All This in 60 Minutes

by Lee, Nicholas

  With French coming at us thick and fast, we thought we were being ordered off the bridge, but maybe they were just telling the naked guys to jump. We weren’t sure, but as we desperately tried to stifle our laughter our clothes were flung at us, so we figured it was the former.

  Not understanding a word that was being said made it all the more funny. We were hoping they were saying we were naughty little boys, we should not be so silly, and we should go home now, but we couldn’t tell. Our French stretched to ordering a coffee and a ham and cheese omelette, and oysters of course, but the looks on the policemen’s faces led us to believe this was probably not the time to place an order.

  As we slowly dressed, I lamented the fact that I’d probably spend the rest of the night in the lock-up and therefore miss out on sleeping in the most amazingly soft bed in Paris, at the Hôtel de Crillon.

  Then, just like that, quick as you can order a coffee and an omelette, the gendarmes softened, chuckled and waved us on.

  Vincent’s starry night was evaporating above our heads and dawn was breaking as we wandered along the Seine back to the hotel. As the morning light grew stronger, we saw just how murky and violent the current was. If we’d actually jumped, our blue, bloated bodies would have been dragged out of the English Channel before we were reported missing. I could see the headlines back in Australia: Ray Martin, Renowned Journalist, star of 60 Minutes, found drowned off the coast of France ... and some other body.

  •

  Six months later, Suzie and I, after travelling around Europe for five weeks, found ourselves in Paris. I knew that La Tour d’Argent was booked out for six months, but remembered the name of the PR heavy, so figured I had nothing to lose by giving him a call. After telling him who I was, I gently asked if there was any way we could get into the restaurant. This week.

  ‘Oh, oui, oui. When would you like to come?’

  I was taken aback by his affirmative response and politely said, ‘Whenever you can get us in.’

  ‘No, you must choose,’ he said.

  I whispered cautiously, ‘Tomorrow night?’

  ‘Certainly, no problem, and what was your name again?’

  I gasped out my name.

  ‘D’accord. See you then.’ Click, and he was gone.

  Suzie and I had spent the last five weeks in jeans and T-shirts, living in cheap pensiones, eating cheese and salami, and now we were about to eat in the most famous, most expensive restaurant in the world.

  We tried to figure out a budget, but had absolutely no idea how much this one-off meal would cost. We guessed about three hundred dollars. Maybe four with wine. It was 1980, and I was earning $350 a week. It would be tough. But what the hell. We then had the not-so-minor problem of dress. We looked like hobos. Quelle horreur. So now our very expensive meal was to be even more so.

  I bought a coat and tie. I hadn’t worn either for at least five years. Suzie bought a dress and fur coat. We’re not talking mink here, it was rabbit, or lapin, as one says when in Paris. But that was difficult to pronounce, so we just referred to it as ‘The Mink’.

  On the big night I was worried I didn’t have enough money, but by now it was too late. We hailed a cab and, backed up by my impressive coat and tie, not to mention The Mink, I triumphantly said to the beret-wearing driver, ‘La Tour d’Argent, please.’

  He turned to me and stared. ‘The restaurant?’

  Where else? I thought, but politely gave him a ‘Oui’.

  ‘You! You are going to La Tour d’Argent?!’

  Glancing at our sartorial elegance, I wondered how he could possibly have seen through us. How did he pick we were frauds? Trying desperately to look confident I answered in the affirmative, then asked if he had ever been to La Tour.

  ‘Ooh, non, non, non, I have never been to La Tour d’Argent. My boss has never been to La Tour d’Argent. My boss’s boss has never been to La Tour d’Argent.’

  Outside the restaurant I hopped out of the cab, leant in to help Suzie and noticed that half her very expensive fur coat was now permanently attached to the velour seat, and the back of the coat now miraculously resembled leather. Amazing. I knew we were trying to save money, but what sort of rabbits do they breed in this country? Although I did think earlier in the night that the orange sheen coming from the fur was not quite organic. Struggling to hold back our laughter, we paid the driver, took one last look at the fur-covered seat, then raced into the restaurant before the driver could abuse us for smuggling vermin into his vehicle.

