Eloise was an icon that symbolized my childhood in New York–unsupervised, wild and crazy, lonely, but always, somehow safe and frequently fun. Holly Golightly was the symbol of my mother’s time in New York. The Georgann Rea of the Dakota and Park Avenue, with charge accounts at Bergdorfs and Bendels and Bloomingdales and tables at La Grenouille and Lutece was a creation of my stepfather and his taste and money and also of my mother and her aching desire to have the perfect life she’d always dreamed about–glamourous and romantic and important. She’d glimpse it, grab at it and hold it in her hand like the exquisite jewelry my stepfather bought for her but she’d never be able to hang onto it. Underneath her frosted hair and her little black Italian silk cocktail dresses, mother would always be the Iowa orphan (Loreta May Gronau) and abused little girl from Kansas City (Georgann McAdams) looking for unconditional love and a sense of belonging.
It may seem strange that an eight or nine year old girl’s two memorable fictional icons are Eloise and Antoine Doinel the boy in les quatre cents coups (The 400 Blows) but there you are — my childhood in New York was not usual or often appropriate. I do not remember the year exactly (’68, or ’69) that my stepfather rented Andy Warhol’s house in South Hampton but I do remember that in addition to whip cream fights and swimming and other exercises to introduce Robbie and me to his children from his first marriage, he showed a series of Truffaut movies on a screen in the living room. Mother and Oliver’s relationship was already quite volatile and would get much worse, end and then get better but I remember watching the troubled Antoine as he listened to his mother and stepfather fight and feeling that I knew how he felt. The film ends with a freeze-frame of his face at the beach and it stuck with me through that summer and forever — even as I finished the final scene of Chanel.
It was no wonder Mother had been miserable in the wild west of the Dakota when the Upper East Side was rocking with places like Maxwell’s Plum the original and quintessential singles bar of the late 60s and early 70s. While it may have been unusual for seven and eight year old girls to be seen at La Grenouille, it was probably a bit of a shock for some patrons to find Robbie and me at Maxwell’s. Opened in 1966 by Warner LeRoy whose grandfather was Harry Warner (one of the Warner Brothers) and whose father Mervyn was one of the most successful directors in Hollywood, directing everything from The Wizard of Oz (uncredited) to Quo Vadis and Mr. Roberts to, more germane to my life, Gypsy. Like his father’s film choices, Warner’s menu was all over the place from chili and burgers to wild boar and caviar. And like both sides of his show business family, LeRoy was a showman first and foremost, later taking his larger than life sensibilities to Tavern on the Green and The Russian Tea Room. While I’m sure mother was keenly aware of “the scene” at the bar where Warren Beatty and Barbra Streisand and countless other hot, sexy young people were picking each other up, for Robbie and me, Maxwell’s Plum was a circus of stained glass, Tiffany lamps and large ceramic animals hanging from the ceiling that made it feel like a grown-ups restaurant for kids or a restaurant where grown-ups could act like kids.
In addition to the high style and classic French presentation of restaurants like La Grenouille, La Caravelle and Lutece, 1960s New York offered another kind of “fine” dining experience — the clubby neighborhood classic, often a bistro with sidewalk seating. After my mother divorced my step-father and sold the apartment in the Dakota we moved to Park Avenue on the Upper East Side which was home to many of this other type of restaurant, probably because there were fewer people who cooked in this more rarified neighborhood. One of our regular haunts was the Isle of Capri. It was a “fancy” restaurant but run by a family, the Lamanna’s, who made everyone feel as if they were eating at a rich Italian relative’s house. In 1967 Craig Claiborne validated the restaurant’s local reputation by naming it “the best small Italian restaurant in New York” and giving it three stars in the New York Times. It was the kind of place where everyone seemed like a regular and so, for a while, were we. My and Robbie’s La Grenouille training and matching Florence Eiseman dresses made us pretty additions to the crowd and the simple plates of pasta–fettuccine alfredo was our favorite–and veal piccata we were given made us feel happy and at home.
The number of things my mother Georgann Rea did right as a mother could be counted on one hand with fingers to spare (for cocktail rings probably) but one of them was taking Robbie and me, at seven, eight and nine years old, to restaurants — very very good restaurants.
Her role as a young, glamorous trophy wife to a wealthy older man (my stepfather Oliver Rea) demanded she be seen in all the best places and sometimes with children in tow to prove that she was not just some piece of white trash with great figure and a certain je ne sais quoi men found irresistible.
And while normally she was not above using threats of violence, destruction of prized possessions or limiting visits with our father to get us to do things she wanted and behave as she saw fit, none of these tactics was necessary at places like La Grenouille.
Despite its funny name–“Frog? Why would you name a restaurant frog!?” –the exquisite, jewel box of a restaurant with its elegant patrons and severe waiters demanded decorum even from little girls who may have spent the morning digging for worms in Central Park or running around the apartment screaming like wild animals (provided Mother was out which, of course, she almost always was).
