<p>Quintana will be eleven this week. She approaches adolescence with what I can only describe as panache, but then watching her journey from infancy has always been like watching Sandy Koufax pitch or Bill Russell play basketball. There is the same casual arrogance, the implicit sense that no one has ever done it any better.</p>
Her arrow-straight hair will not escape from its bow. Her glasses will never slide down her nose. From now on her base will be Boston. She will tell the passengers tied to their seats how she and our captain are going to be divorced. Her voice has made up its mind.
When the man from the State Education Department telephoned to ask me to appear on a panel discussion for high-school teachers of English about ways of teaching students how to write our language, only a heart of stone could have resisted. The man sounded so young, eager, stumbling, earnest, awed, well intentioned, that one had to accede to his request.
In The Greatest, the current Muhammad Ali movie, Dr. Ferdie Pacheco is played by John Marley, but in real life he looks more like Jonathan Winters, only Latin. I can’t see Pacheco doing any funny—in the sense of dubious—medicine, though. If he were ever going to do any malpractice, he would have done it years ago, when this guy named Bert wanted to be dyed green so he could wrestle.
With this issue we introduce a column on a subject dear to the heart of every American—money. The author of this column is Andrew Tobias, who wrote the recent best seller Fire and Ice, which is about cosmetics magnate Charles Revson and there-fore about big money and how it can be made.
I was jogging between Lake Swan and Lake Rosa on a ridge full of blackjack oak when I saw the hawk, tail feathers fanned and wings half spread, beside a dump of palmetto about twenty yards off the dim path. From the attitude of her wings and tail I first thought she was sitting on a kill, maybe a rabbit or a rat, but then she turned her wild dandelion eyes toward me and I knew that she was there in the sand not because of something she had killed but because she herself had almost been killed.
No one in Washington quite knows how Godfrey Sperling’s breakfast group got to be quite the thing it has become. Godfrey Sperling himself, who started holding his breakfasts eleven years ago, claims to have no idea whatsoever. “I didn’t set up a group,” he said recently.
It was ten years ago this summer, when the streets of America were filled with stone-throwing, arsonist mobs. In the end, nearly one hundred people were dead; countless others—civilians and police-were injured. Political reporter Richard Reeves was there and, with the aid of a spectacular group of photographs, recalls scenes we had always thought could never happen.here.
On the surface, it was a most intriguing proposition. Not only was I being offered a column in Esquire, a publication I had long admired, but as it was to be a column about money (among other related things), I would be given some to play with. “Some what?” I asked, blinking.
I thought you would be amused at the reaction accorded your March cover (Kicking Carter While He’s Up) by a group of first-grade students taking a tour of our library. As we walked past the periodical display rack, their eyes all fixed upon the toothless President Carter.
Years ago I met in Rome a short, jolly woman novelist, Elsa Morante, who had been married to Alberto Moravia. Her name was still so linked with his—they occupied different floors of the same house— that no one said “Morante” without adding “Moravia.
A pretty strong case could be made that the last person genuinely qualified to report on travel is a professional travel writer. After all, we seldom endure any of the common catastrophes that afflict civilian travelers: we don’t get bumped off overbooked flights, hotel clerks don’t give us that no-neck shrug as they decline to honor our confirmed reservation, and the high level of homage and obeisance (to say nothing of free room and board) can have the effect of providing a pleasantly mind-clouding—if occasionally distorted—impression of a given establishment or destination.
Not long after President Kennedy’s murder, a few friends—journalists, political figures, academics—were lunching informally in Washington. Their attention turned, not unnaturally, to Kennedy. What, they asked, would history most likely remember of him?
Inside every successful food critic is a tortured tract
The stomach, wrote Persius, is the teacher of art and the dispenser of invention. A noble epigram that issued, by the sound of it, from one who more than once found himself inventing excuses as he stared down at a plate of jellied wrens’ brains or some other selection from the Etrurian larder.
They rule the blasted turf one hundred blocks north of Tiffany’s. It’s a dirty job, but they’re up to it
<p>There had been a breakdown somewhere and things were falling apart. The trouble seemed to have started in the cities; at least, that was where the most flagrant failures occurred. Stricken with taxes and strikes, corruption, crime and conflagration, the cities began to deteriorate and die.</p>
In August, Esquire will present the cream of the crop from the fall collections of European men’s wear designers. Here is a peek at Paris via the work of two designers whose highly individual approaches to fashion are sure bets to set the direction for men’s clothes in the future.
