High life
Proud to be a Bagelite
Taki
ne more week in the Bagel and then. it's cuckoo clock time. The good news is that, as I write, there's more snow in Gstaad than there was in Stalingrad in 1943. The bad is that most Gstaad visitors do not ski, and view the white stuff as an intrusion. Mind you, it seems funny writing about snow from the Bagel. December in New York has been the hottest ever, at least since they started keeping records of such important matters. Throughout last week people in bathing-suits sunbathed in Central Park, the temperature hovering around 75 degrees Fahrenheit. Christmas shopping had a Palm Beach feeling, while the Village outdoor cafés were packed at midnight.
Heat wave apart, the Bagel continues to be the place for me just now. There was a time during the early Eighties when I thought the city was hell. Most of my friends were in England and Greece, the mother of my children insisted I come home early and sober each and every night, and the city seemed to be run by a number of special interest groups, including illegal immigrants, ideologically homeless commu- nists, convicted felons, anti-American multiculturalists, black muggers, hard-core feminists, hard-core abused women, pro- gay clergy, race-hustlers, professional vic- tims, union bosses, trial lawyers, lunch-bucket pilferers, assorted body- snatchers and every other freak group you can think of.
Twenty years or so later, things are look- ing up. When the numero uno wallet lifter, Governor Mario Cuomo, went down to defeat in 1994, Bagelite fortunes improved overnight. Earlier, David Dinkins the first black mayor of the Bagel, in reality Inspec- tor Clouseau as mayor, had been shot down in flames by Rudolph Giuliani, in reality Al Capone as Elliot Ness. Things became hunky-dory before you could say Donald Trump.
How long will my love affair with the Bagel last? That depends on many things. The mother of my children having given up trying to reform me helps a hell of a lot. Certain nubile young things remaining in the Bagel ditto. Last but not least, as long as Tony Blair and his merry band of queens are in power, I think I'll stay over on this side. Sure, the country still seems to be run by special-interest groups such as the sky- is-falling environmentalists, abortion indus- try workers, pornographers as artists, anti-tobacco Nazis and trial lawyers, but at least the Draft Dodger has become a joke, a fact that only his poodle, Tony Blair, has failed to notice.
Humour might still be considered a capi- tal offence by the pompous and self-satis- fied high priests of political correctness, but PC is a lesser sin than the malice prac- tised by the Guardian and the filthy British tabloid press.
Which reminds me. Throughout the years, San Lorenzo, along with Harry's Bar and Mark's Club, has been my favourite London restaurant. Last week I read A.A. Gill's disgraceful remarks in the Sunday Times about San Lorenzo and its owner Mara Berni. Lorenzo Berni, who had a fine war record as a young man, is a good father, a good husband and a perfect host in his restaurant. Mara is as nice a woman as one can find anywhere nowadays. The couple make their customers feel at home like no one else does in London. The ser- vice is friendly yet impeccable. I like the food and absolutely adore the atmosphere. Gill calls us regulars 'poseurs, pimps, phoney counts, ageing gigolos ...'. He described being kissed by Mara as a `unique horror'. To say he is ungallant would be an insult to ungallant men. Mara's kiss is the warm Latin way of saying hello, even to a cold-hearted, obviously envious and snobby member of the lower middle class as Adrian Gill. Gill doesn't drink alcohol. Perhaps he should give it a try. It might make him see the unfairness and the malice of his ways. Lorenzo and Mara Berni deserved much better, and I, for one, am ashamed to say I am in the same profession as Mr Gill.
See what I mean by malice in English life? Of course Gill has a right to his opin- ion, and I am hardly the person to preach restraint, but the Bernis are such unassum- ing and nice people, and have been so gen- erous with those down on their luck, his malice amounts to a deformity.
No, what with 'Top Drawer' and nubile young things in the Bagel, I think I'll stay a Bagelite for a while.
`What a big mouth you have ... wait, you're not Grandma, you're David Shayler.'
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