Naturally, all of the hushed politeness and pretty table settings didn’t stop me from trying to order a hot dog. But it did make hearing that that would not be possible from the handsome waiter not so bad and trying Clams Corsini even better and realizing that a chocolate souffle makes even the most wonderful chocolate cake seem like a brownie the best of all.
La Grenouille was opened in 1962 by Charles Masson and is one of the few temples of classic French cuisine from its mid-50s to early-70s heyday left in New York City. Charles McGrath did a wonderful piece on it in the September 2008 issue of Vanity Fair and you may follow the link to read it.
Our tour of Mother’s ’70s London art/society/music life ends this week, fittingly, at Annabel’s the members only nightclub and disco in the basement of the Clermont Club (a casino) where many of Mother’s evenings with Marian and Silvio and members of her ex-pat moms crew ended. The club was founded in 1963 by Mark Birley and named after his then wife Lady Annabel Vane-Tempest-Stewart. It is fifty years old this year and apparently still going strong–drawing the likes of Lady Gaga, Tom Cruise and Brian Ferry just as it once drew Princess Anne, Frank Sinatra, Aristotle Onasis, Ray Charles, Ella Fitzgerald and Tina Turner. It was exactly the kind of place Mother loved and in London in the 70s being a beautiful young American divorcee with money and some talent was all it took to get her in. The expat community was open to Mother in a way society in New York wasn’t and she really flourished there.
After their success with “Summer House”, Mother and Marian Montgomery kept working together and wrote music and songs for Silvio Narizzano’s Las Flores del Vicio (released in the US as Bloodbath). It’s an insane phantasmagoria of sex and surreal indulgence set (and shot) in Spain that was locked up in a vault by the Spanish censors under General Franco. It’s kind of Bunuel meets Hammer Horror and stars Dennis Hopper at his craziest and most drugged out. Carrol Baker’s character, Treasure, sings Mother and Marian’s final song as she dies in a fountain at the end. It became a straight to drive-in and then video release in the US. in 1979 after the reels were finally freed. You can see a clip by clicking on the link.
Mother’s friend, singer Marion Montgomery doing “Close Your Eyes” with Dudley Moore on piano.
In London Mother turned from writing poetry to writing songs with her new friend and fellow expat Marian (later changed to Marion) Montgomery. Marion knew where Mother was coming from. She’d been born Maud Runnells in Natchez, Mississippi, and got the hell out of there as soon as she could and started singing in clubs in Atlanta. Later, at a gig in Chicago, Peggy Lee saw her and convinced Capitol Records to sign her. In 1965 she went to London to sing with John Dankworth (later Cleo Laine’s husband) and fell in love with English pianist, musical director, (and arranger for Englebert Humperdink) Laurie Holloway. The two married and became well known in the British jazz and caberet scene. Mother met Marian at a party and the two began writing songs together. One, “The Summer House”, Marion sang live on the BBC. Another was used in Silvio Narizzano’s (Georgy Girl) film Bloodbath. More on that tomorrow!
Pedro Menocal, Cuban-born portraitist to high society (and their horses), was in London in 1972 when he did Mother’s portrait (featured on the cover of Chanel). He had done our, by then ,ex-stepbrother’s and ex-stepsisters’ portraits in New York so Mother had him do ours as well — me at twelve and Robbie at eleven. It was during the phase between my stepfather Oliver Rea and Mother when they were happily living apart but kind of falling in love all over again. Mother sent a note to The American School and told them Robbie and I were to be called Wendy and Robin Rea in an effort to further lock her self in with Oliver. I supposed having our portraits done by the same artist who had done our stepfather’s other children was another way of strengthening the bond. I would be officially known as Wendy Rea until I was twenty and changed my name back.
This dashing man was Pedro Menocal, the Cuban-born painter who did my mother’s portrait which hangs on the wall of the room on the cover of Chanel Bonfire. Pedro was born outside of Havana in the country house of his Grandfather, General Mario Menocal. He was born into a world of privilege (his family owned sugar and rice plantations) and pursued an interest in horses and art leading eventually to the study of architecture at the University of Havana. Because of trouble with mathematics (I can totally relate) he never completed his studies. After the revolution, he fled to New York City with his wife Magda and their daughter Magdalena. It was in New York that he first started drawing and painting professionally, eventually becoming one of the most popular society portratists (and horse painters) of the late 20th Century. In addition to portraits of international financier, John Loeb, the children and horses of mining king, John Englehard, Jr., and the official portrait of first lady, Nancy Reagan, Menocal did Mother’s, my and Robbie’s portraits. His wife and daughter now live in Mexico City and graciously allowed me to use Mother’s portrait for the cover of Chanel.
