by J. B. West
“Tish’s operation reminds me of an old Rosalind Russell movie,” Mrs. Kennedy laughed, as we walked back. And she vetoed the move to a little office in the east wing.
In 1961, Jacqueline Kennedy dispensed entirely with the traditional social season. “The Inauguration was quite enough,” she told me.
The next year, she reshaped the “season,” combining the dinners for the Vice President and for the Speaker of the House, and adding receptions for Congress, the diplomatic corps, and the military. The same four occasions were repeated in 1963 but the military reception, perhaps to whet patriotism, honored Congressional Medal of Honor winners.
Instead of concentrating on the Washington social season, which had been primarily a series of political evenings, the cosmopolitan First Lady turned to her own strong suit, entertaining foreign visitors. During their three short years, the Kennedys were hosts to sixty-six heads of State.
The Chief of Protocol, Angier Biddle Duke, and the Secretary of State extended invitations for the President. Once the date of a visit was established, they submitted a list of “must” guests—the head of State’s entourage, the country’s diplomatic corps—all in order of rank, to Tish. She sent out her network of informants to find prominent Americans (especially members of Congress and Democratic contributors) whose ancestors hailed from the honoree’s home country.
She then sent the list over in a folder to the President and Mrs. Kennedy. It always came back with the addition of sparkling names from the literary and artistic world, in Mrs. Kennedy’s handwriting, and a few more politicians or news-media representatives, in the President’s.
The social office sent out the invitations three weeks before the party, and notified me of the date, time, and approximate number of guests. I passed the word along to the housekeeper and head chef, who went to work on the menu, which they soon submitted to Mrs. Kennedy for approval, and then ordered the food from local wholesalers. I also told the head butler, who began lining up the extra help needed for serving at the dinner.
Although René always began cooking two days before a party, we did not start arranging the rooms until the last sightseer had walked through at noon. Then, an army magically appeared, vacuum cleaners roaring, round tables walking upstairs on the heads of moving men, china and crystal, and gleaming, golden vermeil flatware being wheeled up from the depths of the mansion to the Private Dining Room, which was set up as a serving pantry for the dinner.
(My only regret during the restoration was that the Private Dining Room on the State floor wasn’t made into a permanent pantry, after the Kennedys had installed the second-floor Presidential Dining Room and kitchen. The hundreds of items necessary for a formal dinner at the Mansion all are stored in the basement, and the puffing, panting, and grumbling that accompanies this up-and-down hauling of china, flatware, glassware, tables, chairs, et al., can be appreciated by every bride whose kitchen is too small to store the wedding presents.)
The butlers then began setting the tables.
Meanwhile, the carpenters and moving crews had driven out to the warehouse, to fetch our pride and joy, the little red-velvet jewel-box stage, designed by Lincoln Kirsten, inspired by Mrs. Kennedy, and built ingeniously portable by Edgar Shipp and his cheerful crew of White House carpenters.
Finally, as guests began arriving to be checked in by the police at the south entrance, flower arranger “Rusty” Young and his helpers placed their low, colorful bowls of flowers atop each organdy-covered table. The butlers touched the new dimmer switches on the chandeliers and lit the candles and headed for the East Room with their trays of premixed drinks.
I began three hours of wandering around, dressed as any guest, smiling, greeting people, praying for everybody to remember his job, for the guests to stay sober, and for the President to remember that he was supposed to walk into the East Room on “Hail to the Chief,” and not to the drum rolls of “Ruffles and Flourishes.” (Nobody could understand why he always tried to march off on “Ruffles,” leaving the flags, guests, and Mrs. Kennedy standing at the foot of the Grand Staircase.)
