One of the mysterious aspects of our table meetings is that Mel doesn't want any more regulars to join us. We know that there are folks in town who would love to come to the party, but somehow it never happens. "He wasn't on the third floor," Mel shouts as he stabs at a piece of chicken and a forkful of braised cabbage. "This table is about the third floor."
"But Larry David is so clever," I offer.
"Clever, schmever," says Mel. "He wasn't on the third floor."
But now and then we do have a guest. My favorite was Peter O'Toole. The great O'Toole had starred in "My Favorite Year." Mike Gruskoff, who produced that very funny film, informed the table that O'Toole was coming to town for the Oscars. "He said he'd love to come to lunch." Mel liked the connection between Mike, the third floor and "My Favorite Year."
"Wonderful," said Mel. "Tell him to come." So the next week we were joined by Peter O'Toole and Richard Benjamin, who had directed the film. I was very excited to meet Peter. I wasn't disappointed. First of all I'd never seen an outfit quite like Peter's. A white linen jacket, some sort of suede-ish vest, a Panama hat and an ivory cigarette holder that he chain-smoked from. He was divine. Of course the gawkers at Orso couldn't stop staring. When the meal was over Peter very shyly asked us if there was a chance he would be invited back again. "I've had a jolly good time," he said. I hope he's up for another Oscar soon.
Just a few weeks ago we flew up to Seattle for a preview of "Young Frankenstein, the Musical." After we checked into the Fairmount Hotel, Mel had a car pick us up and take us to meet him at the Cheesecake Factory restaurant. This time the table was absent Freddie Fields, who was a bit under the weather. We waited excitedly for Mel to arrive. We knew from past conversations that this was a big, expensive show. Mel had already sung us three or four tunes from the show (at Orso, with the rest of the customers listening avidly). It all sounded funny. But we knew that Mel would be nervous. No matter how cool we played it he knew we'd have strong opinions and we knew we had to be careful. Then Mr. Brooks breezed into the restaurant and joined our booth. His energy was higher than ever. "It's great," he said. "A great show! But I don't want to hear about Act 3. I gotta fix it!"
Strangers kept coming up to the booth asking for Mel's autograph. Two girls from Cleveland asked him to pose for a picture with them. He graciously obliged. The joint was jumping. It was fun. I realized how different the crowd was from Orso, where a customer would never dare ask for an autograph. As much as I like Orso, it was refreshing to be here with the real world. Mike took out his cellphone and called Freddie. Soon the five of us were wishing Freddie well and promising him another call that night after the show.
That evening Laddie, Mike, Jay and I were escorted to our seats at the Paramount Theater. The place was packed with 2,900 very noisy fans. I spotted Peter Bart in the audience. Bart, the editor of Variety, is the uncle of Roger Bart, who was playing Doctor Frankenstein. I knew that his reaction would be important to Mel. But Mel was so busy ushering us to our seats that he appeared unconcerned. "I'll meet you guys after the show. We can grab a bite next door at Ruth's Chris," Mel shouted. The noise in the audience was humongous. A few minutes later the lights went down, the stage darkened, and the audience roared with applause and cheers as the show began. Thunder, lightning, music, Transylvania! At the end, the audience gave the cast a long standing ovation.
The table group was clearly relieved. Mel ran down the aisle and corralled us. "Come on! Let's go backstage to meet the cast." Backstage proved to be four flights up a winding staircase. But it was worth the trip. Gorgeous, long-legged showgirls, a joyous cast, the smell of hit, hit, hit! Of course, by the time we reached the restaurant my group had all agreed that the show was about 20 minutes too long, that it could use a few cuts and trims, etc., but that it was definitely going to be a hit.
The next morning we all met for brunch at the hotel. We told Mel how much we loved the show. We advised him to cut a few minutes. He nodded in agreement. "I told you. I gotta fix some stuff." But he was relieved and so were we. Then Mel suddenly turned dark. "I know you guys think I'm on top of the world. But right now I feel like an empty shell. I wish Annie could be here with us." Tears came to his eyes, and to mine. We all commiserated, but we all knew it couldn't do much good. "I love you guys," Mel said.
By the time we reached Los Angeles we all agreed to make the New York opening on Nov. 8. In the meantime, our group will once again assemble at our table. Mel will be there, and we all anxiously await the inside dope on what he's done with "Young Frankenstein."
And if by any chance, dear reader, you dine at Orso one Friday afternoon you are welcome to gawk, but please don't ask for a seat at our table. It's only for the third floor at Fox in the '70s.
About the writer
Paul Mazursky is a film director, screenwriter and actor.
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