34 - Remembering Diana Dors

THE DRAYCOTT HOTEL, London, and the GEORGE V, Paris

Classic Diana Dors circa 1954 (RKO)

She was widely known as the British Marilyn Monroe.  I wonder how many people today even remember Diana Dors, the hugely popular movie star of the 1950’s.  

Before I begin, let me point out that I never actually met Diana Dors.  Our paths did cross, however, and on several occasions.  

A popular Dors at the Cannes Film Festival 1955 (Corbis photo)

I remember once seeing a photo which captured magnificently the 20^th century phenomenon of celebrity and paparazzi.  It was a black and white shot showing D.D. arriving at the Venice film festival.  She was riding in a gondola, wearing a mink bikini.  The photo showed hundreds of photographers hanging off buildings and in every conceivable location to capture the blonde actress during her 15 minutes of superstardom.

By 1969, D.D. was becoming decidedly blowsy, and her film stardom was pretty much in the past.  She had great resilience, however, and made a serious comeback that year on the London stage in a highly successful comedy-drama "Three Months Gone" at the pretigious Royal Court Theatre.

With husband Alan Lake 1968 (AP)

Happy couple

  She had recently married Alan Lake, a former truck driver and sometime-actor with a penchant for brawling which would on occasion land him in prison.  He was at least a dozen years her junior (her own age was never clearly established), and  bookmakers gave the marriage, her third, poor odds. 

I had requested an interview, and the theatre’s press person arranged a meeting at the Draycott Hotel around the corner from the Sloane Square theatre.  The interview was scheduled after the evening performance.  I had already seen the show, and had a few drinks with friends before heading for my rendez-vous.  I was thoroughly irresponsible in those days, and I arrived at the hotel’s little bar ten or fifteen minutes late.

 

The Draycott Hotel today (Draycott photo)

 Miss Dors had wasted no time hanging around, and rightly so, the interview consequently coming to nil.  The next morning the press lady called to see how the encounter had gone.  I told her the star had not appeared, neglecting to mention my own tardiness.  “That bitch,” she snapped.

Even then I felt guilty at my singular lack of honesty.

 [D.D. was once quoted as complaining about the inefficiency of her publicity agent (it probably wasn’t the same lady, though it could have been).  She caustically quipped to a journalist, “A shame she wasn’t doing publicity for poor old Johnny Gielgud when he was arrested.  That way, it could have all been kept hush-hush.”  She was referring to the widely publicized scandal provoked by the arrest of actor John Gielgud for what was then illegal sexual conduct.]

Early British poster (Hammer Films)

* * * * * * *

 More than a decade later, walking up the Champs-Elysées in Paris one Sunday afternoon, I noticed a seriously overweight woman attracting a lot of attention.  She was dressed in a tight, red dress with inappropriately plunging cleavage,  inappropriate for both her age and her weight.  Her shoulder-length hair was platinum white, and she was wearing full stage makeup and then some.  I suddenly realized it was Diana Dors.

She was accompanied by the same husband, and despite the poor odds, they still seemed  devoted to each other.

The later years... (google)

 They were window-shopping in one of those arcades for tourists.  A little crowd had gathered around, but it had nothing to do with Diana Dors, the movie star, who was by now quite forgotten … at least in Paris.   

Bystanders were staring because the old girl was so grotesquely over the top.  I felt deeply sad for her, although she seemed happy enough, and her husband looked at her as though she were still the glamour girl of bygone days.

They were on the way back to their hotel, the George V, (now a Four Seasons), which for most of the 20^th Century was -- like the Savoy in London -- the Parisian hotel most favored by actors.  I heard them discussing the route to take, as they may have been slightly lost.

The Four Seasons George V today

I was tempted to offer assistance.  I really wanted to tell her that I recognized her, that I had admired her work on the stage that time in 1969.  That I remembered the extraordinary photo of her in the mink bikini.  I know she would have liked the recognition, but regretfully I said nothing.

I watched them walk away, hand in hand, and then turn down Avenue George V towards the hotel.

