The Autograph Hound (16 page)

“Did you hear about my move? I'd like to stay at The Homestead, but I got an offer that's too good to turn down.”

“That's the spirit, kid. Keep movin'. Don't look back. The wife was talkin' to her dead daddy at the spiritualist the night before last. The old man said to go back to the Tucson Trailer Park on account of her heart. ‘Molly,' I says, when she sprung it on me, ‘you don't have no heart problem.' She looks at me all angry. ‘Dad means my asthma.'”

“It's not easy leaving The Homestead. I was there from the first. Sort of a pioneer.”

“Shit, boy, who wasn't? It'll really raise your dander to see it today.”

“What's happening?”

“Garcia says not to quote him, but Chef's flipped out.”

“Did Garcia talk about me?”

The light changes. Rumsey slaps the reins against the stagecoach seat. “Giddyap.”

The Homestead looks like it's being attacked. Most of the staff's outside waving their hands at the restaurant from behind the gray and black barricades. They walk in circles like Garcia when he's mad.

I've dreamed of being many things, but not a protester. You don't see quality on the hoof.

The line's a real melting pot. Waiters are marching with dishwashers who are marching with cook's helpers who are being led by Jan the cashier at the bar. Their signs say THE HOMESTEAD IS UNFAIR TO EMPLOYEES. “Pass it by. Pass it by,” they yell. They don't really mean it. The Homestead's a brand name. When The Homestead does good, it rubs off on them.

The policeman starts to ask me to leave the area. “He's with us,” shouts Jan. She tosses a cardboard sign over my head and hands me a piece of paper with writing on it.

“Welcome to the wildcat strike, Benny. Thanks to Desi, we've done it. Thanks to Desi, we're organized. If they want rolled butter, let them pay for rolled butter! If they want to alienate labor, that costs extra!”

Jan's working her way through secretarial school. School's where she gets her lefty ideas. She starts to sing “Solidarity Forever.”

“What's this paper about?”

“It's what we're striking for, Benny. We've got a twelve-point program. I just touch-typed it up. There are four categories. You're one of our nonnegotiable demands.”

“I'm on that piece of paper?”

“You're number twelve.”

“Who gave you permission to use my name?”

“Desi.”

The minute she mentions Zambrozzi, somebody hollers “Say it loud, say it proud.” The veins in Jan's neck swell up. “
Desi! Desi! Desi!
” she screams.

Zambrozzi's a great chef. He shouldn't allow his name to be used like this in public. It's all right if it's a food label like Fanny Farmer or Chef Boyardee, but this waters down his by-line.

“Desi wrote the draft,” Jan says. “He's a student of Gandhi.”

“That guy was nonviolent. This is a stab in the back.”

“We want you reinstated, Benny. Can you dig it? We're prepared to go to the NLRB.”

“How long will that take?”

“We could have a decision in three months.”

“That's too long. I need money now.”

“If we close the place down, there's a strike fund. Forty-two fifty-five a week.”

“The Homestead can't close. We stayed open even after the assassinations as a tribute to America.”

“We've got to get it together. Don't you understand?” says Jan. “We've got to get it on.”

I agree. The Homestead's got to get on with business. Jan marches me around in the line and calls me “brother.” I don't get it, she hasn't said more than one hundred words to me in the last year. She must want one of the autographs from my collection—a gold digger of 1969.

A cab pulls up to The Homestead. The marchers push against the street-side barricade. “Pass it by!” “Freeze 'em out!” “Keep going!” Jan starts making a speech about bringing The Homestead to its knees. David and Goliath and things like that.

Inside the cab, I can see that it's a lady. Short blond hair. Charm bracelet. She pays the cabbie and waits for her change.

Who could miss the smile? The straight teeth? The cheeks? The red lips that always look wet? It's Mary Martin—my world record for second acts. I snuck in twelve times to watch her in
I Do, I Do
. I couldn't walk past the theater without getting the Martin itch. I had to have her smile and hear that Texas drawl. Just seeing her—one of the great, alltime money makers of the Broadway stage—makes you happy. It's like thinking nice things before going to sleep, only you're awake. She's always sunny. Of course, it was no use trying to get her autograph then. People crowded in her dressing room until the late hours. Miss Martin's a star from the old school—well-dressed, neat, proper, perky. That's not the style these days. Jane Fonda, Mia Farrow, Vanessa Redgrave—they're all kinky. They wear sandals and swear. They get political and pregnant. Of course, they're still famous and fun to watch, but there's something about the old-timers. They don't pretend they don't give a darn. They don't slouch. All their colors match. What's the sense of hiding you're a star like Dustin Hoffman or Robert Redford or Steve McQueen when you are one?