  The meeter-and-greeter on the ground floor, a tall, elegantly dressed woman, gave us a big smile, welcomed us like we really were about to dine in her fine establishment and asked for my name.

  ‘Lee,’ I said, then watched her scan down the list of names, across to the next page, over to the next, then back two or three pages, her brow becoming more and more furrowed. I began to panic.

  ‘Your name doesn’t seem to be here,’ she said. ‘When did you book?’

  ‘Yesterday,’ I replied.

  ‘Oh, non, non, non! La Tour is booked up six months in advance. You do not just ring up and arrive tomorrow,’ she scolded.

  ‘But I spoke to Monsieur Le Compte,’ I said.

  At the mention of my PR heavy, she was all elegance again. Two minutes later, it was sorted. Monsieur Le Compte had booked us under ‘Mr & Mrs Nicholas’. Madame was all apologies, and we were in.

  Trying desperately to reassure myself about the money, I told Suzie that Philippe the barman would look after us. I had filmed so much with him we were practically best friends. As we took our seats, Philippe approached and was met with my biggest sycophantic smile. ‘Bonsoir Philippe, how are you?’

  ‘Bonsoir monsieur, would you like a drink?’ he replied with the appropriate amount of diplomacy, and nothing more. This was not working out as I’d hoped.

  ‘Oui, merci,’ I said less confidently. ‘Two champagnes, please.’

  Philippe smiled politely, turned, headed for the bar, then stopped dead in his tracks. He slapped his hand against his forehead, swung his body back in our direction, and shouted ‘Ooh la la!’ before racing back towards us then kissing me on both cheeks. Now we were really in.

  After two champagnes and plenty of petit talk with Philippe, we were taken to the best table in the house, overlooking the Seine and Notre Dame. This choice spot is kept for the celebrity of the night, so you can bet they would whack up the price. After all, what’s an extra few hundred bucks to a Rolling Stone, or even a prime minister, to sit overlooking the best view in Paris. Though of course they wouldn’t have sat as I did, nervously checking the nearest exit in case we had to do a runner.

  The maître d approached and said how nice it was to see me again. La Tour was an impressively well-oiled PR machine, that’s for sure. He then announced, ‘You filmed the duck. Now you must eat the duck!’

  I didn’t know what to say, because I didn’t know how to say in French, ‘Are you fucking kidding, mate?’ So I found myself saying how nice that would be.

  Unfortunately he couldn’t hear a word I said. Someone else was speaking at the time, and she was saying, ‘I want to see the menu, I want to see the menu, tell him I want to see a menu.’ My request for the menu was politely turned down, and once again I was told I must have the duck. But again I heard, ‘Can’t we see a menu?’

  After three more requests, we were handed menus, and I heard, ‘I’d like to choose for myself.’ I would have loved to have said that.

  I gazed out the window to steel myself for the outrageous prices I was about to encounter and right there was Notre Dame, a stunning piece of architecture by day, and truly sublime when floodlit at night. Its beauty and size were overwhelming, as was the glossy silver menu with no prices. What the hell?

  Hang on, I thought, I’d been to classy restaurants before, I’d obviously been handed the ladies’ menu. So I grabbed Suzie’s to check and there was not a numeral to be seen. Her menu, like mine, only listed the vast number of ways the duck c
ould be served. There was also Foie gras des trois Empereurs, Cocktail de Langouste serge Burcklé, Oeufs La Rochejacquelein, Quenelles André Terrail, without going anywhere near the classy stuff.

  I was then handed a wine menu and, quelle surprise, it had prices. But I soon wished it hadn’t. Who forks out one month’s pay for a bottle of grog? Obviously not those who fork out one year’s pay. With the sommelier stalking over my shoulder I felt pressured into making a decision, difficult to do when the wine list is about a hundred pages with nothing cheaper than the GDP of Liechtenstein, until I discovered the paupers’ section, where I noticed it was all in US dollars, and the cheapest bottle was $50. Not wanting to be seen as a tight-wad, I ordered the next cheapest, $60, and was told by the sommelier it was a fine choice.