There were a few mishaps, such as the time an antique dining chair collapsed under President Kennedy (everybody feared the President had broken his back, and those chairs were banished from the State rooms forever), or when the fuses blew during an after-dinner performance of “Brigadoon” (the President could be heard saying, “It’s supposed to be like this,” and I ran for the electricians, the Signal Corps, and anybody else in the White House who knew anything about nonpolitical power), or the time a guest knocked over a small table of drinks in the East Room (and I tried to stop a young college student, suave in black tie, from cleaning up the broken glass because I’d forgotten that he had been hired to help the butlers). My department heads had trained their staff well, and there was usually no need for me to be there at all, dressed in my black tie, white tie, striped trousers, or whatever the occasion called for, to supervise the 150 people called into service for a State Dinner.
And afterwards, the young hostess issued a critic’s appraisal of each dinner in a style that could have passed for that of the nation’s leading restaurant reviewers. After a dinner party in January, 1963, she complimented housekeeper Anne Lincoln “that the food was fantastic” and that “service was in record time.” Having said that, however, she noted: There was a 10 to 15 minute wait for the first course and a consequent lull in the spirit of the party; the wine wasn’t served until people had finished their fish; the Brie cheese “was like hard rubber” and should have been left out of the refrigerator all day to get soft. Finally, the name of the dessert was misspelled on the menu. “It is Surprise, not Suprise,” she wrote. “If this is your spelling, take note. If it was Sandy Fox (the calligrapher), tell him nicely.”
Washington, which had sometimes been described as “culturally latent,” woke up to the performing arts during Mrs. Kennedy’s evenings at the White House. Bypassing the popular favorites of the era, she invited serious, excellent artists such as Pablo Casals, Isaac Stern, Eugene Istomin, and promoted ballet, chamber music, opera, and Shakespearean drama for the after-dinner enjoyment of guests in the East Room. From the notes I received, I knew that most of the ideas originated in Mrs. Kennedy’s head; Tish followed through, made the contacts and built upon the ideas; and I figured out ways to direct the staff to carry them out.
On our most unusual and probably most successful State Dinner, honoring Pakistan’s President Ayub Khan, Mrs. Kennedy was involved in almost every detail of the complicated logistics of dining at Mount Vernon.
We made a number of trips down the Potomac on the Presidential yacht Honey Fitz* —Mrs. Kennedy standing at the bow like Cleopatra on the Nile—to perfect the timing of transporting our 150 workers, all the food, the National Symphony Orchestra, the Marine Honor Guard, the Army Fife and Drum Corps, the Air Force Strolling Strings, not to mention 132 guests, to the home of the first President, where dinner was served by candlelight on the front lawn overlooking the river.
* Née Barbara Anne.
7
DESPITE TISH’S EFFICIENCY, MRS. Kennedy referred to my office rather than to the social office on matters of extreme delicacy. I remember vividly one Sunday morning, October 21, 1962, when Zella and I were at home in Arlington, enjoying our one day of luxurious late sleep. I had followed Mrs. Kennedy’s weekend instructions to prepare for the Maharajah and Maharani of Jaipur, who had entertained her so royally during her trip to India:
Mr. West
Could little chest of drawers in Q. dressing room be painted black before Mon. I just want it to look more pulled together by time Maharani of Jaipur comes Oct 23–27. Gold doesnt matter & mirror is OK—just blacken chest.
P.S. Jaipurs will be bringing HIS valet
will you find a place for him—
(over)
Could spread in Lincoln sitting room be ready by Oct 23—for daybed otherwise put my fur rug on it—& some green & yellow pillows—
The telephone jarred me awake that Sunday. Mrs. Kennedy’s voice sounded urgent.
“Could you please come to the White House right away, Mr. West, but come up through the kitchen elevator so nobody will know you’re here.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I answered—and I was.
I drove down Pennsylvania Avenue, entering the northwest, or “main” gate to the grounds, but noticing, as I passed the President’s office, an unusual number of cars parked in the White House driveway—unusual because the Kennedys rarely could be found in Washington on Sunday. As I had been instructed, I drove down to the tradesman’s entrance, and rode upstairs on the kitchen elevator.
