Thanksgiving with Ruth and Dickie ... and more about Mother

This posting initially appeared Thanksgiving 2013

THE MILLENNIUM BILTMORE, Los Angeles

Ruth, circa 1932

    The longer I live away from the States, the less resonance I feel with Thanksgiving.  It is such a particularly American holiday, with all of its food and family implications, that when you are out of the context as I have been, living abroad these past 45 years, it is easy to get out of the habit, if not entirely out of the spirit.

Still, I do retain an early lifetime of memories associated with Thanksgiving family meals.   My Aunt Ruth could often be counted on to join us for the holiday spread, particularly after her own children had left home.   I remember how supportive she was of Dickie when he started shining as a cook.

Chef Dickie, starting out at a hash house

  Mother had a real knack for baking cakes, but for much of the rest, she was just so-so.   We liked her food just fine, that is after all what comfort food is all about; but when Dickie came along, that was something else!   

By the time Dickie reached twelve, he was already showing signs of a special talent.  Mother welcomed his enthusiastic participation in the preparation of holiday meals, to the point of gradually pretty well turning the kitchen over to him.  She sometimes had difficulty, however, in totally conceding the credit.

Ruth, Mother’s aunt, had reared her during most of her high school years and afterwards.  She was only ten years older, and although somewhere between sister and mother for her, was still a respected figure of authority.   A career school teacher and known as a stern disciplinarian, she was for years tagged by students as "The Blade."  To describe her as outspoken would be an understatement; she had exceedingly strong viewpoints on most matters.

Mother and her aunt Ruth(r) in the late 1930's

To my brothers and me, Ruth was another grandmother and a special Auntie Mame.  We welcomed her non-conformist ways, compared with the more traditional Pleasants side of the family.  I spent many weekends with her in Southern Pines, and opening tins of pork and beans at any hour of the day or eating breakfast in mid-afternoon was then a special treat.

She knew Mother better than most, and she wasn’t apt to let her get away with too much.  I remember one Thanksgiving when Dickie was just coming into his own, and he outdid himself with a feast of traditional plates to which he added his personal touch to make each dish special –sweet potato “soufflé” (at least that is what we called it in Aberdeen), asparagus casserole, creamed carrots, wonderful coconut cake (though in that department, Mother’s was just as good), and of course the pièce de résistance, butterball turkey with good old Southern-style sage and cornbread stuffing.  

Ruth with the ubiquitous Camel cigarette

 Mother was in a bad humor that year, I certainly don’t remember why, and Ruth’s repeated compliments to Dickie were not easing the atmosphere. 

“This is absolutely the best Thanksgiving turkey I have EVER tasted,” said Ruth to Dickie.  “Where in the WORLD did you learn to cook like that?  Why, you could open your own restaurant.” 



Dickie about that time ...

Mother tried to intercept in order to minimize.  In her very Southern manner, she said:  “Yes, he has certainly been a big little helper.” 


I remember Ruth’s reply, because she had this larger-than-life way of punctuating her ideas, of which I have a clear mental video, even today.   

She could be very argumentative, and had a tendency to take over conversations and get really passionate about whatever she was talking about, frequently jabbing her cigarette in the direction of her interlocutor for emphasis.  She was a perpetual crusader against whatever she saw as injustice, and on this Thanksgiving she definitely saw that my brother was not getting his rightful share of the credit: 

Mother a few years later

“Help?  What ARE you talking about?  Did you say Help? Why, it looks to me like Dickie has done every single thing!"  I can still hear her throaty, gravelly cigarette voice. "Every single, solitary thing, and it is DE-LI-CIOUS!  All I can say is, bravo, Dickie!”  

Mother would rarely declare defeat, but with Ruth, she sometimes realized that to declench further argument would be counterproductive, and I recall her ultimately shaking her head in resignation, in much the way today one might say, “Whatever!” 

