excellent dog walkers who do work for agencies, but the rule of thumb is that if you can find someone you’ve gotten to know, you’re in better hands. It seems that in this business as in child care, the better you know somebody the better off you are.

Fabio Conceicao, one of the very best of all the dog walkers I’ve known over the years (and the only one I’ve ever personally hired), offers some additional advice.

“Start by talking to other dog owners. See what they have to say, what they’ve heard. Then, when you’ve narrowed your search, make sure you get references from several clients of the walker you are considering. And beyond that, stay home for a while when the walker is there. Notice how he or she interacts with your pet. It should be easy to tell if the rapport is genuine. And if your dog is a type that needs plenty of exercise, make sure that the potential walker is capable and willing to give it.”

Born in the ancient and beautiful city of Ilheus in northeastern Brazil, Fabio is understandably popular.

“I always loved dogs,” he recalls. “And my father did as well. We had a Mini Pinscher and there was also a beautiful German Shepard called Delilah who, sadly, died young. When I was little I had resolved to have ten or more dogs in my home when I grew up!”

And in an unexpected turn, he has had his dream come true in a way.

Arriving in New York to study English as a second language in 1995, Fabio expected to stay only a few months. In order to help with his expenses, he was able to get part time work with the K-9 Club, a Manhattan dog walking service, on his student visa and through a Brazilian friend. The arrangement seemed satisfactory and continued longer than he expected—long enough for him to apply for and get a green card.

Once he had the green card, Fabio decided to go to work for himself.

“I never thought I’d stay in New York for such a long time,” he says like so many others before him. “I expected to return to Brazil. But the longer I stayed, the more New York became my home.”

An American citizen since 2009, Fabio now looks back on his career and the experiences he has had with affection.

“I’ve enjoyed the connections I’ve made both with people and with their dogs. Some of the people I work for are second or third generation and they are as much friends as clients.

“Looking back there are many dogs of which I’ve grown particularly fond. Madison was a chocolate Lab I first met when he was a tiny puppy and was with for many years. I felt he was almost as much my dog as he was his owners. And there was a Beagle called Charlie who stayed with me in my home when his owner traveled. When I returned him to her, he started barking. He wanted to stay with me!”

Have there been any experiences with bad or unruly dogs?

Fabio sighs and considers the question. In addition to the mixed breeds and Poodles, Cocker Spaniels and Collies, he has walked Pit Bulls and Dobermans, Rottweilers, and Rhodesian Ridgebacks—all of which caused no problems. Then he stretches out his hand.

“There was this Wheaton Terrier,” he explains.

“His family loved him but with me he was very erratic. Sometimes he was quite an affectionate dog but he was quite hostile at other times. One day, while I was trying to put on his leash, he attacked me and I ended up with stitches all over my hand.”

Fabio no longer walks that dog, clearly one which might have benefited from Jim Buck’s boot camp.

Joe Arnstein

I’m older than you are.

Well, probably.

The great population bulge called the Baby Boomers refers to the seventy-eight million Americans born between 1946 and 1964.

I was born in 1944.

As a result, I’ve always felt ahead of your curve. Or perhaps on the crest of your wave. Or breaking the trail for your footsteps.

I graduated from high school before you did.

I drank legally before you did. That’s ‘cause I went to high school in New York City where the age was eighteen.

I drove illegally before you did. That’s ‘cause I went to high school in New York City where the age was eighteen.

I completed college before you did.

I got drafted before you did. Or maybe before you didn’t. Especially if you’re female.

I got arrested before you did.

I smoked dope before you did. Which had nothing to do with my being arrested. Think Amsterdam.

Oops. Forget the previous admission. In as much as I am a teacher, I did not ever smoke dope. Or at least I never exhaled.

Anyhow, now I am getting older before you do. Therefore, with considerable thanks to my students at Portsmouth High School, who just won’t stop reminding me about my advancing decrepitude, I have prepared the following guide so that you may know some of the things you have to look forward to as part of the aging process. I will try to list them quickly l as I find I have a slight tendency to forget things that I haven’t written down.

Most obnoxious: old people talk about their health. Or lack thereof. We do this a lot and some of us go to the doctors just to have some fresh grist for the conversation mill. It’s a fact that nobody at all wants to hear about our colonoscopy but other oldsters will pretend to care just so they can try to top us with their own disgusting “procedures.”

Hah. Just see if you can beat me, a serial hypochondriac. In the past five years I’ve had Parkinson’s, AIDS, a brain tumor, degenerative arthritis, an embolism, and a coronary. All of which somehow went away without medical intervention. One of the unsung miracles of modern science is that faced with sitting in a waiting room with a bunch of other patients for a doctor who is always behind schedule, some of us just cancel our appointments, go home, and get better on our own. Besides, what if one of the other patients is contagious? Those old People magazines look so bad that they might be carrying Ebola or the plague or terminal acne or something.

Of course, on occasion there are real and serious medical problems. My brother had one recently. I was so shaken by his condition that I almost forgot to ask who would get the Mercedes.

Didn’t matter. He got better. Anybody who has watched TV for more than six seconds knows that we now have pharmaceuticals for conditions that even God didn’t know existed. Of course, one of the side effects of your athlete’s foot cream may be suicidal actions, but so it goes.

Males, just please avoid any of those “performance enhancing” pills. You know, the grandma rape drugs. You should never ever be in a situation where someone can see you naked. I myself had my eyes lasered, and, as promised, can now see the clock when I wake up in the morning. Unfortunately, I can also now see myself in the mirror when I step out of the shower. I keep meaning to buy a sleep mask to wear until I get my clothes on but I haven‘t done this yet. For some reason I keep forgetting it when I’m at Rite Aid.

By the way, in case you haven’t noticed, we also get shorter. It’s gravity. Same thing that causes hairs to disappear from our heads and sprout lower. One of my students even mentioned something about eyebrow waxing. Yeah, thanks. At least no one has suggested I start shaving my ears. That I can recall.

Anyway, the previous generation didn’t spend their whole vehicular lives peering under steering wheels. This is something that occurs gradually.

When I was a kiddo, my dad had a height chart nailed to the kitchen door frame. It went up to six feet, so that was my goal. Eventually I was able to reach 5’ 10” and ¾, but only if I blew myself up like a bullfrog in heat. Now I’m down to somewhere around 5’ 8” and I don’t try to blow up anymore. That might cause tuberculosis or glaucoma or something else that I’d have to get over on my own.

Okay. We are going to become shorter and need booster seats for our cars. We will also drive much slower. This, of course, seems counterintuitive. In our sunset years, we should be in a hurry to get to as many places as possible before our sun actually sets. Eventually a road trip is going to be the one way kind. Nevertheless, there is a good reason for the decline in our velocity.

Though it escapes me at the moment. Don’t worry. I just had it and I’m sure I’ll think of it again.

Now if we’re on the road as pedestrians there is another golden age activity that I’ve found to be kind of fun. Sometimes when I’m waiting at an intersection a driver will stop to let me cross. I immediately take a few quick steps as if I’m going to repay the favor by hurrying out of his way. But every time I move a foot, I go slower and slower. By the time I get to the opposite curb it looks like I’m wading through saltwater taffy. I just imagine that I’m fighting a losing battle with a giant bungee cord. Looks cool as anything.

Again with thanks to my students, two other suggested activities are golf and bingo. These tend to depend on gender, though not necessarily. However, being male is an asset in golf because I may know more four-letter words. As for bingo, a friend of mine won an iron the last time she played, but it was one you use to make your clothes flat, not the throwing in the water hazard kind. Big deal.

Old people also complain. About our kids. When we’re not bragging about them. How come they never come to visit? How come they do come to visit? About the grandchildren. They never write. Even after I send them a dollar on their birthdays.

Did I mention that we sometimes forget things? Pretty understandable; our heads are kind of cluttered up with memories, many memories. Which probably explains why there isn’t a lot of room for all this tech stuff. Anything that has a battery should also come with a cord. The cord should be connected to a teenager.

Speaking of adolescents, the clothes that looked cool back in our day are no longer in style. Something about a granny dress on a granny just seems strange. Guys, an On the Waterfront t-shirt? No. Likewise anything from our hippie period. Ditch the ponytail. Long bald hair just doesn’t get it.

Finally, or almost finally, let’s move to Florida. Where we can add the heat to our list of complaints.

There was something else, but at the moment I just can‘t think of it. Probably not important anyhow.

Joe Arnstein is an old high school friend with whom I have recently reconnected.  He teaches Latin at Portsmouth (NH) Senior High School. This article originally appeared, in a slightly different form, in the Portsmouth Herald. For those who might like to catch a glimpse of Joe in the classroom, check out this YouTube video.  In it, he takes on the role of the wife of Lucius Tarquinius Superbus wishing to alert the populace that the king has been assassinated.

– EUGENE O’NEILL, Long Day’s Journey Into Night

Looking back at the oldest people we knew as children, history starts to take on a very personal perspective. Someone’s grandfather, with his handlebar mustache, was born in the last quarter of the nineteenth-century, so his father was alive at the time of the Civil War and fought with the Confederate army. An elderly next-door neighbor, with gray braids worn hat-like on top of her head, had emigrated from the Germany of Wilhelm I. An ancient Quebecois spoke of the Boer War as if it were yesterday.

By listening to people and reading their expressions, events take on personal meanings and it doesn’t take too much imagination to transport you further and further back. History is, after all, about people and their stories, and their stories often show up vividly in their faces.

Nothing illustrates the truth of this as well as spending time with old photographs. And certainly it’s reason enough to put together miscellaneous selections of these culled from dozens of albums, boxes, and scrapbooks. In this and future editions of the website you’ll be offered assorted glimpses of the past. Enjoy!

“Sixty-fifth Street was a through street then. The cattle were going to the slaughterhouse. That’s what we were told, and I believe it. I don’t know what else they were doing there at night! In those days there was a slaughterhouse where the UN is now. And they would herd the cattle from the West Side through Central Park. Our house was on the north side of the street, and the bedrooms faced south; we looked out the window and could see them.”

Over time, random memories that initially might seem unimportant acquire a certain interest, a certain charm. Lelia Baldwin Tomes was talking about her childhood in a New York accent that has now largely disappeared, an accent where “room” sounded almost the same as “rum,” “third” had a decidedly rolled “r,” and the city of Greenwich, Connecticut, somehow was pronounced “Grinich.” Born at home on December 9, 1902, she was the daughter of W. Barton Baldwin, executive vice president of the Empire Trust Company, and the former Leila Sherman Blair. About 1906, the family moved from a brownstone at 443 West End Avenue to 33 East 65th Street, “a few doors from the Mayfair Hotel and a few doors from where Franklin Delano Roosevelt lived with his mother.”

Although the first-born of her siblings, Lelia often smilingly recounted her struggles with the domination attempts of her younger (and eventually much richer) sister, Ruth, a woman who felt herself to be in a position to judge whether or not Lelia’s friends were really “out of the top drawer.” Alas, these friends often failed Ruth’s test but it didn’t seem to affect Lelia’s relationships.

Over ninety and exceedingly frail when she was interviewed, Lelia seemed to have little energy left, but she had embarked a career when women of her background rarely did anything of the sort. For many years she worked for Steuben Glass, representing the company and traveling extensively for them. Then, after retiring, she sold real estate and was affiliated with several prestigious firms.

When discussing the early days, however, she perked up and showed unexpected enthusiasm. Leaning back on an upholstered chaise lounge in her small apartment on East 73rd Street, she petted Muffin, her Shih Tzu, and reflected on her life more than eighty years earlier. Her perfectly tailored red and black wool dress, her pearls, and her gentle voice all spoke eloquently of her background and breeding; but, despite its location and exquisite ornaments, the size and style of her apartment did not convey great wealth. That seemed to matter little. Lelia was at home and peaceful.

“The lights in the street were lit by gas; gas lighters would come along with a long thing and pry open the little window and light them. There were no radios, no televisions; and so, if there was any special news, a newspaper was printed, a one-sheet affair, and it was called an ‘extra,’ and newsboys would run through the street. ‘Extra, Extra!’ I can still hear them. And the children would rush down high stoops, some with American basements without a high stoop, and get a paper for the family.”

Asked about her education, Lelia explained, “I went to numerous schools. I went to Charlton. . . . It was on Park Avenue and 67th Street. And it then combined with an uptown school and afterward went out of existence. But it took boys and girls in the early days, and that was one of the few schools that did. Brearley and Chapin were only for girls. My sister and I left Charlton one year after school had started, however, because mother thought it was going downhill, which it was; and we went to Brearley, where we didn’t want to go, and we weren’t Brearley material anyway. They were only interested in college students and we weren’t going to college.

“After Brearley, I went to Mrs. J. D. Randall MacIver’s. It was a finishing school. It was located on East 75th Street, between Fifth and Madison, on the north side of the street. Later, no two pupils could agree on the exact address, but that’s where it was.”

And her recollections of travel were a far cry from today’s episodes of teeming airports and depersonalized service.

“It was, I think, in 1923, when the family went over on the Olympic and came back on the Majestic. We had special connections and special rooms and everything. You got inundated with bon voyage presents—flowers and candy and things—in your cabin. We went to Belgium, and I was asked to the ambassador’s for lunch, and I spilled water on the ambassador’s table. Ugh! Ignominious memory.

“On that same trip, Daddy had a friend, a French senator, Gaston Menier, who took us under his wing. His family owned Château de Chenonceau in the Loire Valley at the time and we stayed there. It’s the château that crosses the river. I had the bedroom going into Francois Premier’s all to myself because I was the oldest. It was scary in that room: tapestries on the wall and only flickering candlelight. You thought you might see a ghost! But it was thrilling, and when the crowds came to the chateau, the tourist crowds, we looked out of the windows and saw a man we knew from home.”

Georgina Van Rensselaer, one friend of Mrs. Tomes’ of whom her sister very much approved, was born in the same year, 1902, at 102 Madison Avenue. She was the daughter of the former Georgina Betts and T. Tileston Wells, a lawyer who served as the Romanian consul general in New York from 1919 to 1938. The family moved to 52 East 76th Street about 1908.

With her sparkling white hair, penetratingly intelligent eyes and abundance of fluttering pastels, Mrs. Van Rensselaer looked like central casting’s idea of the perfect Miss Marple. Into her nineties, she swam nude every day at her indoor pool in Bedford, New York, and she maintained a tradition of weekly lunch parties—“At Homes”—for her wide circle of friends.

Once, at a friend’s for tea and dressed in lavender ruffles, mauve gloves, lavender stockings, and a bright purple hat flaunting a nosegay of violets, she spoke of a daughter. Widening her China blue eyes, she declared in a breathy, little girl-like voice, “She’s an artist, you know. And quite eccentric. I don’t know where she gets it!”

“Georgina! Really!” exclaimed the friend, staggered by the spectacle of all that violet and mauve.

They both giggled.

At Coliba, her rambling and comfortable house that took its name from the Romanian word for cottage, she, like Lelia Tomes, was asked about her earliest memories. Looking past a large silver tray and into the roaring fire, she became somewhat abstracted as she spoke, seeming to be lost in her memories.

“102 Madison Avenue was my grandfather George Frederick Betts’ house. It was a large brownstone on the corner of Madison Avenue and 29th Street. And there was a courtyard in front with a magnolia tree!

“All the way up Madison Avenue there were private houses, and my governess would wheel me up to the Morgan Library on the corner of 37th Street in my carriage. Other children and their nurses used to congregate there. When we moved to 76th Street, we thought it far uptown and mother remembered going up there for picnics. My uncle, Samuel Betts, had picked mushrooms where Grand Central now stands.”

Interviewed in the early 1990s, Georgina continued, “Life was certainly not as hectic as it is now. I can remember driving around Central Park in the afternoon, then returning for a cup of tea by the fire. I remember when the Metropolitan Life Tower was the tallest building in New York, and then came the Woolworth Tower. I used to think it was very romantic to drive up to Grant’s Tomb with a beau and then go to a restaurant on the bluff overlooking the Hudson River. There we would have tea and Belgian waffles with wild strawberries, and sometimes we would go to New Jersey on the ferry.”

Life was also, in that particular segment of society, both more insulated and more luxurious than today.

“My godfather, Harris Fahnestock, gave me my coming-out party in his house just off Fifth Avenue on 65th Street. He had a ballroom that was beautifully decorated, and seven of my friends received with me. There were many young men to dance with us and the older generation also attended. I thought it a glamorous party. (I had a lame friend who sat and counted how many men cut in on you as you circled the ballroom. I think he said I had forty ‘cut-ins’ on the way around!) I wore a silver and white dress with a wreath of rosebuds from shoulder to waist.

“My memories of my coming-out year are very happy and I had a glorious time. Most of the dances took place at the Ritz Ballroom, but some at the Colony Club and a number at private houses. We always had dinner parties before the dance, so we entered with a group.

“One particular ball I remember was Estelle Manville’s Green Ball at the Ritz, where palm trees and a full moon made a romantic atmosphere. I wore my grandmother’s green ball dress, off the shoulder and with a full skirt. The Meyer Davis orchestra played all our favorite tunes—‘Dardanella’ and the songs from Oh Boy!

“The Autumn Ball [Tuxedo Park, New York] was the beginning of the debutante season, and I was invited by my cousins, the William McNeil Hoffmans, to stay over the weekend. Mother had ordered a rose brocade dress for the occasion. The night of the ball, the Hoffmans gave me a dinner party. Gordon Hamersley, my good friend, was there with his host, Coleman Drayton, and they decided to give me a good time. Indeed they did! I danced into the wee hours.

“The next day, when I woke up, a maid had lit the fire and brought up my breakfast. Gordon and Coleman Drayton visited later that morning, the latter bearing several jewelry boxes, which he placed on the table. ‘I brought Marie Antoinette’s jewels,’ he said. ‘Mother bought them and I thought you’d enjoy trying them on!’ I did so, and was thrilled to think that that unfortunate queen had touched and worn the very pearls, diamonds, and precious stones that I had draped around me!”

And because her father served as Romanian consul general in New York, Georgina had unique travel tales to relate.

“Our trip to Romania in 1922 was outstanding. It was like a scene from an operetta: the women working in the fields with colorful costumes, the officers strutting about in gorgeous uniforms. And we had charming friends to entertain us and show us the beauty of the countryside. Queen Marie invited us to lunch at the palace in Sinaia. Mother and I in our large black velvet hats and velvet dresses. Queen Marie in a lovely, becoming native costume and Queen Elizabeth of Greece similarly dressed. Princess Marie asked me to spend the day with her and we became fast friends. I was sent home in the royal car and was thrilled when the soldiers presented arms as I went by.”

Lelia Baldwin Tomes died in April 1994; her friend, Georgina Wells Van Rensselaer, in October 1997.

Asked during these interviews what was the most difficult thing about living in New York in these long gone days, the ladies answered differently.

Lelia Tomes considered the question for a while and then said, “The most difficult thing, I think, was whether you were asked to all the parties or not as you got a little older. You know, you wanted to be invited. I remember a lot of balls, beautiful ones in big private houses. The Vanderbilt house on 59th Street and Fifth Avenue took up a whole block. And there was a ball there, and there were balls at the Vanderbilt houses down the avenue. I wasn’t a debutante of the year; I don’t know who was. But I went and I had a good time some of the time, and a struggle some of the time.”

And although they were close friends, when asked the same question, Georgina had a different perspective.

“I don’t think it was difficult living in Manhattan in the old days. We had every comfort and no worries. Everything went on as usual and only got better and better!”

All that’s changed.

And for someone who, despite the bad press, has always enjoyed the hearty delights of this cuisine even in its most unsophisticated incarnations, that’s good news indeed. Thanks to people like Gordon Ramsay, Jamie Oliver, and Delia Smith, the fare of this island nation has now made the rest of the world sit up and take notice.

And you don’t have to limit yourself to places in London to experience first-rate English fare. As a matter of fact, some of the most mouth-watering surprises can be be found far from the capital.

On an April visit to Torquay, for example, I discovered one of the best restaurants I’d been to in a very long time. Yes, Torquay—famous as a favorite resort of Agatha Christie’s and the setting of Fawlty Towers—can now boast a world class restaurant. Located at 14-16 Parkhill Road, the Orange Tree (www.orangetreerestaurant.co.uk) is a small and unpretentious place that produces delectable and imaginative taste treats.

At one recent dinner, the appetizer of pan-fried mackerel with cucumber and horseradish mousse served with endive was sublime. So was a main course of filet of lemon sole with crayfish tails. On every visit, all the food sampled was outstanding. Also worth noting was the attentive and absolutely first-rate staff, a group of middle-aged ladies who might well have been in service in another age and who were expert at making each patron of the restaurant feel like an important and cherished guest.

Listed at number 58 on Eat Out’s list of the UK’s 100 best restaurants, the Orange Tree is the loving creation of German-born chef Bernd Wolf and his wife Sharon. They can be justifiably proud of this gem and its menu of classic English dishes, each with its own special twist.

In the same league, but in a very different part of the country, is the Fox and Hounds Restaurant (www.foxandhoundsgoldsborough.co.uk/index.html) in Goldsborough, a North Yorkshire village just outside of Whitby and between Sandsend and Runswick Bay.

At the Fox and Hounds, chef Jason Davies, who had worked at the celebrated Ivy in London, and his wife Sue offer an innovative menu of locally sourced organic food. What this means is that everything is fresh, full-flavored, and eye-poppingly tasty. I remember a particularly delectable rump steak as well as a pan-fried turbot. Additionally, the restaurant itself is a small delight—a kind of sophisticated pub atmosphere, cozy but quite stylish at the same time, and smack dab in the middle of nowhere. On view: local artist (and Drawing Master at Eton) Ian Burke’s marvelous painting of a “Hunting Pink” jacket is itself a joy to behold.

No discussion of good eating outside of London could be complete without a mention of Bettys (www.bettys.co.uk/branchlanding.aspx). Determinedly old-fashioned and delightful, this group of six cafe tea rooms is located throughout Yorkshire. Less sophisticated than the two previously mentioned restaurants, all the branches nonetheless maintain a very high standard of feeding their traditional clientele. Founded in 1919 by a young Swiss, Frederick Belmont, and still run by his family, Bettys is justifiably famous for its morning coffee and afternoon tea, but you can also eat very well there at lunch or dinner. Some of the offerings still have a Swiss accent (for example the bacon and raclette cheese rosti and the “Swiss fitness loaf” of bread) but the Yorkshire sausages are also outstanding.

(On a personal note, I must say that it bothers me that such an apparently conservative and old-fashioned company decided to drop the apostrophe from their logo, but annoying though this may be, it does not detract from the quality of its food and service.)

Returning to Devon, another discovery is the casual and appealing Tea on the Green in Exeter (www.teaonthegreen.com). Right on that city’s Cathedral Green, this small and intimate destination is located in a building that dates back to 1530 and provides an ambience that fans of Masterpiece Theatre and Barbara Pym will cherish. Ben Mangan, the affable and energetic owner, offers up sumptuous breakfasts, ample lunches, perfect afternoon tea, and a first-rate Sunday roast menu. Make sure to sample the impressive variety of very special teas and the scrumptious jams and marmalades. (My favorite: blackcurrant.)

Heading southwest from Exeter into the South Hams, visitors should make a point of going to the fourteenth-century Tower Inn (www.thetowerinn.com/index.asp) in Slapton. Tucked away behind the church of St. James the Great, which has been in this spot for over 650 years, and beside the dramatic, ivy-clad ruins of the chantry tower, this is a truly atmospheric village pub. One of the oldest in England, it was originally built to accommodate the artisans working on the monastic collegiate next door.

The Tower Inn has stone walls, open fires, scrubbed oak tables, and flagstone floors—everything, in fact, to make guests feel snug, welcome, and very comfortable. Head chef Dominique Prandi and his staff offer a menu that also highlights locally-sourced, seasonal fare, with a concentration on the traditional classics. If you’re exploring this part of the world some Sunday lunchtime, do yourself an enormous favor and head there immediately. The roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, the roasted parsnips and, yes, the cauliflower cheese, were all worth every calorie.

An appealing footnote from the Tower Inn’s website: “We are very much a family run business and always here to offer a warm welcome to everyone, including well behaved children and dogs!”

And speaking of Sunday roast lunch, if some Sabbath the Somerset coastal town of Weston-super-Mare pops up on an itinerary, another easy recommendation is the Old Thatched Cottage (www.theoldthatchedcottage.com/default.asp), located in the oldest building in that municipality. This family-run restaurant is relaxed, friendly, and very comfortable and the traditional fare is splendid. One reviewer on tripadvisor.com put it succinctly: “On a number of occasions we have found waterfront restaurants a disappointment—often the best are tucked away in the back streets. However, it was cold, windy, and wet so we were not in the mood to go searching. We needn’t have worried—the food was excellent, the service exemplary and the price reasonable.”

A final place worth mentioning in this random and arbitrary discussion of eating well in jolly old England is a rather impressive pub located in Sedgefield, a peaceful County Durham, The Dun Cow Inn (43 Front Street, Sedgefield, Stockton-on-Tees, Cleveland). This likable spot received a certain amount of international press in 2003 when George Bush visited with the local MP and then-Prime Minister Tony Blair. I’m sure they ate well. The food here is tasty, traditional, and—good heavens!—ample. If you’re in the area and looking for a major rib-sticking meal, you could do no better.

It’s the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee—good time to explore Britain if you choose to avoid the chaos of London and the Olympics. More than likely, no matter where you decide to wander, you’ll eat very well.

Little glazed earthenware badgers crawling around a table in County Durham in the Northeast of England; saints flamboyantly painted on tin decorating walls in Central Mexico; carved wooden Chinese memorial figures displayed in flea market stalls near Panamanian embroideries of exotic fantasy creatures; and hooked rugs and patchwork quilts, animal masks and decoupage cigar boxes.

No matter where it originates, there’s something about folk art—something that makes you smile, something that plays with your imagination and reminds you how you looked at things when you were a child.

Appalachia, that area of the eastern United States that stretches from the southern tier of New York to northern Alabama, Mississippi, and Georgia, is a section of the country with a particularly rich heritage of folk art. Here various farmers and miners, truck drivers and housewives have turned out to be gifted painters, sculptors, carvers, and basket weavers as well.

One of the most gifted and original of these self-taught artists is a gentleman named Jim Lewis.

Born in 1948 in Plummers Landing, Fleming County, Kentucky, Jim and his family moved to Sandy Hook, Elliott County, when he was a child and has lived there ever since, marrying Beverly and fathering two children, Mary and James Bob. And although he started wood carving when he was about fifteen, Jim did not devote all of his time to his art until he was laid off from his job at a strip mine in the late eighties. Working mostly with basswood, maple, and acrylic paint, he has created and continues to create a wondrous parade of biblical characters, mermaids, animals, fish, and other creatures to bring joy to his many devotees.

Jim Lewis was introduced to the world of folk art by his neighbor Minnie Atkins, the legendary doyenne of eastern Kentucky artisans. Spoken to recently, Minnie says, “I got Jim started, but unlike a lot of others I helped along, he always gives me credit. And Jim’s work is wonderful! He carves a Jonah inside the whale which is great—and it was his own original idea.” Not surprisingly, Tom Haney, a kinetic sculptor in Atlanta similarly credits the very same Jim as one of the people who inspired and encouraged him.

Jim Lewis’ work has been exhibited in many shows both nationally and internationally, but one that was particularly interesting and beautifully illustrated some of the common threads in folk art was Oaxaca to Appalachia at the Folke Arte Gallery in Cleveland. This 1994 exhibit highlighted carving and, interestingly, the techniques and compositions of these two geographically different parts of the world proved to be strikingly similar. Giving credence to the gallery show’s thesis, a friend from El Salvador recently admired one of Jim’s mermaids in my collection and commissioned two—one for herself and one for a Mexican friend who collects Oaxacan folk art.

In his introduction to the catalogue for O, Appalachia, an exhibition organized by the Huntington Museum in Huntington, West Virginia, and on tour from May 1990 to February 1993, British designer and editor David Larkin wrote about artists from this remote and sylvan corner of America. “Starting out, painting and sculpture are just something they try because they feel a need to make a statement that words cannot express. There are no rules to intimidate them. There is no one to tell them how it should be done. As far as they are concerned, there is nothing special one needs to know before picking up a brush or whittling knife.”

And talking about these same creators, Nancy Jane Bolton, a collector in Charlottesville, commented, “This kind of expression is and was an important way of life. These people live in true ‘hollers,’ and nighttime comes and there isn’t a lot to do. A ‘holler’ is the lowest place at the end of a road. The end of a dirt road. You go on a paved road to a smaller paved road, to a dirt road, and at the end of a dirt road is a holler. And there’s a mountain behind. It’s rural isolation.”

Jim Lewis seems to enjoy this rural isolation (which today isn’t quite so isolated thanks to the Internet and Facebook) and finds his inspiration on long walks in the woods, often with Callie, his American Bulldog and sometimes even with Chopper, his Maltese. Recently on one of these walks he found exactly the twig that would make the perfect tail for a carving he was making of a beloved Chihuahua for a New York collector.

Writing about folk artists of the southern mountains, well-regarded authorities Ramona and Millard Lampell noted that “in the works of self-taught Appalachian artists, two themes dominate: nature and morality. Attuned to wild creatures and the quirks of nature, mountain people possess an abiding faith in the force that created them.” Jim’s work exemplifies this. Deeply religious, he celebrates those things he respects and in which he believes, and he shares his vision with a gentle smile and with a wink.

Mark Gaige

After Ginger, my Cocker Spaniel, died at the age of thirteen on Thanksgiving Day 2010, I suffered as never before.

A friend, a fellow dog lover I met in Central Park, empathized. “The pain is worse than any I’ve ever known,” he said. But he added, “You just have to ride it out.”

As anyone who’s lost a beloved pet knows, the friend was right.

I couldn’t help wondering, however, about what—if anything—happens to Ginger next.

It was the ancient question of whether or not animals have souls. I am all too aware of the weakened inner-state’s susceptibility to self-delusion, but I couldn’t help occasionally asking myself, “Is that all there is?”

Steadfastly, I resolved not to look for any extrinsic affirmations of Ginger’s spiritual carryover to a better place. Science has all but ruled out the legitimacy of such efforts anyway.

Besides, why add disappointment to the grief?

Then, this past August, a full nine months after Ginger died, things began to happen.