Diana Dors died of cancer the following year.  She was still news back in England, and most of the papers carried her obituary on the front page.  The pundits had declared that the marriage would never last.  In truth, Alan Lake couldn’t live without her.  He put a bullet through his head soon after her funeral.

Arrival Cannes Film Festival with Ginger Rogers 1955 (Google)

      SIDEBAR:  The Royal Film Premiere of “Staircase”                           

 (the Taylor-Burtons, Princess Margaret, and another glimpse of Diana Dors)

"Staircase" poster.  It got a lot of attention, but the film flopped!

I did run into Diana Dors again, though only from afar.  It was the Spring of 1970, my last months in London, and I found myself at the Royal Premiere of Staircase, a  Stanley Donen  film starring Richard Burton and Rex Harrison.

Some top director at UPI had been invited to the formal reception preceding the film.  Indifferent, he had left the single invitation up for grabs in the newsroom ...  just in case someone might wish to go. 

The Burtons about the same time (Google)

 As no one else showed any interest, I was only too happy to rent the mandatory tuxedo, and set out for the Odeon Cinema off Piccadilly Circus.  I never expected the invitation to entitle me to anything other than admittance to the film, so I was astounded to find myself with a handful of VIPs in a tiny roped-off red carpet area alongside the Taylor-Burtons, Princess Margaret, the grand old stage actress Cathleen Nesbitt (who played Burton’s mother) and various cinema executives. 

I didn’t actually have any conversation with any of the aforementioned celebrities, but I thoroughly enjoyed sipping champagne while listening to them talk to each other. 

Princess Margaret (Corbis Image)

  Princess Margaret to Elizabeth Taylor:  “Is this the new diamond everyone’s talking about?”

E. Taylor to Princess M.:  “Oh, no, the new one is so much nicer, but the insurance people won’t let me wear it yet.”

Anonymous film executive to R. Burton:  “Will you be staying in London long?”

R. Burton to anonymous:  “We live here actually.  We’re keeping our apartment at the Dorchester, at least until the summer.”

The whole little pre-film reception shouldn’t have lasted more than 15 minutes, but as the Taylor-Burtons were delayed for about three quarters of an hour (they were driving in from Switzerland that day), I had the added bonus of listening to  various snide comments about their tardiness.  Princess Margaret waited in a private office until they made their entrance, but her husband, Lord Snowdon, made repeated, irritated enquiries about the stars’ whereabouts.

When the famous couple finally did arrive, Princess Margaret initially seemed frosty, but E. T. was so exquisitely beautiful and so supremely gracious that everyone seemed to melt before her charms.

During that time I saw a number of lesser celebrities herded behind a plexiglass barrier, up a stairway into the cinema.  One of these was Diana Dors, whom I vividly remember being pushed back away from the little VIP area.  She was laughing loudly and craning her neck, none too discreetly trying to get a glimpse of Liz and Richard and Margaret …. and me.

Liz and partial view of Richard ... and THE diamond (AP)

-o-

Your input is welcomed:  hotel-musings@hotmail.fr

Next Friday:  "Hollywood on the Hudson"

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

The Taylor-Burtons were also featured in:  blog No. 20, "Decafeinated coffee ... in Hungarian?" Jan. 11, 2013 (to access, click on above title).

  

33 - Breakfasts in the 1970's

THE SHERRY-NETHERLAND, New York, The PLAZA ATHENEE, Paris, etc.

View of Manhatten at dawn, arriving  from the sea 2009

 

Ann came back from her first trip to the States in 1976 deliriously pro-New York.  She liked everything about it, even in those violent, dirty days of the Big Apple.

One of her prime discoveries was the New York City breakfast.  Not the diner variety (which I tend to prefer nowadays), but the kind you find in a grand hotel.

Ann around 1978

Someone had invited her to the Sherry-Netherland on 59^th Street, and breakfast there was an eye-opener.  At the time, the Sherry’s breakfast room was on a circular mezzanine overlooking the main lobby area;  Ann's description of watching the animated comings and goings below of luxury hotel life, while enjoying a tasty breakfast, conjured up a glamorous world to which I had never before given much thought.