  Back to the menu and the pressure was on, and maitre d would not take no for an answer. I managed to placate Suzie and we agreed to have the duck. So what if we were down and out and had to spend the rest of the night in the kitchen alongside the plongeur. We knew this night would end badly, but we were young and in love and in Paris. So we went for it.

  First we ordered the Saumon Fumé, so light, so gentle, so delicious. It was like salmon-flavoured fairy floss. We were speechless, and remained that way as we watched an area next to our table being magically transformed into our own kitchen, hosting a huge press, those same surgical tools, knives, chefs and ... our duck. Number 586,384.

  We then heard loud crunching sounds as we watched the sauce chef place portions of the carcass into the press. With both hands and a huge smile, he slowly turned the beautiful solid silver Christofle handle as if turning on a large tap, and the crimson fluid oozed into the ornate silver tray, the contrast of the two colours was perfect. And so was everything else.

  I began to settle in. The ‘fine choice’ wine was, well, a fine choice, and what I was witnessing was so much nicer from this side of the table: hands, instruments, flames and food all beautifully orchestrated, then voilà, the first of the duck courses was on my plate. Large slices of duck breast sitting handsomely in a blood-enriched sauce. It was a work of art, too good to eat. How do they do it? As we started our taste sensation, the chefs were hard at work again, deftly doing whatever they needed to do to the skin and drumsticks, which were then served confit style. I had no idea what vegetables we were putting into our mouths but somehow they were as light as the salmon. Suzie and I looked at each other and couldn’t believe what we were eating, nor could our tastebuds, which had experienced mainly salami and cheese and cheap plonk for the last five weeks.

  Then I saw the owner, Monsieur Terrail, enter the restaurant and head straight for our table with an outstretched hand.

  ‘Mr Lee, how wonderful to see you again.’

  Did I mention the amazing PR? I stood to shake his hand then introduced him to Suzie, who looked up from her plate of orgasm. In his beautiful accent he said how pleased he was to meet her, then leant over and kissed her hand.

  He was even more charming than I remembered, maybe because now I was a paying customer. But I’m being unkind, Monsieur Terrail was truly delightful and seemed totally genuine when he told us he was so pleased to have us in his restaurant and even more pleased we had ordered the duck.

  Though he and his staff are the experts in PR, I wasn’t totally lacking in that area. Some may call it crawling, I preferred to think Claude and I spoke the same language, metaphorically speaking. Casually from beneath my chair I whipped out a videotape copy of the story I had filmed six months earlier and presented it to him, adding that it was such a hit in Australia, Air France now showed it on its Sydney to Paris route. Touché!

  Monsieur Terrail was not totally lost for words, but he went close. Thanking me profusely he took the tape, telling me he would watch it that night. I considered that this could be an opportune time to tell him I didn’t have sufficient funds for the duck I had been pressured into ordering by his maitre d, so perhaps I could give him an IOU. But why ruin a beautiful moment, so I let the opportunity pass. We said our au revoirs and he headed off to another table, leaving my wife salivating and staring at the back of her hand like a schoolgirl.

  After dessert of Flambées de Pêches and feeling totally ducked, I leant back in my chair, marvelling at the whole experience. It couldn’t get any better. Then it did. The maitre d told us we’d been invited down to the cellar. Presuming this to be the quid pro quo for ordering the duck, we accepted his invitation.

  I was looking forward to wandering around and having a really good look at the acres of grog without the pressure of work and an unhelpful cellarmaster. So off we strolled with our ten rich new friends, past those less fortunate, to enter the hallowed cellar, and who was there to meet us? My old friend the cellarmaster, who came straight up and told me how happy he was to see me again. He then proceeded to tell my new friends how six months ago I had nearly ruined his entire cellar. Everyone had a good laugh, and once again I was overwhelmed by the charm of the place.

  The cellarmaster was jovial and the perfect host. He offered us our choice of a 1937 port or an 1890 cognac. Neither of us like cognac, so we opted for the port, and watched as he pulled out an unopened bottle covered in dust. He poured two glasses then handed us the 1937 bottle to inspect. He then told Suzie how worried he had been for his wine when he had watched me setting up the lights six months ago.

