o’clock, ten, the hours went by without an appearance, without a call. I thought about calling Gloria Lovell and asking her where he was, but I didn’t want to be a pest, not on my first day. By one in the morning I gave up. I cleared off the table, wrapped up everything that was wrappable, put it in the empty refrigerator and went home at two in the morning. I was really depressed. I felt like I had been stood up on the date of a lifetime.
I reported to work the next day at one P.M . Gloria Lovell told me that Mr. Sinatra never woke up before two except when he was shooting a movie, and that coming in any earlier would disturb him. Imagine my surprise when I found him fully dressed, drinking coffee, smoking a Lucky Strike, and listening to what I learned was his favorite composer, Puccini. I was embarrassed that I was late. One more strike and I would be out. But he was as nice as could be. He apologized, without further explanation, for being “tied up” the night before.
There with him was a motherly black woman named Hazel Washington, who had been his regular maid for the year or so he had lived in the apartment and came twice a week. Hazel’s husband was a Los Angeles police department officer who would rise to be a commander on the force, while Hazel herself would go on to work for Marilyn Monroe. Hazel showed me the ropes concerning the apartment, where everything was, which sheets and towels to use, all thehousekeeping stuff. She told me which markets to use, where to get the right kind of Italian bread, the right coffee, the right milk, and where to stock up on Campbell’s Franks and Beans, which was Mr. S’s favorite snack, one that he ate cold right out of the can. That was so disgusting, I thought, no wonder the guy was going downhill. I made him a beautiful steak for lunch, which he asked me to cook some more until it was medium, not rare. He thanked me for how delicious it was, though he only ate a few bites. Hazel told me not to take it personally. Mr. S was not a big eater. How did I think he stayed so skinny?
That night he took me over to Carolwood Drive near Sunset to meet his family. He drove us in his Cadillac Brougham Coupe, black body, silver top. He also had a Chevy station wagon, a woody like the surfers all drove. It was odd, after driving Swifty Lazar for years, to be driven by Mr. S. He insisted on driving, loved to drive. It was also odd being introduced to his ex-wife Nancy, who didn’t seem ex at all. The house was a typical Beverly Hills five-bedroom sprawling fifties ranch-style affair, though a lot of the furnishings were of the more rococo New Jersey style. In fact, the house looked as if Mr. S still lived there. There was a predominant bright orange and black color scheme, and countless family pictures everywhere, with Mr. S in all of them. A big meal had been laid out for us, and Mr. S was like a little boy who had just gotten out of camp coming home for a home-cooked dinner.
Nancy, Big Nancy as she was called, as opposed to Little Nancy, who was just turning thirteen, wasn’t Hollywood at all. I couldn’t imagine her in the same room as Swifty Lazar, or even the same town. She was warm and down home, and took an hour in the kitchen after dinner while Frank played with the kids telling me exactly how he liked everything. The correct way to prepare the paper-thin steaks and pork chops, the scrambled-egg sandwiches, thebread to be sautéed in Italian, never Spanish, olive oil, the soft, never crisp, bacon he wanted for breakfast. She emphasized his disinterest in most vegetables, except for eggplant parmigiana and roasted peppers, and precisely which brands of pasta were acceptable, how many minutes to cook each, and how much salt to put in the water. Finally, of course, that marinara sauce, with the Italian plum tomatoes, crushed just so, and the prescribed balance of garlic, parsley, and oil. It was food chemistry a la Nancy.
Big Nancy was so maternal to Frank, she seemed
I reported to work the next day at one P.M . Gloria Lovell told me that Mr. Sinatra never woke up before two except when he was shooting a movie, and that coming in any earlier would disturb him. Imagine my surprise when I found him fully dressed, drinking coffee, smoking a Lucky Strike, and listening to what I learned was his favorite composer, Puccini. I was embarrassed that I was late. One more strike and I would be out. But he was as nice as could be. He apologized, without further explanation, for being “tied up” the night before.
There with him was a motherly black woman named Hazel Washington, who had been his regular maid for the year or so he had lived in the apartment and came twice a week. Hazel’s husband was a Los Angeles police department officer who would rise to be a commander on the force, while Hazel herself would go on to work for Marilyn Monroe. Hazel showed me the ropes concerning the apartment, where everything was, which sheets and towels to use, all thehousekeeping stuff. She told me which markets to use, where to get the right kind of Italian bread, the right coffee, the right milk, and where to stock up on Campbell’s Franks and Beans, which was Mr. S’s favorite snack, one that he ate cold right out of the can. That was so disgusting, I thought, no wonder the guy was going downhill. I made him a beautiful steak for lunch, which he asked me to cook some more until it was medium, not rare. He thanked me for how delicious it was, though he only ate a few bites. Hazel told me not to take it personally. Mr. S was not a big eater. How did I think he stayed so skinny?
That night he took me over to Carolwood Drive near Sunset to meet his family. He drove us in his Cadillac Brougham Coupe, black body, silver top. He also had a Chevy station wagon, a woody like the surfers all drove. It was odd, after driving Swifty Lazar for years, to be driven by Mr. S. He insisted on driving, loved to drive. It was also odd being introduced to his ex-wife Nancy, who didn’t seem ex at all. The house was a typical Beverly Hills five-bedroom sprawling fifties ranch-style affair, though a lot of the furnishings were of the more rococo New Jersey style. In fact, the house looked as if Mr. S still lived there. There was a predominant bright orange and black color scheme, and countless family pictures everywhere, with Mr. S in all of them. A big meal had been laid out for us, and Mr. S was like a little boy who had just gotten out of camp coming home for a home-cooked dinner.
Nancy, Big Nancy as she was called, as opposed to Little Nancy, who was just turning thirteen, wasn’t Hollywood at all. I couldn’t imagine her in the same room as Swifty Lazar, or even the same town. She was warm and down home, and took an hour in the kitchen after dinner while Frank played with the kids telling me exactly how he liked everything. The correct way to prepare the paper-thin steaks and pork chops, the scrambled-egg sandwiches, thebread to be sautéed in Italian, never Spanish, olive oil, the soft, never crisp, bacon he wanted for breakfast. She emphasized his disinterest in most vegetables, except for eggplant parmigiana and roasted peppers, and precisely which brands of pasta were acceptable, how many minutes to cook each, and how much salt to put in the water. Finally, of course, that marinara sauce, with the Italian plum tomatoes, crushed just so, and the prescribed balance of garlic, parsley, and oil. It was food chemistry a la Nancy.
Big Nancy was so maternal to Frank, she seemed
Similar Books