 Back in Paris, she recounted how anyone could just walk into the best hotels in New York, have a cup of tea, a wander around, or even stay for scrambled eggs. We decided to try some of the Parisian hotels for our own little breakfast survey.  Hemingway got there first, but we liked to call it our moveable feast.

Other than in Anglo-Saxon countries, eggs and bacon are not the normal morning staple.  Except in the smarter hotels, that is, and there it is often a point of honor for the chef to sparkle his “English” at breakfast time.

We launched our outings with what was then still considered to be the best America had to export --the Hilton and the Sheraton.  They were both shamefully disappointing:  cold toast and heavy, lumpy eggs, it was so dismal that we almost abandoned the whole Paris breakfast project.

Me 1978, the year I quit smoking (photo Martin Woods)

Fortunately we persevered, and it was in this manner that I first started to learn about life in the Paris Palaces. 

The power breakfast had not yet arrived in the French capital, and our presence was sometimes looked upon as a real oddity.  No one seemed to waltz in from the street like us in those days.  We were sometimes greeted a little like Martians, but usually as welcomed ones.

Ann 1976

 It often took a bit of nerve walking in for breakfast.  There was never a direct street entrance, but at any rate I wanted the chance to explore the hotel lobbies, and we also always tried to reconnoiter the toilets for future information.

When inevitably asked for our room number, Ann (whose French was much more polished than mine) taught me a rather elegant expression that vaguely translated as “just passing through.”  I felt it gave me an extra bit of self-assurance.

It was thus that I got to know a little of the Bristol, the George V, Prince de Galles, Le Crillon, the Ritz and many others.  It was not cheap.  In the beginning nearly 40 years ago it cost close to eight dollars.  A lot of money in those days, but still cheaper than anything else up for sale at those hotels.

The Plaza Athenée's flower-bedded facade 2012

Of all our outings, only the Plaza Athénée let us down with an unwelcoming greeting.  We had arrived on a 14^th of July, the French national holiday, and the hotel and restaurant were packed.  We were already seated when an important Arab trade delegation began to pour in, taking every other available seat.

Franchot Tone (Google)

The staff was probably taken unawares, and a harried, crotchety old maitre D' (picture an older, belligerent Franchot Tone) asked for our room number.  When I tossed out my prepared catchphrase about “just passing through,” old Franchot Tone gave us such a condescending, withering glare that it took real wherewithal to survive it.

Long before we were even thinking of leaving, he was back with the check.  With a look of supreme exasperation, he virtually snapped his fingers in impatience.

 Ann and I both felt singularly unloved.  I ultimately wrote to the managing director about our failed outing, and we were invited back, compliments of the house.  This time the restaurant was almost empty, Franchot Tone was nowhere to be seen, and the food beyond reproach.

Still, it’s that earlier, less successful breakfast that I remember best!

 SIDEBAR:  Hotel dining rooms

Lunch at the Meurice. Paris

Ever since the arrival of Auguste Escoffier at the London Savoy around 1890, hotel dining rooms have held a special place in the world of fine cuisine. 

In recent years top hotels around the world have engaged in a fierce bidding war to hire the finest, award-winning chefs.  It has become a necessary note of prestige for a really fine hotel to engage a star in the kitchen.

Tea time at the Mount Nelson, Capetown

Pastry shop at the Savoy, London

Lunch at Apsleys in the Lanesborough Hotel, London

 In contrast to "normal" restaurants, grand hotels don't necessarily have to make a profit on their food.   It is but one of the many facets of a hotel's personality, designed to attract paying guests and to bolster the overall reputation of the establishment.

Sunday lunch at the Negresco, Nice

 Since the turn of the 21st century, hotels have increasingly counted on outside diners to both help balance the budget and to add a little diversity and ambiance.

Tea at the Mount Nelson, Capetown

As luxury  hotel dining rooms can be intimidating to many, management has devised a  number of ways to attract a more democratic (i.e. less rich) clientele.  In addition to the "power breakfast" --early morning, high powered business meetings over breakfast-- or the increasingly popular money-maker, the afternoon tea, there is the lunchtime "businessman's menu," and it is this that I have almost exclusively availed myself of.  