I had just arrived at the vet with Molly and Mandy, my two Shih Tzus, when I saw a tan Cocker Spaniel. “Come on Ginger, let’s go,” said the owner.

Naturally, I stopped. “I had a tan Cocker Spaniel named Ginger too,” I said. “How old is yours?”

Thirteen—the same age as mine when she died. I grimaced at the irony.

The following month, as we were going in to see the same vet for a follow-up, the outside door opened. I saw a man bringing in . . . a tan Cocker Spaniel. I asked the dog’s name. It was Joey. The dog was thirteen—again, same as both Gingers. Just another coincidence—if that.

That night I saw two more tan Cocker Spaniels. One was named Molly, the name of one of my remaining two dogs—the one who was closer to Ginger.

A total of three Cocker Spaniels in a couple of hours on a “vet day.” I couldn’t help thinking that weeks and weeks—sometimes months—go by when I don’t see any tan Cocker Spaniels. They’re just not that common these days. (There are almost two dozen breeds that are more popular today, as well as the wide range of mixed-breed dogs.) And I walk my dogs for four miles every day in Central Park where we see dozens of dogs. As I thought about it, I couldn’t remember another “multi-Cocker” day in Ginger’s thirteen years.

A few weeks later we were on our way to the vet again (Molly and Mandy are both 15, so we’re at the vet a lot) when I saw . . . another tan Cocker Spaniel. I was becoming intrigued. On the way home, we saw yet another one. My intrigue was growing. Either the coincidences were really piling up, or somebody was trying to tell me something.

Soon afterward, while on a short errand, I saw two more tan Cocker Spaniels within a few minutes of each other. I was puzzled—this wasn’t a “vet day.” Maybe Ginger was confused. But then I remembered this was the day I was supposed to call my vet with a progress update on Molly. Could the sightings be tied to that call? 

Then, another trip to the vet. I’d be lying if I didn’t say my hopes were up. Alas, I looked everywhere, but there were no tan Cocker Spaniels. I was disappointed, but after all, there had been four straight vet-related “sightings” and they couldn’t go on forever. Maybe they were just coincidences after all.

But later that day—a Friday—I was debating whether to pick up a prescription from my own doctor. I had decided to wait until Monday but then said, no, let’s get it over with. Worth mentioning because . . .

Halfway into my walk, I glanced ahead momentarily and saw the back half of a tan-colored dog as it got into a car about a half block away. (An instant later and I would have missed it.) Was it a Cocker Spaniel? I couldn’t tell, so I ran to make sure the car didn’t pull away. When I got there I saw a woman about to close the door and . . . two tan Cocker Spaniels in the back seat. I felt my heart skip.

I asked about the dogs; they were brothers, Louie and Luigi.

Two brothers (two Ls) and my Molly and Mandy (two Ms) were sisters. L and M: adjacent in the alphabet. A reach? Perhaps, but it’s what I immediately thought.

Deep breath. How old are they?

Of course, thirteen. Now, on this, the fifth “occurrence,” I actually started to feel—and not merely think—that I was beyond the realm of coincidence.

A week later, when I hadn’t even been thinking about it, two more sightings of tan Cocker Spaniels—this time while taking Molly and Mandy to the canine ophthalmologist.

Yet another coincidence? Or more “corroboration”?

I called my friend Marc, who regularly runs in Central Park. “Now you’ve got me looking for tan Cocker Spaniels too,” he said. “There aren’t any out there.” Well, I thought, if I’m going crazy, I’m not going crazy alone.

I decided to get a “scientific” perspective. I emailed a best-selling academic mathematician. Were the sightings simple coincidences or something more portentous?

The response was short and direct. “I don’t think Ginger’s trying to send you signals, alas.” (I don’t know if that “alas” was for me or for him.)

The more I thought about his response, though, the more dissatisfied I became. In reality there were no statistical probabilities for what I had encountered because, as far as I know, the sequence of events had never happened before. So the rational response would be to ask why or how they happened.

If my encounters were not simply coincidences, what do they mean?

Mark Gaige is the founder of Gaige Business Writing (www.gaigebusinesswriting.com/index.html). He has also taught political science and public management on the university level for over twenty-five years.

“Society” existed then (and continues to exist in mutated forms today) because people like to regard themselves as special and set apart in whatever way seems easiest, most natural, and most flattering to them. It was an easily identifiable and categorized way of being special and it had an almost universal allure. Movie audiences during the depression watched the high jinks or dramas affecting characters played by William Powell, Jean Arthur, Rosalind Russell, Myrna Loy, and Robert Montgomery with real fascination. The works of S. N. Behrman and Philip Barry played to sold-out audiences. It was largely fairy tale stuff, but the message was believable and, given the right circumstances, the fairy tale could become reality. Sure, in My Man Godfrey, the homeless man who becomes a butler really was a gentleman, but he was ostensibly a poor, unappreciated guy and it all worked out in the end. And Ginger Rogers’s Kitty Foyle proved once and for all that a decent working girl could even beat the blue bloods on their own turf. Cinderella may not get to go to the ball (in this case a Philadelphia Assembly), but she does elope with a prince (maybe not the one she first thought of) to live happily ever after.

Anna Glen Butler, born in 1917 in New York into a world rich with Dutch and English antecedents, was very much a part of blue-blooded Society. She was related to the Carters and Randolphs of Virginia as well as to the duPont and Marshall Field families. And in July of 1937, like other girls of similar background, she was a debutante. She was presented in London at the Court of St. James to the recently crowned King George VI and Queen Elizabeth.

More than sixty years later, Anna Glen looked back on that experience.

Elderly, heavy set, pretty, and impeccably coiffed, the widow of Alexander O. Vietor (Yale historian and curator of maps from 1943 to 1978) loved to talk. She loved to talk so much that sometimes, at board meetings and such, she was known to talk herself to sleep and her gentle snoring would then take up where her words had stopped. Sometimes the talk was tiresome but often it was fascinating.

Relaxing by a blazing fire in her sprawling Park Avenue apartment, she talked and talked and talked about the past.

“When I was very young, transatlantic travel wasn’t wonderful at all,” she began, smiling at the memory.

“By the mid-thirties, things had improved a little, but in the twenties it was still pretty bad. We had upper and lower berths. I was up above and Miss McKenzie, the nurse, was below. We had to go to a bath steward to take a bath. There were only salt-water baths—they didn’t have fresh water. And as for eating anything! Well, the family wouldn’t have touched most things after the first day because there wasn’t refrigeration or anything like that. You couldn’t eat fish; milk was usually sour before you made it to Europe. There was nothing really glamorous about it. According to hearsay, the Titanic was more glamorous, but it probably wasn’t. There was no refrigeration, no telephones, nothing frozen, no real messages—very little communication with the outside world. If you sent a wireless, it cost a great deal of money. There was no entertainment except bingo and horse races, no movies and certainly no stage shows. There was one concert—for the seaman’s charities.

“These difficulties not withstanding, in my youth I did spend much time abroad. But I was eventually presented at court as a result of old New York.

“My mother belonged to several fuddy-duddy societies of old ladies, and one of them was the Monday Sewing Club founded in the late 1800s. They lunched and hemmed diapers for the Children’s Aid Society—at least they sewed a few stitches and paid someone to finish them. Anyway, Mrs. James Roosevelt, mother of the president, was a member and a close family friend. She said to my mother, ‘Of course, Anna Glen must be presented at court!’

“My mother demurred, ‘We hadn’t considered that.’

“And Mrs. Roosevelt said, ‘Nonsense! I’ll call Franklin and tell him.’ One thing about Franklin, he was a real mama’s boy. Mummy told him I was to be put on the list of presentations and onto the list of presentations I went.”

One wonders how many others would think of Franklin Roosevelt, America’s longest reigning president, as a “mama’s boy?” But in any case, off went Anna Glen, a young American girl, to be presented to the king and queen of England.

“We embarked as planned, armed with a letter describing the rules and regulations concerning court etiquette and dress. Once in London, my white satin dress was made with the fitter applying a tape measure to make sure the décolleté was not too low. The train, which hung separately from the shoulders, had to trail a prescribed distance on the floor. The same with the tulle veil, whose official length seemed to hit the middle of the rear end, so sitting was difficult. I also had to make certain I did not dislodge the three feathers on my head. The feather fan was purchased and all was ready.

“The next step was going to a studio to learn about the curtsy. There was a large room with two chairs representing the two thrones. I had to walk around and around this room with a book on my head, a train and a fan, and make a deep court curtsy in front of the first chair, incline my head, move the fan to my left side and, being careful not to step on the train, rise gracefully, take three steps sideways, and repeat the process for the second chair. After that I would take twenty steps sideways to the door, which in the Palace, would be a series of rooms. After graduating from this, I went to tea at the American embassy with the ambassadress and demonstrated my prowess along with the fourteen other Americans, showing that I would not disgrace the United States. None of this was taken lightly.

“At night I went to deb parties, most of them in private houses, and met other debutantes. Deb parties were very different from New York. The girls were still accompanied by mothers, chaperones, or maids. They sat with her in a parlor and boys stopped to request dances noted on cards. If no boys came, the girls continued all evening in their seats—shades of Jane Austen, and really cruel. The loss of men in World War I made for many fewer boys, and many were out in the colonies. However, I had a great time at the parties because I was an American: no mother, no chaperone, no maid. A chauffeur hired for the season took me everywhere—real freedom compared to the other girls.

“Finally the big night: July 1, 1937. The first court of King George after the coronation, and what turned out to be the last formal, feather-and-fans court ever.

“My parents had a good friend, Sir Vivian Gabriel, and when they told him I was to be presented he said that he would take charge of me. He came to pick me up all decked out in knee britches, much gold braid, a large hat with white feathers, and a black rod. The red carpet was laid out for me and the manager at Claridge’s escorted me to the car. Sir Vivian and I had hardly anything to say. I could barely understand him as he was a ‘hot-potato-in-the-mouth’ type of Englishman and, from my point of view, a real octogenarian.

“We drove through the palace gates to the entrance, greeted by a fanfare of trumpets—beefeaters at every turn—and went upstairs to the Throne Entrance Room where Sir Vivian seated me and left. The Throne Room seats are reserved for special presentations: diplomats, high government officials, and special guests. It was fascinating to watch these groups, a representation of the Empire: India, Africa, the world over. I was nervous and worrying about the train.

Because I was in the Throne Room, I got to see all the diplomatic presentations. Among them was von Ribbentrop, Hitler’s ambassador, and when he got to the king and queen he made a Nazi salute!

“I was horrified. In America we’d followed the specter of war quite closely and when I suddenly saw his hand go up like that—well, you can imagine.

“But there was no reaction in the Throne Room. It was typically British, stiff upper lip; not a soul said a thing.”

Looking back on that moment and still a little surprised at the ostensible lack of reaction, Anna Glen paused briefly and then added, “Afterwards, the London Times did say that people were quite shocked. They said that the salute was outrageous—that it was a local affair that could be done in Germany but certainly not in the Court of St. James! But that was afterwards, the day after.”

Then the evening proceeded more predictably.

“With this great silver mace, the Lord Chamberlain hit the floor three times and called out the name of each debutante and suddenly it was my name, Miss Anna Glenn Butler of the United States of America. And there I was walking along the length of the Throne Room and through the entire routine! I remember well the lovely smile of the queen’s face as I bowed my head to her. I finally reached the door and joined the line where we had a long wait while others were presented. At last, with a big fanfare of trumpets, the royal family walked down between the rows of people and we all did bobbing curtsies as they passed. Then all the debutantes and unaccompanied adults were instructed to proceed to buffet rooms downstairs, but suddenly Sir Vivian appeared and took me into the Royal Supper Room.

There were several galleries and all the guests stood at long tables set with china, glass, and silver. We were served by footmen in knee britches and powdered wigs. Only the royal family was seated. I had the Egyptian ambassador on one side of me and Sir Vivian on the other side. Both were tiny, so I felt like a huge American Amazon.

“We had a sumptuous dinner with much wine and champagne and then the Royal Family left. I followed others to the car entrance and fortunately found my car. My chauffeur was worried about my late appearance, as the majority had long since left. At the hotel, the manager was still waiting up for me. I rushed to my parents’ room, where they were waiting to hear every detail—including those shocking ones about von Ribbentrop. Pretty heady stuff for a girl my age—all of nineteen!”

Mr. Vest’s words came at the end of a trial in which he was representing a farmer who was suing for damages after a much-loved dog was shot by a neighbor. The actual words were: “The one absolutely unselfish friend that man can have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts him and the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous is his dog.”

Bravo, Mr. Vest!

And in the unlikely event that anyone need convincing of the truth of this contention, there are countless examples throughout history that can be cited. Some of these have certainly been romanticized, but the occasional bit of embroidery does not alter the basic truth: our canine companions have proven to be trustworthy, dependable, loyal, and loving time and time again.

In a recent edition of the New York Times Magazine, Melissa Fay Greene wrote “Wonder Dog,” a heart-wrenching article about a family from Atlanta and their adopted son, Iyal, whose “brain and central nervous system had been severely, irreversibly damaged in utero by the teratogen of alcohol, resulting in an incurable birth defect.”

Dealing with this child had turned into a nightmare for the family until, after much deliberation, they decided to adopt a service dog from a non-profit agency in rural Ohio. The upshot of the story is that the dog, a “shaggy, tawny giant” of a Golden Retriever named Chaucer, has managed to bring a degree of tranquility and stability to Iyal and his family that could not have been conceived of before the dog’s arrival. The child has not been miraculously cured and there are plenty of serious problems expected in the future but Chaucer doesn’t know that. “What he knows is that Iyal is his boy. Chaucer loves Iyal in a perfect way, with unconditional love beyond that even the family can offer him.”

Less contemporary, and less able to be authenticated, is the tale of Greyfriars Bobby, the nineteenth-century Skye Terrier who is said to have spent many years after his master’s death keeping watch over his grave in Greyfriars Kirkyard, a cemetery in Edinburgh. Many tears have been shed over this romantic tale, told beguilingly by Eleanor Atkinson in her 1912 book and the inspiration for two popular movies.

There is a life-size statue of Bobby in Edinburgh, created by William Brodie in 1872, almost immediately after the dog’s death and paid for by a local aristocrat, Baroness Burdett-Coutts. It stands in front of the Greyfriars Bobby’s Bar, which is located near the main entrance to the cemetery. Travelers to this fair city often make a point of visiting the statue and they frequently leave sticks (and all sorts of other dog toys and treats) at Bobby’s nearby gravestone for him to fetch.

Yes, the tale may be exaggerated but the essential fact of this particular dog’s devotion to his master was certainly inspired by a true story.

Another statue frequently visited by the canine-minded is in New York’s Central Park. This celebrates Balto, a Siberian Husky who led his team on the final leg of a 1925 serum run in Alaska.

In January 1925, there was danger of a deadly diphtheria epidemic sweeping the northern city of Nome, and the only serum that could stop the outbreak was in Anchorage, almost one thousand miles away. A series of dog teams saved the day, relay racing through a storm with minus-23-degree-Fahrenheit temperatures and blizzard winds to deliver the life-saving medicine. Balto was at the head of the first team that arrived in Nome on February 2, 1925 and he had proved himself several times on the journey. His team had stayed on the trail in nearly whiteout conditions and had run their leg of the journey almost entirely in the dark.

Beneath the statue in Central Park is a plaque that reads: “Dedicated to the indomitable spirit of the sled dogs that relayed antitoxin six hundred miles over rough ice, across treacherous waters, through Arctic blizzards from Nenana to the relief of stricken Nome in the Winter of 1925. Endurance. Fidelity. Intelligence.”

Togo, another sled dog who participated in the same errand of mercy, should also be mentioned. Togo was the dog who actually covered the longest and most hazardous stretch of the run and some felt should have received more recognition. Alas, the involved humans, instead of celebrating the triumph together as representatives of one large team, allowed a good deal of jealousy to surface. Certainly the dogs would not have indulged in such pettiness.

In Snowdonia, Northern Wales, is another monument, this one marking “Gelert’s Grave.” According to tradition, this marks the final resting place of Gelert, the faithful hound of Llewelyn the Great, a Welsh medieval prince. The story on the plaque reads:

“In the 13th century Llewelyn, prince of North Wales, had a palace at Beddgelert. One day he went hunting without Gelert, “The Faithful Hound,” who was unaccountably absent. On Llewelyn’s return the truant, stained and smeared with blood, joyfully sprang to meet his master. The prince, alarmed, hastened to find his son, and saw the infant’s cot empty, the bedclothes and floor covered with blood. The frantic father plunged his sword into the hound’s side, thinking it had killed his heir. The dog’s dying yell was answered by a child’s cry. Llewellyn searched and discovered his boy unharmed, but nearby lay the body of a mighty wolf which Gelert had slain. The prince was filled with remorse and is said never to have smiled again. He buried Gelert here.”

Butler’s Lives of the Saints, originally published in 1756–59, chronicles another tale of canine loyalty.

In the mid-fourteenth century, Roch, the son of a noble family of Montpellier, France, was left an orphan at the age of twenty and, after disposing of all his worldly goods, went on a pilgrimage to Rome. Once there, he discovered that Italy was plague-stricken and he immediately devoted himself to the care of victims of the disease. It was also reported that he was able to cure large numbers of people “simply by making the sign of the cross on them.”

After many years, Roch himself was infected while in Piacenza and, not wanting to be a burden to anyone or any institution, he fled to the woods in order to die. But his devoted dog wouldn’t have any of this. He refused to abandon his master and brought him a daily loaf of bread so that he would not starve. Eventually, a stranger arrived, saw Roch, understood his plight and nursed him back to health.

Throughout history, St. Roch, the patron saint of dog trainers, has usually been depicted with his faithful companion.

Those familiar with this website will know that it would be impossible for me to discuss a topic like dogs as man’s best friend without citing examples from the world of Pugs.

In the sixteenth century, the Dutch stadholder William the Silent was particularly fond of Pugs and took his along with him when he waged war against the Spanish. One woke him just in time to confront would-be assassins who had slipped into his quarters during a battle. The Pug consequently became the official dog of the House of Orange and to this day the Pug Dog Club of Great Britain has orange as its official color.

More recently, on December 27, 2011, a posting by Rikki Klaus from Scripps Media told the story of Pei Pei, an eleven-pound Pug in Vero Beach, Florida. She is the pet of James Taylor, a retired Army police officer who suffers from post traumatic stress disorder and hearing loss.

Pei Pei was rescued from Halo Rescue in Sebastian, Florida. She, along with Mr. Taylor, was trained at Dogs for Life and the training took about two years. Among her many accomplishments, she has been taught to press a large circular button that automatically dials 9-1-1 in emergencies.

Says Mr. Taylor, “Without her, I couldn’t imagine my life. I’d probably be home-bound a lot because of what I suffer severely. I know if there are any kind of problems, she’s going to help me right through it. . . . If I’m out, like in Walmart or somewhere, I give her a ‘go out’ command, she’ll actually circle around me to keep the people three or four feet away from me . . . If someone knocks on the front door, rings it, she’ll find me in the house and then tap me, and I follow her.”

The report also mentions, not surprisingly, that Mr. Taylor and his wife really dote on Pei Pei and that she has, in true Pug style, her own wardrobe of thirty-four tailored outfits.

Clearly dogs deserve their title of “man’s best friend.” However, it should also be noted that they are also capable of fulfilling the same role with each other.

The Daily Mail, a British tabloid, recently ran an extraordinary story about a pair of Pugs with a very special relationship.

Elly, a fawn female, is blind. Franky, a black male, acts as her guide dog: escorting her on walks, helping her locate food and water, and in general being her eyes.

The pair, both four years old, were found by the RSPCA “in poor conditions” and nursed back to health. They are now inseparable and Elly follows Franky everywhere he leads. “She sniffs the air to find her friend, then nuzzles into his side to trot along with him.”

In a follow-up article on the www.pugs.co.uk website, it was great to read that “they have both been re-homed recently by the Newport RSPCA, after a press campaign to re-home them together. They look great and a real inspiration and we are jealous of the new owners. We offered a home to both of them but we were too late.”

And so it is. Dogs are indeed man’s best friend and sometimes, each other’s best friends as well.

Chuck Fry, an elegant colleague at Time-Life Books, introduced me to Diana Henry in the early 1970s. He told me that she was a brilliant photographer; once I’d seen some of her work, I completely agreed with him. Over the years I’ve never altered that assessment.

All photos in this album and “Bits and Pieces” cover image © Diana Mara Henry

In a recent Time article, John Cloud, who covers health and science for the magazine, reported that “abstaining from alcohol does tend to increase one’s risk of dying, even when you exclude former problem drinkers.”

What? Did I read that correctly?

Yes, that’s what new findings are saying.

And the article goes on to claim that “moderate drinking, which is defined as one to three drinks per day, is associated with the lowest mortality rates” and, is moreover, “thought to improve heart health, circulation and sociability, which can be important because people who are isolated don’t have as many family members and friends who can notice and help treat health problems.”

With this research in mind, it seems a good time to consider cocktails.

Now by cocktails I don’t mean the increasingly exotic and even bizarre mixtures that are showing up at super-trendy boîtes all over. No green tea highballs with organic ginger and sake infused kumquats.

Let’s just take a look at ten classics.

Martini

Traditionally there are two kinds of martinis: gin and vodka. It is said that the cognoscenti prefer the classic, or gin, version. And the way I make those is quite simple: keep the gin in the freezer until ready to pour. Put a teaspoon of very dry vermouth in a glass, swish it around, and discard. Fill the glass almost to capacity with the well-chilled gin. Depending on preference, add an olive or lemon slice. Voilà.

A slightly less lethal version comes via Nancy Smith of Beaverton, Oregon:

“Our favorite bartender’s recipe was simple: 1 1/2 ounce Tanqueray gin with 1/8 ounce Noilly Pratt dry vermouth.

“Of course, those measures had to be converted to household measures so we spent an unusually long evening working on the conversion.  (Possibly the quality control procedures that we felt were necessary to guarantee the perfect martini recipe might have contributed something to our trouble with numbers that night.)

“Finally, though, we came up with these measurements for a single drink:  1/3 cup Tanqueray with 1 1/2 teaspoons Noilly Pratt.

“Happily that didn’t end the research for the perfect martini, so after a few more evenings the recipe was fleshed out a bit. Purists will claim that it is important to use room temperature Tanqueray in order to get the needed 5% dilution. For them, the perfect martini will have ice added to the gin and vermouth and then will be  shaken 32 times or for 4 sets of 8.  Or ‘until your arm aches.’”

Manhattan

Put on a Lee Wiley CD.

Combine 3/4 ounce of sweet vermouth, 2 1/2 ounces of blended whiskey, a dash of Angostura bitters, and some ice in a mixing glass. Stir gently with a bar spoon. Put a maraschino cherry into a chilled cocktail glass and strain the mixture into that glass. Twist a strip of orange peel around the inner rim.

Relax and enjoy the music and the drink. Delicious experience.

Margarita

The way they made these delicious drinks in San Miquel de Allende was to blend 1 part freshly squeezed lime juice with 1 part triple sec and 3 parts good quality tequila. Shake the ingredients together with a substantial quantity of ice and strain into a glass that has been rimmed with kosher salt. Serve with a slice of lime.

If you’re opting for more than one, it’s good to remember that the better the tequila used, the less excruciating a hangover the next day.

Bloody Mary

Bartender Fernand Petiot is said to have invented this Sunday morning staple in 1921 while working at the popular New York Bar, which later became Harry’s New York Bar after the famous Harry’s Bar in Venice. Essentially a concoction of spicy tomato juice and vodka, there seem to be infinite varieties. Here’s a favorite:

2 parts tomato juice
1 part vodka or gin
several splashes of Worcestershire sauce
(several splashes of Outerbridge’s Sherry Peppers when available)
Tabasco to taste
some horseradish, if desired
good squeeze of fresh lemon juice
pinch of salt
whisper of freshly ground pepper

Strain into an ice-filled highball glass and garnish with a celery stalk.

A Bull Shot is essentially the same drink but beef broth is substituted for the tomato juice; it is certainly splendid in its own right.

Old Fashioned

In an old fashioned glass, place 1/2 lump of sugar, a dash of Angostura bitters, and a drop of cold water. With a muddler, crush the sugar so that it is completely dissolved. Add two or three ice cubes and 3 or 4 ounces of blended whiskey, bourbon, or Scotch and stir well. Twist the lemon peel over the drink to release the oil and twirl the edge of the peel around the edge of the glass, dropping the rest into the whiskey. Add a slice of orange, perhaps a slice of lemon as well, and a maraschino cherry.

If possible, drinking this should be enjoyed while listening to Julie London singing Cole Porter’s “Make It Another Old Fashioned, Please.”

Negroni

 One way to temporarily forgot your troubles:

Mix equal parts gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth. Pour over ice cubes and garnish with a strip of lemon peel.

Mmm.

Cuba Libre

When discussing this article with some friends, two felt strongly that the Cuba libre was not really a cocktail in the same way as more sophisticated drinks and should not be included on the list. But the dictionary tells us that a cocktail is indeed “an alcoholic drink consisting of a spirit or several spirits mixed with other ingredients.” A concoction of 3 ounces of rum, 6 ounces of cola, and the juice of a lime garnished with a lime slice certainly complies with that definition. And besides, we mustn’t be disloyal to this always popular libation immortalized by the Andrews Sisters!

Ward 8

One of the oldest cocktails, this delicious drink originated in 1898 at the bar of the famous Locke-Ober restaurant in Boston. It is generally agreed that it was named for the city’s Ward 8.

Shake 2 ounces of rye or bourbon, 3/4 ounce of freshly squeezed lemon juice, 3/4 ounce of freshly squeezed orange juice, and a teaspoon of grenadine well with cracked ice. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass and garnish with an orange slice. Rinse the shaker with a dash of club soda and add to the drink.

Gimlet

Mostly a summer drink, the gimlet is the perfect August alternative to December’s martini. In truth, however, it works well at all times of the year for those who enjoy a hint of vitamin C with their alcohol.

Pour 2 ounces of gin (or vodka, if you prefer) into a mixing glass with ice cubes. Add 1 3/4 ounces of Rose’s lime juice. Stir well and strain into a cocktail glass. Wipe the rim of the glass with a lime wedge, squeeze it into the drink, and drop it in.

Cosmopolitan

For those who live, or want to live, in a Sex and the City world, happiness could never be defined without cosmopolitans.

Chill a martini glass. Mix 2 ounces of citrus-flavored vodka and 1 ounce of Cointreau into a shaker. Add 1 ounce of cranberry juice and a dash of Rose’s lime juice. Fill the shaker with ice and stir vigorously. Strain into the chilled glass and garnish with a twist of lime peel.

And Chip Simons, the gifted and always amusing photographer whose photo heads this article, has a suggestion: “Great idea for a party. Show up as a personification of a drink or alcohol (Tom Collins, margarita, etc.).”

In any case, enjoy!

Answer: A Labrador Retriever.
Question: What is the meaning of existence?

Energy/environmental lawyer and writer, Jeff Bernstein, a lifelong New Englander, divides his time between Boston and Central Vermont with his family and two chocolate Labradors, Maggie and Isabelle. His chapbook Interior Music was published in 2010 by Foothills Publishing and his writer’s blog is www.hurricanelodge.com. Poetry is his favorite and earliest art form. Jeff is particularly proud of the creative achievements of his wife, painter Stacey Cushner, and his children, Ben (who designs this website) and Ally, an undergraduate at Wesleyan University.

Our days begin with frantic licking by seventy pounds or more of Labrador Retriever perched on our stomachs, enthusiastically greeting the light and letting you know it is high time to get moving. (And if you have two, as we do, you get one hundred and forty pounds pressing against your bladder, sending you quickly to the bathroom; Labs mistake as the beginning of the morning walk. This notwithstanding the fact that you are barefoot and hardly dressed, let alone ready, for a subzero walk in the snow.)

In my life so far there have been four Labradors, all chocolate. (Chocolate can come in a variety of palettes, and it has taken me decades to appreciate the subtle differences in brown coats from mahogany to burnt caramel to … well, you get the idea).

I wouldn’t know if there are personality differences between chocolates, blacks, and yellows. (Don’t believe anyone who says there are white Labs—they are just very pale yellows or as the purists say, there is no such thing as a “white” Lab or a “silver” Lab.) And I wouldn’t know if American Labs or English Labs, with their typically blockier faces, have different temperaments. I do know that if you have time on your hands, you can have a lot of fun (or at least pass a few hours) learning genetics by predicting the color of the offspring of a pair of labs based on their color and which gene is dominant and which is recessive.

The first chocolate Lab to occupy the same house as I did followed after our first Retriever, a Golden from a back road in Vermont. After her death, we made a slight but irrevocable breed change and got Sophie. Her bloodlines were impeccable on one side (Ocean Spray, a wonderful Massachusetts Labrador breeder consisting of two of the saltest-of-the-earth people you’d ever want to meet) and questionable at best on the other side. She nonetheless wormed her way into my heart although I was still grieving for my Golden.

It was then I began to notice the subtle but important differences between Labs and other Retrievers.

For one thing, when they start to teethe they chew as if their life depends on it. While it was true that my Golden had, as a puppy, de-tiled the floor in our apartment (and since we hadn’t gotten permission to have a dog from our landlady, led us to spend an entire night re-tiling the kitchen floor ourselves), Labs have a power that is hard to believe. Later on in her life, having destroyed her fair share of wooden and other items, Sophie would happily pull both my children on a sled over hill and dale.

The adjective “exuberant” must have been designed for Labs; it takes almost nothing to make them joyful. Conversely, of course, failing to pay attention to them can cause misery or at least lethargy. And Labs have an unerring sense of which person is wearing clothing that is most likely to show Lab fur—and then to walk to that person, dog-lover or not, and shed all over them.

But at the core, if there is a religion based on being present and happy, it would have to have been inspired by Labs. In our case, our response to the 9/11 attacks was to add a second Lab to our household. My children and I had been agitating for just such a result for some time prior and my wife and I decided that if the world was going to hell, we might as well have two Labs. I also may have offered to vacuum on a regular basis (Labs shed mercilessly)—the only major promise I haven’t kept.

Labradors are made to swim above all else. Their webbed feet give them that extra oomph through the water though my daughter at three cried inconsolably whenever our six-month-old Labrador headed for a lake, pond, or stream.