Mrs. Kennedy, wearing colorful Pucci pants with loafers, and no make-up, as usual, waited in the west hall, alone. Seated on the sofa, she was framed in the large arched window, looking out at the bright Sunday sunshine. Ordinarily, on a day like this, she’d be out in the country, on horseback.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. West,” she said softly. “There’s something brewing that might turn out to be a big catastrophe—which means that we may have to cancel the dinner and dance for the Jaipurs Tuesday night.”
But when she spoke of canceling, her face was impassive, her tone almost casual. I glanced at the Oval Drawing Room door, which was closed, and heard men’s voices from the inside.
“Could you please handle the cancellation for me? This is all very secret,” she continued, “and I’m afraid Tish would get all upset and rant and rave—you know—and I think you could do it more calmly.”
“Certainly,” I said.
She rose. “I will either call you in the morning, or else you’ll hear an announcement of what it’s all about. When you realize that it will have to be canceled, call Tish.”
As I walked down the hall toward the elevator, Robert Kennedy stepped out of the Yellow Oval Room into the hall. Glancing our way without a smile, he closed the door quickly behind him. Something very grave was happening, but I had no idea what it was.
At seven the next morning I was at my desk in the White House. On the car radio I had heard only the terse announcement: “The President will speak to the nation at seven this evening on this most urgent matter. A special session of the United Nations had been called….” Taking this cue that cancellation of the dinner-dance was in order, I got busy and called the Marines to cancel the orchestra, called the chef to cancel the grocery order, called housekeeper Anne Lincoln and head butler Charles Ficklin, to say, simply,
“There will be no dinner on Tuesday.”
Then I called Tish Baldrige in the east wing.
“Because of the urgent nature of the President’s message tonight, Mrs. Kennedy wishes to cancel Tuesday night’s dinner dance,” I announced rather formally.
“I’ve been listening to the radio,” she said worriedly. “We’ll begin phoning the guests right away.” She did sound rather upset.
Mrs. Kennedy buzzed me at 9:30 a.m.
“I guess you’ve heard the news?” she asked.
“I’ve already canceled the party and informed Tish,” I said.
“How did she take it?” Mrs. Kennedy wanted to know.
“Calmly,” I said.
“Good.” She sounded relieved.
That Monday evening, October 22, 1962, President Kennedy spoke to the nation from his office:
Good evening, my fellow citizens.
This government, as promised, has maintained the closest surveillance of the Soviet military buildup on the island of Cuba. Within the past week, unmistakable evidence has established the fact that a series of offensive missile sites is now in preparation on that imprisoned island. The purpose of these bases can be none other than to provide a nuclear strike capability against the Western Hemisphere….
And the Cuban missile crisis began.
For an entire week, top-level, top-secret meetings had been going on all around us, and we didn’t know it. The fate of the world was in the balance, and the White House went on as usual.
The Tuesday evening party canceled, the Kennedys dined quietly with their friends, the British Ambassador and his wife, and the Jaipurs, who had been placed in the Blair House.
For the week following, the White House staff, like the rest of the country, was balanced somewhere between war and peace. But, unlike most other citizens, we were not digging bomb shelters and storing up canned goods, because our bomb shelter was there, underneath the subbasement, and our reserve pantries were full.
The President’s family stayed close at home, and continued our daily routine as calmly as possible, until Nikita Khrushchev announced publicly that the missiles were being withdrawn.
With the crisis over, Washington and the country heaved a huge sigh of relief. At the White House, we settled back into a heavy schedule of entertaining in the Kennedy style—a style that influenced the nation.
Much of that influence can be attributed to Tish Baldrige and her ability, not only in handling the Kennedy parties, but also in working with Pam Turnure to disseminate the skillful publicity that accompanied them. She had an inner sense of what would catch the public’s eye, and knew how to use entertaining to build an image for the First Lady.