Ruth with Mickie (left) and Dickie, Aberdeen 1957

SIDEBAR:  The Biltmore Hotel ... back to Hollywood's Golden Age

1937 Academy Awards ceremony in the Biltmore's Crystal Ballroom 

     Brenda and I found ourselves in Los Angeles a few years ago on Thanksgiving.  We were taking a boat from San Diego which took us around part of Mexico and Guatemala, through the Panama Canal, a bit of Colombia, and on to the East Coast.

We spent a couple of days beforehand at the old Biltmore (now The Millennium Biltmore) in downtown L.A.   No longer quite the exquisite hotel of the stars it may have once been, it has nevertheless been remarkably well kept up, and in recent years increasingly dusted off and uplifted.  



Our spacious room at the Millenium Biltmore, November 2010

The largest hotel west of Chicago when it opened in 1923, there are still an awful lot of rooms to fill; and that means some tempting prices, particularly at off-season moments.

Contrary to what some might think, Thanksgiving and Christmas can be very off-seasonal.  In America there are probably no days in the year when more people go back home, wherever that might be, and that leaves plenty of hotel rooms vacant.

A typically art-déco nook in the Biltmore's bar

  So the Millennium Biltmore had too good a price to pass up, and we decided to stay there before embarking on the Holland America cruise.  Also, they advertised an enticing Thanksgiving meal which was billed as “the famous L.A.bountiful buffet brunch not to be missed!”     

For an old time movie buff like myself, the primary appeal of the Biltmore was its historic connection with the Academy Awards.  It was here in the hotel’s Crystal Ballroom that some of the iconic moments of the the Oscar’s history occurred in the late 1930’s and 1940’s.

The banquet hall where the event took place is still there, intact and in excellent condition.  It wasn’t open for visiting the week we were there (as it was being prepared for some event, probably a wedding reception), but we sneaked in without difficulty.

The Film Academy was in fact founded in 1927 at a luncheon in the Biltmore’s ballroom.  All the heads of studio were represented, and it is said that MGM art director Cedric Gibbons scribbled his design for the Oscar statuette on a linen hotel napkin.

The ornate ballroom is constructed a little like an opera house, with grand, carved columns and Austrian-crystal chandeliers.  The second-story balconies which surround the circular room offer the best viewing point, and the room still boasts a hand-painted 30-foot ceiling. 

As for the Thanksgiving feast, this was our only disappointment.  The food was about as uninspired as you could ever imagine, though the restaurant was packed with enthusiastic looking diners, both tourists and Angelinos.  We didn’t really care; there would be other, better Thanksgiving meals.  

Who knows?  Maybe even one of these days another prepared by Dickie.

Quite a bit of its past grandeur still on show (note ceiling)

Your input is welcomed:  frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr

[Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

"Mother" is also featured in blog No. 46, "Grandmother Vivian, Doc and the Others" and No. 51, "A Christmas Gift ... the little red lamp"; Aunt Ruth was mentioned in the sidebar to blog No. 4, "Miss VFW 1951 at the Stork Club"   (to access, click on highlighted titles).

Around Africa With Brenda

THE MOUNT NELSON and THE VICTORIA FALLS HOTELS

Killer view,  the Delaire Estate in nearby Stellenboch

   

       I have made my life with Brenda for eight years now,  though I actually fell in love with her forty years ago.   That is another story.

Brenda, Kalk Bay Pier

Me, Echo Road, Fishhoek

Brenda has a house not far from  Capetown where we usually spend a part of the South African summer (i.e. a couple of months somewhere between December and March).

We always make it to the wonderful old Mount Nelson Hotel in Capetown, usually for their buffet lunch.  There are finer restaurants in the world, but the Mount Nelson’s Oasis Restaurant still is unbeatable value for money with delicious fish and crustaceans cooked to order.   

Poolside at the Mount Nelson

Opened in 1899, the Nellie (as Winston Churchill called it) is set in over nine acres of impeccably manicured gardens, and it occupies a prime Capetown site on the lower slopes of Table Mountain.  It is arguably Africa's premier surviving hotel from the golden age of hostelry.

The Mount Nelson's iconic pink facade

Margaret is a special friend at the Oasis, and she has many, many other client friends.  The doyenne of the hotel’s wait staff, she has been at the Mount Nelson for well over 35 years, and has seen colossal changes in South African society since her arrival there as a young girl at the height of apartheid.

