High life
Here comes the Bogey-man
Taki
ike most people who have seen the film Casablanca, I've dreamed of owning a Rick's of my own. For one, beautiful women would come at me like gang-busters while I loitered in the bar; for seconds, I would have saved Peter Lorre from the baddies. (The only thing that is very hard to believe in the film is that a bunch of German officers singing Deutschland fiber alles would be out-sung by a Frenchman in a white suit and a tart singing the Marseil- laise.
But now, finalement, the dream is about to come true. Well, almost true. I am one
of seven Ricks, or better yet six, because one of them is a lady. I am talking of course of Christopher's, the American Grill in Covent Garden, in which Christopher Gilmour will be the head Rick, and I the Greek one. The concept is to feed the Peter Lorres and Paul Henreids and Ingrid Bergmans of this world with prime Ameri- can corn-fed beef and Maine lobsters, while the Conrad Veidts will be forced to eat the latter live. Oh yes, I almost forgot, Captain Renaud will be given free drinks at our vast bar, as Christo refuses to rig a roulette wheel in the back room.
We hope to open in December of this Year, and from the little I've seen of the magnificent setting, the cradle should rock. It is the choicest location in London, and I can't wait to pass out before dinner. And speaking of passing out, I'm ashamed to admit I did overindulge during
the weekend. Not being as strong as I once was, I now try and pace myself. The trouble is that in Mykonos, and among friends, it is very hard to stop and think of one's health. I had a pretty hackette from the Taller on board, and a very nice couple from Ameri- ca. The weather was perfect, and after a day in the water, it was time to let off some steam. I let it off for three nights running,
and, as of this writing, I feel like Peter Lorre after Humphrey Bogart had finished
with him — in The Maltese Falcon, mind you.
I was off Mykonos the last couple of years, but I'm afraid there is no other island like it. The water is the best any- where in the Med, the island has not been Toiled, and the gays are the best behaved in the world. It is never too hot, and with my three MTUs at 1800 revs, I can be there three hours after leaving Piraeus. (The ferry makes it in nine, give or take an hour).
The last time I was there a ghastly show- off anchored next to me and began to talk polities. He was an Israeli and, needless to say, he called me an anti-Semite the moment I said I didn't think children who throw stones should be shot at with M-16s. I remember asking him if he was related to the awful Abe Rosenthal, a man who smears anyone who disagrees with him as an anti-Semite.
Last week, with President Bush under attack as an anti-Semite from an Israeli minister, the Rosenthal clone Rechavam Zeevi, I looked to find the show-off but he wasn't around. And it's a pity; I had a deal to propose to him. 10 billion in guarantees from Uncle Sam, another 10 billion from Europe, and in return Israel would suspend the illegal settlement in the West Bank and Gaza Strip. This is what is being offered, and the fanatics of Likud are turning it down. It is enough to start drinking at Christopher's even before the place opens.
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