Tish was forceful and full of ideas, and she was aggressive by nature. But one didn’t push Jackie Kennedy. “You just have to do this,” Tish would say, trying to get her to greet some group that she felt warranted an appearance by the First Lady. “Mr. West, I don’t have to do anything,” the First Lady complained. For Mrs. Kennedy also was often forceful and had definite ideas of her own, which at times caused friction between her and Tish.
After two and a half years of spectacular entertaining, and with the restoration project almost completed, the President’s wife was expecting a baby. “I just want to sit back and enjoy myself for the next few years,” Mrs. Kennedy told me.
And Tish, who Mrs. Kennedy said had been “invaluable to me during those first years,” left Washington to work for the Kennedy family’s Merchandise Mart in Chicago. Nancy Tuckerman, Jacqueline Bouvier’s roommate at Miss Porter’s school, and a much calmer personality, stepped in as social secretary.
I arranged a staff farewell party for Tish in the ground-floor China Room (where Presidential dishes from all administrations are displayed in glass cases). Mrs. Kennedy asked to be invited.
“I’d like to bring John and Caroline,” she said, “and would you please call in the Marines? I’ve written a little song I’d like them to sing.” She handed me a note with the lyrics.
The Marine Band appeared at 4:00 sharp, their red uniforms matching the brilliant Oriental carpet on the floor, and we all sang, as Tish appeared,
“Arrivederci, Ti-ish
Goodbye, goodbye, au revoir
For you, Tish, our hearts will be yearning
But we know you’ll often be returning
From afar.
Arrivederci, Ti-ish
The time has come to part
Mr. West’s heart will keep on churning….”
The authoress of the parody, of course, sang along with the Marine Band.
Although I hadn’t realized that I had been “churning,” as far as I was concerned things ran much more smoothly under Nancy’s calm hand. Mrs. Kennedy had set the style, Tish and I had worked out the procedures, and Nancy stepped into a functioning position. Mrs. Kennedy told her to discuss everything with me, and then to take my judgment.
“Don’t bring any questions to me,” she told Nancy, “because Mr. West knows what I want, and also what can or can’t be accomplished.”
Nancy and I worked very closely together during the next few months. She stepped in to handle the President’s private forty-sixth birthday party aboard the Secretary of the Navy’s yacht Sequoia, two stag luncheons, and only two State dinners, while Mrs. Kennedy was in Hyannis, quietly awaiting the birth of her baby.
One advantage that Nancy had was her personal friendship with Mrs. Kennedy. She knew all the First Lady
’s foibles, and how she wanted to operate. She knew exactly what to send upstairs, when to send it, what to discuss with her, and what subjects to avoid. When Nancy approached her with an idea, she sometimes said, “Oh, Nancy, I don’t want to do that,” and that would be the end of it.
Nancy also made a firm attempt to keep spending down, a task imposed upon her by the President.
Liquor was quite an expense during the Kennedy years—primarily because we had to stop serving bootleg whiskey. During the Eisenhowers, the White House very discreetly accepted bottles of “confiscated distilled spirits” from the General Services Administration, at no cost. However, a new regulation would have forced us to sign purchase orders—which would have put our clandestine bars out in the open. President Kennedy didn’t want the publicity, so housekeeper Anne Lincoln shopped around Washington for the lowest-cost liquor.
The President’s private liquor supply was stored in a closet on the third floor, to which only the housekeeper and the President’s valet held a key. The official liquor supply was stored in the basement of the White House, and Anne kept an account of daily use, purchases, and a running inventory of both the official and the private liquor cabinets.
During the Kennedy administration, we were able to transfer our biggest, costliest failure, the White House grounds, directly to the National Park Service—and just in time, too. It took armies of men, and much more than our budget could bear to get the lawns in shape, and, we found out, so much that the Park Service didn’t even have funds set aside to cover it. To do the vast amount of spraying, reseeding, fertilizing, planting, and replanting that President Kennedy insisted upon, the Park Service used funds that had been set aside for various other projects in Washington.