Margaret outside the Oasis Restaurant

 

She is something of a hotel celebrity just by virtue of her longevity and special personality.  I don’t think I have ever been there when at least one returning guest hasn’t asked if Margaret were around and available for a chat.  She always gives a big hug, and seems to remember each client, no matter how long ago their last visit.

* * * * * * * *

Front lawn, Victoria Falls Hotel

      We traveled north this year into Zimbabwe and Zambia, spending time at the magnificent Victoria Falls, one of the scenic wonders of the world, and we stayed for three days at the Victoria Falls Hotel, historically another one of Africa’s finest.

If I particularly mention Brenda, it is because this trip was her idea and a voyage down memory lane for her.  She had last stayed at this mythic African resort as a little girl during a stopover on a long train and boat journey from Nairobi to the southernmost cape of South Africa.

Bontebok antelope near the South Cape

She recently discovered some old family snapshots taken on the hotel grounds admiring a troupe of visiting monkeys.  To our surprise and delight, while enjoying the view from Stanley's Terrace our first afternoon, we observed a similar troupe of about a dozen monkeys from the neighboring rain forest, paying their teatime visit.

Brenda and friend on Vic Falls Hotel grounds (family archives)

It was a moving moment for Brenda and undoubtedly rekindled many of her African memories from a lifetime ago growing up in Kenya.

* * * * * * * *

Victoria Falls Hotel, room 212

Our room, with a distant, partial view of the Falls, retained vestiges of the grandeur that once was hers.  There were details one might quibble with, but the hotel, itself, and its stunning grounds (not to mention the Victoria Falls setting) nevertheless lent itself to a fine vacation. 

Doorman

The personnel was beautifully trained.  From the wait staff to the doormen to the gardeners, all have had serious training in connecting, communicating and generally making the hotel guest comfortable.

I was a bit touched when I realized that some of the room maids had limited English, but had been taught, when in doubt, to reply “Thank you.”  It seems a funny little detail, but given the general decline in basic good manners –both in and out of hotels—it is reassuring to see just how effective and appreciable a smile and a thank-you can be. 

Main lobby

 

A photo album of the Victoria Falls trip

For more about this year's trek into Zimbabwe and Zambia, click below:

  

Your input is welcomed:  frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr

 [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

Around And About Hanoi

HOTEL METROPOLE, Hanoi

Hanoi street scene 2003, the way it was

      I’ve been to Hanoi on three occasions, and always stayed at the venerable Hotel Metropole,

The first time, thanks to a low-cost United alliance package, followed stopovers in Hong Kong, Bangkok, Singapore and Bali.  For a world traveler I’m not much of an adventurer; my destinations are much influenced by where the mythic hotels are to be found. 

On this first around-the-world trip in 2000, I learned the necessity of juggling some really cheap lodgings with the more costly ones, plus a few guest rooms with friends along the way. 

A city of contrasts ... of cacaphony and elegance and color

  

The off-season summer in Vietnam can be blisteringly hot, and I lucked into a special deal of just over 100 dollars with full breakfast.  The biggest reason for the price was that the trip coincided with the waning days of a major SARS (viral pneumonia) epidemic throughout Asia, and tourists were few and far between.

Traveling alone and paying far less than normal rack rate, I began to fear a kind of discrimination of the poor.  I was afraid of finding myself, if not in a broom closet, perhaps in lesser accommodations than I might hope for.

I decided to reach out to the hotel’s managing director, a Frenchman recently named to the job.  I labored for days on the letter in which I more or less threw myself at his mercy, stating my passion for historic hotels, and making it clear that my means did not match my tastes.   

Explaining that I had long dreamed of staying there before finding  this bargain-price promotion, I pretty much implored him to find it in his heart to put me in one of the nicer rooms in the hotel’s original, historic wing.

Let me be clear, this tactic doesn’t necessarily give any results, but I figure there is nothing to lose, and in this case I was rewarded in spades.  My room was spacious, elegant, and with just the right touch of old-world Asia.  I don’t know that I’ve ever been happier with a hotel, and I let the management know.