Miss Martin looks beautiful stepping out of the car. She smiles and tries to pass by. Garofolo and Jan link arms. “Try another restaurant, lady!”

“Get out of the way,” I shout. “Let her pass.” I push myself in front of them—a human shield.

“Don't do it, Benny!” says Garofolo. “United we stand.”

“Jerk. That's Mary Martin.”

When they hear that, the protesters back away.

Miss Martin's grateful. As I get her to the door, she opens her purse and gives me a dollar.

“I don't want the money, Miss Martin. Just your signature.”

“What's your name?”

“Put ‘Benny.'”

She laughs and draws beside her name. That's Mary—bright as a daisy.

“Tell me about your first Broadway smash in
Leave It to Me
. Gene Kelly in the chorus. A show-stopping song. Cole Porter said he loved writing for you and Ethel Merman best.”

“Merman didn't have my innocence.”

“And there was a struggle, right? The hard but good times.”

“I was a kid from Weatherford, Texas. I always had faith. When it finally happened, it was just the way it was supposed to be.”

“Me, too. With The Homestead. I won't let my autographs go to my head, either.”

“Remember what I said in ‘Climb Every Mountain.'”

“I know it by heart.”

“It's the climb that's the thrill. The unattainable … I don't know.”

“People gave you a push up that mountain. A helping hand.”

“Sometimes.”

“Speak to Mr. Garcia. Mention your South American ranch. Tell him I'm a good guy, that you want me to stay here. Tell him to cut the crap.”

“Enrique!” Miss Martin says, turning toward the front door and holding out her hands for Garcia the way she did for Ezio Pinza.

“Madame.” Garcia hurries to her and kisses her rings. When he clicks his heels, the spurs rattle. Some nerve.

“This young man here nearly saved my life.”

“Homestead hospitality, Mr. Garcia.”

“Drinks are being served as usual, Miss Martin. I apologize for this confusion.”

“We live in troubled times, Enrique.” Miss Martin takes Garcia's arm. I start to walk in behind them. Garcia's looking at Miss Martin and smiling. Behind his back he motions for me to stay where I am.

When he comes out, it's not the usual “Mr. Ricardo Montalban” Garcia.

The pickets are yelling—“Two, four, six, eight. Garcia's second-rate.”

“All day. This! Can you believe it?”

“I wasn't with them, Mr. Garcia.”

“Then why you wear a sign?”

“Don't believe everything you read. I came as quick as I could. No hard feelings.”

“Listen to them. The waiters, they call in sick. The hat-check girl, she slow down in sympathy. Zambrozzi only want to talk, no cook.”

“The restaurant's still running?”

“Skeleton crew.”

I take off my sign.

“I don't beat the bush around, Walsh. You know I hate your guts.” When Garcia talks quietly, everything makes sense. “They talkin' a lot about you.”

“I'm only number twelve. I feel so bad I could die.”

“If I could only believe that …”

Garcia puts his arm around me. The kind of man-to-man get-together that Joe and Weeb have, pacing up and down the sidelines.

“I give you three-fifty an hour. That's a big bankroll.”

“Could you make it ten dollars an hour?”

“The bartender, he don't get ten dollars an hour.”

“People can go without drinks, but who's going to clear away their plates?”

“You got me by the
frijoles
, Walsh. Seven-fifty. Three days only. Take it or let it go.”

“Miss Martin put in a good word, didn't she?”

“We need manpower, Walsh. If Zambrozzi, he don't get what he's askin', The Homestead's gonna be hurting. He might leave. We'd lose our Michelin stars.”

“I'll work hard my last three days, Mr. Garcia.”

“You better.”

“The money's great.”

“A jackpot for a jackass.”

