High life
In-crowds
Taki
New York
Iis that time of year again. What Saki called the period between the cruelty of summer and the harshness of winter. Well, I'm afraid Taki isn't as poetic as old H.H., so I'll simply call it the time of year that people give up their tans and resign them- selves to meeting everyone that they have ever wanted to avoid right here in New York. It's very simple, really. Come late November, con men, phony counts, couturiers, bogus barons, smugglers of hot millions, tax exiles, second sons of earls, phony Balkan princes, arms dealers, people with more cash than cashet, retired rock stars and an ex-king or two all end up in that modern Ark of Noah, the Upper East Side of Manhattan. In fact, this place dur- ing winter reminds me a bit of Casablanca — the film, of course. Like old Casa, New York is filled with rogues and frauds and heroes of every nationality. With one small difference. In the film everyone was in and trying to get out; here it is the other way round. (There are so many Europeans here, and they have become such an important economic factor where restaurants and par- ties are concerned, that the East Side Ex- press, Clay Felker's new weekly newspaper, has started a column called 'Eurotrash' just to keep East-siders informed about their newly arrived neighbours.) Why are they all here? Naive Americans think that most Europeans who are over here came over for the culture. What culture? I'll tell you why they're here. The English came over for free meals. There are more closet Englishmen (Americans who affect English mannerisms) on the East Side than there are muggers in Queens. These closet Brits thrive on having real Brits to dinner. The broken-down nobs who come over (and some who are as nob as those en- nobled by Harold Wilson) know this and pursue their feeders with Byronic intensity. The Italians are over here in order to sell their very expensive trinkets. There are more Italian shops and boutiques on the Upper East Side than there are women who don't shave their legs in Sicily. The French, needless to say, come over so they can sneer at a lot of different people at the same time. C'est tout. Well, perhaps that is not exactly true since Monsieur Mitterrand came to power. People like the Rothschilds do not sneer at people but are here just the same. And rightly so. The Germans, ah, the Germans. They're over here to pretend they're Austrians and to get away from those green people who are so ugly and make so much noise in the Bunderstag. Those one-sided anti-nuke marches don't help either. The Greeks are
here so they can look down on Greek- Americans, but it should be the other way round. The latter are the only saving grace of a ridiculous race. And if Papandreou and Mercouri remain in power I'm afraid more and more Greeks will be leaving the birthplace of low blows and lower bottoms. Finally, the Scandinavians. Well, let's face it, do you know anyone who wouldn't come over here if he or she had to spend their time in Sweden?
The most popular meeting place by far is Mortimer's, the restaurant that looks like the inside of a fireplace and whose waiters have far better manners than the people who hang out there. The owner is called Marshall Plan — or nicknamed that, rather — and he has probably supported more English people whose parents live in stately homes than the National Trust has kept up houses.
Ironically, Americans in general and New Yorkers in particular don't seem to mind the invasion. In fact, they admire the Euro- peans for the simple reason that the latter don't work — haven't worked for genera- tions. Americans appreciate this particular skill even more than they appreciate upper- class English arrogance. I guess that is what led the original uninvited guest, Anthony Haden-Guest, to pull up roots from Chelsea and land on East 80th Street. The Beast had heard that New York was a wonderful place for con artists, and that an English accent helped enormously. After ten years, however, and mainly because of Anthony, an English accent today merely sets off alarms in people's wallet pockets. It is the main reason why Haden-Guest is so loathed by newly arrived Brits. At a grand party last week, I tried to bring along with me two English people but my host stopped me at the door, begged my forgiveness, and whispered: 'I cannot possibly have anyone English any more. Please try and under- stand.' It seems that the Beast had just spill- ed a large jug of red wine on his priceless 17-century tapestry. The tapestry, needless to say, was on his wall, and Anthony hadn't even passed out on the floor, yet the damage had been done. I did understand, very clearly. And so did my guests.
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