I never realized that for whatever reason Labradors can’t swim backwards until one unusually warm April day in Vermont when Sophie and Maggie, our young post-9/11 Lab, were swimming in a pond full of hidden logs and snags near our house. The pond had probably iced out only a few days earlier so the water was plenty cold but Labs are impervious to that sort of thing and our chocolate girls headed straight in before we could take their collars off, beginning with that joyful extended dive, all four feet in aerodynamic position (we call  this a “Labrador leap” in our family). They were paddling back and forth when my son noticed that Sophie was stuck and becoming frantic. It became apparent that her collar had caught on a snag just below the surface and instead of swimming backward she could only go in one direction—forward—and was becoming progressively entangled. My adrenaline kicked in and I jumped into water which had a temperature that couldn’t have been much out of the thirties, waded in about four feet deep, and was able to take her collar off and allow her to swim off.

It is a scientifically proven fact that Labs (and certain other breeds) can detect diseases in humans even before medical tests do. A German study published earlier this year reported that some dogs can even detect certain early-stage lung cancers more accurately than medical tests and physicians. And Labs seem to have a special sensitivity to disease and pain, physical or emotional. My father visited us only weeks before he succumbed to lung cancer in 1997. Our younger Lab, Isabelle, at the time a true bruiser who loved crashing into all manner of objects, living and otherwise, showed uncharacteristic restraint and did not want to leave my father’s side.

Recently, Maggie underwent surgery to remove a growth on her back. We worried that Isabelle would disturb her biblical-proportioned incision but needn’t have. Isabelle just seemed to know that Maggie was not up for the usual Lab roughhousing and helped to nurse her through her recovery period. Once those stitches were gone, Isabelle rewarded Maggie with a full frontal Lab assault.

And it isn’t just sickness and sadness that Labs have an uncanny ability to read and respond to; it is virtually every choice you make in your day—whether you are just getting up to visit the kitchen or whether a walk is really in the offing or, Lab pay dirt, a ride in the car! And if you simply want to collect your thoughts, there is no better companion on a walk than a Lab or two, especially if you are prepared to walk for a long, long time!

I spent so much time one January walking a visiting Lab that we were considering adopting that I had no time to eat—a very effective diet method that I have not repeated since.

Over the years, I have come to believe that Labs live multiple lives (perhaps a defense against the too-shortness of theirs with us). Certainly, there is no creature that could be more sensitive to the most minute changes and signals in every minute of existence. That’s not to say that a Lab will be shy about letting you know what she or he wants—especially if it involves eating. Around 3 o’clock on these short winter days, my girls let us know that dinnertime is near!

But one thing you have to learn with Labradors, as with all other dogs, is that they just don’t live long enough. While this may be true of other breeds as well, these big dogs seem to fall prey to a range of cancers and other ailments. Once you have had one Labrador and experienced their pure joy of living every minute to the fullest, you’d have to be a pretty cold-hearted person to stop, even though you know at the beginning that you are going to outlive your marvelous friend.

Memorizing the Planet
She started
with an alarm clock
for a mother, we didn’t know
what we were doing we did
our best to comfort the tiny
creature lost inside
her wooden crate
under the kitchen counter.
If this was what it was like
to be a parent, I wasn’t sure
I wanted to be one, ever!

Gradually, as is the way
of most things, the days
and nights, especially the nights,
passed more quickly and quietly.
She kept us company
on long car trips, learned
to swim in the cold Maine lakes
we favored then, would paddle out
to the wooden float and sun herself
beside me like a seal.

On Mondays, garbage night,
every shadow spooked her—our walks
were Halloween in a haunted
house. Skunks and peanut
butter attracted her like beer
for slugs; our first child
did not taste sweet to her. But love
grows when least expected,
hurts so much it feels
fine and you can’t remember
a time without her until

one summer when her tender
paws barely worked
and we lifted her up and down
the steep stairs and I told
my wife that on walks,
down to fifty feet at best,
she was sniffing the air
to memorize what life was
like on earth, so whatever
was next, she’d remember
the battered old oaks in front
of our house, how it was
when I told the rest
of my family it was time
to say goodbye.

Painting by Stacey Cushner

“Hello, Johnny. Look at us! We’re both still here.”

Percy Leach greeted Johnny Galliher at a party a few years back and they laughed and embraced. The two elderly gentlemen didn’t really like each other very much and had never been great friends but as they grew older they seemed to accept and even appreciate one another.

Embracing like that they certainly were something to look at: Percy, heavy-set and heavily scented, his hair dyed an unnatural black; Johnny slender and svelte with a great mane of wavy silver hair and languid, imperious mannerisms.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

A few years before the party just mentioned, Percival H. E. Leach had been included on the V.I.P guest list for one of Malcolm Forbes’s ballooning weekends at his chateau in Normandy.

My job at the event was to make sure that all the rich and famous people who’d been invited would have as good a time as possible and that they would return from the weekend extolling the virtues of Forbes magazine and the Forbes family. I took one look at Percival Leach, described to me as a “genius at fund-raising,” and thought that I had my work cut out for me. He presented an image of someone who was demanding, difficult, and humorless.

The image was entirely misleading.

Impeccably upholstered in navy blue Savile Row, bejeweled with a gold braceleted Patek Philippe, eye-popping cuff links, and a hefty carnelian intaglio ring that deserved to belong to a Middle European potentate, it was easy to jump to conclusions about Percy Leach. His accent was a bit too British and his portly swagger a bit too self-assured to be appealing.

But after dinner one evening, many of the guests congregated in one of the pretty drawing rooms of the chateau and were discussing collecting and collections. The topic, no doubt, was inspired by Malcolm Forbes’s much publicized assemblages of Fabergé, toy soldiers, American historical documents, toy boats, and various other things.

One lady talked about her love of soft-paste porcelain, a man about his interest in pre-Columbian art, and another man about the joy of finding antique German Christmas ornaments.

Leach, who was indeed a collector and whose house sighed under the weight of his china and furniture and assorted objets, leaned over to me and said, sotto voce, “I collect souvenirs of love. Do you?”

Realizing that he wasn’t speaking of old letters and scented hankies, I was both surprised and amused. Clearly this ostensibly pompous and pretentious queen had a sense of humor. We were destined to become good pals.

Percival Leach had been born in Boonton, New Jersey, and was a graduate of Montclair High School, class of 1944, but he never publicized either of those facts or, indeed, many of the details of his background. We do know that his father had been in the British military and may or may not have been a cousin of Cary Grant’s and that his mother was the daughter of English colonials living in Jamaica. For some reason, the family settled in New Jersey and at the age of eighteen he chose American citizenship.

In 1946, while serving in the Navy and stationed in Boston, Percy received a letter from his parents telling him about a derelict colonial village in Western New Jersey that was slated to be bought for development by the oh-so-private but enormously rich financier O.W. Caspersen. Caspersen was considering options for the property, including flooding part of it to create a large lake and resort community.

Home on leave, the young sailor was taken out to look at the area and promptly fell in love with it. And that was one love affair that was to last the rest of his life.

After his military service, Leach enrolled at the now defunct Whitman School of Architecture and Interior Design where he met Louis Gualandi, who was to be both his business partner and his most serious romantic interest.

On an early date, Percy took Lou to visit the village and his new friend was as enchanted with the place as he was. After their graduation, the pair set out to do something about their dream to restore this ruin and to turn it into a historical landmark and cultural center. The fledgling decorators must have been a formidable duo, for they were able to realize this dream and to create Waterloo—a kind of smaller Williamsburg or Old Sturbridge Village.

First opened to the public in 1964 and fully functional by 1967, Waterloo Village attracted busloads of school children, historically-minded tourists, and music lovers to watch world-class artists like Luciano Pavarotti, Marian Anderson, and Van Cliburn perform. And as the reputation of his village soared, Percy Leach grew grander and grander. If the gentlemen in the Casperson family who did some of the bankrolling of this project had their suits made at a certain London tailor, Percy would use the same tailor. When fashionable people started flocking to the original Le Cirque, he made it a point to become chummy with Sirio Marconi, the ringmaster. Similarly he met and befriended some of the richest and most powerful industrialists, politicians, creative artists and sports figures in the world. From time to time, his circle included people as varied as Grace, Princess of Monaco, organist Kent Trittle, boxer Mike Tyson, and Jacqueline Kennedy.

But he was also a very naughty fellow.

Percy often told a story about the time he was a little boy and his parents took him to a carnival and introduced him to cotton candy. He liked it so much that he wanted a cotton candy machine of his own. When his parents at first declined the request, he held his breath. He held it until he started to turn blue. He got the machine.

That’s how important sensual pleasures were for him. And he usually got what or who he wanted without holding his breath.

Percy bragged that when driving along the New Jersey Turnpike he would speed up when spotting an appealing State Trooper. Pursuit would result and he would be pulled over, only to feign a choking attack and forcing administration of the Heimlich maneuver.

Sometimes Percy would talk about the 1950s subculture of gay bars and clubs like the Blue Parrot and the Faisan d’Or where not only the unattached would congregate but to which many ambivalent husbands would resort. He also remembered a restaurant of sorts called the Bean Pot near the docks of the lower West side where longshoremen were happy to oblige the men in business suits or black tie. Percy himself was a frequent customer. And it wasn’t a very long road from the Bean Pot to the infamous Everhard Baths, the Gaiety male burlesque theatre, and the Times Square peep shows.

These peccadilloes notwithstanding, the great passion of Percy’s life was, indeed, Waterloo Village. Since his death in March 2007, this unique facility has been effectively closed. Without the formidable Mr. Leach to cajole and flatter and convince the political forces necessary to keep it open, the village has been slumbering in the Western New Jersey countryside.

In an article in New Jersey Monthly entitled “Waterloo Meets Its Waterloo,” writer Paul Drexell put it this way:

Despite all the programs and visitors, it was rarely solvent. But Leach always won the support of state officials and private power brokers. In 1977 the state leased 365 acres to Leach’s Waterloo Foundation for the Arts at no charge. In 1981, a consortium of banks, including Carteret Savings and Loan and Midatlantic, saved Waterloo from bankruptcy by infusing millions of dollars into its budget.
“Percy was an artist,” says former Governor Thomas H. Kean. “No artist should be a bookkeeper. That’s why it was important to surround Percy with people who were financial experts.”

In the long run even the financial experts were not able to save Waterloo Village and by the time Percy was dying, there was little hope that his achievement would continue as he hoped it would into the next century.

It’s easy to be reminded of the lines from Edna St. Vincent Millay:

“My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light.”

If Percy had wit and a village to attract the rich and famous, Johnny Galliher had charm. Although he was known to have been born in Washington, DC, in May 1914, and reported that he was a graduate of Lehigh, class of 1935, much of the details about his background are almost as mysterious as those around  Percy’s. He sometimes claimed to have been descended from Pocahontas, but members of the Bolling family, the legitimate heirs of that Indian princess, disputed that claim. Frankly, it couldn’t have mattered less who his antecedents were. Like Percy Leach, the gentleman was a star.

Referred to in Lanfranco Rasponi’s 1966 book The International Nomads as “a favorite extra man . . . whose Irish dimples some hostesses find irresistible,” Johnny had no apparent source of income other than his periodic winnings from gin rummy, but nonetheless managed to live very well. He could be relied on to improve any dinner or house party with his gentle sense of humor and elegant persona; he’d always be invited back because he was almost never bitchy and he knew how to keep secrets and not to betray confidences. Tony Hall, a San Francisco decorator and old friend of Johnny’s put it succinctly: “He was fun to know.”

And Johnny seemed to know just about every bold-faced name of the twentieth century: Pat and William Buckley, Noel Coward and Elsa Maxwell, Rubirosa, Rita Hayworth and the Aga Kahn, Errol Flynn, Chips Channon, even Greta Garbo. And, interestingly, although he was occasionally known in later years to be over ambitious with younger gentlemen, Johnny never seemed to have a regular partner. As opposed to Percy who was always falling in love, Johnny was far less romantic.

He saved his love for glamour. Watching Johnny and his dear friend Bobby Short could be particularly amusing. Their mannerisms were almost identical — the way they used their hands, adjusted their impeccable neckties, threw back their heads when amused. They were white and black versions of the same elegant man about town.

Interviewed once about the best parties he remembered, Johnny’s answer seems to sum up his life.

I remember New Year’s Eve at the Gilbert Millers’. For many years it was the most entertaining and glamorous evening in New York—an annual party at their apartment at 550 Park Avenue. The invitation would be to an 8 o’clock dinner. There was a long table which seated perhaps eighteen people. The men in black tie, ladies in dinner dresses and with their best jewels. People had wonderful jewels, and they wore them in private houses in those days.

The guest list would include Diana and Reed Vreeland, Winston and C.Z. Guest, Serge Obolensky, Elsie Woodward, Billy Baldwin—the regulars. And while we were having dinner, the living room was being readied for dancing. You see, more people were invited for 10:30, people who’d been at other dinner parties or even at the theatre, and they’d all join the festivities.

In the living room there was a Hungarian orchestra with the musicians all wearing scarlet coats. And they played across the room from Kitty Miller’s famous painting—the Goya of the little boy in the scarlet coat. (Kitty sent it over to the Metropolitan whenever she was away from New York, and now it’s there permanently.)

At midnight, the music stopped abruptly and the leader announced the new year, and then they started to play “Auld Lang Syne.” And you had to embrace whoever was next to you. One year, I remember, I was between Ellen, the parlor maid, and the Duchess of Windsor, and the three of us all embraced happily.

After a while, the dining room would be open again for supper and breakfast buffets.

It was always an extraordinary party—a party with constant movement. Early arrivals would be leaving and others arriving, the movement of going from room to room. Nobody ever got stuck! And, ultimately, it was a party of good friends, of people who knew each other. Or, at least, people you’d like to know.

Shortly before he died, Mr. Galliher was fond of repeating some advice given to him by the Duchess of Windsor that is actually good for everybody, particularly those setting out for a party: “When you get old, there’s really very little you can do except to be very, very clean and well-dressed.”

A few months after Johnny’s death in 2002, I returned home to find several cases of red and white wine waiting for me. Since I hadn’t ordered any wine, I thought that there must have been some mistake. But then I read the card: “Dear Tom, Many thanks for all your hospitality. Here’s something for future celebrations! Love, Johnny.”

It was like receiving a kiss from the other side of the grave. But surprising as it was, the gesture was typical of Johnny. Later I learned that he had arranged this goodbye gift with his executor and that close male friends had all received similar deliveries and that flowers had been sent to his favorite ladies.

Percy and Johnny. How lucky were those of us who knew them!

Alan Ross worked in UK commercial radio from 1979 to 2013, and grew up listening to the British offshore “pirate radio” stations. He launched one of the first English “oldies” radio stations in 1988, inspired by listening to Florida’s Cool 105.9. He lives in the Northeast of England.
 
 
 

A little less than 200 years after their defeat in the American Revolution, the British triumphantly returned.  The victory wasn’t achieved on the battlefield, however, but on the playing fields of rock ‘n roll.  Until the early 60s, this music was just about entirely the domain of American musicians, but then, out of the blue, came one particular group of four young men and everything changed dramatically and forever.

A New York friend dates his first experience of hearing the Beatles to early 1964: a girl he knew who’d spent Christmas in London excitedly showed up at a Sarah Lawrence mixer clutching a black-labeled 45 rpm Parlophone single called “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” The girl’s enthusiasm became widespread just a few weeks later when the Beatles occupied all top five positions on the Billboard Hot 100.

Pop historians call it “The British Invasion”—a remarkable phenomenon that was the exact opposite of the usual transatlantic state of affairs when songs and styles started out in the US and later found their way to the UK. Since rock n’ roll’s emergence in the mid-1950s, British teenagers largely had been force-fed a diet of watery cover versions of American hits. The British music industry received the original versions from their US counterparts, and doled them out for rerecording to British stars acceptable to the BBC, which then had a monopoly on radio broadcasting.

Every UK teenager of the time, for example, knows “Bobby’s Girl”  as sung by Susan Maughan—a very different version of the gutsy US hit from Marcie Blane.  Similarly,  The Drifters’ soulful “Up On The Roof” was only a minor hit in the UK, eclipsed by a version from Kenny Lynch, an English actor who could sing a bit.

There were some areas of Britain, usually port cities, that were exceptions to the rule and were exposed to the original versions of American hits. Liverpool, for example, was and still is a major trading partner with the United States.  Merchant seamen coming in and out of that city brought the latest discs home from America, and the embryonic skiffle and rock and roll groups in the area avidly embraced this new music.

One of those groups was the Quarrymen.

 But after the Quarrymen had morphed into the Silver Beetles and then into the Beatles, went to the West German port city of Hamburg to hone their stage act, changed their manager, and acquired an EMI recording contract, they discovered that America initially wasn’t interested in their music. At least Capitol Records, EMI’s American partner, wasn’t. 

Capitol had, of course, first refusal on any EMI product for US release.  But since British artistes rarely made it onto the US charts, Capitol rejected the first Beatles releases, despite the entreaties of their British counterparts. After all, they recorded for Parlophone, for goodness sake—a label previously only known for spoken word and comedy records!

This explains why, when “Beatlemania” finally made it over the pond in January 1964,  just about all the songs from the previous year made it into the charts and onto the radio all at once. It was a logjam, cashed in on by other small labels who had licensed the records that Capitol hadn’t wanted to release.

 For example, “Please, Please Me,” the second Parlophone single from the Moptops in the UK had been farmed out to Vee-Jay records in Gary, Indiana. (This was the label that handled the enormously popular Four Seasons with lead singer Frankie Valli.)  Quite rightly sensing that they could be onto something, Vee-Jay rushed out a “Battle of the Bands” album with the Beatles’ early material on one side, and the Four Seasons hits on the other.

Americans initially made the mistake of thinking that all the British groups that subsequently made it stateside were from Liverpool.  Californians Jan and Dean’s “From All Over The World” contains the immortal line “the Rolling Stones from Liverpool are bound to be there”  but since the Stones hailed from London and the neighbouring Home Counties, this was more than a few miles out.  However, no matter where they were from, Mick and the boys gleefully followed through the big hole in the wall that John, Paul, George, and Ringo had finally made.

Perhaps the ultimate turnabout in this story of cross-fertilisation was the Number 2 Hit Parade placement for the Beatles’ version of “Twist and Shout,” originally done by The Isley Brothers from Cincinnati, Ohio.

 The Animals, who hailed from the port city of Newcastle, also had a monster hit in 1964 with a reworking of an American folk song about a New Orleans brothel, “The House of the Rising Sun.” The Animals were managed by Mickie Most, a shrewd British promoter who certainly had an eye on opportunities over the water.

Even if the Animals had initially been very parochial in outlook (one of their “B sides” was called “Gonna Send You Back to Walker,” a reference to a down-at-the heels Newcastle suburb), they soon found success in the States. Alas, this success came to an end when the group broke up due to the commonly cited “musical differences.” 

Lead singer Eric Burdon then formed a new Animals in America, and, operating out of the West Coast, embraced the psychedelic ethos of the time, releasing some truly dreadful nonsense. This included a little ditty from 1967 called “Good Times” where he sang, “When I think of all the good time that I’ve wasted, having good times”—a sentiment more in tune with the older generation rather than the record buyers he was hoping to attract.

The Byrds, the American group formed in Los Angeles in 1964, was strongly influenced by the Brits. Have you ever wondered where they got that wonderful jangly twelve string guitar sound from on “Mr Tambourine Man” and “All I Really Want to Do”?  Look and listen no further than the previous year’s hits from British group the Searchers, named after the eponymous Western film. Their biggest hit in the States was a reworking of the Washington, DC, band the Clovers’ “Love Potion No. 9.” Imitation is indeed the sincerest form of flattery. Mickie Most, the aforementioned promoter, was perhaps the most skilled at scheduling releases from his roster to suit the territories at which they were aimed.  As well as the Animals, he managed three other artistes who all made impacts in the United States: Donovan, Lulu and, most astonishingly, to the British, anyway, Herman’s Hermits.

Herman’s Hermits came out of Manchester, not a port, but just down the road from Liverpool in the north west of England. (Domestically the group had always played second fiddle to the indisputably more talented Hollies.)  The lead singer, Peter Noone, may have had teeth that were dreadful even by British dental standards, but exuded a winsome charm that women of a certain age found irresistible. Personally, just thinking of “Mrs Brown, You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter” and “I’m Henry VIII, I Am” sets my own teeth on edge, but they both topped the US chart. (Wisely, I suspect, neither was ever released as a single to a British audience.) 

Lulu’s biggest hit in Britain had been her 1964 reworking of the Isley Brothers’ “Shout,” but her career had taken a dip. Enter Mickie Most again, who took her under his wing, placed her in a successful film, and promoted her excellent version of the film’s title song “To Sir with Love,” to the top of the Billboard Hot 100 where it spent five weeks in the autumn of 1967.

Most also resurrected the career of Dylan-sound-a-like Donovan with a stunning comeback single, “Sunshine Superman,” in 1966. Due to contractual problems in the UK, this big hit very nearly wasn’t given a British release at all. 

Who else merits a mention in this look back in time?

Dusty Springfield was always the best of our female singers, though Petula Clark had more US hits with those catchy Tony Hatch songs like “Downtown.”

And then there was the Dave Clark Five, from Tottenham, who’d produced two amazing dance records that still fill a dance floor today: “Glad All Over” and “Bits and Pieces.” For some reason, this group meant far more in the States than in Britain and appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show more often than any other of their countrymen.

America caught onto the Who late—their wonderful mod anthem “My Generation” was never a hit in the former colonies. By the time the rock opera Tommy was released in 1968, however, the States had fallen under their spell. 

And occasionally there were genuine, out of nowhere, one-hit wonders. Remember the New Vaudeville Band and their 1966 hit “Winchester Cathedral”?

One of America’s finest songwriters and Svengalis of the time certainly knew that this British Invasion would have a lasting impact on Tin Pan Alley and the music machine in New York’s Brill Building. Bert Berns, who brought us the McCoys’ “Hang on Sloopy”  and Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” among many others, was quoted as saying, “Those boys have genius. They may be the ruin of us all.”

So what was I, then a teenager in the UK, listening to while all this was going on?

Thanks to the pirate radio stations anchored offshore, which broke the BBC monopoly, we were getting a wider choice of music. That meant that this future British broadcaster was enjoying American exports: Jay and the Americans, the Mamas & the Papas, Spanky and Our Gang, the Lovin’ Spoonful, Dion Di Mucci, Tommy James and the Shondells, and Gary Lewis and the Playboys, among many others.

Thank goodness for cross-fertilisation.

For bedside reading, and indeed for reading at any time when a dose of comforting escapism is in order, nothing beats cookbooks. Along with visions of sugarplums, what better way to drift into sleep than to be daydreaming of the delicious?

The variety of choice is awesome. On their American site alone, Amazon has more than 30,000 individual paperback titles in the category and more than 23,000 hard covers. Looked at objectively, most examples easily fall into broad categories: trusted introductions to the fundamentals; guides to ethnic and regional specialties; handbooks for various kinds of entertaining; historical works; discussions of a single ingredient; and, finally, cookbooks that combine food preparation and recipes along with memoirs or autobiography.

To begin with the basics, it’s generally agreed that The Fannie Farmer Cookbook (first published as the Boston Cooking-School Cookbook in 1896) can be relied on to educate the most inexperienced would-be chef. Similarly, The Joy of Cooking (first published in 1931), selected by the New York Public Library as one of the 150 most important and influential books of the twentieth century, will teach any novice how to put a meal together. Amy Vanderbilt’s Complete Cookbook, published by Doubleday in 1961 and illustrated with winsome drawings by “Andrew Warhol,” also explores the basics as do the various tomes from magazines like Good Housekeeping, Better Homes and Gardens, and the Ladies’ Home Journal.

There is perhaps no better collection of cookbooks devoted to specific national and cultural themes than the still-impressive Time-Life Foods of the World series. Published from 1968 though the early 70s, these twenty-seven cookbooks provide an informative broad survey of the world’s major cuisines. Written by some of the most important food writers of the time—Julia Child, James Beard, Pierre Franey, and M.F. K. Fisher among them—each book and its companion spiral-bound recipe collection is full of wonderful photographs, generally beautiful to look at, well-researched, and inspiring.

Other personal favorites in this category of ethnic specialties include all Diana Kennedy’s classics on Mexican cuisine; Micheline Mongrain-Dontigny’s Traditional Quebec Cooking: A Treasure of Heirloom Recipes (1995), which tells you how to make Pâté Chinois (the delicious Quebecois version of Shepherd’s pie) and, predictably, pea soup; Carol Robertson’s Turkish Cooking: A Culinary Journey Through Turkey (1996), which combines some history and geography lessons along with easy-to-follow directions for making mouthwatering specialties like roast chicken with pine nut stuffing; Lesley Wild’s A Year of Family Recipes (2007), which is a celebration of recipes from the cooking school affiliated with Bettys, the famous and well-bred bastion of delicious Yorkshire fare; and Ann Volkwein’s The Arthur Avenue Cookbook: Recipes and Memories from the Real Little Italy (2004), which pays homage to New York’s “real Little Italy” in the Bronx.

In the regional category, you also have the whimsical and often amusing spiral-bound volumes from various Junior Leagues, women’s clubs, and other civic and charitable organizations. Here’s where you are apt to find recipes for coca-cola salad and pickles in Kool-Aid. Perhaps the most popular and well-regarded example of these is South Carolina’s Charleston Receipts (first published in 1950). Indeed, where else could you find out how to make St. Cecilia Punch?

A random sampling of titles pertaining to entertaining includes the beautiful John Hadamuscin’s Enchanted Evenings: Dinners, Suppers, Picnics & Parties by John Hadamuscin (1990), Fast and Fabulous Dinner Parties by Michele Braden (1991), The Afternoon Tea Book by Michael Smith (1986), and Entertaining at Home by Philip and Katharine Harben (1951). Included in this category could also be some now chuckle-worthy titles like Parties for Pennies: Money-saving Menus for Every Season by Elaine L. Ross (1971) and The Hostess Cooks by Viola Johnstone (1956).

Of great interest from a historical perspective is Miss Leslie’s New Cookery Book, which was first published in Philadelphia in 1857 and which makes this statement of purpose: “As every woman, whether wife or maid, should be qualified for the duties of housekeeper.” Included are recipes for Veal Broth for Invalids, Molasses Pot-Pie, and Hominy Cakes.

Another ancient classic of the genre is Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management, which was first published in London in 1861. Intended as a guide for the aspirant middle class, Mrs. Beeton also published separate volumes for the less well-off including Mrs. Beeton’s All About Cookery (1907), aimed at “households and families with more modest means and requirements.”

Persephone Books in London has recently re-issued They Can’t Ration These by Vicomte de Mauduit with a preface by Rt. Hon. D. Lloyd George. First published in 1940, the preface states that “the object of this book is to show where to seek and how to use nature’s larder which in time of peace and plenty people overlook or ignore.” It includes yummy recipes for wild briar marmalade and beetroot fritters.

Also worth pursuing for its historical interest is The Settlement Cookbook: The Way to a Man’s Heart, first published in 1903 by the Milwaukee Settlement House for Russian-Jewish immigrants. This was not just a cookbook but a guide to becoming Americanized as well.

Looking further back, the Metropolitan Museum of Art published Dinner with Tom Jones: Eighteenth-Century Cookery Adapted for the Modern Kitchen by Lorna J. Sass in 1977. It’s a good read, but I may be a bit prejudiced.

When it comes to a single ingredient, there are cookbooks entirely devoted to recipes containing all manner of ingredients from fruit to cabbage to beer to pecans. There are also Jello cookbooks and a Tabasco cookbook and, a personal favorite, The Marmite Cookbook by Paul Hartley (2003).

And then we come to those books which combine memoirs with recipes and reflections. From My Chateau Kitchen by Anne Willan (2000) is a delightful mix of French food, antiques, and personal history. The author’s royalties from Some Favorite Southern Recipes of the Duchess of Windsor (1942) were donated to the British War Relief Society and the book itself, with its introduction by Eleanor Roosevelt, is a fascinating historical document. We all knew that the Duchess was well-dressed and witty, but who would have guessed how knowledgeable she was about such dishes as pilau of rabbit or baked Maryland chicken?

So, if you have trouble getting to sleep, if the cares of your day to day life are upsetting, may I suggest a casual perusal of cookbooks? Reading them can provide the gentlest possible escape from all kinds of stress. Except perhaps the stress of dieting.

Click an illustration for enlargement.

Fred Tierney, the vet who has cared for all my Pugs, was examining one of them when I noticed a print on his wall.

What was the story behind this marvelous surrealistic depiction of cats surrounding an enormous polar bear-shaped fish tank overlooking New York Harbor on a moonlit night? Who had created it?

Fred explained that it was the work of Jeff Brooks, the brother of a friend and neighbor of his. I decided right away that I wanted to know this painter and to see more of his work.

And I did.

Over the years, I hired Jeff for particular commissions, used his work to illustrate articles in the Social Register Observer, and gifted friends with special works conceived of particularly for them. I’ve never been disappointed.

Jeffrey Brooks was born in Fairfax County, Virginia, in 1960. He has lived in many places around the country but Massachusetts has been his home for the greatest part of his life. Although he has had some art training, Jeff is largely self-taught. His natural talent, wonderful sense of fantasy, and love of animals have kept him in good stead.

Jeff’s favorite painter is Claude Monet and Madame Monet and Her Son (1875) is his favorite painting. He prefers to work in colored pencils “because of the incredible detail that you can achieve with them,” but the work I’m familiar with has all been done in acrylics.

I asked Jeff why the moon has such a prominent role in so many of his paintings.

“I paint the moon because one summer night in 1992 I saw it over the ocean at South Beach on Martha’s Vineyard and have never forgotten that particular vision.”

It seems to me that he deserves thanks for sharing it.

Click an illustration for an enlargement.

“I was born right here in this house, in the room that is now my library, on February 23, 1920. I was the seventh of eight children—six girls and two boys. We never celebrated individual birthdays because there were too many of us!”

Jack was a man who spent most of his life doing pretty much what his family would have wanted him to do. And that was true until the day he died in what had been his parents’ bedroom.

This devotion was despite the fact that his father certainly would not have been many people’s idea of a hero—certainly not one for twenty-first-century sensibilities.

“Daddy, Montgomery Carlton Stallworth, was a self-made man. He’d left home at the age of twelve with everything he had wrapped in a newspaper. He met my mother, Minnie Lee Wilkins of Whistler, Alabama—a flourishing railroad town—when he’d stayed at a boarding house that her mother ran.