First room at the Metropole 2000

It is surprising how rarely clients show their enthusiasm, though positive reaction seems to give a lot more pleasure than you’d imagine.  Those involved in the running of these out of the ordinary, historic hotels are almost always proud and passionate about their properties.  They are usually thrilled to hear that their efforts are appreciated.

 With Brenda in 2008 (above), we were upgraded to club class.  Stil, it just lacked that note of old world authenticity that I had so enjoyed my first time at the Metropole.

* * * * * * * *

Life around the Metropole 1904  (photo Sofitel)

Of  all the world class hotels I have visited, the Metropole has probably seen more ups and downs than any other.  When it opened in the summer of 1901, it was undisputedly the pride and joy of France’s extended colonial empire.

Separate rickshaws for honeymooning Goddard and Chaplin 1936  (photo google archives)

Charlie Chaplin chose it in 1936 to spend part of his honeymoon with third wife Paulette Goddard.   He was purportedly surprised when thousands of local Vietnamese crowded the streets to greet him.  Noel Coward, Somerset Maugham and Graham Greene were among the British literati  spending time at the French hotel in its heyday.

After the French were booted home in 1954, the Metropole began a long slide from its former glory. 

By the time of  the outbreak of what the Vietnamese call “The American War” in 1965, the Metropole was no longer recognizable as a grand hotel, though it still received some foreign journalists, diplomats and peace activists.

Jane (google archives)

Immediately prior to the arrival of Jane Fonda in 1972, soldiers were sent with brooms to run screaming down the long corridors in an attempt to frighten the rats away.  It is said that they were more successful in dislodging the rodents than they were with the bats which continued to soar through the hallways after dark.

Joan (google archives)

Although Fonda is the celebrity best remembered for her two-week visit towards the end of the war, she was not the only one.  Joan Baez also toured the communist capital and gave an impromptu concert, singing for the troops in the hotel’s bunker during U.S. air raids around Christmas of 1972.  The government had constructed an important air-raid shelter in the courtyard, which is still in existence underneath the hotel’s swimming pool.   

Hanoi pagoda 2008, days of the beard  (photo B. Paladini)

 

Click below to view Vietnam photo album

Your input is welcomed:  frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr

  [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

A Momentous Long Distance Call

CLARIDGE’S HOTEL, London

Luxurious living at Claridge's,  if only for a day or two ...  

     

      At Claridge’s, the innovative Christopher Cowdray, the London hotel’s general manager between 1998 and 2004, once inaugurated a particularly democratic program whereby every full-time employee spent a night as guest of the hotel.

Michael, one of the French waiters at the time, was among the first to avail himself of the opportunity, and he and his wife were thrilled with their stay.  They were given a beautiful suite with flowers and champagne.  He told me it had completely transformed his concept of life at Claridge’s.

Christopher Cowdray  (Google archives)

I never actually met Mr. Cowdray, though I have long followed his career with interest, and once I did have a thrilling long distance conversation with him.

I had spent a weekend in London with my friend Marguerite in 1998.  We had profited from one of those unbeatable suite-weekend packages.  It was a period of recession and it was the kind of deal you just don’t find any longer.

Marguerite in apartment 115

  We had a great time, and the suite was spacious and gorgeous.  Then towards the end of our stay we had a couple of oddly incongruous mishaps. 

Exceptional room details

Marguerite had a loose button on her jacket, and we called Housekeeping to request a needle and thread.  We were pretty dumbfounded when told that neither were available.  Coming from a hotel that prided itself on opening up amusement parks at two in the morning for middle eastern royalty, the impossibility of finding so much as a needle and thread was disconcerting.

On our last morning, arriving back from a trip to the flea market, we discovered three men in overalls with their hammers and various power tools spread out over the bedroom floor.  They had removed one of the doors and were in the process of transforming our suite into a larger apartment for the next guests.   Someone had prematurely decided we had already vacated the premises.  

