tables and faded menus into the most coveted reservation in the city, with celebrity clients and lines around the block. And he routinely closed down restaurants with a single, cutting review. He always ate under an assumed name, to avoid preferential treatment. And in recent years he had begun to wear a disguise, just in case a clever maître d’ kept his photograph on hand.
On Tuesday, three days after Elliot’s expulsion from the Winchester, he had James call the restaurant. Speaking in a whisper, James told the maître d’ that he was an intern at
The New York Times
and that Alston Bertels would be coming to the Winchester in the near future. He had reviewed it favorably thirty years ago, James told the spellbound maître d’, and he wanted to see if its quality had remained consistent. In exchange for a complimentary meal, James said, he would tell the maître d’ which assumed name Bertels planned to use and the disguise he planned to wear. The maître d’ promptly agreed to the proposal.
“He’s coming on the twenty-second,” James whispered. “He’ll be wearing a full beard. And he’ll make the reservation under the name Dan Lubecki.”
The maître d’ hesitated.
“Like…the Nazi? Who’s getting out of prison?”
“Yes,” James said. “Alston has an unusual sense of humor.”
The maître d’ asked James to repeat the information to makesure he had heard it all correctly. Then he asked him for his name so he could arrange his complimentary meal.
“I can’t tell you that,” James said. “If anyone finds out I leaked this, I’ll get fired.”
“Well, I’ll need to put
something
in the reservations book.”
“I understand,” James said, reading the final line of Elliot’s script. “Just call me ‘Hal Sagal.’”
• • •
“Hal Sagal? Who’s that?”
Elliot wrote it down on a cocktail napkin, with large spaces between the letters. It took me a while, but eventually I was able to rearrange them.
“Oh,” I said.
“Allagash!”
“I know, I know,” he said. “Anagrams are trite. But you want to know something?
You have to know your audience
. I swear to God—anything more subtle would have been lost on him.”
• • •
James, posing as a disgruntled Winchester waiter, called every gossip columnist in town. He told them that his bosses were Nazis, and that they had invited Dan Lubecki to spend his first night of freedom in twenty years at their restaurant. Most of the columnists were unable to get reservations in time to witness the event, but a few of the more prominent ones were able to finagle tables. After the columnists had been contacted, the only person left to call was Lubecki himself. The Nazi was skeptical at first, but by speaking in an Alsatian accent and quoting Hitler several times,James was able to convince Lubecki that he
was
in fact the maître d’ of the Winchester and he
did
in fact want him as his guest. Unsurprisingly, Lubecki had no other social plans for the evening and happily agreed to attend.
James called the Winchester once more time, using a British accent this time, to make a reservation on behalf of a “Mr. Lubecki.” The maître d’ did his best to act natural, but his excitement was obvious. He sounded, James reported, like a first-time gambler calling a large bet with aces in his hand.
• • •
“We’ll hit the
Daily News
next,” Elliot said, “then the
Observer
, the
Post
, and the
Times.”
We made the rounds in silence. I was too shocked too speak, and Elliot was too exhausted from his efforts. Every few minutes, James stopped the car, fetched a tabloid, and laid it on top of the stack that was rapidly accumulating in the backseat. But Elliot didn’t bother to read them. He only moved once on the ride home: to take out his black book and silver pen and make a little check mark with his tiny, pale hand.
• • •
As far as I knew, the ninth-grade class president didn’t have any official duties beyond posing
On Tuesday, three days after Elliot’s expulsion from the Winchester, he had James call the restaurant. Speaking in a whisper, James told the maître d’ that he was an intern at
The New York Times
and that Alston Bertels would be coming to the Winchester in the near future. He had reviewed it favorably thirty years ago, James told the spellbound maître d’, and he wanted to see if its quality had remained consistent. In exchange for a complimentary meal, James said, he would tell the maître d’ which assumed name Bertels planned to use and the disguise he planned to wear. The maître d’ promptly agreed to the proposal.
“He’s coming on the twenty-second,” James whispered. “He’ll be wearing a full beard. And he’ll make the reservation under the name Dan Lubecki.”
The maître d’ hesitated.
“Like…the Nazi? Who’s getting out of prison?”
“Yes,” James said. “Alston has an unusual sense of humor.”
The maître d’ asked James to repeat the information to makesure he had heard it all correctly. Then he asked him for his name so he could arrange his complimentary meal.
“I can’t tell you that,” James said. “If anyone finds out I leaked this, I’ll get fired.”
“Well, I’ll need to put
something
in the reservations book.”
“I understand,” James said, reading the final line of Elliot’s script. “Just call me ‘Hal Sagal.’”
• • •
“Hal Sagal? Who’s that?”
Elliot wrote it down on a cocktail napkin, with large spaces between the letters. It took me a while, but eventually I was able to rearrange them.
“Oh,” I said.
“Allagash!”
“I know, I know,” he said. “Anagrams are trite. But you want to know something?
You have to know your audience
. I swear to God—anything more subtle would have been lost on him.”
• • •
James, posing as a disgruntled Winchester waiter, called every gossip columnist in town. He told them that his bosses were Nazis, and that they had invited Dan Lubecki to spend his first night of freedom in twenty years at their restaurant. Most of the columnists were unable to get reservations in time to witness the event, but a few of the more prominent ones were able to finagle tables. After the columnists had been contacted, the only person left to call was Lubecki himself. The Nazi was skeptical at first, but by speaking in an Alsatian accent and quoting Hitler several times,James was able to convince Lubecki that he
was
in fact the maître d’ of the Winchester and he
did
in fact want him as his guest. Unsurprisingly, Lubecki had no other social plans for the evening and happily agreed to attend.
James called the Winchester once more time, using a British accent this time, to make a reservation on behalf of a “Mr. Lubecki.” The maître d’ did his best to act natural, but his excitement was obvious. He sounded, James reported, like a first-time gambler calling a large bet with aces in his hand.
• • •
“We’ll hit the
Daily News
next,” Elliot said, “then the
Observer
, the
Post
, and the
Times.”
We made the rounds in silence. I was too shocked too speak, and Elliot was too exhausted from his efforts. Every few minutes, James stopped the car, fetched a tabloid, and laid it on top of the stack that was rapidly accumulating in the backseat. But Elliot didn’t bother to read them. He only moved once on the ride home: to take out his black book and silver pen and make a little check mark with his tiny, pale hand.
• • •
As far as I knew, the ninth-grade class president didn’t have any official duties beyond posing
Similar Books