“My father was not a sportsman but a workaholic. He seemed never to do anything that wasn’t connected with business. He was gone during the week but would return home on Saturday at dinnertime. Then he would spend Sunday afternoons reading on the veranda. He had educated himself by reading during his early life and later that’s how he kept up with things. His advice was simple: ‘Don’t try to tell a bunch of lies because you’re not smart enough to work out of ’em.’”

This attitude went hand in glove with the older Mr. Stallworth’s practices.

“Daddy’s primary interests were lumber and turpentine and our own pine plantation—Stallworth Naval Stores—was about fifty miles north of Mobile. It had about 200 crops, 10,000 trees to a crop. The plantation had housing for ‘hands’ or laborers. We had as many as 650 families living there in the early 1930s.

“My father was the first one who brought running water to the houses where the people who worked the pine trees in the daytime lived. He didn’t put running water in their houses (there were about eight houses on a block), but he put a pipe with a faucet spaced so that you never had to go more than four houses away for your water.

“The plantation had its own commissary. It’s still standing there—a little old main store with two rooms on each side. At first, in the late ’20s and early ’30s, we paid the hands with our own brass money: nickels, dimes, quarters, and half-dollars, all in brass and stamped ‘Stallworth Turpentine Company.’ The government stopped that because they claimed we were minting money, so we changed to scrip. The scrip could be used to buy whatever was needed at the commissary. Once a month the hands also received some cash.

“We had our own social security system. The plantation took care of everybody who was too old to try and get a job somewhere else. And they stayed there until they died. On our turpentine plantation, Dad always made sure that the 650 families who lived there were taken care of. He fought Social Security vehemently because he said that he could take care of his people better than the government could. Of course he didn’t win that battle!

“Daddy was really much better than most of the other local businessmen at that time. He understood that you were successful by building up the people you worked with. You don’t step on their heads while they’re trying to climb the ladder. And he left a legacy of more than $50,000,000 after starting with nothing.”

Listening to Jack talk in his mellow, hushed, southern voice, Tennessee Ernie Ford singing “Sixteen Tons” started to play in my head. There was a marked contrast between the gentle, soft-spoken elderly gentleman sitting across from me and what he was describing. But it was undeniably another snapshot of twentieth-century American life.

Later in our visit, we relaxed in the turquoise and ivory front room of Jack’s house, an elaborate but comfortable homage to late nineteenth-century taste.

“When I was very little I recall my mother taking me downtown to the docks to see the bananas being unloaded. At that time, Mobile was one of the largest banana importing centers in the country. There were all these small carts on the streets selling bananas because those that would fall off, or were too ripe, these people could buy for practically nothing and then put them on carts and run around town selling them. That’s why we always had so many bananas. It was sad when they moved it all to New Orleans. They took that little bit of history away from us.

“Streetcars were the most popular means of transportation here in Mobile. They went between here and Spring Hill—it’s seven miles. They ran on this street before it was ever paved! I remember there were a couple of old ladies on Government Street, the Triplet sisters, who lived in one of those big houses. One of them had been queen of Mardi Gras. They would get in their little horse-drawn buggy and drive down to the Loop and then they would drive right back down Government Street. You could always see those ladies taking their ride at certain times of the day.”

Jack smiled at the recollection and proceeded to talk about his schooling.

“After graduating from Tennessee’s Castle Heights Military School in 1937, I went to the Louisiana State University for a degree in forestry. That degree was sweetened a little by my music studies with Pasquale Amato, the celebrated operatic baritone who’d been a star of the Metropolitan Opera. He was from the same area in Italy as Caruso. Two little towns close together. They were friends and were always playing tricks on one another. He had sung at the Metropolitan for sixteen years at the same time as Caruso and about the time Caruso died, Amato got kidney trouble and they had to remove one of his kidneys. They cut his ribs and he lost his strength and he never did go back on the stage to sing so he got into teaching. How LSU got him, I don’t know, but he was there a number of years. He was a very distinguished gentleman. Grey hair, olive complexion, rotund. He was a very good teacher.

“Amato was quick to tell me that I had not started singing early enough. He let me know that I was too late to prepare for a musical career. But he taught me a great deal. I remember him proclaiming, when discussing what we should wear for a concert, ‘The performer had on white tie, didn’t he? You wear a tuxedo. They dress for you, you dress for them.’ So I did.

“I did just as well in forestry, but it was my music lessons that made me happy.

“Mother was very pleased that I was taking voice lessons, but she wouldn’t let my Daddy know when I got in the opera at LSU’s music school. Then the opera was taken to New Orleans. We got it into the Municipal Auditorium and Amato was always one to play up a student in his hometown. Of the eight principals in La Traviata, the servant to Violetta was from New Orleans and I was from Mobile. So they had a big picture of the entire cast on the front page of the Times-Picayune. “College Opera Comes to Town.” My brother-in-law bought a newspaper. He brought it to mother and mother was real proud of it. I’m told she laid it on Daddy’s pillow and that at bedtime he went up and saw it. And he came down the next morning and he said, ‘There will be no more pictures of anybody in this family in the newspaper.’ Mother was proud of it but Dad wasn’t.”

After briefly describing some nightmare experiences while in the Navy and stationed at Solomons, Maryland, Jack’s face lit up as he recalled the end of World War II. At that point he found himself very much in the right place at the right time.

“On August 15, 1945, I’d gone to New York to get in touch with some friends I’d met up there. All of a sudden, just as I got there, Japan capitulated. There were crowds and crowds in the street celebrating everywhere. I literally bumped into a group of four or five people, among whom was a friend of Sally Meade’s I’d met when I was up there in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. I just ran into her out in the street! ‘Jack! What are you doing here?’ she said. ‘Come on with us.’

“Well, I stayed with her and her friends for two days. And one of the group had an uncle who had a suite at the Hotel Pierre. At one point most of the group went to the 21 Club, but I was running low on funds, so I sat outside with another guy and waited for them. Then we went to this uncle’s apartment to spend the night.

“As time went on, well, you know New York with all its bustle and hustle and everybody scooting around? You can imagine how it was then! Everybody was loving everybody all over the streets. That’s where that famous picture of the sailor kissing the girl in the middle of Times Square was taken.

“At the end of three days of frenzied celebration, no one had the energy to put one foot ahead of the other. The city was at a crawl. When I got into Penn Station you’d have to push people out of your way to get past them. I don’t think anybody’d slept from the time they made the announcement until they collapsed!”

Looking around the grand room and obviously dealing with a lot of memories, Jack continued.

“Although he was a self-made man, Daddy had earned his position in business. ‘Earning his position’ meant he knew how to make money. He was one of the upper crust when it came to money. Not megabucks, but plenty. The Carnival Association didn’t know me, but they knew him. So in 1947, after I’d been discharged from the Navy and come home to Mobile, and only five weeks before Mardi Gras, I was approached and asked to be king. I asked my father if I could participate and he flat refused, but then I asked my mother and she said to go ahead and that she would take care of my father. I became the youngest king ever. When you become king they give you certain jobs to do and today, at 84, I’m still doing them.”

To the annoyance of people from Mobile, most Americans think of Mardi Gras as the exclusive property of New Orleans. But as Mobilians know, and as knowledgeable New Orleanians will admit, the tradition of street parades and masked balls was originated in Mobile. In that city, as indeed it is in New Orleans, Mardi Gras is the center of a very active and structured social life. The make-believe royalty is anointed from among the oldest, richest, most important, and well-respected families. To be a queen of Mardi Gras or to be crowned king of all the celebrations is the highest honor that the city’s Society can bestow.

In Let the Good Times Roll, her history of the Mobile Mardi Gras, Emily Staples Hearin, a former queen of carnival herself, wrote:

King Felix III, Emperor of Joy and Lord of Misrule, reigns over a domain so vast he is able to spend only two to four days in his capital city, Mobile. He comes on his royal yacht from the Isle of Joy, according to the legend, over a sea of lemonade (or maybe something stronger), and lands at Mobile at noon on the day before Mardi Gras. He receives the keys to the city from the mayor and other dignitaries, and from then on, rules the city until midnight of Fat Tuesday. . . . One of the chief acts of King Felix is to issue a proclamation commanding all his subjects to forget all care and to devote the days and nights to merriment and amusement.

Jack Stallworth smiled as he began to discuss one of his favorite topics.

“I was the first king to design his own costume. Before me, they just rented the suit and wore it.

“When I was king, Alfred Louis Staples, who had been the king in 1916, was the president of the Carnival Association. He was my friend Emily Hearin’s father and he stayed president for thirty-four years. He liked to have me around because he’d say, ‘Jack, do this’ or ‘Jack, do that’ or ‘Jack, do the other.’ I really became his lackey. And he gave me some pretty big responsibilities. I think that maybe today if I’d known the consequences of any mistake I might have made, I wouldn’t have attempted to do what he wanted. There was a period where I had sole control over who was the king and he had total control over who was the queen. I was also responsible for getting the costumes for the knights to wear for the coronation and for Mardi Gras day.

“Through the years I’ve been involved with many civic activities here in Mobile as well as nationally: the Junior Chamber of Commerce, the Young Presidents’ Organization, the America’s Junior Miss Pageant, the English-Speaking Union, things like that. But the biggest involvement I’ve had has been with the Mobile Carnival Association. People may say that that is not really a charity in the traditional sense of a charity, but they should realize that Mardi Gras is the principal tourist attraction we have here. And you know, although it was started here in 1831, it was revived after the Civil War and part of the purpose of this revival was to give people something to look forward to. In that respect it played a big part in our reconstruction. It allowed people to laugh at their problems and it helped the South resurrect itself.”

Leaning back, Jack interrupted himself to answer a question often asked by Northerners about their countrymen from below the Mason-Dixon line: Why are Southerners still so obsessed with the Civil War?

“Two blocks north of this house was a great big old southern country two-story home—it probably had four or five rooms upstairs. That house had served as a Confederate hospital and it was right on the edge of a Civil War battlefield. Behind it soldiers had dug trenches and we played in those trenches. I had a couple of bullets that I’d found there.

“Even today, one of my former secretaries lives in a house where every time it rains she can go out and pick up two teacups full of these bullets because they keep washing up in the soil. A great deal of the Battle of Mobile was fought in that area.

“To this day, the Civil War is all around us here. When you walk across the yard and pick up bullets, that brings it pretty close. Many of the Civil War artifacts have been physically pushed around, physically moved, but they’re still here, still in existence. That’s why we don’t forget that war as easily as other people do.”

In 1952, Jack Stallworth began a career in catering and opened several restaurants as well. He had great success. His flair with food was well-known and to be expected from a gentleman who so enjoyed partying and celebrations. And at least one story about him has become a part of local folklore. It seems that for a wedding reception he once dressed a turkey in a tuxedo, top hat, and pearl studs.

The bride complained that the bird got more attention than she did.

]]> http://www.thomasleejones.com/mr-mardi-gras/feed/ 0 http://www.thomasleejones.com/arf-arf/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=arf-arf http://www.thomasleejones.com/arf-arf/#comments Thu, 08 Dec 2011 16:49:29 +0000 Tom http://www.thomasleejones.com/?p=851 Some Dogs of Fiction

What dog lover hasn’t shed a quiet tear over a make-believe story of canine loyalty or heroics or just plain dog being dog? Which admirer of the species hasn’t had a good laugh along with Snoopy or James Thurber’s Hound or some silly Fido cavorting in the Sunday comics?

The answer is that all of us who love these beasts have eagerly lapped up the stories about them.

From classical times until the present, from Homer through Dickens and to the screenwriter of Men in Black who created Frank the Alien, poets, novelists, and all sorts of other creative types have catered to our taste for dog tales.

Perhaps the most famous of all the fictitious barkers still cited today is Lassie, the heroine of Eric Knight’s Lassie Come-Home, originally a 1938 Saturday Evening Post short story that was later expanded into a novel and then made into the forever-popular 1943 movie with a young and breathtakingly beautiful Elizabeth Taylor.

Toto, Dorothy’s terrier companion in The Wizard of Oz, was introduced to the world in 1900 through the illustrations of W.W. Denslow in L. Frank Baum’s book. It was the movie again, however, that elevated him to eternal stellar status.

Similarly, it was the movies that brought us Strongheart, the real German Shepherd whose fictionalized adventures made him the first of the canine superstars . . . Rin Tin Tin, his brave and noble successor. . . Asta, Nick and Nora Charles’ Wire-Haired Terrier in The Thin Man series . . . Otis the pug in Milo and Otis . . . Old Yeller, adapted from Fred Gibson’s 1956 classic and immortalized, with all the heartbreak and sobbing intact, by Disney . . . and Big Red, Jim Kjelgaard’s fabulous Irish Setter who was also popularized by Mickey Mouse’s studio.

It was the movies (and once again the Disney organization in particular) that introduced a worldwide audience to One Hundred and One Dalmatians. For cognoscenti of the doggie fairytale, however, even that well-loved movie was not in a league with the original novel written by Dodie Smith whose 1948 work I Capture the Castle has also captivated an enormous audience.

Can there possibly be a more lovable hero and heroine than Dalmatians Pongo and Missus Pongo? And what about the wonderful cast of anthropomorphized supporting players like the elder caregiver Spaniel and the feisty Old English Sheepdog Colonel? And has there ever been a more hateable villainess than the fur-clad Cruella de Vil?

A far less jolly read is the nineteenth-century tear-jerker, A Dog of Flanders (1872), by Marie-Louise de la Ramée, published under her pseudonym Ouida. This is the sad tale of Nello, an orphaned boy, and the dog he rescues, named Patrasche. Alas, at the end of this story the pair is found in Antwerp, frozen to death on Christmas morning at the foot of Rubens’ The Elevation of the Cross.

Prince Jan, St. Bernard by Forrestine C. Hooker is a personal favorite, perhaps because, at age six or so, it was the first book I read cover-to-cover. Initially published in 1946, it exerts obvious charm as soon as we open the book: “Prince Jan was a fuzzy, woolly puppy with clumsy paws and fat, round body covered with tawny hair. His brown eyes looked with loving good-will at everything and everybody.”

Who but the most anti-dog person would not want to know what happened to this beguiling creature?

Alexander Woollcott of Algonquin Round Table fame may have been known for his sharp, cruel wit, but there is no trace of it in his novel Two Gentlemen and a Lady (1928), which was illustrated by Edwina Dumm. This is a collection of three warm-hearted tales. The first, “The Story of Verdun Belle,” tells of a shabby, lonesome dog, “a squat setter bitch of indiscreet, complex, and unguessable ancestry” and her attachment to a young Buck Private during World War I. No hint of cynicism soils any page.

John Held, Jr. is best known as the definitive illustrator of the Jazz Age, but his dog stories, published in 1930 and filled with his marvelous drawings, are a special treat. Especially worth noting: “The Memoirs of a Pug Dog.” In this delicious tale set in 1911, an aging Madison Square Garden champion looks back on a rich and comfortable life. At one point he predicts “I think the horseless carriage is only a passing fad. It will never take the place of a fine pair of Hambetonians and a shining black carriage with purple broadcloth upholstery.”

A more sprightly Pug is featured in Kay Thompson’s perennially popular series of Eloise books. In each of the four (Eloise, Eloise in Paris, Eloise at Christmastime and Eloise in Moscow), first published between 1955 and 1959, Weenie, “the dog that looks like a cat,” cavorts with the heroine and stoically puts up with her high jinks. The superb illustrations of Hilary Knight very much bring this  critter to life.

A random listing of other celebrated canines in fiction would include Jack London’s White Fang and Buck, the hero of his still more famous novel, The Call of the Wild . . . Boots, the narrator of Rudyard Kipling’s short story, “Thy Servant A Dog” . . . Montmorency, the unruly Terrier in Jerome K. Jerome’s 1889 classic, Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog) . . . Zane Grey’s “Don”  . . . and Sholom Aleichem’s “Rabchik, A Jewish Dog.” 

American author and film producer Garth Stein’s 2008 novel The Art of Racing in the Rain, remained on the best seller list for some forty weeks. It tells the story of Denny Swift, a race car driver living in Seattle with his dog Enzo. The novel is written from Enzo’s point of view and his observations capture our heart on the first page:

Gestures are all that I have; sometimes they must be grand in nature. And while I occasionally step over the line and into the world of the melodramatic, it is what I must do in order to communicate clearly and effectively in order to make my point understood without question. I have no words I can rely on because, much to my dismay, my tongue was designed long and flat and loose, and therefore, is a horribly ineffective tool for pushing food around my mouth while chewing, and an even less effective tool for making clever and complicated polysyllabic sounds that can be linked together to form sentences.

The Art of Racing in the Rain is dedicated to Muggs. Who do you suppose that is?

And then there are the dog stories of Albert Payson Terhune.

Generations of young readers (and lots of older ones as well) have learned just how good a novel with a dog as the hero can be through the works of this master storyteller.

Terhune, a journalist and sometimes amateur boxer with impeccable Colonial American roots, was the son of a Presbyterian minister and his wife, who was also a well-known and popular writer. He was born in 1872 in Newark, New Jersey, and although first well-established as a reporter (he was the only one on the scene during the Stanford White murder trial), his lasting renown came with the publication of his dog stories. In early 1915, Redbook magazine published “His Mate” about a charismatic Collie named Lad. This tale inspired Terhune’s first novel, Lad: A Dog (1919), which received enormous success and is still readily available.

Among the many titles that followed the publication of this first novel: Bruce (1920) about a Collie who, as I recall, was at least partly responsible for defeating the Germans in World War I; Gray Dawn (1925), Bruce’s son, an erratic and boisterous beast who was also capable of astonishing heroics; and A Dog Named Chips (1931), which tells the story of a mongrel cur who insinuates himself into the heart of the ninth-richest woman in America. Interestingly, after a night spent out at the pound, Chips is discovered to be not only female but expecting puppies as well. Her name is quickly changed to the more aristocratic-sounding Cleopatra and she obviously will live happily ever after.

Sunnybank, the Terhune property near Pompton Lakes, New Jersey, was built as a summer home by his parents in the late 1850s and later became the author’s main residence and the a setting for many of his stories. In fact, it became something of a reappearing character itself.

Alas, the ending of Terhune’s own story is quite poignant.

Sunnybank fell into disrepair following the writer’s death and his widow’s medical expenses consumed all the money that had been set aside to guarantee its preservation. Terhune’s only child—a daughter from whom he was estranged—died childless in 1956, destitute and in broken health.

For those interested in rediscovering this prolific writer there is Irving Litvag’s biography, The Master of Sunnybank (New York: Harper and Row, 1977).

Happily his legacy of captivating adventures will live on to entertain generations of new readers, especially those with a special fondness for Collies. The 1942 obituary which appeared in the New York Herald Tribune perhaps sums it up best: “Mr. Terhune loved all dogs but he loved Collies in particular, and his Sunnybank Kennels produced many dogs of this breed which became internationally famous blue-ribbon champions. Some critics thought Mr. Terhune a bit biased in favor of Collies for, when musing over the feats of some ancient dog of great heroism, he used to add, ‘He must have had a Collie strain in him.’”

Throughout the centuries dogs have served as man’s closest animal companions and it should come as no surprise that they have been celebrated in so many works of fiction. There are undoubtedly many other worthy canines who have been neglected in this piece; suggestions for future inclusion would be most certainly welcomed. It is to be hoped, however, that the roll call presented here will spark some memories of hours well spent following the fictitious adventures of these exceptional critters, and, perhaps, it will offer some ideas about future good reads.

Bodhidharma, the Great White Buddha and founder of the Zen sect, fell asleep during one of his sacred meditations.

Alas, the little nap so upset the beloved saint that he cut off his eyelids.

This dramatic and drastic action turned out to be, surprisingly, a good thing for us if not for him. Those very eyelids fell on fertile soil, took root, and grew into tea plants—the source of Mother Nature’s favorite remedy for sleepiness.

True or not, the ancient tale gives some idea of the esteem in which tea has been held almost from the beginning of time.

There is evidence that tea and tea drinking had already enjoyed a history of at least 1,500 years when Lu Yu wrote his famous book, The Classic of Tea, in the eighth century. This book has done more than any other text to elevate tea and tea drinking to its unique place of veneration in certain societies. It outlines a demanding ritual with which the author would surround the deceptively simple act of making tea. To a Confucianist like Lun Yu, ritual was essential to the good life. As Francis Ross Carpenter explains in the 1974 introduction to his translation, this practice “was not an end in itself, but it was . . . an outward form or behavioral expression of an inward ethic.”

In today’s world two ritualized procedures still flourish around drinking this ancient beverage.

The first is the intricate and elaborately orchestrated Japanese tea ceremony, which is justifiably described as a household sacrament of aesthetics, economics, and etiquette. With its precise requirements for the setting (“the plaster on the walls is to be plain grey, and put on in a manner suitable to the size of the rooms”), utensils, flower arrangements, and every other detail, this is a liturgy of a very specialized kind.

Less precisely ritualized but formal in an informal way is the British tradition of afternoon tea. Think porcelain cups and small silver spoons, crumpets toasted in the fireplace and hot oatmeal scones. Think of Lady Marjorie’s drawing room in Upstairs, Downstairs.

It is generally agreed that Catherine of Braganza (1638–1705), the Portuguese infanta and wife of King Charles II (1630–1685), popularized tea drinking in Europe. A later aristocrat, however, is credited with introducing afternoon tea in the grand manner. Anna Russell, Duchess of Bedford (1783–1857), was the lady responsible for this particular repast.

During the middle of the eighteenth-century, the English had two main meals: breakfast (generally ale, bread and beef) and dinner—a meal which for the upper and middle classes had shifted from a noontime refreshment to an elaborate evening extravaganza served fashionably late.

In the very early years of the nineteenth century, Anna, governed by this custom of late dinner, found herself becoming quite hungry in the late afternoon. She took to having secret snacks in her chambers, but her secret got out. Contrary to causing a giggle, the idea was quickly imitated by the fashionable ladies surrounding her and before long it had spread to other strata of that status conscious society.

By the late 1880s, afternoon tea had become a well-ensconced pastime of the upper and upper-middle classes. It fulfilled many purposes: socializing, event planning, introductions, informal business meetings, and gossiping. This late afternoon ritual became known as low tea because it was served at the low point in the afternoon. The name also may have come from the use of a low table in front of a sofa from which tea was often served.

Not surprisingly, given the ceremonial nature of the occasion, women often changed into long, soft, diaphanous tea gowns, outfits that were invariably loose-waisted so that they could eat their fill. These hostesses became high priestesses of a sort, adept at dealing with the impedimenta: tea caddies, teapoys, tea cozies, special plates, cake stands, muffineers, strainers, and a host of other objects from the practical to the truly esoteric.

In those late Victorian and Edwardian days, the general outline of the menu for afternoon tea took form. Bite-sized sandwiches, scones and crumpets, special sweets and savories, jams and sweet butter were all to be had in abundance.

By the middle of the next century, things had become more casual but they still maintained a certain traditional standard.

Barbara Pym, that most English of twentieth-century novelists, describes the preparations for an upper-middle-class tea in her 1953 novel Jane and Prudence:

The next day after lunch Flora got out the best tea service and began washing the cups and plates, for it was some time since they had been used. Lovingly she swished the pink-and-gold china in the hot soapy water and dried each piece carefully on a clean cloth. Tea could be laid on the low table by the fire, she decided, with the cloth with the wide lace border. Mrs. Glaze had eventually been persuaded to make a Victoria sandwich cake, there were little cakes from the Spinning Wheel and chocolate biscuits., and Flora intended to cut some cucumber sandwiches and what she thought of as “wafer-thin” bread and butter.

In less rarefied settings tea also took on the status of a meal. High tea is essentially the working-class proper late day repast—a substantial offering of various cooked dishes accompanied by pints and pints of strong sweet brew.

It should be noted that in America high tea is often mistakenly the name given to what would be referred to as afternoon tea in the United Kingdom. But in this case it would seem sensible to go with the Brits. As Jamie Shalleck put it in her impressive tome Tea (New York: Viking Press, 1971), “American contributions to the art of tea drinking are not cultivated to reassure the tea purist. Tea bags, iced tea, instant tea, and canned tea are among the dubious American claims to tea inventiveness.”

Maybe most Americans have never quite gotten over taxation without representation. For those who have and are interested in experimenting with the various varieties available, there are many domestic merchants both in cities and online who specialize in supplying a wide variety of teas and accessories. One such dealer, Upton Tea Imports of Holliston, Massachusetts (www.uptontea.com), even offers a Chinese brew called Bohea Imperial Organic and tells us “this style of tea was imported into the American colonies in the 1700s and was the famous Bohea tea of the Boston Tea Party.” Albeit expensive, it would be a delicious treat at afternoon tea anyplace.

In today’s world, high tea certainly still flourishes, but even in England afternoon tea has suffered something of a decline. Since the end of World War II, life has sped up to the point that time for such ceremonies is hard to come by. Moreover, a lot of fashionable people today want desperately to stay slim, and the very mention of all those luscious treats can send the determinedly svelte into fits of apoplexy.

But tea itself has not lost its symbolic or emotional status in England. “I’ll put the kettle on” still signals the beginning of a quiet shared time with a friend or friends or at least with someone with whom it would be a good idea to remain on friendly terms. And it is hard to imagine that the joys of proper afternoon tea could ever disappear or be forgotten in the British Isles. Certainly anyone who has ever had tea at the Ritz in London or at Bettys in Harrogate or the Pump Room in Bath could not imagine a world without such civilized ceremonies.

Chinese or Indian? Strong or weak? One lump or two?

I met Douglas Benezra in the early seventies when he was an art director at J. Walter Thompson, the advertising agency here in Manhattan. His talent, exquisite taste, and unique visual perspective impressed me even then. Later years found him leaving both the advertising business and New York, but his talent and taste have matured and grown even more impressive. Now a photographer based in Portland, Oregon, Doug was impressed by the first two issues of this website and agreed to share some of his recent work. Click an illustration for an enlargement.

Kathy Kiley, a woman with whom I worked for many years, has been committed to these splendid red-coated hunting dogs for years and, as a matter of fact, the timing of her involvements with specific dogs parallels exactly my relationships with my Pugs. I thought it would be a good idea to talk with her about her connection with the breed and to learn something about them.

Did you have dogs growing up? What kind?

One of my earliest memories involves Lady, a German Shepherd mix whom my grandfather rescued along with her littermates. I can still close my eyes and see myself trudging through the snow in our backyard trying to follow Lady’s path.

Did any books or movies about dogs particularly charm you?

I clearly remember a book that introduced me to dog shows—Champion Dog: Prince Tom by Jean Fritz and Tom Clute. It was about a Cocker Spaniel show dog and I fell in love with the idea of owning and showing my dog

Another book (and also a movie) that made a huge impact on me was Big Red by Jim Kjelgaard. I remember seeing the Disney movie first and falling head over heels for big red dogs. Big Red himself was simply the most beautiful dog I’d ever seen.

There was also the Trixie Belden mystery series [by Kathryn Kenny], which I adored. These books include Trixie’s pet, Reddy, an Irish Setter.

Were your parents great dog lovers?

Yes. Both my parents loved animals. My father even remembered Micky, an Irish Setter who used to pull him out of the road by the seat of his pants. At least that’s the story my Dad told!

When did you get your first Irish Setter?

My great aunt gave me my first—Seamus. He came from what is known as a backyard breeder. That’s when someone who has a purebred dog and wants to make some easy money, breeds his animal without any regard to the health and genetic makeup of the dogs.

With Seamus I learned many hard lessons. He was from a litter of eleven and by his first birthday, he was the only surviving puppy. I spent a lot of time and money at the vet’s office with him and he only lived until age four and a half. But he was the beginning of my dream.

What about your second Irish Setter?

Having learned my lesson, I knew that my next dog would come from a reputable show breeder. I started to go to dog shows and carefully watched the dogs being shown. Eventually I saw one dog who took my breath away—Champion Shawnee Pipedream O’Charlton, aka Piper. I immediately sat down and wrote letters to a number of different breeders. I also developed a friendship with a professional handler and breed enthusiast. Eighteen months after losing Seamus, I received the answer I was hoping for: there was a four-month old bitch available who had been sired by Piper.

That bitch was to become my Kara, Rendition Kara O’Cadhla.

For almost four years I traveled around the East Coast showing her along with some of the handler’s other dogs. Alas, Kara never liked showing. She always preferred to be at home and I retired her from the ring sooner than I had expected. But she was the true beginning of my dreams. A very special creature who adored children, she was truly the dog of my heart.

Who was your third Irish Setter?

After almost eighteen months without a dog in my life, I went to watch the dogs at the Westchester Kennel Club dog show. There I saw a very handsome dog who impressed me. A few weeks after contacting that dog’s owner and breeder, Jewelsets Top O’The Morn, known as Maggie, was home with me and my family.

I had also hoped to show Maggie, but a couple of her health issues prevented it. Instead, that little girl became a therapy dog and the spoiled darling of my parents. For five and a half years she visited my father every Sunday after he had been admitted to a nursing home and while she was visiting him, she charmed all the other residents and the staff members as well. She loved all the attention—being petted and given treats.

Maggie died at thirteen and a half, leaving an enormous hole in my life.

When did you decide to get another Irish Setter?

After Maggie died, Greg, my younger brother, felt I needed another dog in my life. But I just wasn’t ready. My mother’s health was deteriorating and then, in December 2008, she died.

It took time for me to recover from that loss. But little by little, I began to think about getting another dog. I started attending local shows and even considered a smaller breed, perhaps a Corgi or an English Cocker Spaniel.

Then, while wandering around the Ladies’ Kennel Association of America dog show in 2009, I came upon a group of Irish Setter puppies playing in a pen. A short time later I was watching the judging of the Irish Setters and saw the most beautiful bitch I’d ever seen right there in the ring. Champion Beaubriar Premier Event, the great Eloise. The owner/handler? The woman with the adorable puppies I’d seen playing together.

It was fate.

I realized I really did want another Irish Setter, not a Corgi or English Cocker Spaniel no matter how fine those breeds might be.

I contacted the owner/breeder of the puppies I’d seen and discovered that one I’d admired—a male—was still available to a show home.

Was I ready for such a big commitment?

After a few emails and phone calls, one week later I was on my way to Massachusetts to pick up the puppy.