We decided to write to the management, and I set out our grievances with a maximum of humor, emphasizing that it was only my affection for Claridge’s that prodded me to share this less than perfect experience.

Whenever I write, and for whatever reason, I always aim for the top man on the totem pole, though never sure he’ll actually see my missive.  I sent the letter on a Monday to the very top, Christopher Cowdray.

When the telephone rang early Wednesday morning, the excitement was almost too much for me to bear.  It was the managing director, himself.

After profusely thanking me for my letter, he said (and I'll never forget his choice of words) he was “absolutely devastated” to learn of my recent trials and tribulations.

Had Louis B. Mayer been on the other end of the line, entreating me to sign a seven-year Hollywood contract, I wouldn’t have been more excited.  Mr. Cowdray invited me to contact him directly for all future bookings, and he further proposed a highly advantageous promotion if I’d give them another try.  

I felt a little guilty, as I had had a splendid time already, even without locating a needle and thread.  At any rate, my next visit was impeccable, and the suite had its fair share of flowers and fruits and little notes from various managers welcoming me back. 

It was several years afterwards that Mr. Cowdray’s rather brilliant career took him elsewhere, and I must say Claridge’s has never seemed quite as tip-top since.

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


  [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

Christopher Cowdray is also featured in:  blog No. 39, "Living It Up On Park Lane!" May 31, 2013 (to access, click on above title).

INTERMEZZO, Between Hotels in the 1970s

Money, money, money .... but not much for me!

      People have sometimes been skeptical of my claim to modest means, and it is certain that I have, on occasion, chosen some rather costly places to spend the night.    Many would call it living above one’s means, and that may be true.  I think of it more as living frugally when necessary in order to live it up when the right opportunity presents itself.

Among my many vices as a young man was a rather common illness that manifested itself basically in a total inability to handle money.  Until I was thirty, my finances were just about always in a catastrophic state. 

French banks were terrible for my malady, because for whatever peculiar reason, they tended to allow great overdrafts without getting too concerned.  In my case, just as I was entering my fourth decade, my overdraft exceeded my salary.  That meant in essence that I was already stone broke the day my salary was deposited.  It went on for a long time, and as I had never really known any other way of dealing with money, I never expected to get myself out of this permanent financial rut.

But I did.  In fact, I had what might be the equivalent of a born-again experience.  Someone gave me some life-changing advice, and for once I listened.  I can’t remember for sure, but it must have been my bank manager, in which case I owe him an immense debt of gratitude

First, I was told to write down meticulously everything I spent during the month, not to leave a single penny unaccounted for.  I did this, and was astounded to suddenly realize how much money I was spending on magazines that I wasn’t reading, taxis far slower than public transport, not to mention cigarettes and various and sundry extravagances, none of which were giving me the slightest pleasure. 

Then came the clinker, my spiritual awakening:  if I could ever figure out a way to pay off my debts, I could conceivably count on the money I was squandering on rubbish to spend in the future on all sorts of wonderful things that I had heretofore been unable to afford.

I am simplifying a little, but once I reimbursed --little by little-- my wonderfully patient bank manager, I started thinking about what would really give me pleasure, and  I have never looked back, and have never actually been completely broke again.

It didn’t hurt that this coincided with a reasonably good office job at UNESCO.  By now I had stopped drinking, and that certainly didn’t hurt financially either.  


I remember when I quit smoking in 1978 (during my first trip to Taormina), I started a piggy bank in which I religiously deposited my “cigarette money” every day, with the enthusiastic resolution to spend it at some future point on something much more pleasurable.

When I started the art business in 1979 as a possibly money-making hobby to offset a less than stimulating clerical job, I made myself a promise that if ever there were any profits, I would only use them for the kind of luxuries I could otherwise not afford.  And that is what I’ve always done.  These once-unaffordable pleasures more often than not turned into hotels and restaurants.

So if you’d like to buy a charming, inexpensive watercolor from another era, just let me know ... and be assured that the proceeds will most likely find their way into the coffers of some grand hotel.  Or perhaps another lunch at the Ritz when it ever reopens.    