Here are a few memorable and photogenic dishes from hotel lunches in recent memory. 

 

Game pie at the Negresco

Fish dish with beets and spinach, Negresco

Shrimp in cream sauce, Negresco

Vanilla soufflé and ice cream at the London Ritz

Mount Nelson tea buffet, Capetown

Olive-crusted lamb, The Lanesborough

Tempura di scampi at the Lanesborough

Scallops at l'Hotel, Paris

Chocolate cherry dessert, Le Meurice. Paris

Your input is welcomed:  hotel-musings@hotmail.fr

Next Friday:  "Remembering Diana Dors"

  [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

Ann was also featured in blog No. 5 "Room without bath," 28 Sept., 2012; No. 20 "Decaffeinated Coffee in Hungarian?" 11 Jan. 2013, and No. 28 "Rue des Beaux-Arts."  The Sherry Neverland was the setting for part of blog No. 53 "Looking For Carlotta" 24 Jan. 2014  (to access, click on titles)

32 - Margaret at Le Cirque, encounter with a bully!

THE MAYFAIR REGENT, New York City

(and LA COTE ST JACQUES, Joigny, France)

Solange, Mayfair Regent 1988

My friend Michel Lorain inherited an inn in the little town of Joigny which he eventually turned into an internationally acclaimed Michelin three-star restaurant and luxury hotel, La Cote St. Jacques.  I started going there over thirty years ago when it was still a country inn, though already with an award-winning restaurant. 

Boulud today (Google photo)

When Daniel Boulud, the French chef who became a culinary star in New York City, first began garnering media attention, I learned he had been mentored by Lorain.  Early in his career, Boulud became chef of the New York celebrity restaurant Le Cirque, and he transformed it briefly from a kind of neo-Stork Club to New York’s premier eatery.   

The Gault-Millau guide was publishing its first English language edition rating New York restaurants (and awarding its top accolade to Le Cirque), and Lorain was invited to assist Boulud in a week of media-oriented festivities to publicize both the guidebook and the restaurant at the Mayfair Regent Hotel just off Park Avenue.    

Lorain at work 1984

 I happened to be at La Cote St Jacques soon afterwards, and Lorain was chattering away about his first contact with New York City. Whereas he saw the culinary arts as something approaching a religion, he was amazed to see Le Cirque filled with society matrons in elaborate hats, ordering mini-lunches of martinis and salad.  He recounted his adventure as though he had unexpectedly landed on another planet.  He had been particularly taken with appearances by Kitty Carlyle and Bess Myerson.

Lorain urged me to give Daniel’s food a try if I found myself in New York.  I explained that French food in New York was  too expensive and never quite as good as in France, and at any rate Le Cirque had become too “in” for me to even manage a reservation.

“Nonsense,” he retorted.   “I’ll write you a note, and tell Daniel what a serious lover of fine food you are.  He’ll be delighted to meet you.”

Breakfast! (Photo M.Page)

Margaret at the Mayfair Regent

  So some time later I found myself with my childhood friend, Margaret, settled into a special promotional weekend at the Mayfair Regent, then one of New York’s better hotels (It has since bit the dust, but at the time housed the aforementioned Le Cirque restaurant, as well as guests the likes of Sophia Loren and the King of Spain).

The reason this story has remained such a vivid memory almost 25 years later is that it gave me an unexpected example of the very best and the very worst of a New York celebrity restaurant.  

Margaret a few years earlier

Having sent Lorain’s letter along with one of my own to Daniel, I explained we would be staying at the Mayfair and requested a reservation in his restaurant for one of our evenings.  Upon arrival, a note from the young chef awaited,  proposing the day and the hour of our culinary rendez-vous.

Me again in Suite 318, The Mayfair Regent  (photo Margaret Page)

 Margaret and I arrived at Le Cirque in all our appropriate finery.  We were met by the host-maitre d’hotel, who unlike his equivalent in Parisian restaurants, seemed fairly disconnected from either the kitchen or the wait staff.  His job appeared to have more to do with spotting recognizable faces, blowing air kisses about the room, and having great jovial conversations with some of his favorites.  It was immediately clear that Margaret and I were not to be among that happy few.