This dog, Rory, Champion Beaubriar’s Master of Arts, has brought a lifelong dream alive. There’s not a day that goes by that he doesn’t make me laugh. And in the two years I’ve been showing him, he’s already reached his championship. Moreover, what makes me particularly proud is that I’ve shown him myself and loved every minute of it even though I’m past the age when most people start showing dogs. As long as my knees hold out, we might even win enough points to be invited to Westminster. That will be yet another part of my dream that comes true.

From the AKC standard:

One of the most distinctive sporting breeds, the mahogany red Irish Setter is an active, aristocratic bird dog. Originally bred to be red and white, the solid red color appeared in Ireland in the 19th century and became a mark of quality and superior sporting ability. Over two feet tall at the shoulder, the Irish is known for his style, powerful movement and clown-like personality.

]]> http://www.thomasleejones.com/kathy-and-her-irish-setters/feed/ 0 http://www.thomasleejones.com/itsnotjustthefood/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=itsnotjustthefood http://www.thomasleejones.com/itsnotjustthefood/#comments Tue, 11 Oct 2011 14:18:56 +0000 Tom http://www.thomasleejones.com/?p=643 Ordering a new Worcester porcelain dinner service might not be something most people would do when adjusting to the complete loss of sight brought on by a hunting accident, but George William Coventry, 6th Earl of Coventry (1722–1809), did exactly that. 

In order to increase his enjoyment of meals, he chose a pattern with a raised decoration of rosebuds and leaves that had originated about 100 years earlier, not at Worcester but at Chelsea. With this dinner service, a version of which is still available and named “Blind Earl” in his honor, George William was able to feel the decorative elements on each plate even if he couldn’t see them.

I can empathize with the earl and remember his story every time I scissor open a microwaved frozen dinner and squeeze the contents onto a favorite plate. Certainly the unadorned mix of food from Lean Cuisine looks and tastes so much more appetizing when presented attractively.

 Leighton Coleman, an interior designer and a popular host on Long Island’s North Shore, wholeheartedly agrees with the tradition of dressing up the fare and says, “I always try to eat takeaway with a silver fork. I have one orphaned implement for that express purpose—a heavy 1867 Tiffany piece that once belonged to a great-great-grandmother. I like to imagine the Gilded Age dinner parties this fork witnessed and ponder what happened to the rest of the set while using it to eat chicken tikka masala in front of the TV.”

Jean-Guy Proulx, a well-respected classical musician and deservedly popular host of Québec City, also enjoys the private appreciation of his special things. “Everything starts with oneself and making an effort for a solitary meal is also a good way to rehearse presentations you might want to use on a larger scale later on. When I am alone, I like to use my best china, the best things I have. For my fortieth birthday I bought a set of Rosenthal porcelain—it ended up taking me five years to own the whole set and that makes it even more valuable for me.”

Depending on accoutrements to enhance the enjoyment of meals is no new thing. Successful restaurants have always relied on presentation to enrich their offerings and enormous industries flourish from the support of customers convinced that a pretty table will make their food, and even their lives, somehow happier and more enjoyable.

When entertaining in his picture-perfect eighteenth-century house, Leighton foregoes delivery from the local Indian restaurant, turns off the television, and adjourns to the dining room.  “I believe that beautiful china, fine crystal, good silver, and creative tabletop design improves the taste of food. Especially with my cooking!”

“I find,” he adds, “that a good table setting , as well as good conversation, builds the anticipation of what will be served; it creates the ambience and ultimately whets the appetite.”

Jean-Guy Proulx puts it this way: “I think that we eat with our eyes. When the time comes to sit at the table, if the food is well presented and nice to look at, my experience tells me that the dishes will actually taste better.”

“You eat with your eyes,” echoes Jacqueline Drake, a lady who entertains often in each of her four homes. “Each place has its own format,” she explains. “In New York and Florida I tend to have large, seated, formal dinners. In Aspen, my husband Rod and I like to do barbecues, making sure everybody has a seat. In Westchester, I welcome guests on a smaller, more intimate scale. I might use different settings at all these places because I love my china and glassware and it’s all fun for me. I really have no favorites—I like all of it and have really enjoyed collecting it over the years. And for my guests, the various settings they know I can produce provide a wonderful element of surprise.”

Baron François-Xavier de Sambucy de Sorgue, husband of Princess Chantal of France, provides another perspective on the role of attractive presentations. “It is important,” he says, “to make your guests feel that they are honored, that they are particularly privileged people for being at your home, at your table, and an important way to do this is to provide a special environment. At our house in Provence, for example, our favorite setting is based on our collection of Flora Danica, the Danish porcelain that was originally made for Catherine the Great who, alas, never used it.”

Silly Catherine. The Empress clearly didn’t appreciate what the people interviewed here are saying.

Alix Jacobs is a design consultant and events planner based on Philadelphia’s Main Line. “For me,” she says, “the visual presentation is paramount. Just as ‘clothes make the man,’ food presentation makes the meal. It impacts everything which follows—the actual consumption of the meal and the ultimate success or failure of the entire experience.”

Alix goes on to explain, “I run weddings and I always get involved in the decor and the tabletop setup. I tell my clients that the presentation needs to be amazing. And moreover, even if the food and wine are only passable, the meal will still be a succès fou. If you are not drawn to the table because it is beautiful and glamorous or fun, you will not enjoy or remember whatever is placed before you.

“I think,” she concludes, “that in heaven I will set tables. And have a cook.”

Not surprisingly, most of those interviewed mentioned the role of nostalgia in creating beautiful presentations for meals.

“One of my happiest memories,” recalls Leighton Coleman, “was watching my grandmother set her dining table with the help of her butler. She was very confident about which silver and china she wanted to use and did her own flower arrangements. Of course she never allowed me to eat in the dining room at that age since she was concerned that any of her grandchildren might break things. So she had us eat in the kitchen’s dining room on a Georgian tilt-top dining table set with Quimper and Flow Blue. Funny to think that both of those are now sought after by many serious collectors, but it was what my grandmother deemed the nursery china should be. To this day, sighting Quimper and Flow Blue make me shudder.”

Jean-Guy Proulx remembers seasonal flowers were always on his family’s table even though he was an only child and the family was a small one. He adds, “My memories also involve the delicious smells associated with food —soups, meats, sauces, vegetables. Those smells still inspire me.”

Alix Jacobs also credits the impact of the past when she decorates a table. “My favorite settings involve memories—family pieces from my mother and grandmother, acquired in China when they were living there. And I especially remember certain details from my childhood—the green Chinese service platters shaped as leaves, the butter dish that held ice in a pierced tray below.”

Perhaps partly explaining her own love of these delightful settings, Jackie Drake recalls, “My mother’s table was always beautiful—always a truly appealing setting with special tablecloths for different childhood occasions. I remember one with special embroidered corners—I think my sister still has it.”

The appeal of nostalgia notwithstanding, the joys of one artifact from the past—finger bowls—have escaped most people today.

François-Xavier de Sambucy de Sorgue sentimentally remembers his mother using them and floating flower petals on their surfaces, but he and his wife no longer use them. In a practical mode, Leighton Coleman, who inherited a set of eighteen monogrammed ones, gave away some as potpourri holders and uses the rest when serving shrimp. “I fill the cut-glass part with shaved ice and carefully arrange the shrimp and some parsley in a swirl pattern in the bowl.” Jean-Guy Proulx uses them only when serving shellfish but adds, “A hot, wet hand towel is easier.” Jackie Drake finds any use for them awkward and somewhat pretentious, but Alix Jacobs offered a different perspective.

“I must admit it’s been a while since I have seen them used,” she says, “but now that I think about them, I’m going to make a point of bringing them back. Anything that keeps guests at the table enjoying the occasion is a good thing!”

Point taken. And I am reminded of one formidable and humorless New York grande dame who used them at all meals, even if she was only dining with one other person. “If you don’t use finger bowls all the time,” she explained, “the servants are apt to get lazy and try to skip over that part of a meal.”

So, if you like the idea of finger bowls and if you’re comfortable with them (or if you’re worried that your servants might get sloppy), the advice seems to be to use them. There are, however, various other things which should be avoided. Too much formality can be off-putting and uncomfortable. Moreover, there’s no point in overdoing the decoration: too many ornaments on the table can be mistaken for favors; glitter on the tablecloth tends to end up on people’s clothes and in their hair; and feathers in a centerpiece have been known to molt.

Bottom line, making an effort has special rewards and setting the table needn’t cost the earth. As François-Xavier de Sambucy de Sorgue points out, “Dining with style is not a question of budget; people with taste always know how to do things with a certain panache.” And, practically, Leighton Coleman suggests you “shop at estate and garage sales and flea markets for interesting period plates and other tabletop items. Then for food, go to Trader Joe’s. When it’s placed on pretty china, no one will ever know.”

Leighton also suggests another possible perk of entertaining with pretty things and confides, “I never use or collect dishwasher-safe china. It just doesn’t elevate the table in the same way vintage Minton, Wedgwood, and Sèvres can. And then there is nothing as satisfying as hand washing your plates after a delightful evening of good company.”

The image of the elegant Leighton Coleman, up to his elbows in soapsuds, washing dishes after a dinner party, is one to cheer the heart.

Alan Ross, a radio broadcaster who set up an oldies station in nearby Hull, describes it this way: “It is a typical English blue-collar seaside resort, not as famous as Blackpool or Skegness, and it has certainly played second fiddle to its more illustrious neighbors, Scarborough and Hornsea. But neither of those have a lighthouse smack in the middle of town. In fact, Withernsea is the only place I can think of with that particular feature!”

And right in the shadow of that eccentrically placed lighthouse were born two exceedingly glamorous sisters.

Movie star Kay Kendall arrived on May 21, 1926.

Remembered today by film buffs for her ability to combine high glamor and low comedy in such films as Genevieve, Les Girls, and The Reluctant Debutante, Kay was married to Rex Harrison and her life was cut short by leukemia at thirty-three in 1959. A few years ago, critic Rhoda Koenig paid her this tribute:

“As they say about crime victims, Kay Kendall was in the wrong place at the wrong time. In her case, the crime was a waste of talent. One of the most delightful of British actresses….few of her films gave her a chance to shine. A natural screwball heroine, Kendall was born too late for the Thirties comedies in which she would have been the equal of the scatty but scintillating Carole Lombard or Claudette Colbert, and too soon for the naughtiness and absurdity of the sixties….Kendall was beautiful and funny. She was a true comedian, unafraid to compromise her ladylike appearance with pratfalls, pop eyes ,and comic drunk scenes. Kendall could get away with such antics without looking vulgar.”

Equally beautiful, and with an equivalent if less madcap sense of humor, Kay’s sister Kim was born in the same Withernsea house a little earlier, on March 31, 1925.

Now Mrs. Rolla Campbell, a widow living much of the year in Florida, Kim was relaxed on a small pastel-colored sofa with Lulu, her Jack Russell Terrier, when I was talking to her a few years ago.

“It’s a love/hate thing between show business and Society,” she says, and having been a part of both, the lady knows about which she speaks.

“Our real name was McCarthy, but we took the name of my paternal grandmother, Marie Kendall, who’d been a big musical star of the Edwardian era. Her theme song was ‘Just Like the Ivy I’ll Cling to You.’ (See video at the bottom of this page.)

“My father, Terry, was one of her four children and he took her surname when he decided to go on the stage as well. He and his sister Pat became a very famous dance team. In those days, we’re talking about the early twentieth-century, there were three famous brother-and-sister dance tams: Fred and Adele Astaire, Buddy and Vilma Epson, and Terry and Pat Kendall.

“When he was twenty-three, my father married a little Yorkshire girl, Gladys Drewery. It was a shotgun wedding, but they were crazy about each other in the beginning.

“My brother was their first-born, I was the second, and Kay the third. I was named Kim because when my mother was pregnant with me, my parents met Rudyard Kipling on the boat going out to Australia. Mother told him how much she’d enjoyed reading about Kim, the jungle boy, and that the child she was expecting, girl or boy, would be called Kim.

“The house we were born in was the home of my maternal grandparents and was just a stone’s throw away from the lighthouse. As a little girl I could see the revolving lights from our bedroom window.”

Withernsea history tells us that a promenade next to sand dunes along the coast was extended some years after the lighthouse was built in 1892; this explains the structure’s current unconventional placement right in town.

“I really loved it there. Mother was of one of ten, so we had a lot of cousins. We’d go and visit the different farms and walk for miles. We’d even try to swim in that cold water, but most of the time couldn’t manage it.”

Petting Lulu, Kim continued.

“As young as twelve I was away from home and in a pantomime in the south of England. Every town in England has a pantomime at Christmastime.

“It was my first job. I was a student at the Lydia Kyasht ballet school and I was selected to be one of the children in the village square. I played a boy because I was so tall but apparently not everybody was deceived. After a performance I remember a box of chocolates arrived with a note ‘for the tall girl’—my first fan mail!

“As soon as you got to be eighteen in England you were called up. You had a choice of the Army, the Navy, Land Girls, or ENSA—the UK’s ‘Entertainments National Service Association.’ And I went into ENSA, which was sort of like the USO here in the States.

“We traveled all over and some of the troops would say, ‘ENSA is coming! Every Night Something Awful!’

“We’d go to different places where the soldiers were and we’d put on a show. We traveled in three ton lorries all the way and arrive some place after eighteen hours and be white with dust because the lorries were open on the sides. The soldiers would look at us and say, ‘Have you seen what ENSA sent us this time?’ But we’d go and get cleaned up and change into our mufti and they couldn’t believe how great we looked.

Expectedly enough, things were not always quite so amusing in those years.

“Toward the end of the war, I was in Italy and I was crossing the Po River on a pontoon bridge and I saw the bodies of Mussolini and his mistress, Clara Petacci, hanging by their heels. They had tried to flee but had been caught and their corpses were hung upside down. I can remember the Po River and that pontoon bridge and seeing Mussolini and his mistress hanging on a makeshift structure at an old gas station.”

After the war, Kim spent time in London and met a great many people. During those post-war years, everyone was celebrating—happy to be getting on with their lives without bombings, evacuations, air raids, and miscellaneous threats around every corner. Kim and her sister Kay, beautiful and vivacious and still in their late teens and early twenties, were understandably popular.

“At that time, before Kay became well-known, we were both young and very attractive and places like the Ambassador’s Club, places where upper-class people went, made us Honorary Members. I didn’t have many aristocratic boyfriends but Kay did. She had a lot of them. Billy Wallace was absolutely crazy about her. They called him ‘the chinless wonder,’ and it was thought that he was going to marry Princess Margaret. That was until the gossip columns revealed that he was seen leaving Kay’s apartment in the wee small hours.”

And that certainly wasn’t Kay Kendall’s only dalliance before her marriage to Rex Harrison according to one more recent recollection of Kim’s.

“They gave a big party in Palm Beach for Prince Philip a few years ago. It was for some English charity. I was on the committee and I’d arranged for the famous Palm Beach Pipes and Drums and things like that to make it especially festive. Then the chairman asked me if I wanted to meet Prince Philip, so I went over and she presented me: ‘This is Mrs. Campbell. Her sister was Kay Kendall, the film star.’ He, politely, said, ‘Oh really. How interesting.’ That kind of thing. Later I heard that Kay had had a big romance with him!

“I hadn’t heard about Prince Philip. I’d heard about lots of others, but never about him.

“In truth, as my grandmother would have said, ‘She had more men than hot dinners!’”

Laughing, Kim shifted seamlessly to the subject of travel.

“In those days, when we were young, not so many people moved about from place to place as they do now.

“I remember my mother saying that no matter what, you shouldn’t travel in black—maybe you could if you were in mourning, but otherwise you couldn’t.

“The first time I went to America, I went on the Ile de France. It was about 1950 and was my first trip apart from the troop ships during the war. I was in steerage, but I had so many friends in first class that I’d find my way up there almost every day.

“I was in the US for six weeks and I can remember going to the Stork Club and 21 and the Horse Show and places like that. And when I got back to England, I thought ‘Wow! This is it!’ I really loved America and I wanted to go back.”

Kim was to have her wish.

“My first marriage was to a man named Ludlow Stevens. I met him in England but later he wrote to me from America and suggested I come over. I did and we were married. But it didn’t last because he was a complete alcoholic. Since I hardly drink at all, I hadn’t really known about that sort of thing. That’s a part of my life I don’t really like to think about.

“After the divorce, while living in the States, my best friend was a very beautiful girl, Fern Tailor. I’d met her through some friends in New York and then, later, when I was staying in California, she wrote and asked me to come and stay with her on Long Island. I thought that was a good idea and it was. It was such a funny time!

“At one point Fern told me she was going to a coming out party and suggested I come along. She also told me that her Uncle George had just separated from his wife and that he’d be along as well. And that’s how I met George Baker. He was Fern’s uncle and I was his date. It turned out that I saw him for about two years and then he asked me to marry him.”

George Fisher Baker, Jr., a banker and sportsman from a distinguished American family, was the grandson of the financier and philanthropist who provided much of the original funding for the Harvard Business School. Married to him, Kim moved into a very rarefied world.

“We had fourteen in help—gardeners, chauffeurs, laundresses, all that kind of thing. And I remember when we were first married that they were all fighting. I would sit outside and cry. It was too much for me at that time. But I soon learned how to deal with things.

“I learned everything I had to do. I learned how to shoot, not very well, but I learned. I learned to play bridge and I still play bridge today. I learned a certain amount of French.

“We’d be in Tallahassee shooting in the winter, then we’d be on our boat in the summer. We’d go skiing in February and be on Long Island in the summer. I gave up trying to learn to ski after I broke my leg a couple of times trying. But I did learn to love golf and I’m quite a good golfer.

“George and I went to a party at the Whitneys given by Joan and Charles Payson. The theme was ‘Come as Your Favorite Myth.’ George went as Uncle Sam and I went as Britannia. Joan argued, ‘That’s not a myth!’ but I quipped back, ‘It’s as big a myth as anything else!’”

Kim’s expression changed and she became more thoughtful.

“When George died my whole world changed. He was supposed to have committed suicide, but we, his family, all think that he was murdered. It’s quite a story.

“We had had the most perfect night—everything was fine. We were both very happy and I never saw any signs of depression. We knew that we had the most perfect life. I never saw him depressed. To me, he was always so great and we were both so happy.

“George had inherited the place, Horseshoe Plantation in Tallahassee, when his mother died. During the war, he had put an airstrip there so that he and his friends could fly up from Pensacola where he was teaching aviation.

“We never used the airstrip but kept it open. And George thought that drug dealers had started to take advantage of it, that something strange was going on. He even thought that many of the people we’d told about our concerns and were supposedly investigating them might very well be on somebody’s payroll.

“You see, the shooting season is relatively brief, and we weren’t in Tallahassee most of the time. Who knew what went on when we weren’t there?

“The night before he died, George and I were going up to New York the following day; our bags were packed. We watched the movie W.C. Fields and Me on TV and off we went to bed.

“In the middle of the night, the dogs started barking like crazy, so I asked George to see what was going on. He’d gone into the gun room, picked up a gun, and was found at the bottom of the stairs.

“I had a letter from an authority on guns who wrote to me to explain why George could not have turned that particular kind of gun on himself.

“It just couldn’t have been suicide. We had everything in the world and had been roaring with laughter at that silly movie and then were both fast asleep when the dogs started barking.

“So many people down there were said to be on the drug payroll. I went to the coroner, but it did no good. Later, we heard that George Harden, who had been the superintendent on the plantation at the time George inherited it, was charged with drug smuggling and went to jail and had been killed there.

“We’ll never really know what happened that night.”

Several days later my next conversation with Kim turned to religion and things spiritual.

“In London, when I was young, we lived next to St. Martin-in-the-Fields for a time and we’d often go there. I’m a believer, but I don’t understand most of it. Perhaps my favorite biblical quote is ‘Cast your bread upon the waters and it will be returned you 1,000 fold.’

“A few years after I’d lost George, I was in Saint John’s of Lattingtown in Locust Valley. I’d been at the early service and Rolla Campbell was in the pew behind me. I guess I was crying because he handed me a hankie. His wife had left him and I was a widow.

“I’d met Rolla on Long Island and I’d see often him in church. We were also thrown together, being two single people. Seven months after George died I was diagnosed with breast cancer and knowing that Rolla was a doctor, I turned to him for advice. He really impressed me with his concern and caring. We eventually married and had some wonderful years together.”

Over time Kim has become very involved with various charities.

“The zoo in Palm Beach was an organization that nobody wanted anything to do with. It was the most unsocial of charities. Palm Beach people don’t go across the bridge into West Palm Beach. They love their animals but they don’t love them enough to care about the Palm Beach Zoo. But I’d been on the women’s committee for the Bronx Zoo and I’d developed an interest in zoos.

“Today the little Palm Beach Zoo is lovely; there’s a lot to do and a lot to see. But when I first started there was really nothing there. It is still a relatively small zoo, but is now considered one of the best in the country. I gather I’m known as ‘the Zoo Lady’ in Palm Beach.

“There’s a huge Hispanic community and it’s wonderful for me to see busloads of local children all enjoying themselves tremendously. That’s very satisfying.”

Kim was also instrumental in setting up the very successful Posh Sale for the Lighthouse for the Blind (certainly an appropriate charity for a Withernsea girl), and was specifically honored at their annual dinner on May 9 of this year.

Listening to Kim Kendall Campbell, I was riveted by the perspective she offered on the middle twentieth century and amused by her stories about some of the most well-known characters of that period.

“One summer when I was about four or five, I was with my father and his sister Pat who were working in Deauville. I wandered off one day and my mother was quite frantic. She was searching all over and finally found me in a chemist shop on the boardwalk. I was sitting on the lap of a very corpulent dark gentleman. Mother calmed down when she discovered that he was the Aga Khan. He was apparently quite besotted with me and told my mother that he wished he could adopt me since there were no girls in that family.

“Later on I’d read that the Aga Khan received his weight in diamonds every year. I used to tease my mother that she should have let him adopt me!

“I knew the Duke and Duchess of Windsor very well. George played golf with the duke regularly and even I played with him once when they were desperate for a fourth. The duke hated playing with women, but he played with me that day. And the local paper came out with the headline ‘Duke of Windsor Plays Golf with 3 of His Old Cronies.’ I was thirty-four!

“The Duchess of Windsor was a tough one. She had very ugly hands—like spatulas. But she could be charming and she was a wonderful housekeeper. Everything was of the best.

“I knew the Gabors. I even knew Mama—Jolie Gabor. Kay had said, ‘Come and have lunch with me at the Waldorf. I’ve got Zsa Zsa, Eva, and [Porfirio] Rubirosa.’ Everybody had heard about him. Well, the Gabor girls were all in pink satin and looked like the inside of a box of chocolates. And with them was this little nut-brown man and I couldn’t believe that he was the great lover everybody talked about.

“It was funny, when we lived in England and were going through one of our poor periods (I remember we had pawned my mother’s wedding ring so that we could have baked beans on toast), somebody had given me a magazine article about the Gabor sisters. And I remembered a quote from Zsa Zsa saying that getting the first mink coat was fun but that after that it’s strictly routine. It was pretty impressive stuff for a twelve-year-old. Later she was quoted as saying that she and I were the same age. Obviously that couldn’t be.

“Robert Montgomery, the movie star, was a friend of George’s and mine. I can remember him saying quite clearly that when he was at the height of his career he complained about having to pay such high taxes. At that point his daughter Elizabeth retorted, ‘Oh Dad! You’re so lucky to be popular and to be earning so much money.’ Of course when she became a big star and was playing in Bewitched on television she changed her tune. ‘This is awful! I have to pay all these taxes.’ Bob had a wonderful sense of humor and told that story very well.

“Rex Harrison was a horrid, horrid person and very selfish. He’d been a no-no in Hollywood because Carol Landis was said to have committed suicide over him. He wasn’t that attractive and didn’t have much money. When My Fair Lady was first put on, he was offered shares in it but he took a salary instead. Can you imagine? All these years and they’re still playing it!

“But he did have an elegance.

“After one performance of My Fair Lady, I saw Lauren Bacall coming out as we were leaving. Humphrey Bogart had just died, but she was in a bright red/cerise dress with black beads on it. I remember it very well. With her was a little boy in a grey flannel suit—I thought it was her son. When I went backstage to say hello to Rex and Kay, Lauren Bacall was already there. And she was with Truman Capote! I’d thought she was with a little boy.

“When Brenda Frazier was married to Shipwreck Kelly, they stayed in George’s mother’s house on Long Island. Brenda was a sad character. She was so emaciated and hardly ate anything. She had very bad legs and her mother had made her have an operation to make them thinner.

“Audrey Hepburn and I were at ballet school together. She was almost plump, solid but beautiful. She’d just come over from Brussels having been in Holland during the war. I knew her mother, Baroness van Heemstra, and later, when I was in New York, I’d take the baroness out to lunch and she’d confide, “I just wish Audrey would eat something!’ She was very worried about her because Audrey dieted like crazy. She’d have a fig Newton before she went to bed. That was her big treat.”

Interviewing Kim, the most impressive thing I noticed had nothing to do with the glamor girl she was, the celebrities she knew, or the philanthropist she has become. The most impressive thing about Kim is her astonishing strength of character, her extraordinary resilience.

Just listen:

“It was right in the middle of the war. I was fourteen or fifteen and I worked in a nightclub. I used to go to work on my bicycle and I’d go home dressed in an old coat and hat on so I’d look like a man and wouldn’t be bothered. I’d bicycle all the way to Hampstead Heath at two or three in the morning.

“Why my mother ever allowed it, I don’t know. But of course we didn’t have any money so it was necessary. My parents were divorced, my father may have remarried by then; my brother was still in the war and Kay was too young.

“The most amazing part of my life is that I could do that at that age. I can remember a tough lot of girls at the club, but they were all very nice to me. Of course nobody knew I was the age I was—I looked eighteen.

“When I think of myself in the middle of the war, riding that bicycle from Hampstead Heath to that nightclub and then coming home again, and all the time dressed like a guy…

“It’s amazing that I could do that at that age. But if you’ve got to survive, you’ve got to survive.”

“That’s a lovely sight,” I said. “Old dogs are very special and deserve that kind of pampering.”

“Yes,” agreed the man. “They do. This is Rowvie.”

“Rowvie?” I asked, thinking it was one more dog name I’d never heard.

“Yes,” answered the man. “I found her years ago in a back alley in Brooklyn. I’m a social worker and was out there one day and I passed her as I was heading home. She’d been beaten badly and looked to be suffering. I couldn’t just leave her there so I rushed her to a vet to see if he could help. Looking at the state she was in, he was doubtful that he could do anything. But if she had any chance of survival, he would have to abort the puppies she was carrying. Well, he performed the surgery and she survived and she’s been with me ever since. Rowvie. As in Roe v. Wade.”

I let her smell my hand and petted her noble head while thinking what a typically New York tale I’d just heard.

And that tale is only one of the hundreds that I’ve listened to in the course of almost thirty years of walking my own dogs in Central Park.

Looking back, how fondly I remember Anna, an elegant and affectionate formerly abandoned white Spitz; Kika, a Shepherd/Collie mix who was rescued on the streets of Providence, Rhode Island, when her owner was an undergraduate at Brown; Austin, a hyper Terrier who had been kept entirely on the balcony of a Miami high-rise for the first two years of his life; Coconut, the lovably cranky tan-colored Terrier mix who’d been found starving on a beach in the Caribbean; and at least two Greyhound former racing dogs who seemed to be more sensitive to noise and motion than any of the other species around.

Now there’s Malcolm.

Malcolm, a medium-size dog with a long-hair black and brown brindle coat, had been rescued by the North Shore Animal League facility in Port Washington, New York, from a pound in Georgia where the dogs were systematically euthanized. He was about five months old when George and Bettina Nelson found him and brought him back to live in Manhattan. Now more or less six years old, he has thrived. Popular with all the other dogs in the park and with most of the owners as well, Malcolm shares his home with a like-minded cat and delights in eating just about any human food—including grapefruit sections—on offer

Malcolm also, like many Eastsiders, does his volunteering. A trained therapy dog, he spends several hours each week at Mt. Sinai Hospital’s pediatric psychiatric ward. In 2010 he was named the hospital’s “Volunteer of the Year,” beating out some 780 others. His competitors were all human.

And there’s Gracie.

Churchill, Manitoba, Canada, the “Polar Bear Capital of the World,” is on the shores of the Hudson Bay and has a sub-Arctic climate. That means that local winters are very, very cold.

Samantha Haas was there with her father, Robert Haas, the well-known nature photographer; they were staying at a small bed and breakfast. Next door to the guest house was somebody’s modest residence where a skinny, neglected puppy who was barking incessantly was tied up in the backyard.

Samantha, who just happens to be director of philanthropy for the Humane Society, inquired—first of the people at the bed and breakfast and then of the people who owned the neighboring house. It turned out that the little girl of that family had wanted a dog but had become disillusioned with it. Barking was the only way the puppy knew to attract attention and—possibly—get back in the warm house.

After some serious negotiations (including a financial agreement), and getting the requisite shots, the puppy was transported to America with the Haases.

That all seems a long time ago.

For Gracie, as she is lovingly called now, was eventually adopted by Phyllis LaRiccia, membership director of the Neue Galerie, and is currently one of two very privileged dogs who gets to go to work there every day. She is pampered beyond her wildest dreams.

A Tibetan/Wheaton Terrier mix, Gracie is about two years old, and except for a few awkward weeks in the very beginning of life in her adopted country, she has flourished. In Central Park she enjoys playing with several dog pals, trotting along beside Phyllis as they walk to work around the Great Lawn, and often, just stopping to stare at the creatures in the Turtle Pond. It’s all very pleasant.

And there’s also Ava.

Christine Dennison, the owner of Mad Dog Expeditions, an organization that arranges diving and other specialized high-end adventures in remote and unexpected parts of the world, had been in mourning for two years for her beloved Alice, an Alaskan Husky who shared her life. In November 2008, thinking that it was perhaps time to consider finding a successor, she went to Petfinder.com to investigate.

On the website she read about a Siberian Husky, currently at a shelter in New Jersey, listed as a male and “Cage 4.” Christine was intrigued; the dog seemed to have an unusual black head on a brown body and clearly had been abused, possibly burned.

After a frustrating and lengthy process, the Husky (who turned out to be a female and considerably younger than indicated) was adopted in January 2009.