  He didn’t know the meaning of the word worry. I couldn’t stop thinking of my impending financial doom as we wandered through his astounding liquor labyrinth. We finished off our second glass of million-dollar port, thanked him for his hospitality and headed back up to our table.

  The moment of truth had arrived. I hailed the maitre d and with my final effort to look the part of a man with his wallet flush with francs, I said in my best French, ‘L’addition, s’il vous plaît.’

  ‘Oh, non non non, Monsieur Lee, theez eez on zee ’ouse!’

  Total shock. We were unbelievably grateful, of course, and I put up a token argument, saying I insisted on paying, and we were extremely embarrassed. That lasted about as long as a mouthful of the salmon fairy floss, then I shut up.

  If we’d been aware of this vital piece of information much earlier in the evening, I would have enjoyed the meal a hell of a lot more and I wouldn’t have lost bucket loads of sweat and heart beats I could ill afford.

  With handshakes and merci’s all round, we exited the most expensive restaurant in the world, having spent not one centime, our reputation intact. Which was more than we could say for the mink.

  11

  A Few Good Men

  Even bigger than food in a 60 Minutes life, was the amount of time spent travelling. Sometimes we just wished the stories would come to us.

  Earlier I said concierges and porters run the show, but life was also made a hell of lot easier by a great driver. We spent a lot of time in vehicles. Sometimes it felt like we lived in a van. If we were hiding out trying to get sneaky shots of some crim, we actually did live in the van. Though I shouldn’t complain about vans, they were a luxury if we managed to find one. Often in the back of nowhere in Africa or Asia, the transport was a ute, with us in the back sitting on top of all the gear.

  Most of the time we drove ourselves, but in major cities where parking is a nightmare, a driver is a must. I found that out the hard way. We once hired a car in New York. Not smart. Half the day was spent looking for parking spots.

  At the end of that week in the Big Apple, with only four hours to go before our plane was to leave for Sydney, we rushed from our interview in the World Trade Center, to find our car had been clamped, something I’d never seen before. The clamp was as big as the car and that car was going nowhere. We’d been away for a month and were all very keen to get home. So we hopped in a cab, fanged back to the hotel for the rest of our gear then straight to JFK airport. I still don’t know what happened to the car, but three months later I got a letter from Hertz saying I was banned for life from hiring their vehicles.

  So we starte
d nurturing drivers round the world, and surprise, surprise, they vary as much as cameramen. Some were shockers, some were just plain stupid, some invariably got us lost, some were always late. With a few drivers we knew it would only be a matter of time before we were killed or maimed. There were even a few who couldn’t drive, so we’d shove them in the back seat and do the driving ourselves.

  Our driver of choice in New York for a few years was a great bloke who unfortunately suffered from verbal diarrhoea. He was very bright, hated George W. Bush (which proved his brightness), and all politics and politicians right of Lenin. But his conspiracy theories surrounding JFK, 9/11, tobacco, cancer treatment and food shortages were a worry. Very interesting the first hundred times, but after that we all feigned sleep. It made absolutely no difference. He babbled on.

  The maestro of drivers was a super-smart and very intuitive Cockney in London by the name of Steve Edwards. I’m doing him a major disservice calling him a driver. He was actually co-owner of a company consisting of dozens of cars and even more drivers. But the CEO enjoyed driving us and we loved being driven by him, so every time we hit London, Steve was part of the team for the duration of our stay. His other clients included CNN, Canadian Broadcasting and many more media types, so over the years, by osmosis, Steve picked up the knack of putting a TV story together. His input was invaluable, not to mention his knowledge of all the equipment we used. I would ring Steve from some far-off place to tell him the light/lens/camera/whatever had packed up and I’d need one or all of the above when I hit the UK in X days’ time. Then, knowing Steve was onto it, I could relax.

  The first time I met Steve he had driven us to the Thames to shoot the annual Oxford versus Cambridge boat race. As we got out of the car the producer said to me, ‘By the way, we’re shooting the Annual Ball tonight. We might have to go straight there from here.’