We were met with an absolute scowl, and told in a decidedly brusque manner to stand away from the door, that nothing was yet available.

After a few awkward minutes the same gentleman showed us to a faraway table, almost in the kitchen, pushed menus at us, and with no preliminary niceties, pulled out his pad to take our order.   He really seemed to find us somehow unworthy.   I have to say I was intimidated, as was Margaret.  We ordered too quickly without quite knowing what we were getting.

That was fortunately the last we ever saw of the host.  I never understood what had so displeased him or exactly who he was. 

A young French waiter soon came over with our first course.  He kept staring, as though something were bothering him.  “Excuse me, but you are not Monsieur Lorain, by any chance?” he queried.  The question didn’t even seem strange, given the overall surreal happenings heretofore.  “No,” I said.  But I do know him well.”

With that, he called over a colleague, who asked if I might possibly then be Monsieur Pleasants.  As we finally straightened out who I was, they began excitedly chattering away in French, leaving my friend Margaret bewildered, though she surely surmised that things were on the up and up.

Our table was soon surrounded by Daniel’s team, who explained they had not been informed of our arrival, but had in fact been waiting with a special meal prepared in our honor.  From that moment on, it was like a flock of nimble birds flying around us, whisking our poorly chosen first course out of sight and replacing it with a procession of mouth-watering delicacies.  We couldn’t have been more spoiled.  Daniel, himself, soon came out to wish us well.

There is no moral to this story, as we never understood what had happened --neither why our visit turned out to be quite so appreciated, nor why we had initially been so rejected.  It was a lesson in two absolute extremes. 

I do think attitudes have changed in the intervening years.  As always was the case in France, the cook has now become the star and often the owner.  I think the staff of really top restaurants in New York today are taught, as they are in Paris, to expend maximum energy making every client feel important and comfortable.  At least I hope so.

WHERE IT ALL BEGAN --The ex-Mayfair Regent is now a luxury apartment building.

 Boulud (who today owns 12 restaurants) bought much of the ground floor of the
1925 structure to house his 3-star Michelin restaurant Daniel's (Google photo).

SIDEBAR:  Ruth Reichl and Sirio Maccione at Le Cirque

 

Undated portrait of Sirio Maccioni (Google photo)

Just as I was putting the finishing touches to the above posting, I made a startling discovery.

I had long suspected and kept locked in a little corner at the back of my mind that our unfriendly greeter at Le Cirque that night might well have been none other than its controversial owner Sirio Maccioni.

While doing some google researching for photos of the old Mayfair Regent Hotel, I came upon one of Maccioni, and it definitely started ringing a few bells.

Then I uncovered several articles of the period. One referred to the Italian owner-host and former waiter's «notorious snobbery.»

An old New York Times piece reminded me of Maccioni's «talent for letting unimportant guests know exactly where on the social ladder they stood.»  Ouch!

Ruth Reichl 2011 (Ad World photo)

 Ruth Reichl, one of New York's star food critics, created a huge buzz at the beginning of her career when she famously reviewed Le Cirque in the early 1990's from two vantage points: 1) as a society/celebrity insider «coddled with foie gras and majestically attentive service» and 2) as the nobody-diner (Margaret and I) «shunted into the smoking section and treated with indifference bordering on contempt.»

Her description of Maccioni's intimidating reception on her first visit left little doubt to the identity of my own «aggressor» when I had been there with Margaret a few years before.  Asked if she had a reservation, «it was said so challengingly, I instantly felt as if I were an unwelcome intruder who had wandered into the wrong restaurant.»

So now I know, the culprit was Maccioni.  He was, in fact, a famous snob and bully, and I somehow breathed a sigh of relief in discovering his identity. 

 It's a little like closure.

Your input is welcomed:  hotel-musings@hotmail.fr

Next Friday:  "Breakfasts in the 1970's ... lunch a few years later"

  [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]