I remember meeting this newly adopted creature in the park and cringing at the clear evidences of abuse and neglect. Christine was to be admired for her courage but I wondered how it would all turn out.

A few months later, after an extended time spent away from Manhattan, I again ran into Christine, but this time she was with a beautiful, happy, and healthy dog who was clearly enjoying the park and all it had to offer canines of distinction.

“Oh,” I said, “I guess it didn’t work out with that other dog.” I was saddened.

Christine looked at me with puzzlement. And then it dawned on her what I meant. “Tom,” she said, “this is the same dog. This is Ava.”

Talk about some fairy-tale endings!

Of course, being Manhattan, you also get to see superb examples of the best of the best of the American Kennel Club world.

Jane’s favorite childhood playmate was a magnificent Dachshund, Freyja, named for the Norse goddess of love, beauty, and fertility. The name suited her. She is a splendid specimen of dogdom.

Similarly there were many others deserving of blue ribbons spotted over the years: Ah So and Woo Ru, glamorous and often bejeweled Pugs who lived in a sprawling penthouse; a perky Havanese called Ricky Ricardo; Cody, a patrician Golden Retriever who jets between homes on Fifth Avenue and a ranch in Wyoming; Brock, a gorgeous white Standard Poodle; Rex, an energetic Boston Terrier who will play fetch for hours with his loving and patient dad; Muffin, a Shih Tzu, groomed to the nth degree and clearly a woman of substance; Murray, a noble and huge Mastiff, a cancer survivor, who now manages to deal with only three legs and his wonderful sense of humor; Red, a Shiba Inu who was attacked early on and now is painfully shy of other dogs but who seems happy and carefree when with her human family; perfect Border Terriers, the mildest mannered and least quick-tempered of all their type; an exquisite Collie, Lassie or Lad incarnate; and several noble, large-headed Labrador Retrievers, black, golden, and chocolate brown. 

There’s also Milly von Barksky who, understandably, has her own Facebook fan page. This four-year-old chocolate brown Miniature Schnauzer is one of the more sophisticated canines around. Born of impeccable stock at the Red Rock Kennels in Massachusetts, she was adopted early on by Renée Price, executive director of the Neue Galerie. Milly has traveled a great deal and knows many of the European capitals almost as well as she knows New York. When in town Milly, like Gracie, goes to work at the Galerie and is pampered and petted by everyone she meets. She enjoys Central Park so much that she has underwritten a bench in appreciation of the park’s gift of year-round beauty.

This 843-acre urban oasis is also the perfect place to check out all the new and trendy breeds as well.

What’s that? A Puggle is a Pug/Beagle cross. A Labradoodle? That’s a Labrador/Standard Poodle mix. And Cockapoos combine qualities of both Cocker Spaniels and Poodles. Candice Bergen walks Jerry, her Goldendoodle, a Golden Retriever/Poodle mix.

And speaking of celebrities, Ms. Bergen is only one of many famous people noticed over the years but largely ignored in favor of their canine companions. There was Lenny Kravitz with his Rottweiler; Brooke Astor with two dachshunds; Klaus von Bulow with his Golden Retriever; Tatum O’Neal with her Scottish Terrier.

This is Manhattan, after all, and it’s not good form to make a big deal of celebrity sightings. Look, but don’t be obvious about it. There’s a nice dog walking with Glenn Close or Eliot Spitzer or Caroline Kennedy or Mike Nichols and Diane Sawyer or Michael Douglas or Kevin Bacon and Kyra Sedgwick or William Baldwin and Chynna Phillips or Dianne Wiest.

Country Life, the weekly that purports to chronicle the lifestyle of upper-class and aristocratic British life, once wrote an article bemoaning the fact that certain breeds of dog were disappearing from the British Isles. The article spoke of Yorkshire Terriers specifically and I remember thinking that if the author was worried that this breed might disappear altogether, he should spend a day in Central Park.

Yorkshire Terriers? They’re one of the most popular dogs around. My favorite of all time was April—impossibly tiny but full of personality. And for the record, just on today’s walks I also noticed an Afghan Hound, a Bernese Mountain Dog, several Cocker Spaniels, a Chihuahua, a Whippet, a Beagle, an English Bulldog, and, of course, several examples of the current dogs du jour—the increasingly popular French Bulldogs and Cavalier King Charles Spaniels.

People who live in the country or suburbs often shake their heads and wonder if it’s fair to keep a dog in the city. All that noise and pollution. How misinformed they are! Just ask Leo, the happy-go-lucky and good-natured eight-year-old Bichon Frise who drives in with John and Michele Kluger from New Jersey early almost every Sunday so that he can take advantage of the off-the-leash time (in Central Park, dogs are allowed to play off their leads before nine A. M.). It is reported that as soon as the car crosses the bridge his excitement grows. And why not? In the park he gets to explore the areas around the Bethesda Fountain, the Delacorte Theatre, and the statue of Alice in Wonderland. He has even made a new and special friend, a Coton de Tuléar named Jack. Recently, when Leo hadn’t made it into the city for several weeks and he unexpectedly saw Jack, they both rejoiced.

Leo is the Klugers’ second Bichon and his predecessor, Ivy, was also treated to these weekly outings to Central Park. Michele Kluger says, “We wouldn’t deprive our dogs of this wonderful experience. It’s a real happy confluence of animals. It’s the way all of civilization should be.”

The regulars, like Malcolm or Ava or Gracie or Milly and, of course, Rowvie, would all agree.

In more recent times, however, Québec City, the charming capital of French America, has become a destination of choice for serious foodies. Many of the wide variety of restaurants which line its picturesque streets can be compared favorably with the best places throughout the world.

Le Continental
26, rue Saint-Louis
418-694-9995
www.restaurantlecontinental.com

Almost at the top of the hill which overlooks the city and close by the landmarked Château Frontenac, Le Continental is superb. Resolutely old-fashioned, the courtly waiters here are impeccably trained and formally dressed. And they really come into their own with the dramatic table-side service of flaming delights like peppercorn sirloin flambé and cherries jubilee. Located in an 1845 mansion, the restaurant, opened in 1956, was one of the first to elevate the standard of dining in the city and is still the place to go for traditional French cuisine of a very high order. Just ask Rod Stewart, who recently dined here. Next door, sibling Conti (32, rue Saint-Louis, 418-692-4191, www.conticaffe.com) is a smaller Italian restaurant popular with local business people. It’s good but not in the same league as Le Continental.

Le Café du Clocher Penché
203, rue Saint-Joseph Est
418-640-0597
www.clocherpenche.ca

Named for the leaning bell tower of Notre-Dame-de-Jacques-Cartier across the street in the emerging Saint-Roch neighborhood, Le Clocher Penché is located in a former bank (you’re reminded of this when seeking out the restrooms—they’re in what was the vault). At the sensational weekend brunch and at other times as well, this can prove to be one of the most popular places in town and this popularity results in a (sometimes) noisy ambience. Putting up with enthusiastic chit chat, however, is a small price to pay for sampling some of the city’s most creative and delicious offerings. Well worth trying: the salmon tartare with a hint of grapefruit and, for those not deterred by a shy palate, the robust tarte au boudin noir served with roast potatoes.

Le Vendôme
36, Côte de la Montagne
418-692-0557
www.restaurantvendome.com

Often disparaged by locals and mostly popular with tourists, this venerable restaurant was another of the first places to introduce Québec City to serious French cooking. Alfred Hitchcock, a great fan, filmed scenes from his 1953 thriller I Confess here and it has retained much of its period charm. No longer a temple of haute cuisine, and open only from May until October, Le Vendôme nonetheless is worthy of attention. It offers delicious French basics (the moules are particularly noteworthy), caring service, and modest prices. The locals should get wise.

Toast!
17, Sault-au-Matelot
418-692-1334
www.restauranttoast.com

Weather-permitting, the garden courtyard of this small restaurant is one of the prettiest places in the city to enjoy a leisurely meal. Located in a boutique hotel on a cobble-lined backstreet in the oldest part of town, the ambience could not be more romantic. The menu is creative and experimental with a heavy emphasis on local produce and seared foie gras.

SSS
(Simple Snack Sympathique)
71 rue Saint-Paul
418-692-1991
www.restaurantsss.com

Owned by the same team as Toast!, SSS is more casual but in some ways it has outdistanced its older relative. The kitchen and staff here both maintain an impeccably high standard and the sidewalk tables afford a good opportunity to watch the world go by. Well-worth trying: the crab cakes, steaks, and even the simple hamburgers. All are lip-smackingly delicious.

Le Champlain
Fairmont Le Château Frontenac
1, rue de Carrières
418-266-3905
www.fairmont.com/frontenac/GuestServices/Restaurants/LeChamplain.htm

The restaurant overlooking the Saint Lawrence river in this world famous hotel is generally good, but it would hardly be worth mentioning if it were not for the amazing brunch. For those few hours, the elegant dining room becomes the setting for the most sumptuous and grand brunch buffet I’ve ever come across anywhere. Limitless quantities of excellent Beef Wellington, superb sushi, perfect smoked salmon and just about anything else you can think of are offered and served up beautifully by an attentive and professional staff. With only two weekly seatings (at 10 AM and 1 PM on Sundays), reservations should be made well in advance. And it would be a good idea to have fasted. The quantity and variety of taste-treats is enormous and it would be absurd to arrive with a full stomach and not be able to indulge.

Les Frères de la Côte
1190 rue Saint-Jean
418-692-5445

A bustling and noisy restaurant on one of the busiest streets in town, Les Frères de la Côte is another place which is understandably popular with both locals and visitors. The varied menu offers a wide variety of options from simple but delicious pizzas to multi-course meals reminiscent of the best of home-cooking.

Le Buffet de L’Antiquaire
95, rue Saint-Paul
418-692-2661

If you’re intent on really experiencing traditional Québec cuisine, this might just be a good place to try it. The blackboard in front frequently announces specials such as tourtière (meat pie), cipaille (a deep dish pie with poultry, pork, or seafood), the area’s classic pea soup and even, sometimes, the aforementioned Pâtè chinois. But Le Buffet de L’Antiquaire offers a lot more. It is a local institution, known for its very low prices, cheerful service, substantial portions, diner-like atmosphere and tasty fare. Breakfasts are particularly popular—the homemade strawberry jam is fantastic and available for sale in jars that look like they came straight from a farm kitchen.

Le Parlementaire
Parliament Building
1045 rue des Parlementaires
418-643-6640

Open to the public since 1968, the dining room in the magnificent Parliament building boasts one of the most impressive interiors in town. It’s a natural place to share with first-time visitors to the city offering as it does well-priced and pleasant lunches along with regular glimpses of local politicians. Be advised: ID required to enter this government building.

This selection of eateries should give anyone who is interested an excellent sampling of the readily available and exquisite fare. If more choices are needed, I can suggest these other worthwhile casual destinations:

…Le Fannie Gourmet is the wonderful cafeteria at Le Marchè du Vieux-Port (160, Quai Saint-Andre, 418-692-2517, www.marchevieuxport.com), which has a patio facing the city’s boat basin and a menu that includes homemade soups and a sensational salmon burger.

…the little cafe tucked in the back of J. A. Moisan (695, rue Saint-Jean, 418-529-9764) where the daily luncheon specials are as delicious as you might expect in this, the city’s most venerable and prestigious èpicerie.

…the innovative and healthy buffet at Pain et Passion (85, rue de Saint-Vallier Est, 418-525-7887, www.painetpassion.com) another impressive gourmet shop—this in the St.–Roch neighborhood.

…the student-friendly Chez Temporel (25, rue Couillard, 418-694-1813), in the city’s Latin Quarter, which specializes in delicious soups and salads. In summer, the gazpacho is fantastic.

…and Brynd (two locations: Brynd Maguire, 1360, rue Maguire, 418-527-3844 and Brynd Saint-Paul, 369, rue Saint-Paul, 418-692-4693, www.brynd.ca), the pair of excellent and deservedly popular destinations for those seeking over-stuffed and scrumptious smoked meat sandwiches and a wide variety of beers.

In truth, it’s almost impossible to go too wrong searching for a repast in Québec, the oldest city in Canada. You can enjoy a spectrum of varied and delicious meals here, eating well for days without ever returning to the same place. Truly, the city is a gourmet’s paradise. If you’re not on a diet, go and enjoy it. And if all else fails, you can always act like the young couple who approached me while I was walking my dog along the ancient ramparts that encircle the oldest part of town.

“Excuse me, do you speak English,” they asked.

I admitted that I did.

“Could you tell us where we can find a McDonald’s?”

The Book of Ebenezer Le Page (1981), G. B. Edwards.

This still somewhat obscure novel, the fictionalized autobiography of a man from Guernsey, is, in fact, a story of the century. Written as the reflections of an eighty-year-old who has spent his entire life on this Channel Island, it was published posthumously (Edwards died in 1976 at the age of 77). William Golding, who was awarded both the Nobel Prize and the Booker Prize, summed it up best: “To read it is not like reading but living.”

The Sweet Dove Died (1978), Barbara Pym.

How do you select only one Barbara Pym novel when putting together a list of this sort? To me, much more than just a later day Jane Austen, Pym’s knowledge of human nature, deceptively simple prose style, and gentle wit make her very much a star in her own right. Although less overtly comic than Excellent Women, Less Than Angels, or even her last book, A Few Green Leaves, The Sweet Dove Died somehow resonates the most strongly with Pym’s particular genius.

Fifth Business (1970), Robertson Davies.

On a winter’s day in an Ontario village, a boy throws a snowball embedded with a rock at another boy. The intended victim ducks and the missile hits a pregnant woman. Davies Deptford Trilogy chronicles the results of this single act and Fifth Business, the first and best book of the series, introduces the characters, their story, their foibles and their passions. As a novel, it easily stands alone.
A Mixture of Frailties (1958), an earlier Davies book, does not match the sophistication, but is nonetheless a rewarding read as well.

The Great Gatsby (1925), F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Here is the classic American dream novel. Fitzgerald writes about Daisy, the flapper heroine who personifies this dream, that “her voice is full of money….That was it….It was full of money—that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it….high in a white palace the king’s daughter, the golden girl.” And critic Lionel Trilling has suggested that hero Jay Gatsby, the rich but shady outsider in a xenophobic upper class world, “comes inevitably to stand for America itself.”
Tender is the Night (1934) may be Fitzgerald’s more personal and sensual book, but with Gatsby he achieves stylistic perfection.

The Fortnight in September (1931), R.C. Sheriff.

This straightforward story of a family’s annual holiday at a British seaside resort was written two years after Sheriff’s award-winning stage play, Journey’s End. That play dealt with the hopes and fears of some soldiers in World War I waiting in a dugout for an attack to begin. The Fortnight in September celebrates the simple and fragile joys of the ordinary—joys which would have been especially precious to the soldiers.

Mrs. Dalloway (1925), Virginia Woolf.

Some might be more impressed with James Joyce’s use of the stream of consciousness technique in Ulysses or in Finnegan’s Wake, but I believe Woolf manages to make this style more accessible and consequently more rewarding. It’s fascinating to read how, with minimal strokes, Clarissa Dalloway and Septimus Warren Smith emerge as fully developed and empathetic characters.

The Raj Quartet (1966-75), Paul Scott.

This monumental series of four novels (The Jewel in the Crown, The Day of the Scorpion, The Towers of Silence, and A Division of the Spoils) can easily be considered as one book. Again, it is an epic which examines the consequences of a single act (here the gang rape of a young British woman in 1942) and follows the labyrinth of consequences. Similar in theme to E. M. Forster’s brilliant A Passage to India (1924), The Raj Quartet, although considerably longer and more involved than the earlier book, is somehow more engaging.

Stones for Ibarra (1984), Harriet Doerr.

This gentle, poignant love story was the first novel of a 73-year-old Californian. It is a touching and beautifully written tale of a young couple dealing both with their adjustment to a dramatically different culture and with their own mortality. Along with the story itself, Stones for Ibarra offers an intriguing glimpse of a declining Mexican village in the days before drug cartels.

The Remains of the Day (1989), Kazuo Ishiguro.

Also in its way a love story, at its core The Remains of the Day is a remarkable evocation of the life and character of an English butler serving in an aristocratic house in the middle of the twentieth-century. It won the Booker Prize in 1989.

Death Comes for the Archbishop (1927), Willa Cather.

Based on the actual lives of two French missionaries attempting to bring religion to New Mexico in the second half of the nineteenth-century, Cather’s episodic novel manages to breathe life into her two well-meaning, honorable characters; they stay alive in memory long after the book is finished.

And some noteworthy honorable mentions:

I Capture the Castle, Dodie Smith (1948); The Soloist, Paul Saltzman (1994); Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremont, Elizabeth Taylor (1971); On the Black Hill, Bruce Chatwin (1982); Hotel Du Lac, Anita Brookner (1984); Gone with the Wind, Margaret Mitchell (1936); Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier (1938); The Market Square (1966), Miss Read.

For laughing out loud, I can strongly recommend Auntie Mame by Patrick Dennis (1955) and his campy, illustrated, would-be movie queen’s memoir, Little Me (1961); Nancy Mitford’s two novels The Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate (1945 and 1949); and Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt (1994). This last book is non-fiction but reads like fiction and has some of the great belly laughs of all times.

And for fans of mysteries, may I suggest Peter Lovesey’s enthralling Peter Diamond books (The Last Detective, 1991 is the first)? Also: The Nine Tailors (1934) by Dorothy L. Sayers and Overture to Death (1939) by Ngaio Marsh. Then there’s Agatha Christie. Who doesn’t love Agatha Christie? But if by some chance you’ve escaped her charms and are looking for her best, try The Murder of Roger Akroyd (1926). This could be followed closely by The Body in the Library (1942) and Murder on the Orient Express (1934).

Turkey Righter was looking forward to his 100th birthday.

I’d gone out to Bedford, New York, to meet him at the suggestion of a woman who knew that I was interested in talking to people who’d been born in the early years of the twentieth-century.

The landmark birthday was to be celebrated on May 2, 2003 and chatting with Turkey in the autumn of the previous year, it was hard not to be charmed by this slender and elegant retired advertising executive. After a light lunch in the luxuriously sparse contemporary dining room which had been designed by his late wife, he shared some of his earliest memories.

“I had had a super case of whooping cough,” he recalled. “It lasted three months, so a whole year was washed out for me. I had to repeat the first grade.

“As I was getting better, I said to my mother, ‘You know, Teddy Roosevelt is going to speak in the park.’ But she warned that if I was still whooping I couldn’t go.

“Well, I accidentally whooped once, but I didn’t think she’d want to know about that and I was able to go over to the park to listen to Teddy Roosevelt.

“I’m a little boy and I was there.

“And if you’re a little boy, horses, pistols, buffaloes, lassoes, all that kind of thing, are important. Here was my hero! San Juan Hill and the Maine and Havana. The Spanish American War was, to me, like the Civil War was to other kids. And here was the hero of all heroes—turning up in Plainfield, New Jersey! He was running for President on the Bull Moose ticket.

“I was mesmerized. My mother hadn’t come along. (Why should she? She couldn’t vote. It was a race between my mother and me as to who’d get to vote first!)

“So I’m in the park and at the end of Teddy Roosevelt’s speech, everybody stands up to shake hands with him. What was I going to do? I lined up too, climbed the steps, and walked up to Teddy Roosevelt.

“He asked me, ‘What are you doing here, little boy?’

“I said, ‘Mr. President, I came to get a Bull Moose button.’ (The Bull Moose button wasn’t plastic; it was metal of some sort.)

“He looked all around the podium for a button (there was no bodyguard in sight), but he couldn’t find one. So he took his own button out of his buttonhole and gave it to me. We were one block away from my house but I could have jumped home in one jump!”

Turkey, still boyish, smiled at the recollection. He clearly enjoyed telling stories from long ago.

“Henry Taylor. Who was Henry Taylor?”

Turkey looked thoughtfully around. We’d moved into the striking living room of his large house. Through the walls of windows, naked trees and a carpet of orange, brown, and yellow leaves spoke of the passage of time.

“Henry Taylor lived on West 7th Street in Plainfield, New Jersey—about four or five blocks down from where I lived. He was the brightest boy in the class and I had the most trouble.

“Henry and I were inseparable. I remember we decided that since we were getting to be eleven or twelve, we had to go on a trip. So we took our bicycles from Plainfield to Princeton to Lawrenceville. (My father had set up a thing so that we could sleep at Lawrenceville for the night.)

“We went with the wind—and it took no time. I don’t know how many miles it is from Plainfield to Princeton to Lawrenceville, but it was a good little trip for a couple of eleven-year-olds.”

Encouraged by the success of this adventure, when the young Turkey heard about a new invention—the Smith Motor Wheel—he was anxious to try it out. In those days, when motorcycles had first became popular but still cost a lot of money, this was an inexpensive alternative—a small engine which could be fitted onto a regular bicycle.

“At that time I was developing my own pictures,” said the about-to-be centenarian. “So I got to know the fella who ran the picture shop. And he had one of these gadgets.

“I asked ‘How much is that?’ It was $30.

“Now, I always was a saver. I always had some money put away. Fifty cents here, a dollar there. It added up and I had $35 in the bank.

But I told my father, ‘I want a Smith Motor Wheel.’ I thought he might give it to me. No. Instead, he said, ‘Well, you’re going to take it out of your account then.’

“So I did and I was the only boy in town who had a Smith Motor Wheel—a one-cylinder thing that goes pop-pop-pop. You strapped it on the frame, parallel to your back wheel. And it had arms that went out and wires that went up to your handlebars—just like a real motorcycle.

“Soon afterward Henry and I had to get something that was important and we couldn’t get it in Plainfield and we had to go to Newark. Henry had his bicycle and I had my Smith Motor Wheel and he held onto my shoulder as we rode along and the two of us went on the power of that Smith Motor Wheel all the way to Newark. He rode his bike and put his hand on my shoulder. The little Smith Motor Wheel pulled the two of us along.”

For a few moments the old gentleman’s expression clouded. He stared out into space.

“Henry Taylor went to Princeton and got killed the first year he was there in an automobile accident. They took him to a nunnery or something that was nearby and the guy bled to death. Otherwise, he’d be sitting here now.”

Watching Turkey’s expression change, I was afraid that our interview might be derailed by melancholy. It wasn’t. After a few moments he seemed to dismiss the sadness and he started to talk about other kinds of travel.

“In 1924, four of our group from Harvard went abroad on the German Hamburg-American line.

“We all played a little bit of bridge, not much, but we sat at the bar and played. If you’ve ever sat in a bar that’s been saturated with alcohol for years and years – well, the wood has got it, and the walls have got it. It’s the most delicious smell! And it was prohibition in our country. We would sit there to get the atmosphere and play a little bridge and at the next table there were four Germans and we heard them ordering their drinks. ‘Bier mit schnapps.’ So when the waiter came around we said ‘Bier mit schnapps.’ I was just twenty-one. We floated our way to Europe.”

“When we got off the boat we took the train to Paris and stayed at the Elysee Hotel. It was on the left bank of the Seine. How much do you think it was? A dollar a night. But you had to add ten cents for a hot bath.

“And every day we went to the Louvre and every day we went to the Ritz Bar. I think that there wasn’t a college boy who didn’t go to the Ritz Bar to see and be seen

‘Then there was Joe Zelli’s Bar. It was a famous bar with dancing girls and whatever you wanted I guess. We would go there night after night. I think the cover was a bottle of champagne on the table, which was $4 or $5, and which, since there were four of us, wouldn’t kill us. The dancing girls would join your table and they’d get a commission on how many drinks you had. 

“We got to know four girls, we would sit together and we got sort of friendly with these girls—we never did anything wrong with any of them—and we asked them to the Louvre. They were educated girls, with a nice manner. Well, we made a date for Sunday. I guess they didn’t work on Sundays. We were going to meet them at such and such a place; we were all tuned up to buy them a good meal. Not one of them showed up! Interfered with business or it wasn’t worthwhile, I guess.

“But if you’d never been to the Louvre and you’d been invited and you lived in Paris—well, that was really a shocker to me.

“Another time when we were at Joe Zelli’s a couple of Americans arrived. Bertie Tilt exclaimed ‘That’s my young uncle and his new wife!’ And he went to see them at their table. After he returned, a waiter brought a note: ‘This place is boring. Follow us in your cab.’

“We arrived at Petite Chaumiere. Uncle got a table for two on the raised part of the room and got us a table for four smack in the middle of everything. We were the center of attention. Of course there was a bottle of champagne on our table.

“Now all the waiters were wearing evening dresses. Not too bad looking! They made a fuss over us—I’m sure paid for by uncle. This was all a big surprise to me. I didn’t know places like this existed. Then one of the girls sat on Bertie Tilt’s lap. Bertie exploded! ‘Get away from me! Go away!!!’

“The whole room caught on that something was wrong. Bertie wanted to leave. But I said ‘Not till we have finished our $5 bottle of champagne.’

“None of it really bothered me. I was young and Europe was the place to learn about life.”

The Doyenne

Also born in 1903 and with ties to the Bedford area (“Villa Diana,” the Italianate villa left to her by her grandmother was in neighboring Katonah), Diana Vreeland, the so-called Empress of Fashion, was less reflective than Turkey but certainly just as interesting.

Seated in the back seat of a taxi, going down Park Avenue, this ancient and Lilliputian lady turned to me and asked, “Don’t you wish New York were more like Moscow?”

This was New York in the early eighties, albeit not the city’s finest hour, but certainly that particular wish was unique. My expression must have reflected my puzzlement.

“All those gold domes,” she explained, and waved her well-manicured and bejeweled but arthritic hand from side to side as if by doing so she could somehow summon those domes into being.

I settled back more comfortably into the seat and smiled in appreciation.

Being with Diana Vreeland was like being with the spaceiest crowd from the late sixties—all fabulous colors and sensuality and oblong perspective—only with her, nobody was smoking Maui Wowie to get to that extra special place.

In her autobiography, D.V., for example, the celebrated and arbiter of taste wrote surrealistically of growing up on East 79th Street in Manhattan and of a disappointingly empty church on her wedding day. Harriet Milliken, a childhood classmate, read those recollections and announced to anyone who would listen, “She’s gone round the bend, I tell you. She’s gone round the bend! She grew up on East 77th Street, not East 79th. And I was at her wedding. The church was filled with people!” (At least as far as childhood reminiscences are concerned, Mrs. Milliken seems to have been correct: the New York Social Registers from 1912 until the early 1920s list Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Dalziel [Diana Vreeland’s parents] as living at 15 East 77th Street and Mr. and Mrs. George de Boketon Greene [Harriet Milliken’s parents] living at 21 East 77th Street.)

Fantasies and fabrications not withstanding, in the back of that cab I was quite pleased with myself and could think of no place in the world I’d rather be. Here I was, in my mid-thirties, escorting one of the most influential woman in the world home from a party.

After that cab ride, Diana Vreeland and I became better friends. And a few months later, Kip, Malcolm Forbes’ third son and the one I knew best, called and offered me tickets to a benefit at Lincoln Center which was to be held in the presence of Britain’s Prince Charles.

“But,” he stipulated, “If I give you this pair of tickets, you’ve got to bring somebody famous. I want the TV cameras focused on our box.”

Well, it was the last minute and the number of famous people I could call at the last minute was limited. But I thought about Diana Vreeland and all those gold domes. I asked her, she accepted, and even offered to get us a limousine for the evening.

It was in that limousine driving up to Lincoln Center that we were confronted by a large protest organized by supporters of the IRA. Demonstrators were banging garbage can lids and yelling into bullhorns. Frightening? You bet.

I looked over at my frail elderly companion. She had taken out a small gold compact and was applying quantities of rouge. To her ears. After all, this was the woman who had proclaimed ,“You gotta have style. It helps you get down the stairs. It helps you get up in the morning. It’s a way of life.”

At that moment, however, style was not uppermost in my mind.

“God help us,” I thought, “we’re going to be killed. Here we are, symbols of everything these guys are protesting, arriving at a benefit for some arty English charity in a limousine and I’m with a little old lady applying rouge to her ears!”

“I’ve always hated the Irish,” she said.

Somehow that didn’t make things better at the moment, but I’ve subsequently tried to remember that at moments of crisis it might not be a bad idea to put rouge on your ears. After all, that night we got to the benefit safely and I met the Prince. He was a lot shorter than I’d expected.

A few years later, when I heard that this remarkable lady was not well and was staying almost entirely within the confines of her apartment, I wrote a get-well note. The typewritten response dated April 24, 1986, is cherished to this day:

“Tom Darling,

How remarkably attractive to hear from you….I would love to see you. Would you be sweet enough to telephone me between 12:30 and 3:30 at my old number and then we can make a plan to meet?

You will see a great change in me. I never go out, and only see people at home, and at the most, 1 or 2 people at a time. The reason for this is because of my eyes, which, after their wonderfully long service, have simply given out.

I remember you with such pleasure taking me dancing and to the opera.

My love to you. I am looking forward to your phoning me.”

Of course I called her and we had a few more visits. Even with no vision she was still able to verbally paint vibrant and extraordinary images. She had indeed been served well by her eyes.

The Diplomat

Stuart Rockwell was laconic.

Trying to interview him as we sat in his Washington, DC, library was not an easy task. The answers he gave to all my questions were essentially monosyllabic and seemed incongruous coming from someone who had had such a long and distinguished career in the foreign service.

How could I get him to open up?

Without question, this was a gentleman who had many fascinating stories he could share. He had served in London during World War II in the counter-espionage section of the British MI5 and narrowly escaped a V-2 explosion near Marble Arch. In 1948, at the age of 31, he was assigned to Jerusalem just when the British were scheduled to give up the Palestine Mandate. There, fired at by a sniper himself, he watched as the US Consul General, Thomas Wasson, was shot and killed crossing the street. And later in his career Stuart Rockwell had served as the US Ambassador to Morocco. 

Certainly he was there in the middle of things for a good part of the twentieth century.

“What about parties and receptions and things like that? Any particularly interesting ones you remember?” I asked.

It was the right question. He smiled and nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Two parties stand out in my memory. The first was a reception that the king, Hassan II, decided to host at his palace in Fez. The diplomatic corps was all invited. And the tradition in Morocco is that the host does not eat until he sees that all his guests are happily eating. So there was this very sumptuous spread which included, as starters, smoked salmon.