Mid-Seventies me (photo Martin Woods)

Your input is welcomed:  frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr

[Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

Danny, the Night Porter ...

THE GRITTI PALACE, Venice circa 1990 
 
 

Anonymous oil of the Grand Canal (collection Marion Vu Dinh)

   

     On one of my early stays at the Gritti, I had a wonderful package which included full breakfast and lots of perks –flowers and wine and cheese and fruit.  It was the week before Christmas and I was one of their rare clients.  Everywhere I turned the staff amazingly called me by name.  I honestly wondered if they didn’t have cue cards hidden behind their work stations.

The Gritti, Christmas 1992

The first night I enthusiasticly set out with my special Gritti pass for the grand old municipal casino.  When I tried to withdraw $100 from a nearby money machine  I watched in horror as a message flashed in Italian informing me that my card had been SWALLOWED !

Returning to the hotel, broke and dejected, I hinted to the management side about an advance to be added onto my bill.  This was met with a politely chilly fin de non-recevoir.

Concierge's corner

My first room at the Gritti

Now, you understand the executive branch of luxury hotels is there to manage the accounts, and they don’t always have too much contact with the guests.  The concierge staff, on the other hand, is there primarily to serve, to make everyone happy, and in the process make as much money as they can.

The night concierge was a roly-poly, ever-smiling career man who had truly found his calling.  He looked much like a younger Danny de Vito and plied his trade with enthusiasm and joy.

The real Devito (google photo)

Observing the unsuccesful encounter with the director and sensing my drama, he discreetly asked how he might help.  “You probably can’t,” I said, “unless you have the keys to the bank.”

He understood everything without my needing to explain further.  “How much do you need?”  he asked with a twinkle.  “One hundred?  Two hundred?”  

Apparently the concierge staff keeps its own cash box for just such “investments.”  I can no longer remember the sum, but it was a reasonable godsend, and he seemed thrilled to pack me off to the casino.

The Venice Casino, housed in the elegant 15th century Palazzo Vendramin

I only played black jack at the time (I later gave up all gambling when I woke up to the realization that I was much too poor to lose).  On this particular evening I managed miraculously to play for a couple of hours before leaving with precisely the same amount with which I had arrived.

I had been churning over in my mind just what sum would be an appropriate tip.  The problem was temporarily resolved, as on my return I had no choice but to report that I had neither won nor lost, and could only return the loan which I did poste-haste.

Having recovered my bank card the next morning, I planned to leave a gift, but Danny was nowhere to be seen, and I am none too proud to admit that I didn’t look too diligently for him.

The following year, returning from the casino well after midnight, I found Danny at his post.

“Do you remember me?” I asked.  It was one of the rare times I had actually won a nice sum, and I was quite exhilarated.  “And do you remember loaning me the money last year?” 

“Indeed I do,” replied Danny, breaking into a big smile.

“Tonight I won 400 dollars,” I said, “so here is half for you.”

Gianni

I later wondered if  I had perhaps been a bit excessive. 

On my next visit to the Gritti, however, I had reason to be really satisfied with my gesture.   When I asked Gianni, the head concierge, why I had not seen “Danny,”  he explained that the hotel was in mourning, because the much loved night porter had recently been discovered dead at his post, having succumbed to a heart attack in the early hours of the morning.  He was only 48.  

      

A fading photo album of my first Venetian memories

 Here are a few photographs from my first trip to Venice in the mid-seventies.  They were taken in November, and the grain and fading colors now tend to enhance the drama of my first impressions of this supremely grand canal city.

I have known Venice under every season (except the height of summer, which is surely to be avoided if possible).  These photos reflect my favorite season, Winter.  It can be bitterly cold, but unlike Paris, there is often a vibrant winter sun.

Whatever the light or whatever the temperature, Venice remains a city of great mystery and elegance.

 




 





A city of canals is also a city of bridges....

Pigeons on the Piazza San Marco

My first Venice hotel was a nondescript walkup without lobby, with 

 view on the back of an old church.  Doesn't sound like much on paper!

 Your input is welcomed:  frank.pleasants@libertysurf.f

 [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]