I hope that was an empty bottle, George. You can’t afford to waste good liquor.
Not on your salary. Not on an associate professor’s salary.
Elizabeth Taylor, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.
At midnight on Mick Jagger’s birthday in 1972 I waited for Deene in front of the St. Regis Hotel. We’d been to the Garden to see the Stone’s perform the last concert of their tour. We attended separately so planned to rendezvous afterwards at her hotel.
Deene’s father booked the room for her when she heard the group would stay there. She picked up this tidbit giving Keith a massage in his hotel room after the Indianapolis concert.
Although I’d been to see her a couple of times, that night I could not get past the front door. Not only was the St. Regis hosting the Stones, they were throwing Mick’s birthday bash on their rooftop as well. Security was tight.
From the sidewalk I watched the swells arrive while waiting for Deene. There was no one interesting until this tiny figure alighted from her limo. She was swathed in a charmeuse cocktail dress void of any adornment. Whatever breeze there was in the July heat caught the fabric and made it billow on her 100 pound frame. A deeply saturated apricot, the dress was exquisite.
Ascending the stairs the woman acknowledged us with a wary half-smile and the attitude of someone who’d seen it all. Being Jackie’s sister, she probably had.
Lee Radziwill’s death this week marked the end of an era for certain social graces. She exemplified the upper classes love for glamorous cocktails. When the Princess offered, “you’ll have a vodka won’t you,’ it came with layers of codependent enabling. It was tempered by her Forrest Gump-like presence in high society’s perpetual 20th century cocktail party.
When the cocktail fad started in the 20’s and 30’s she would have seen her parents cavorting with the Fred Astaire crowd. With a Moderne background, they pursued the most esoteric liquors and the most elaborate concoctions with the most exotic names. To stay on top of that ever changing scene was to gain true status.
In the 40’s and 50’s when cocktails became more middle class, the elite hung out at their clubs. With their casual attitude towards working they acted as if they could drink anytime, anywhere, without any consequences. Hit and run accident? Burned down the guest house? The attorneys will handle that.
The first few decades of the craze the downside was never mentioned. Like the billion Muslim women who all voluntarily “choose” to wear the hijab, no one ever seemed to have a drinking problem. Then in the 1960’s the perils were discussed openly. And treatment programs were developed.
In the era of recognition, Princess Radziwill could be found floating on her perfumed barge down de Nile. Usually with her bestie, the shit-faced booze hound Truman Capote.
Rumored to have done a couple of stints in rehab, it doesn’t seem she ever stopped. In the clip of her offering the vodka her subtext is clear: “go ahead, one won’t hurt,” and “you’re hip, you know these things.” Her tone is as smooth as that silk dress she wore.
My life with liquor has been checkered. In Dad’s family there was beer when the men went bowling but none was kept in the house. My Grandma, however, always smelled like the essence of Strohs. With a top note of stale Parliaments and Jungle Gardenia. We didn’t talk about any of that.
My other Grandmother led the local Women’s Christian Temperance Union with an unrelenting advocacy. But she neither challenged nor coerced those who disagreed with her. Her example and infinite patience she felt would eventually win out.
My parents were light social drinkers when I was growing up. More urgency was added in my teenage years.
Then there’s my boozing. Sadly, word count prevents me from elaborating on the topic in this piece. I can, however, mention hooch’s role in decorating my kitchen.
The loneliest part of kitchen cabinetry is the cupboard that juts out above the refrigerator. Sometimes it holds liquor but usually it’s just junk. It’s always under appreciated, never decorated. Until now.
Leafing through a box I found one of Jackie’s White House liquor bills. The perfect piece to hang in the lonely corner.
It’s the kind of historical document/perverse curio I cherish. Visitors can now study the fuel that ran Camelot (in addition to the “B12” injections administered by Dr. Feelgood). And schoolchildren passing through are given an important lesson too.
How can they ever hope to understand our nation’s past if they don’t know what our First Ladies drank?