The kitchen's a ghost town. There's nobody behind the pasta machine. The faces standing over the plate racks are all new. A few of the regular waiters are showing hired help how to lay a table Homestead style. Zambrozzi's standing over the stove, stirring the soup himself. When he sees Garcia, he puts down the ladle and meets him by the chopping block. He waits for Garcia to speak.

“Walsh, he say he work for the Boss tonight.”

“You've got the right
not
to work, Benny.”

“I want the right
to
work.”

“But you're one of the nonnegotiable demands. If you work, you gotta be dropped from the cause.”

“I need money.”

“They gyp you. They pay you off. They try and frame you. You still want to work here without changing things?
Marrone
, you need awareness!”

“He got the right to do what he wants.”

Zambrozzi turns his back and starts to put on his apron.

“Sorry,” says Garcia. “The maître d' must be a diplomat.”

“We talk at the table,” says Zambrozzi, pointing to his corner.

Zambrozzi speaks first. “I got only one question, Benny. What you want most?”

“I want to get autographs.”

“Can you get autographs now?”

“Not many if I work in the kitchen.”

“We're like brothers. I want to cook, but I can't cook the way I want here.”

“Bullshit. You ask for
piccata
, I get you
piccata
from the Boss.”

Zambrozzi's eyes get wide. For a few minutes he says nothing. He's looking beyond us. Garcia even turns and looks behind him. Nothing's there. “I have a dream.” We pull our chairs nearer and listen closely. Zambrozzi's looking into the future! “Every day I have dozens of food ideas. I wake up thinking the new recipes. Even before I come to America—in Como—I have the ideas, revolutionary ideas. At the Villa d'Este, the chef kept the bouillabaisse simmering on the back of the stove. I told him keep the bouillon and boil fresh fish with each order. You know what the old dog did? He handed me an Italian cookbook and told me to study it. ‘There are ten thousand recipes in here, Zambrozzi, and only one way to prepare them!' The next day I left the hotel. I come to America where things are free and modern, where somebody with ideas gets ahead.”

“And you made a great success—the Capri, Mamma Leone's, The Homestead.”

“No, Benny, that's just popularity. I want the history books to know what I've done. I want to be the Escoffier of Italian foods. I'm as ingenious as Albert Stockli of the Four Seasons. I take bigger risks than Mario of the Century Club.”

“You're mentioned in all the guide books and the reviews.”

“I want to create. Look at Stockli. I want menu power.”

“The chef's on my right hand, the accountant on my left. It's like a stairway. Only one can approach the Boss,” says Garcia. “That's me.”

From his table drawer, Zambrozzi takes out
Esquire
magazine. He shows us the pictures.

“Look at that! Sparkling Coconut Snowball. Apple Messalina. Fiddler Crab Lump à la Nero. Boneless Columba, a Bird of Rome, Stuffed with a Delicate Mousse Trimalchio. Stockli's boss gave him the green light. He send him to Italy—my native land—and he discovers one hundred and sixty-nine dishes. I know these dishes. My father used to sit me on his knee and talk about them. But who can do them in a kitchen like this?”

“But, Mr. Zambrozzi, just this year
The New York Times
said—wait a minute, I'll read you the exact words—they said you were ‘one of the highlights of the New York culinary establishment.'”

“But, Benny, don't you see? I don't want to be established. I want to be memorable. I want to be—how you say?—
avant-garde
.”

“Everybody knows you're a great cook, Mr. Zambrozzi.”

“Tell somebody you cook Italian, they think you make pizza! With a say in management, I create a menu that stands the Cordon Bleu on its head. The things I could do with aubergine and fresh fish! Nothing frozen. Real flavors.”

“The Boss, he always give you what you want.”

“The Boss gives me cans. I ask for tomatoes, I get number-ten cans. I ask for pineapple, I get number-six cans. Could Michelangelo do the Sistine Chapel without paint? Can I cook without real food? The Boss is
stupido
. He's Cornell Restaurant School—he no from the hillsides of Como. He no grow up with zucchini and melons and wild game. If Zambrozzi plans the menu, the restaurant makes money like never before. They come to me like Baron Rothschild and Talleyrand to Carême. I need freedom to cash in.”