<p>Who remembers Thuvia, Maid of Mars? Dejah Thoris, Princess of Helium? Ayesha—<em>She-who-must-be-obeyed</em>! Or Dale Arden—and Princess Aura, lustful daughter of Ming the Merciless? <i>Jane</i>! (Lady Greystoke)? Princess Aleta (now mother of four little Valiants)? The Dragon-Lady? </p>
Supercold. The new food processors make crushed ice in a jiffy. Then the freezer adds the final polar effect
Pour 1½ OZ. fresh lemon juice into an 8-oz. glass and drop in 1 tsp. superfine sugar. Stir well until sugar dissolves. Pack glass with crushed ice and add 3 oz. gin. Put in freezer briefly. Just before serving, pour in club soda to fill and add a lemon twist.
Supercivilized. Drinks to remind you of bistros in Paris, afternoons in the South of France
Pernod is from the friendly folk who brought you absinthe. But Pernod, with its licorice flavor and silky pearl-like color, is neither deadly nor banned. It’s ninety proof and should be mixed about five parts water to one part Pernod. Kir The French tend to take their crème de cassis either with dry vermouth and mineral water or simply with mineral water.
Fine vengeance, like fine wine, takes years to ripen. My tale of revenge begins about twelve years ago. The scene is the elegant Four Seasons restaurant in Manhattan. I am seated at a table with half a dozen members of New York’s snobbish food establishment, including the rotund and celebrated gourmet cook and cookbook writer James Beard.
I got back at Major Bones during my first year in The Zone, as some former correspondents still call that small Asian country where we had the last war. There was always talk of revenge among the American troops in The Zone : it put a light in their faces that was startling to see.
When I was in the National Guard, I was obliged to get up at four-thirty a.m. on Saturdays once a month in order to report for weekend drill. The prospect of this unpleasantness always put a cloud over the entire week. Friday nights, I would go to bed unnaturally early and lie awake while my body clock kept to its usual schedule.
If it hadn’t been so cold it never would have happened, but it was cold, the wind coming whack off the black water of the Hudson River, thumping at the canvas canopy of the Jeep. I was driving down from Connecticut to New York to do a good deed, to pay back a loan of two hundred dollars to friends who needed the money and long ago had abandoned hope of ever seeing it again, and I suppose that was what made me so angry later on.
I don’t own a tie. See, I got traumatized at prep school. I was this poor scholarship kid and nobody would tell me how you made a Windsor knot. Talk about the Ordeal of Civility. Lout, they were saying, you may be smart but your neck is strictly Flushing, Queens.
It was the time of the first Vietnam moratorium and S.N.C.C., of crime and violence in the streets, of the emerging anger of the blacks and a growing uneasiness among liberals that somewhere along the way they had lost their sense of mission. It was a time when the professional communicators were trying new things, not so much out of a conviction that the old formulas were no longer working as out of a restlessness inside themselves, a need for ego boosters.
Once, when I was an adolescent, I ran away from home to punish my parents—but I never left our house. Let me explain. Everything spoken in the kitchen of our small brick house in North Philadelphia could be heard in the basement below. But, as in most middle-class homes, few important things were actually spoken.
Father's Day isn't just an indoor affair with pipe and slippers. It’s Father's Day outdoors as well. The frankly terrific gifts we've assembled are for the outdoor man. The season is right; get out there and celebrate
Janet listened from the kitchen to the story Kemp made up for Pete. Like many of the stories Kemp told Pete and Roger, it began as a story for the children and ended up as a story Kemp seemed to have made up for Kemp. “There was a dog,” Kemp said. “What kind of dog?” said Pete.
This summer, the Spoleto Festival comes to town. It’ll be the biggest thing since Fort Sumter
When the downbeat is given for Spoleto—U.S.A. this May 25, the moment will mark not only the establishment of a famous European arts festival in the United States but, more importantly, the awakening of that Sleeping Beauty of American cities:
When it comes to this summer’s clothes, natural is what counts— natural fibers, warm earth tones, easy styling. We’re not talking about major fashion statements here. These clothes don’t cost that kind of money or take that kind of effort. Rather, they’re simple, uncomplicated, geared to the summer life we really live.
If you’re ambling down Second Avenue in Manhattan on a late spring night and come upon a low building that’s lighted intriguingly, you may want to note the name and follow up with a reservation to find out if the inside is as pleasing. It is. The Ristorante Toscana is at 246 East Fiftyfourth Street, on the corner that was dark so long after L’Armorique closed.
Horn of Plenty of Nothin': "Ah’m Jimmeh Cartuh, and Ah’m not runnin’ anymore. Jes wanna say fall them 675,000 New Yawkuhs—not forgettin’ Albert Shanker, thank yuh, Albert—who put me ovah the top last Novembuh, that y’all kin still trust me to save your great city.