“Some of the guests took smoked salmon and others didn’t. But those who took it, including my wife and me, discovered that it had gold sovereigns implanted in it. And those who had not taken smoked salmon rushed back to the buffet to see whether they could get some gold sovereigns or not. Meanwhile the king was hiding behind one of the pillars laughing at the sight of these diplomats scrambling to find the gold sovereigns in the salmon.”

Kings, presumably, must have their little jokes.

“The second memorable party,” continued the former ambassador, “was also hosted by King Hassan II. It was held in celebration of his own birthday and held at his seaside palace at Skhirat, south of Rabat.

“It was a stag party because it was a Muslim country and women are not supposed to mingle with men under such circumstances. There was also no alcohol, but a great deal of sumptuous food.

“All the notables of the realm and all the foreign diplomats were there along with a number of distinguished foreigners (a lot of whom were rich golf players because the king was a golf fanatic). There must have been 1,000 guests.

“At one point we heard this popping sound and people said, ‘Oh, how nice! The King has arranged trap shooting for us.’ We soon discovered, however, that the popping sound came from the Palace which was being assaulted by hostile troops from Fez. Bullets were flying everywhere.

“People took refuge. All at once, the Belgian ambassador was killed by a stray bullet and the Syrian was hit in the arm. In a matter of minutes, about 100 to 130 Moroccans, servants, and military defenders standing around us were killed.

“I went into the throne room because the walls were thick and it seemed the safest place. But when the troops—young people from the non-com academy in Fez—came in there, they forced us out again, and made us lie on the ground in front of the palace. These dissenters had come down under cover of darkness and surrounded the area unbeknownst to the Moroccan government. They looked for the King but didn’t know the layout of the property and couldn’t find him. (Where he was, along with his key cabinet members, was just off the throne room in the men’s room.)

“I found myself lying near the king’s brother, Prince Moulay Abdallah, whose elegant white silk formal djellaba was streaked with blood. He was showing remarkable calm.”

The former ambassador went on to explain a little bit about the political situation in Morocco at that time. “There was corruption in the higher circles—particularly in the royal family. Bribes were being taken and the reputation of the country was suffering. General Medbouh, who was a very charming man, thought that things would not improve until the King was forced to abdicate. But another man, Colonel Ababou allegedly had a different motive. He wanted to kill Hassan II and set up a Libyan-style republic.

“When they were looking for the King and they couldn’t find him, the radical Colonel Ababou screamed at General Medbouh, ‘Have you let him get away?’

“The general calmly answered, ‘No. I don’t know where he is.’ Although he knew perfectly well where he was—in the men’s room—having himself escorted him there himself.

“And then Colonel Ababou shot General Medbouh dead right there in front of me.

“Shortly after, Colonel Ababou and the majority of the attackers left and went back to Rabat thinking that General Medbouh had let the king escape and hopeful that they could find him there.

“The enlisted guard that was left guarding the palace kept on looking for the monarch. And yes, they finally found him in the men’s room. But when they did, and they realized that he was unharmed and that at that moment they were then the ones who were placing him in peril, they fell on their knees and begged forgiveness. It seems that General Ababou had told them that the king was under the control of foreigners and it was their duty to rescue him. But when they found him, they realized they were the ones who were harming him and not the foreigners.

“Meanwhile, we were allowed to leave. All our drivers and our cars, which had been parked down below the palace, drove up and took us off to Rabat. And on the way there were all the normal things going on. Kids were selling fish by the roadside; there were flower vendors, donkeys going along with loads of hay and stuff. It was as nothing had happened. But at least 130 people had been killed.

“That’s a party I will never forget.

“And there is an amusing postscript.

“This Casablanca businessman who was invited, and had been every year, thought that that year he would make other plans. He told his wife that that’s where he was going, but he decided he’d rather go and spend some time with his mistress. Of course this entire assassination attempt was on the radio, but he didn’t know it. When he returned home, his wife asked ‘How was the party, dear?’ ‘Oh,’ he answered, ‘as humdrum as all the others.’”

Because I was a restaurant critic for many years, I get asked that question all the time. Those asking aren’t generally looking to be told about well-known or trendy spots where the prices are high and, sometimes, the attitude obnoxious. They want to know about comfortable, well-priced establishments that attract a following of regulars.

So, for anyone interested, here is my first list of ten favorite places in New York to have a reliably good meal in a pleasant atmosphere. As other places are discovered or as I remember some I’ve forgotten at the moment, I will add further postings in this category. And I’ll also be suggesting places of note wherever I happen to find them outside of Manhattan.

Le Veau d’Or
129 East 60th Street (between Park and Lexington Avenues)
212-838-8133

Opened in 1937, Le Veau d’Or was still, in the early seventies, one of the most glamorous spots in Manhattan. It was popular with the then-current cognoscenti, the Women’s Wear Daily, ladies who lunch crowd of that moment. By the mid-eighties, however, those seeking to see and be seen had moved on and so had a lot of other people. If truth be told, the place had gotten a little sad, a little dreary.

But never underestimate a golden calf.

Thanks to a relocated Bostonian pal, I revisited this classic French restaurant and now I can’t return often enough. Owner Robert Treboux presides over a room that still maintains the traditional bistro style it had in the past. The menu, although perhaps not as inventive or ambitious as in the glory days when Craig Claiborne awarded it four stars, delivers some of the most pleasant traditional French fare in town: celeri remoulade, artichaut vinaigrette, escargots in lots of garlicky butter, bœuf bourguignon, saumon froid. Mmmm. Delicious. Indeed, this menu transports you instantly to the most comfortable and tasty corners of French cuisine.

Also worth noting: Catherine Treboux, the good-looking, charming, and vivacious daughter of the elderly propriétaire, adds a real sparkle to the place. She welcomes people to the restaurant with sincere warmth and a twinkle in her eye. Interestingly enough, celebrities can still be spotted from time to time: Neil Simon, I. M. Pei, Liz Smith, Iris Love.

My Boston friend was right. Le Veau d’Or recently received the James Beard award in the classic restaurant category. It’s good and, most importantly in these economic times, reasonably priced.

Pinocchio
1748 First Avenue (between 90th and 91st Streets)
212-828-5810

This small and cozy old-fashioned Italian restaurant is presided over by Mark Petrillo, whose father opened the original Pinocchio Ristorante at 168 East 81st in 1975. That Pinocchio evolved into a large and comfortably elegant place, popular with a well-heeled and well-dressed Upper East Side crowd. In 1995, Mark and his wife decided to follow their own dream: to close the restaurant, move to Tiburon, California, and open a place in San Anselmo.

Alas, after two years, Mark discovered what many others had: there’s no place like New York.

Unfortunately, the old space was not available (it’s seen several incarnations since) and Pinocchio resurfaced in a long storefront ten blocks north and three blocks east. But the good news is that the food is as wonderful as it ever was, the welcome is as warm, and if anything, the current setting, albeit less glamorous, is even more gemütlich: gentle lighting, a soft soundtrack of opera in the background, and well-prepared regional Italian food. What could be more comforting than a smoked Sicilian tuna appetizer followed by penne with Italian sausage and broccoli rabe? The eggplant parmigiana is sinfully good and when meatballs and spaghetti are on the menu it would be foolish to ignore them.

And by the way, Mark’s homemade Italian cheesecake may be the best in town. It’s well worth every calorie.

Turkish Kitchen
386 Third Avenue (between 27th and 28th Streets)
212-679-6633

Started in 1992 by the affable businessman Ilgar Peker, this restaurant charms as much today as when it first opened. With its lipstick red walls and flattering lighting, the ambience is both exotic and romantic. And the food! Delicious. The fried calamari is arguably the best to be found on the island of Manhattan and all the Turkish specialities are consistently first-rate. My personal favorites: homemade yogurt with chopped cucumber, mashed eggplant with herbs, and the chargrilled cubes of chicken breast and mushrooms on a skewer. There’s also a splendid Akdeniz Levrek Izgara (Mediterranean whole sea bass). For dessert, try the almond pudding.

By the way, for those who enjoy trying specialty cocktails, this restaurant pours two which are particularly delicious: Turkish Kitchen Martini and Bosphorus Martini. Invented by long-time maitre d’ Hakan Ercenik, these drinks go down as easily as health-giving fruit juice. Be careful. They can be lethal.

Garden Court Cafe
Asia Society and Museum
725 Park Avenue (Between 70th and 71st Streets)
212-570-5202

This may well be the most beautiful and tranquil spot for lunch in all of Manhattan. With its towering ceilings, tall, sinewy trees and hushed ambience, it is the perfect island of serenity, far from the madding crowd. The food, presentation, and service are all deserving of this setting. Worth sampling: the bento box with its curried chicken salad, jasmine rice, and two chef’s selections; and what just might be the most delicious turkey burger you’ve ever tasted.

Pure Food and Wine
54 Irving Place (between 17th and 18th Streets)
212-477-1010

The idea of a restaurant that serves only raw vegan food may be initially off-putting to some but that prejudice should be shed. Particularly in fine weather, when the gorgeous and huge back terrace is open, Pure Food and Wine is one of the most satisfying and pleasant places to eat in town. Consider just some of the offerings: zucchini, local roma and heirloom tomato lasagna; sweet corn and cashew tamales with chili spiced portabella mushrooms; and, for dessert, lemon cheesecake with blackberries. Everything tasted has been exquisitely delicious and, amazingly, both raw and vegan.

Gabriela’s
688 Columbus Avenue (between 93rd and 94th Streets)
212-961-9600

Crowded? Yes. Noisy? Yes. But how could you have an authentic Mexican fiesta without those two ingredients? And Gabriela’s is a Mexican fiesta. The story goes, and I’ve no reason to doubt it, that the original Gabriela was the cook for a well-to-do gentleman and that he encouraged her to open a restaurant. This incarnation is the current result of that encouragement and although now run by the real Gabriela’s nephew, it is still delightful.

Le Relais de Venise L’Entrecote
590 Lexington Avenue at 52nd Street
212-758-3989

Salad, steak (cooked according to your instructions), and dessert. That’s the menu at this pleasant midtown restaurant and since you’re offered second helpings, there’s plenty of time to reflect on what a good deal you’re being given before deciding on dessert. For vegetarians and those who don’t fancy steak, there’s a pleasant cheese platter.

Donguri
309 East 83rd Street (between 1st and 2nd Avenues)
212-737-5656

In 1998, when Donguri first opened and was run by a charming Japanese couple (Shuji Fujita was the chef and his lovely wife Michiko served the guests), it was truly special–a tiny Asian country restaurant that somehow materialized on the Upper East Side. Unfortunately, the chef had severe back problems and he and his spouse returned home to Kyushu, Japan in 2005. Little Donguri was then bought by prestigious Ito En,  a multinational beverage company specializing in tea production. Although perhaps no longer quite so special, the restaurant is still very good and certainly worth seeking out by those interested in excellent Japanese fare.

Caffe Grazie
26 East 84th Street (between Fifth and Madison Avenues)
212-717-4407

The perfect place for really very good contemporary Italian food in the neighborhood of the Metropolitan Museum and the Guggenheim. The appetizer salads, thin-crusted pizzas, and assorted main courses are all first-rate. Personal favorites: a tropical salad of romaine lettuce, hearts of palm, corn, avocado, and tomatoes; first-rate gazpacho; a prosciutto di Parma pizza with sliced tomatoes, pesto, and mozzarella; and organic salmon on a bed of lentils. Caffe Grazie manages to be both stylish and comfortable.

Tea & Sympathy
108 Greenwich Avenue at Jane Street
212-989-9735

Shepherd’s pie, Welsh rarebit, bangers and mash, roast beef with Yorkshire pudding for Sunday dinner. This tiny West Village gem is a bit of home (more Huddersfield than London) for transplanted Brits and serious Anglophiles hungry for a taste of Her Majesty’s island kingdom. They don’t take reservations, and the entire party must be assembled before they’ll seat you, but if you can manage to go at slightly off-hours, this should present no problem. And for those who fancy a real afternoon tea, their offering at $35 per person is brilliant!

Diana leaned forward in her armchair. A widow now in her nineties, she was recalling the year when she was eighteen.

“It was the summer of 1937. The Japanese once again had infiltrated northern China in their pursuit of conquest. Chiang Kai-shek, the Chinese leader, chose to fight and take a stand against them. Shanghai was the battleground.”

August 1937. Well into a year of the Fire Ox in Chinese astrology, “a year of conflict and one in which there is no hope of success without a sustained, mindful effort.” It was the year Babes in Arms was Broadway’s biggest hit musical and The Life of Emile Zola won the Academy Award. August was the month that the German Ministry of Education ordered that all Germans who knew a second language must register with the government. It was also the month when a concentration camp was established at Buchenwald. The Duke and Duchess of Windsor put in an appearance at the Salzburg Festival and spent time entertaining Woolworth heiress Barbara Hutton and her then-husband, Count Haugwitz-Reventlow. Lou Gehrig was in his prime, Edith Wharton died, and the Spanish Civil War was in full swing.

Diana, now known to her neighbors in Bryn Mawr on Philadelphia’s Main Line as Mrs. Manuel Angulo, is a lady who still enjoys tennis and a great deal of international travel. Her childhood, however, was far more exotic than those of her neighbors. She was taken to China as an infant in 1919 when her father, Captain Charles T. Hutchins, Jr. was appointed US Naval Attaché. She grew up in Peking and later in Shanghai, where her father had become commander of the US flagship Pittsburgh. Her mother, the former Eileen Anglin, who had been presented in London to Queen Alexandra, was the daughter of the Canadian speaker of the house. The family’s life in China had been insulated, luxurious.

“Mother and I were sitting in the drawing room, attempting to enjoy a cup of tea and delicious little scones, one of our cook’s specialties,” she continued. “The flat was beautifully cool and in total summer mode: rugs and curtains in storage, straw mats on the floors, sofas and chairs slipcovered in floral patterns, and fans humming overhead. We had two little dogs–Kobe and Bebe, Japanese Spaniels–and they were there with us.

“I remember it so vividly. Mother was wearing a silk-printed dress, a Bianchini. I was in white piqué, full-skirted, with a wide red leather belt and sandals.

“It was August 14 and that day was later to be known as ‘Bloody Saturday.’ I glanced at my watch and it was almost 4:30. The little dogs were curiously fretting and restless; somehow out of character. There was a deafening explosion and I was thrown off the sofa.

“Silence. Then the screams from the Bund started.

“The servants came to us–terrified. Then there was another tremendous explosion. I thought that the Japanese had blown up the water works on the river.

“Curiously our telephone was still working and news began to filter in. In a colossal mistake, four Chinese Air Force planes, attempting to bomb the Japanese flagship Idzumo at anchor, failed, and had unleashed two bombs a few blocks from where we lived.

“But this was only the beginning.

“Similarly, these Chinese planes dropped two more bombs about twenty minutes later in the French concession, which was also a few blocks from us.

“Then the actual Japanese attack started.

“We were in shock. No one was adequately prepared. As foreigners, we had never expected an attack on our settlements. And the injuries and carnage were devastating.

“It was surreal. In less than twelve hours our world tumbled as a house of cards. We were witnesses to the presage of World War II and the downfall of colonial might.”

In 1919, when Diana had first arrived in China, this same colonial might was still very much a force with which to be reckoned, a fact of life. Her simplest childhood recollections of growing up in a well-connected expatriate American Naval family evoke the best of Somerset Maugham’s novels and short stories. Society in the community she knew, with its constantly changing international cast of visiting dignitaries, scholars, adventurers, and other kinds of nomads and wanderers, had a glamour all its own.

Childhood friends?

“I remember two special playmates vividly because their mother was a cousin of mine. George Andrews, who was more or less my age, and Kevin, his younger brother. Their father, Roy Chapman Andrews, was a celebrated archeologist, and very much involved with the Gobi Desert. In those days, he was a celebrity in the international society of Yokohama, Tokyo, Port Said, Peking, and Shanghai. Yvette, Roy’s wife, our cousin, was their mother and to me, in my young days, she was one of the most beautiful, most glamorous women that I had ever seen. She was thin, with thick, dancing brown bobbed hair. She was a Chanel lady before Chanel really came in.

“Roy Chapman Andrews was the role model for Indiana Jones. Curious, isn’t it, how the years link up in unexpected ways?”

Today, looking out at the well-planted terrace of her apartment outside Philadelphia, Diana paints a sensual picture of the landscape she knew.

“The willow trees in Peking were wonderful. They were one of the first trees to blossom, as they are here. And the white pines were famous.

“But the oleanders! The one scent that takes me back to the Peking of those days is oleander. We had a courtyard rather than a formal garden and it was filled with oleanders. And lilacs. Lilacs were very much a part of the look of our house in the spring. The old, very deep purple Persian lilac trees. And there were pomegranate trees and I remember in the borders outside the house we had nasturtiums in the spring.”

Speaking now, Diana assumes an almost scholarly expression. She raises her hand and gestures in the manner of a professor making a point.

“One must remember of course that, apart from Persia, China was really the absolute garden of the world. So much of what we take for granted today, here in America, came from China.

“I remember tiger lilies.  They were glorious, bright orange with black spots. I loved them. And I loved the brilliant blue morning glories that climbed up the side of the Great Wall where we picnicked.

“Our house was always filled with an abundance of flowers and plants. There would be goldfish bowls in the garden,  bowls sitting on stools. When you went away, you had a goldfish tender who came just to take care of your goldfish.”

A mention of holidays prompts further enthusiasms.

“Christmas in Peking was heaven!

“There always seemed to be snow, and it was very cold. And all those lovely houses. There were innumerable parties for children. With pantomimes. The British are great for pantomimes and in those days everything was geared toward the children at Christmas.

“I remember the British ambassador and his wife, Sir John and Lady McCleagh, gave a special party for children. We arrived–our nannies had dressed us very nicely–and we looked out at the courtyard into a garden covered with snow. It was teatime and the light was slowly fading. Then, through the living room and dining room, we could hear the faint sound of tinkling bells–the bells of the camel caravans. With coats and boots put back on, we were shepherded to the snow-covered garden as a camel approached with Santa astride. His camel bags were filled with presents.

“I always believed in Santa Claus but I believed he traveled on a camel.”

Returning to the topic of her family’s social circle, Diana recalls “an international potpourri, several close Chinese friends, daughters of diplomats and bankers. We always had the good fortune to have Chinese friends who remained friends. And who mingled with us. We were very fortunate in always being integrated with Chinese friends, and I want to stress that because when you read books about China in that period this kind of friendship is never mentioned.”

And other holidays?

“We foreigners, my family and their friends, rented temples in the hills. To put it in today’s vernacular, that was the equivalent of having a weekend house or country getaway.

“With the fall of the Empire, when the dowager empress died, the temples and monasteries were filled with eunuchs who came from the court. These eunuchs had been very much in control of the court, and the temples had been built in the fifteenth and sixteenth century for the eunuchs to enjoy in their retirement. One was even called ‘The Sanctuary for Distressed Eunuchs.’ Families like ours rented part of one of these temples and the ‘tea-money’ was given to the abbot. It was a charity in a way.

“To get there, you traveled by train up to a point, and then you traveled by pony or even sedan chair. You brought your own servants, nearly all your provisions and such. You brought your own bedding. And the army cots. Army cots were God’s gift to discomfort unless you knew how to sleep on them.

“The temples were always built with the concept of fitting into nature, so you had beautiful views.

“I also remember going to Pei-tai-ho for holidays. It was a wonderful place to go from Peking. (We’re speaking of the early 20s when I was between five and eight years old.) It took three or four days on the train–the train was called the Blue Express and was quite beautiful. But the one problem with going by train in those days was that you were really dependent on the moods of the bandits and the warlords. That’s rather important to remember. It was much akin to what we go through now.

“The bandits could be really quite horrifying. There were several very bad attacks when they took diplomats, missionaries, all kinds of people, off the train in their  nighties or pajamas–whatever they were wearing at night–and took them off into the hills and held them for ransom.”

Local travel within China was not the only sort that the young Diana experienced. She was also lucky enough to experience some international journeys that included two major ocean voyages. She remembers it all with her indefatigable optimism and, as her face lights up in the re-telling, it’s easy to imagine the happy little girl she was then.

“When my father was transferred to official duties at Pearl Harbor, my first major trip was from Peking to Shanghai by train and then crossing the Pacific to Honolulu by ship.

“The journey by train was peaceful–no roving bandits or warlords to accost us. We spent a night or two in Shanghai’s then glamour-and-glitz hotel, the Astor House (Sir Victor Sassoon’s beauty, the Cathay Hotel, was not built until a few years later). Then we boarded our ship, the President Pierce of the Dollar Line–the ultimate in luxury and seaworthy comfort.

“Mother and I shared a reasonably deluxe state room with a steward and stewardess at our service. Wardrobe trunks, shoeboxes, hat boxes, dressing cases all fitted in our cabin. My father had his own stateroom. The skipper of the ship was a friend of his.

“Our first ports of call were Nagasaki and Kobe in Japan–picturesque and of a totally different culture than China. And from Japan we sailed on to Honolulu.

“I remember our arrival there, steaming into the bay, the ship’s band playing, the pilot boat alongside the ship slowly coaxing and guiding us dockside. Another band was playing on the dock. Friends and crowds gathered, waving to us and carrying the beautiful ginger and multi-flowered leis to present us. For a child it was a glorious, emotional experience.

“After two years in Honolulu, we again boarded a Dollar Line ship–the SS President Wilson–to set sail across the Pacific to Shanghai where my father would take command of the USS Pittsburgh, the flagship and Queen of the US Asiatic fleet. Steaming ahead at top speed, the crossing from the islands took about twenty-one days in 1929.

“As destiny would have it, the captain, Hank Wilson of the President Wilson, was an old friend of my father’s. As a result, I was given carte blanche to roam the ship and visit the sacrosanct captain’s bridge but only when accompanied by my father. That was no problem for I thought of my father as a friend, an affectionate and delightful companion despite an overlay of formality.

“The journey was a reasonably smooth sail and I found an assortment of playmates. One or two became my new best friends, others, with no sense of the light mischievousness I enjoyed, seemed boring. I expressed this quite vehemently to my mother and christened them ‘Puddings’–no doubt a throwback to some sinister desserts served to me in my nursery days. My mother was a bit cross with me. ‘Diana,’ she said, ‘that is not a kind remark. Your “puddings” may find you boring as well. Do remember that.’ I never did.

“As we arrived in Shanghai my father’s demeanor lightened up and there was a twinkle in his blue eyes. ‘Diana,’ he said, ‘an officer and two marines from my ship are meeting us to clear customs and immigration. Then we’ll be off and on our way to the Astor House. You’re being treated as a little princess. Lucky girl.’”

This arrival was in late spring of 1928 and there was far more turmoil in the city than would have been apparent to a nine-year-old girl. There had been a severe drought in much of the country, which resulted in widespread famine. Zhang Zuolin, the warlord president of the republic, was murdered by Japanese agents in early June.

Initially, however, life for the young Diana Hutchins was much the same as it had been. It was a little later on that she began to notice more clearly what was happening around her.

“It was as early as 1935 that the first refugees arrived. Shanghai was an open port and the city was kind to these people who had been forced out of their homelands. It welcomed the European Jews escaping Nazi persecution when none of the great democracies did. No visas or assurances of financial independence were needed.

“At that time, it was the tremendous wealth, expertise, and dedication of the great Iraqi Jewish families who dominated the city. The Sassoons, Kadoories, Hardoons, Ezras and Hayims–they were the financial empire builders of the Far East. The British–and all Shanghai Society–accepted  financial advice and invitations from them with pleasure. And it was the generosity, energy and compassion of Sir Victor Sassoon, Lord Kadoorie, Ellis Hayim, and the others that were responsible for easing the plight of the refugees fleeing from Nazi Germany to Shanghai. It was the last open port to welcome these people. The largest Jewish community grew in Hongkew and it remained there until the communists arrived. It was really a ‘little Vienna,’ with cafes and shops, a Yiddish newspaper, and Yiddish plays.”

“And the war was getting closer and closer to us.

“My father died in Manila in December 1938. In February 1941, I married James Rockwell, known as “Rockie,” a Marine lieutenant, also from an old military family, whom I had met at a tea dance. We had returned to the United States but my mother remained in Shanghai. Things became more and more harrowing for her. And of course on December 7, 1941, the United States was attacked and the American ship on which she was to have left China never left. So she never got out. It was that simple.

“For the first months Rockie and I, living just outside of Baltimore, didn’t know anything. We did know that money was frozen, but we had no details about how my mother was. Shanghai was entirely under the control of the Japanese.

“We were in touch with people in the State Department and even the prime minister of Canada, McKenzie King, was involved at the behest of my aunt. But all communication was cut.

“As we later learned, all the Americans, British, and Canadians still in Shanghai, all the ‘enemies of the Japanese people,’ were interned for the first four to six months of 1942. The Japanese required that each wear an armband.  Food and gasoline were practically impossible to come by.

“When we finally got the news that mother was in a camp, we were greatly relieved.

“As I understand from what she told me later, she had been in a large room, a dormitory. It was community living. All was quite primitive–the bath, where you dressed, everything. The food was certainly not luxurious, although there was a thriving black market. Since she was a much older woman, one of her duties was to watch the laundry lines because the women stole each other’s lingerie.

“Near the end of the war mother was repatriated. She was sent on a Japanese ship for three or four weeks with other internees and they went to Lourenco Marques, the capital of Mozambique, which is now called Maputo. Then she went aboard a Swedish ship and sailed to New York.

“When my mother left the camp she said goodbye to the Japanese major who was the commandant. He said, in his English, ‘Mrs. Hutchins, I think you’d better find me a job in the United States.’

“My mother told us it was less traumatic being in the camp than coming back here. In the camp she didn’t have to make any decisions, and she had never lived in the United States. It’s very hard to dislodge someone from the way of life they’ve always known.”

After the war, Diana, her husband, and their infant daughter, Alix, lived in various American cities and then, after Rockie had taken a position with an international oil company, in Venezuela–first in Caracas and then in “a quonset hut in La Salinas,” an oil camp outside of Maracaibo.

Quonset huts or not, Diana’s life continued to have a very strong element of glamour.

“I love parties,” she admits, not surprisingly. “And there was a beautiful one in Caracas when we were living there. It was after the war, about 1949, and it was a bal masque given during Carnival by the Portuguese minister and his wife, Carlos and Amelia Branquinho.

“I had a marvelous costume. The French ambassador’s wife had given me an Imperial Russian officer’s uniform–adapted, of course, for a lady. It had a black satin fitted jacket with brass buttons and trousers like jodhpurs. I wore my own riding boots which were surprisingly easy to dance in. And a lovely white Cossack-type fur hat. And gloves. And a mask.

“Rockie loved doing magic tricks and he went as a magician with a black velvet cape and a mask. He carried a crystal ball.

“Everybody in the diplomatic corps was there, even the president of Venezuela, Romulo Betancourt.”

The couple returned to the United States where Rockie joined General Electric and they lived first in Washington, then in Schenectady, and then in Philadelphia. Their daughter Alix married. Life was comfortable albeit less exotic. Alas, in April of 1965, Rockie died and his widow had to begin a new chapter for herself.

“It was a sad and lonely time,” recalls Diana. “Rockie had had a Spanish mother and was much more of a Latino than his waspy American name would imply. And I felt a little out of place alone and back in America. I went to stay with old Shanghai friends in Rome and then Paris and then London. But eventually I had to return to the United States and settled again in Philadelphia where Alix and I both had family connections.

“Curiously, about four years after I’d become a widow, I once again ran into a man, Manuel Angulo, who’d been a great friend of Rockie’s in Caracas. Manuel, or as I called him Manolo, was an American of Cuban heritage and a lawyer at the international firm of Curtis, Mallet-Prevost.

“To put it simply, we fell in love and were eventually married in New York in 1970.”

From that point, as the wife of an international lawyer, Diana’s life once again took on an international patina. The couple spent a lot of time in Paris, Rome, and Mexico City as well as traveling extensively for both business and pleasure. They were based in New York at a beautiful apartment on Gracie Square.

In 1996 Manuel Angulo died. Diana returned to the Philadelphia area to be close to her daughter, her grandchildren, and now, to her great-grandson, an infant boy named Kai whose mother is Japanese. Her life is comfortable, blessedly healthy, active, and enriched  by extraordinary memories.

“You know, one of my favorite parties was in Shanghai, when I was the guest of honor. It was in celebration of my nineteenth birthday and given by the Italian navy aboard their flagship, the Bartolomeo Colleoni. An Italian duke, Duca Catalano de Gonzaga, was the commander. He was a terrific man, but we teased him and called him the Duke of Gorgonzola.

“We were probably fourteen people at dinner–a mixture of Italians, French, Americans, and a couple of British friends.

“The men wore their dress uniforms or black tie, I loved white and my dress was a lovely white chiffon draped dress, a copy of a Madame Grès. It was décolleté, not too décolleté, but décolleté in the style of the period, which has nothing to do with today’s décolleté.

“We had dinner in the admiral’s quarters and it was a meal I loved: tagliatelle verde, pheasant (you could get marvelous pheasant in China), lovely little potatoes, delicious bread. Then the salad was served, as it was always done, with cheese, as a separate course. And then you had dessert and since I happen to adore zabaglione, we had zabaglione. Then there was the toasting.

“We went to shore after dinner, to the Cathay Hotel for champagne and everybody danced.

“That was an evening I shall always remember. It is part of my heart.”

“Shopping in London now is just like shopping in New York. The same fashionable stores parade on the fashionable streets in the same way they do here.

“It’s all Gucci, Vuitton, Armani, Prada, and Hermès. One or the other seems to pop up on every other corner. There are no more special little places that sell Guernsey sweaters or Irish linen sheets or things that aren’t readily available here. There’s nothing unique, nothing reminds you that you’re in the UK. Harrods and Harvey Nichols showcase the same things you see at Bloomingdale’s or Macy’s in every American mall.”

It’s certainly true that retail shopping has been globalized and that localized panache has gone the way of the manual typewriter. The re-born but essentially American Abercrombie & Fitch now flaunts itself on Savile Row. Of course it’s not the real Abercrombie & Fitch, the one that was on Madison Avenue and 45th Street and that sold fishing tackle with as much reverence as Tiffany sells diamonds. That Abercrombie & Fitch boasted a shooting range in the basement and outfitted Charles Lindbergh for his flight across the Atlantic in 1927.

But thinking about this change in the retail world a little more, I realize that visitors here in New York could complain in much the same way I do on my travels.

Where have all the stores gone? All those places that I knew growing up like the real Abercrombie & Fitch? What happened to them?

For example, B. Altman & Co. was a glorious emporium that stretched from 34th Street to 35th, from Fifth Avenue to Madison. It was the place to find linen tea napkins and decent Chinese antiques, Shetland sweaters and tasteful old prints. Several well-known interior designers got their start in Altman’s home decorating department–a part of the furniture showrooms. There was a men’s department, a woman’s department, a toy department, and a nice restaurant called “The Charleston Garden.” But the store closed in 1989.

In the same part of town was Arnold Constable at Fifth Avenue and 40th Street. Founded in 1825, it was at one point the oldest department store in America. Stern Brothers was at Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street next to Bryant Park. Oppenheim Collins was at 35 West 34th Street and their somewhat upmarket sibling, Franklin Simon, was at 414 Fifth Avenue at 38th Street. That establishment promoted itself as the first retailer using the “collection of specialty shops” concept as opposed to a more traditional department store. I remember it being cheerful and interesting with a particularly nice staff.

When Franklin Simon closed in 1977, the building became the flagship store for W. and J. Sloane, an extraordinary and influential furniture and rug retailer that had moved uptown from Broadway and 19th Street. This was in an area known as the “Ladies’ Mile,” but that’s a whole other topic. Sloane’s sold all kinds of tasteful things to make a home out of a house and, like Altman’s, provided decorating services as well. The firm filed for bankruptcy in 1985.

Further uptown, at 645 Fifth Avenue at 51st Street, was Best and Company, a well-respected survivor of late-Victorian times famous for its children’s wear. It closed in 1971. De Pinna, at 52nd Street and Fifth Avenue, was a high-end men’s and women’s clothier where the very walls seemed to exude tasteful luxury. Once, at about age twelve, I spotted the Hollywood actor James Stewart shopping there in a camel hair coat. I was very impressed. Wow! The man who starred  in Rear Window with Grace Kelly and in Bell, Book and Candle  with Kim Novak was shopping in the same place where I’d found a jacket for Easter Sunday. Alas, in 1969, after an amazing liquidation sale, it too closed.

There was Ohrbach’s on 34th Street and Fifth Avenue, across from the Empire State Building, which I remember as providing line for line copies of the then-top French and Italian couture:  Dior, Balenciaga, and the like. S. Klein at Union Square did more or less the same thing but more cheaply. Gimbels and Saks 34th Street were across the street from Macy’s at Herald Square and were connected to each other by an indoor bridge spanning the street. John Wanamaker, the Philadelphia mainstay was downtown, at Broadway and 9th Street.

Throughout midtown there were fancy women’s stores and specialty shops.

On the northwest corner of 57th Street and Fifth Avenue was Tailored Woman. In his 1988 New York Times obituary, Eugene K. Denton, its founder, was quoted as having said about his customers, “There are those who like simple, lovely clothes and there are clotheshorses. We don’t cater to clotheshorses. I am opposed to the tackers-on-of-trifles, doodads, furbelows, sequins and beads.”

Just down 57th Street, at number 24, was Jay Thorpe where the clothes were slightly more trendy but equally chic. And in close proximity was Milgrim, credited with introducing couture quality to off-the-rack clothes.

In these days of yore there was also Russeks (coats, suits and furs);  Hattie Carnegie (hats and various other garments deluxe); Peck and Peck (the ne plus ultra of the understated and tailored country club look); Martha (with locations on Park Avenue and 58th Street and in Palm Beach, it managed to exemplify both locales); Mr. John (more hats);  and Chez Ninon. Chez Ninon, at 480 Park Avenue, was where First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy could buy clothes that were legitimately made in America. (They were usually designed in Paris and created out of French fabrics.)

And of course for very stylish and well-off ladies there was the lushly glamorous Bonwit Teller on Fifth Avenue and 57th Street with its signature logo of violet nosegays. At one time, Bonwit’s was the only place in New York where you could buy Hermès scarves. When you entered the store, automatic spray guns spritzed the space to enhance the opulent ambience. This was not always pleasant.

Gentlemen had lots of choices as well.

Generally for older, very rich males who enjoyed being upholstered in heavy silks and not-so-subtle tweeds, there were Finchley at Fifth Avenue and 46th Street, F. R. Tripler & Co. at 366 Madison Avenue, and Sulka on Park Avenue and 55th Street. It was said that Winston Churchill, Clark Gable, and the Duke of Windsor all shopped at Sulka.

For those with more conservative taste, there was Chipp, and for traditionally minded gentlemen with more limited clothing allowances, there was Rogers Peet at 485 Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street.That store’s reputation was strong enough to merit a lyric in Frank Loesser’s Guys and Dolls. Adelaide, the ever-optimistic and slightly over-the-hill showgirl is discussing ways to improve men with Sarah, the Salvation Army missionary:

(Adelaide): Slowly introduce him to the better things; respectable, conservative, and clean.
(Sarah): Readers Digest!
(Adelaide): Guy Lombardo!
(Sarah): Rogers Peet!
(Adelaide): Golf!
(Sarah): Galoshes!
(Adelaide): Ovaltine!

Browning King & Co.; Broadstreet’s;  and Wallachs were less-expensive versions of the same thing.

Mark Cross at 655 Fifth Avenue, the shop famous because its owners, Gerald and Sara Murphy, were immortalized by F. Scott Fitzgerald, offered the most beautiful leather goods. For riding equipage and everything to do with horses, there was the very posh M. J. Knoud at 63rd Street and Madison Avenue as well as Miller’s and Kaufman’s on East 24th Street (a block described  by the New York Times in 1975 as “the equine epicenter of New York”). Lewis and Conger at 45th Street and Sixth Avenue was the place to go for smart house presents, barware, and the like. At one time it boasted that it was the only place in Manhattan where you could find beer mugs. And if you happened to be looking for a place to send over a bon voyage basket to one of the trans-Atlantic steamship lines, Charles and Company at 340 Madison Avenue was just the ticket.

Yes, they’re all gone, all the smart shops that boasted of being “purveyors to the carriage trade” and would have blanched at the sight of tattoos or body piercings. But it is somewhat encouraging to know that some old-timers, albeit changed, are still around.

Macy’s is still Macy’s and so is Saks Fifth Avenue still Saks. In the sixties, Bloomingdale’s reinvented itself and changed from a rather frumpy and bland place into the height of hip. Similarly Barneys, which used to be at 17th Street and Seventh Avenue, moved uptown, had several face lifts and became too chic for words. Alas, in the process, “Barney’s Boys Town,” a place where hard-to-fit youngsters could feel right at home, disappeared.

Lord & Taylor is still, more or less, Lord & Taylor and Brooks Brothers, although far more with it than it ever was, seems to retain its audience of people most comfortable in classic clothes. It may have once inspired Ralph Lauren but now Ralph Lauren seems to inspire it.

And there’s still Elizabeth Arden on Fifth Avenue. It is not quite the template for Claire Boothe Luce’s The Women that it once was, but it’s still vogueing there behind its red door. Similarly Henri Bendel is not quite the ultra-smart emporium of days gone by, but it does retain some of its prestige and style. Hammacher Schlemmer at 147 East 57th Street has now become a catalogue showcase store, but the things it stocks–gadgets, hardware, and real Turkish towels–are very much in keeping with a tradition that goes back to 1848. Bergdorf Goodman, that temple of high-end retailing at its very best, is, thank heaven, still very much Bergdorf Goodman and it is bigger and better than ever. Somehow, this store has managed to adapt to the times but still maintain its standards.

Then there’s Abercrombie & Fitch.

Well, as discussed, Abercrombie & Fitch is a whole different ball game. The name may be the same, but customers seeking the hushed and lush citadel of sporting country gentlemen would be more than a little surprised to find nearly naked male models promoting logo-emblazoned tee shirts and tank tops.

Do things really stay the same the more that they change?

]]> http://www.thomasleejones.com/retail-remembered/feed/ 0 http://www.thomasleejones.com/my-three-pugs/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=my-three-pugs http://www.thomasleejones.com/my-three-pugs/#comments Sun, 19 Jun 2011 20:52:19 +0000 Tom http://www.thomasleejones.com/?p=4 A New York Story

On December 27, 1981, when she was eight weeks old, Mame adopted me.

Having thought about it for a very long while, I went out to Long Island to look at a litter of Pugs.

She was a tiny little thing, a ball of fluff slightly darker than her siblings. They all seemed content to stay in their enclosure, but when I picked her up, she looked at me carefully, sniffed deeply once or twice, and curled up to take a snooze in my lap. I was hooked.

“That’s Mame,” I said, having decided on the name well in advance of the meeting.

I knew almost nothing about dogs then; my last one, a black cocker spaniel puppy named Rebel, was killed by a hit-and-run driver when I was little more than four years old. As a result, my parents decided to opt for a stay-at-home cat and I was left to fantasize about Rebel’s proper successor. Oh yes, I got to walk one neighbor’s Collie (thus inspiring a lifelong love for the stories of Albert Payson Terhune) and another’s Miniature Poodle. But the fantasy of having my own dog persisted until I was in my mid-thirties and discovered it was permissible for me to bring a dog to the office. That green light prompted extensive research on the many aspects of dog ownership in a big city and the pros, cons, traits, and personalities of various breeds. The more I researched, the more I became convinced that a Pug was just the ticket.

So on that December afternoon I found myself in somebody’s Long Island kitchen totally infatuated with a creature about which I really knew next to nothing but who was going to have a major impact on my life.

In those days, before Men in Black, Milo and Otis, and the Doritos’ Superbowl ad, the breed was not as popular as it would become and it had already lost some of the cachet it had enjoyed in Victorian times and later, during the social reign of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. That lack of popularity appealed to me, but so did the undeniable style of these creatures who’d been immortalized by Velazquez, Hogarth, and the best of the eighteenth-century German porcelain masters. Kay Thompson’s Eloise, the little girl who lived at the Plaza Hotel, had Weenie, “a dog that looks like a cat.” He was a Pug.

I also liked what I read about the breed’s character, particularly in an essay found in the 1979 edition of The Complete Pug. James W. Trullinger, a celebrated breeder and judge whose own dog, Diamond Jim, won the breed at Westminster in 1940, wrote:

“The peer of all pets, the Pug is to those persons who are truly familiar with the breed the most satisfactory of all house dogs and canine companions. The reason is not far to seek.

“It lies, first of all, in Pug temperament. No breed is more anxious to please, more willing to accommodate itself to its master’s desires and whims, more ready to understand and to obey human wishes. A flighty, shy, vicious, stubborn Pug has perhaps never been whelped.

“But the Pug is no mere goose-stepping obedience machine. His good nature is not a matter of discipline; it is innate. Under that big-eyed serious mien lurks an amazing sense of humor. The Pug sees a joke in whatever is going on, but he cloaks his risibles in a dignity not to be found in most other breeds of dogs. His is a kindly, benevolent evaluation of whatever may occur in the human environment about him. He has our number.

“Always ready for a romp, if somebody else will initiate it, the Pug is not a rowdy. His play keeps itself within the bounds of decorum and good behavior. He accepts, especially from children, indignities and abuses that other breeds might resent with some retaliation. But where Pug loves, he endures, endures all things. He is incapable of anger for the object of his affection….

“Maybe we should merely say that the Pug is by nature a gentleman. That is to say, the male Pug. The bitches are ladies.”

What more could I want?

And I really lucked out with Mame. Although I’d found her through an ad in the Sunday New York Times and not by learning about various breeders or visiting dog shows, she was indeed a perfect Pug. When I read that ad I didn’t really know what to look for, but it turned out that her mother had come from champion English stock and her father, Ivanwold Pistol Pete of Rontu, was one of the most celebrated dogs in America. Breeding shows and Mame developed into a beauty. Excellent apricot fawn color with a hint of the ideal dark trace down her back, full, cobby body, and a perfect corkscrew tale. She exemplified the breed standard multum in parvo,  a lot of dog in a small package.

Her personality also mostly exemplified Trullinger’s description (she and her successors have been known — occasionally — to exhibit an alarming stubbornness), being anxious to please, smart, and amusing. Early on I hired a trainer who taught her at home and she was quick to learn all the basic commands.

For more than twelve years, our life together was special.

We went to work together almost every day where she was pampered and overfed by some elderly ladies in the office. We explored Central Park in all seasons, traveled together, slept together, ate most of our meals together, and dealt with any number of emotional crises (mine) and physical issues (hers) together. We even moved from one apartment to another, which was bewildering for both of us.

She could be

…sneaky. Consider the time I was dressing for a cocktail party at home and I discovered her sprawled under the coffee table devouring an entire wheel of Brie.

…brilliant. Returning from a walk in the park one blisteringly hot summer day, she went over to an air conditioner and barked.

…funny. A Jack Russell Terrier once repeatedly tried to attack her and Mame, big for a Pug and solid like the best of her breed, rolled him over with her paw, planted it in the middle of his chest, and looked up at me smiling.

…sulky. If she’d see me dressing in black tie, which invariably meant she would not be included in the excursion, she would go off to a remote corner of the apartment and hide and no amount of coaxing could get her out.

…devoted. When I broke my ankle and was on crutches for many weeks, she put up quite a battle when anyone came by to walk her.

…and vulnerable. Suffering a serious allergic reaction after being set on in the park by a swarm of bees early one Sunday morning, her expression defined pathos.

However she behaved, she was the center of my universe.

In those days I was really active socially and Mame was a perfect partner in my adventures. We flew to the coast of Maine with Thomas Watson, Jr. on his jet, romped with some Pug pals at their owner’s penthouse atop the Westbury Hotel, celebrated with S. I. Newhouse and his wife at  their Pug Nero’s birthday party, and entertained Gloria Vanderbilt and her two Cooper sons, Carter and Anderson. She captivated Princess Chantal of France and legions of blue-haired Park Avenue dowagers when ladies of that type still could be seen on the East Side of Manhattan. We swam in private pools in the New Jersey hunt country and, as guests of the Forbes family, watched as Elizabeth Taylor and Malcolm descended from a small plane onto the Forbes’ lawn. We relaxed at Anthony Perkins’s perfect little eighteenth-century hideaway on Cape Cod, and had scores of weekends all over the Northeast. At one point I rented a house in Bedford, New York, and we spent lots of time together at a property which was later bought by Martha Stewart in Katonah.

But it wasn’t only in lofty social circles that Mame shined. A homeless man who spent a lot of time near the reflecting pond in Central Park became a great friend and many of the doormen in the neighborhood would stop what they were doing to say “hello.” When I travelled, she often went and stayed with my parents in suburbia where she was the star of the neighborhood despite some initial difficulties (when she realized I had left her, she crawled under a twin bed and wouldn’t come out for more than an hour despite my elderly mother, on her hands and knees, begging and pleading). Everywhere she went Mame generally behaved like a perfect lady and we were always welcomed back.

Dr. Fred Tierney, the wonderful Manhattan vet who has kept all my pugs in excellent shape, recalls that Mame was “one of a kind. She had a swagger, an I-don’t-care-what-you-think attitude. And because she was large for a Pug, she looked somewhat unconventional.”

Interestingly enough, Dandy’s Favorite Woodchuck, the only Pug to ever win Best in Show at the Westminster Kennel Club show at Madison Square Garden was big for a Pug–far bigger than Mame.

Mame was photographed in a surrealist style by Chip Simons, and in an appropriately glamorous way by the photographer from Women’s Wear Daily. She was painted by at least half a dozen artists and there is even a wonderful oil portrait of the two of us looking as good as we possibly could.

Similarly, Mame awakened my collecting instinct and our spiritual and physical closeness was what I wanted to celebrate when I bought my first Pug objet–a Beswick figure. It was followed soon after by a colorful nineteenth-century Christmas card and a parade of things from the ridiculous to the sublime that continues expanding to this day.

Alas, in the spring of 1993 I noticed that Mame’s health had started to seriously deteriorate. Throughout her life she had suffered many health issues but she’d always bounced back and this was mostly thanks to Fred Tierney’s expert guidance. He saw us through any number of urinary tract problems as well as knee surgery.

This time, however, there seemed to be no immediate answer to her problems. She was getting older and she was failing and it was painful to watch. Walks that would have once been anticipated with joy had now become tiresome obligations.

We went through a year of this and all I could do was try to hold her more and tell her that I loved her. Then, on the morning of Good Friday, April 1, 1994, Mame, seated under the dining table, let out a piercing scream and died.

The emotional pain for me was awful, probably the worst I’d ever experienced. I remember feeling as if I were being stabbed repeatedly. Never before or since have I felt such physical manifestations of grief.

Kind friends sent flowers. Carrie Marvin, an artist in London, sent a beautiful small portrait and Victoria Newhouse, wife of one of the most feared figures in American business, invited me to lunch so that I could talk about my loss. The Newhouses were not then nor are they now friends of mine, but I will never forget the empathetic kindness that invitation showed.

The days were long and lonely without Mame. Repeated entries in my appointment book of that time say simply, “I miss Mame.”

Thank heaven I came upon a best seller from the 1930s, The Story of San Michele by Axel Munthe. In this beguiling autobiography, Munthe, a Swedish doctor who lived in Capri for many years, speaks lovingly of man’s relationship with dogs and one section made great sense to me then and continues to do so today:

“ …the life of a dog is so short and there are none of us who have not been in mourning for a lost friend. Your first impulse and your first words after you have laid him to rest….are that you never, never wish to have another dog; no other dog could ever replace him, no other dog could ever be to you what he has been. You are mistaken. It is not a dog we love, it is the dog. They are all more or less the same, they are all ready to love you and to be loved by you.They are all representatives of the most lovable and, morally speaking, the most perfect creation of God. If you loved your dear friend in the right way, you cannot do without another.”

I read Munthe’s words and they seemed right to me. They made sense. Yes, I had to go through a period of mourning, but there would be a time when I would have to find a successor. Moreover, I had a strong feeling that Mame herself was trying to communicate with me from some Elysian fields someplace.

“Listen,” I could almost hear her say, “if you don’t get another Pug people will think I failed in my duties!”

So it was that by the autumn of that year, 1994, I began to read more about Pugs, went to dog shows, and started talking to people I knew who were knowledgable about them. I visited Margery Shriver and Helen Pittinger, ladies long associated with excellence in the breed, and at a show in Westchester I befriended Nancy McCorkle, a lovely Pennsylvanian whose Wisselwood Kennel specializes in black Pugs. I went to the national meeting of the Pug Dog Club of America which was held that year in Louisville, and looked at scores of perfect specimens. None, of course, were as perfect as Mame to my eyes, but all reminded me that I couldn’t stand being without one in my heart and home for much longer.

Yes, I was ready, but since I was more educated about the breed than I had been when I found Mame, I wanted to be sure that her successor was as exemplary. Understandably show quality puppies are not always available when you want them, so I had to research and get in line. Through word of mouth, I heard that a dog belonging to Francis Rover, a man from New Jersey who had the Magic Equinox kennel, had just had several litters of puppies. This was good news, but when I telephoned the number in New Jersey, I discovered that Francis Rover and his puppies were living in Paris!

Now I wanted a Pug, and I liked the Magic Equinox lineage, but at that time the dollar was quite weak vis-à-vis the franc and when that cost was added to the cost of spending at least a week in Paris, well, I thought, perhaps it would be more sensible to wait for a litter closer to home.

The phone rang. It was a French friend calling to say he was coming to New York on business and asking if he could pick up anything in Paris for me.

This particular friend had been a great admirer of Mame’s and was happy to accept the assignment of picking up Mame’s successor in Paris. He met Francis Rover in the Charles de Gaulle airport and was given the tiny puppy who was to be known as Jicky.

(In France, purebred dogs must be given names beginning with a particular letter depending on the year in which they were born. Jicky was born in the year of the “J,” and I decided to name her after the classic Guerlain perfume which I had often brought back for friends who found it difficult to obtain in New York. She, like the scent, had to be imported. Alas, there was already a Jicky Magic Equinox registered, so officially my new puppy was Jicka,  a name which I reserved for moments of strong reprimand but seldom used otherwise.)

Jicky and Francois flew business class on Air France and I am told she captivated the attendants and everybody else on the plane. And when, on October 15, 1994, they entered the arrivals terminal at Kennedy, Francois holding the tiny puppy with a scarlet satin ribbon around her neck, the throng of people waiting for passengers broke into applause.

Not a bad beginning for a tiny immigrant.

I’d ordered a limousine to transport us back to Manhattan and she immediately fell asleep on my chest as the car headed for home. Once again, I had a Pug to love.

Almost immediately I noticed differences between Mame and Jicky. Of course it is always foolish to compare an older dog who has gone to heaven with a puppy recently arrived, but there were some obvious dissimilarities. To begin with, it looked like Jicky would end up being smaller than her predecessor, closer to the breed standard in that regard. She was also far more difficult to train. I brought her to obedience classes at the ASPCA and the instructor there just about threw her hands up in defeat. It’s not that she wasn’t pleased to be at the class–she clearly was–but as far as learning to sit, sit stay or come on command, well, that didn’t seem to be in the cards. Perhaps, I thought, she’d respond better if I spoke to her in French!

Little by little, however, we grew accustomed to each other and if she never became a model of obedience, well, at least she seemed to know what I wanted her to do and to do it in a more or less timely fashion. She, too, started to go to the office with me, carried part of the way in a canvas bag with her name embroidered on it. She was also spoiled by the ladies who worked there. Once, when still quite a puppy, she gleefully leapt from her perch on one woman’s lap to grab (and swallow) a pearl earring. Fortunately, the woman is a great dog lover herself and was only relieved, not particularly upset, when the earring showed up in Jicky’s poop. I was grateful that no internal damage had been caused and the woman was happy to have her earring back.

I wasn’t sure I’d really bonded with Jicky when it came time for her to be spayed. I’d asked Fred Tierney if she would have to spend the night at his office and he responded, somewhat elusively, “let’s wait and see.” Well, the day came and I telephoned as instructed in the afternoon to see if I should pick her up or wait until the following morning.

“I think you’d better come up here and pick her up,” said the good doctor.

“Is something the matter?” I nervously asked.

“No,” he answered. “Just come up here and see.”

When I got to his office, he directed me into the kennel area. There on the floor was Jicky’s canvas bag. And on top of it was Jicky, fast asleep.

“We let her out to pee,” said Fred, “she saw her bag and went right to it. She wants to go home. I think you’d better take her. And by the way, in case you’re still in doubt, she’s bonded with you.”

I liked that just fine.

Jicky and I took the same routes in Central Park that Mame and I had. (Perhaps because she’d been attacked by an off-the-leach Basenji when very young, however, Jicky could be more unexpectedly confrontational than Mame.) We visited different friends for trips out of town. She was a great one for playing fetch and we would play that for happy periods of time until it disintegrated into tug of war. One weekend visiting in New Jersey I had moments of real panic when I thought I’d lost her. The house where we were guests was in the middle of a state park where there were notices of bear sightings and for about an hour, Jicky was no place to be found. The cause for celebration was that, in typical Pug fashion, she had followed the cook and a platter of steaks destined for the barbecue. In the process, she ended up being unintentionally shut up in the garage and scaring me half to death. Nothing like that ever happened again.

The most memorable experience I shared with Jicky was on September 11, 2001.

It was a beautiful day and we’d walked through the park to 72nd Street and Fifth Avenue, where we picked up a cab and headed to my office at 26th Street and Park Avenue South. New York seemed tranquil, a perfectly ordinary day, and we arrived at the office about 8:30 in the morning. Shortly after 9 a friend whom I’d taken to dinner the evening before telephoned with his bread-and-butter thank you call, and while he was calling me he had the television on.

“Tom,” he asked, “have you heard about what’s happening at the World Trade Center?”

I hadn’t, but he explained that a plane had just flown into one of the towers. We assumed that it was a private plane that has messed up and continued our conversation.

Then the second plane hit.

After a few hours of trying to get news and speculating about exactly what had happened and wondering what else to expect, I closed the office. Jicky and I had to make our way home.

There were no taxis, buses, or subways.

We started to walk, but the day had warmed up considerably and by the time we reached 41st Street and Madison Avenue, my Pug was dramatically hyperventilating.

I picked her up, and with my briefcase in one hand, put her in her canvas bag and started to walk the forty-five blocks home. All around us were people who clearly had escaped more immediate exposure to the attack for they were often covered in what appeared to be plaster dust.

Just after reaching Grand Central Terminal some police came running, yelling at those of us walking north to cross the street. It seems there may have been a bomb in the station and our lives could be in danger.

Here I was, surrounded by debris-covered refugees from an attack, too bewildered to be afraid, carrying my Pug and hoping I could just make it to 59th Street. It was like some early Japanese horror film. We kept walking. To 72nd. To 79th. And, finally, home.

I collapsed on a chair and Jicky headed directly to her water bowl.

Although my life certainly changed in big ways after that day, the day-to-day routine for Jicky remained pretty much the same:  two meals a day, two “proper” walks, visits with friends, and occasional games of fetch in the long hall at home.

The following summer a friend and I discussed going to Europe together but decided against it, thinking it would be more fun to go someplace where we could bring both his dog and Jicky. Quebec City had been spoken of highly by many people I knew, so that is where we headed in early August with a few stops on the way.

Looking out of the window at the Chateau Frontenac I had my own “This is the place” moment. This pretty, special city was reminiscent of some of the places I’d visited in Normandy but had the advantage of being on my own side of the Atlantic. Also, in case of another 9/11, it would be useful to have a charming place to which I could escape.

Jicky and I revisited Quebec City several times, loved it more each visit, and began to develop a small network of friends there. We stayed in hotels and then, a few times, I rented an apartment and got to know the feeling of really living there. That feeling was very comfortable and I started, casually at first, looking for a place to buy.

That is how, on September 2, 2005, Jicky and I ended up having a second home, a charming duplex apartment right in the middle of Quebec’s Old City. And we made good use of that apartment — enjoying all the seasons, expanding our social lives, and exploring. We waded in the Montmorency River in summers and trudged through snow drifts in winter. Jicky frolicked in the autumn leaves as we explored little villages and sniffed all the spring wild flowers growing along the Saint Lawrence.

But only a few years later, in the apartment in Quebec, I noticed, suddenly, how old and frail this best friend had become. Jicky had succumbed to deafness a few years before, but apart from that, she seemed very much the same. Even her deafness became a bit of a joke because she compensated very cleverly. If in earlier days she would see me go to the intercom when it rang to announce a visitor; when deaf she learned to expect company simply by seeing me go to the intercom. She was not to be deterred by a little infirmity!

As with all of us, age happens. The infirmities eventually caught up with her and by Christmas 2007, she started also to suffer with a rasping and horrific cough. Medicine was prescribed and the symptoms would cease for a while, but when the effect of the pill ran out, the ghastly coughing would start all over again. It grew worse and worse and eventually Jicky, the most food-centered creature on God’s earth, even started to refuse meals. It was at this time that the daughter of one of my closest friends was to be married in Salzburg. I’d been looking forward to the wedding, the trip, and all the festivities for a long time, but as the date approached and I saw how rapidly Jicky’s health was deteriorating, I decided not to go.  I just couldn’t leave her.

I started to frequent the fanciest gourmet grocers in the area and order the smelliest cheese they offered in order to tempt her and thereby manage to get her to swallow whatever pill was in order. One evening a dear friend and I even feigned having a cocktail hour with hors d’oeuvres so that Jicky might be inspired to act as she always had in the past and beg to share our goodies. For a few days that ploy worked.

Around this time, Fred Tierney and I began to discuss the advisability of ending Jicky’s anguish. He suggested waiting a little bit, that I’d know when the time would be right. That day, after leaving his office with a friend who’d come along to give me emotional support, we stopped for a coffee. Suddenly Jicky noticed a Rottweiler passing and, despite her disintegrating health, had one of her confrontational moments and  barked at that enormous dog as if she were a Mastiff in the full bloom of health. 

Unfortunately that burst of vigor did not last and a few weeks later, on Wednesday, January 9 2008, at 3 p.m., I had to bring her back to Fred Tierney and send her off to play with Mame. Having been through the loss of my first Pug, I was a little more prepared for this experience of sorrow. I ached, but it was a more subtle and general sensation. Still, I started crying at unexpected moments.

At that point I was definite about it. I was not going to have another dog. I was too old. I couldn’t go through the loss again. I didn’t want the responsibility, the expense, or the emotional involvement.

A little more than a year after saying goodbye to Jicky, however, I began to think that maybe . . .perhaps . . .

And then Nancy McCorkle, the woman whom I’d met and befriended at a dog show about fifteen years earlier, announced that she had a five-month-old bitch she could offer me.

“We’ll be coming in for the dog shows around Westminster,” she said,”and could drop by so you could take a look.”

By the time I’d taken a look, I’d already named the new puppy Jane Marple in my mind and was ready for love.

Jane came home with me that night, Friday, February 6, 2009, and apart from the evening she spent at the vet’s after spaying (Fred Tiernay no longer performs surgery), she has been with me every day and night since.

Mame and Jicky were fawn Pugs and Jane is black, but she, too, is a Pug in the grand tradition. No skinny, leggy, hyper-active example of the overbred type often seen around now, but solid, beautifully formed and charmingly stoical. Although she is, if possible, a tad more stubborn than her predecessors, she is also more affectionate. She does not have Mame’s commanding presence, being content to approach life in a more leisurely fashion. And she is never confrontational in the way Jicky could be (except with horses and dogs on the TV, which mysteriously upset her greatly). Until she turned two, she was a jolly, silly puppy, but almost like magic she has calmed down since that birthday. She is now very much a grown-up, the most relaxed, easy, and cuddly of creatures.

Considering my three Pugs, I wonder if I somehow influenced their personalities in naming them.

As Fred Tierney pointed out, “Mame embodied all the traits from the character in the book and movie.  She was unconventional, unpredictable, and inherently stylish.” And when I think about her in her custom-made Goyard collars and halters, her fancy bijoux from admirers, and her stylish milieu, I suspect he is right.

Jicky, on the other hand, with her gourmet taste in food, her opinionated manner, and the dewclaws that had been left intact, was very French. She wasn’t particularly interested in “Society” per se, but nonetheless, she was formidable and eventually very much la grande dame.

And now Jane Marple. She’s reflective, self-contained, and quiet. She prefers resting and observing to getting out and investigating. She is very smart but doesn’t flaunt her intelligence unless provoked. She is small but wise, and there is no doubt Agatha Christie would have used her as an inspiration.

The truth is, I love her as I have loved all my Pugs.