When performers like George Burns, Bill Cosby, Milton Berle, or George Jessel gathered at Groucho’s table, there was certain to be amusing (and competitive) conversation. While Groucho would contribute an occasional pithy bon mot, he was quite content to let his guests carry the conversation. He didn’t particularly like to have to talk a lot while eating. And he didn’t like to be asked questions that required long answers from him during meals. If asked a question requiring a lengthy answer, he usually said, “I’m eating.”
Sometimes at meals, Groucho was in a pensive mood or just a quiet one. His silences could be very silent indeed. He was not afraid of long pauses in the conversation, and he had no need to fill in those pauses, though others may have felt uneasy.
Always a generous host, Groucho had two giant refrigerators that were always crammed with delicacies from Jurgensen’s, his favorite Beverly Hills food store. While not one to dismiss a modern convenience, Groucho did lament the disappearance of the icebox, which long ago had provided him with some of his best material, jokewise, if not necessarily foodwise. “Refrigerators aren’t funny,” he advised me.
“We used to get big laughs on icebox stories,” he said, remembering vaudeville days. “But who would understand now about the tray you had to use to catch the dripping water? When I was young, which was about a hundred years ago, there were no refrigerators. There were no airplanes, no automobiles, no radio, and no television. There was practically nothing.
“Well, anyhow, they used to sell ice on the street in those days. The ice wagon would come around, and for twenty-five cents you would get so much ice. When the iceman went up to deliver to somebody, we boys would jump on the ice wagon and eat the ice in the summer. So, one day he was delivering ice, and this woman who lived on the fourth floor called down to the iceman that she wanted twenty-five cents’ worth of ice. He called back to her, ‘I don’t know what floor you’re on. Tell me your floor and I will deliver the ice.’ She says, ‘Four Q,’ and he says, ‘Fork you, too, madam.’
“That’s not a made-up story,” Groucho added.
Groucho, who always preferred to pick up the check, recalled a friend who did not:
“Al Boasberg was very stingy. We used to eat lunch every day at M-G-M. It’d be Kaufman, Morrie Ryskind and the boys, and Boasberg. Then we’d toss for the check. Boasberg lost one day and had to pay the check, and he never showed up for lunch again at the studio restaurant. He would get hamburgers and hot dogs at the lunch wagon.
“But he wasn’t stingy on Christmas. Then, he would get all the actors who were out of work, and invite them to his house, and buy them dinner, and give them shirts and ties and things like that. He was great. I miss him.
“I was on the bill with another fellow on the Orpheum Circuit, and he would never eat in a good restaurant. He’d always go to a place where he could eat a whole dinner for seventy-five cents. Eventually he died from eating in those joints because the food was so terrible.”
Although Groucho gave a glittering party on the occasion of winning his Oscar, he told me that he didn’t like to go to big parties anymore.
“I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I just stand around sober.”
On doctor’s orders Groucho had given up the cigars that were his trademark, as well as all alcoholic beverages. He never did drink very much. “I only got drunk once in my life,” he recalled, “and that was in Jamaica drinking those sweet rum drinks.” The occasional Cinzano which he used to drink before dinner was replaced by salt-free tomato juice. One evening while drinking a second tomato juice aperitif, Groucho observed, “I’m drinking this like there’s no yesterday.” He was reminded of his father’s wine. “You never tasted anything like the wine my father used to make. In New York my father used to make wine in the cellar. It was during Prohibition, and he decided that since he was a Frenchman, he’d make some wine. We lived across the street from where there was a sewer, and the rats used to come out of the sewer and go into the cellar. And that was where my father was making the wine. It was a real rathskeller. One night there was a tremendous explosion. It was like an earthquake. The wine had exploded in the cellar and killed all the rats! We never had any rats after that. And we never had any wine, either.”
About smoking Groucho was like a reformed alcoholic who has given up drinking and joined the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union. “One day my doctor said, ‘Stop smoking,’ and I did.” Jack Nicholson, cigarette in hand, knew the lecture by heart.
GROUCHO
Why don’t you give up smoking?
JACK NICHOLSON
I did. I gave it up ten years ago.
GROUCHO
You don’t look like you gave it up. (Jack was chain-smoking)
JACK NICHOLSON
I started again two years ago. I’m going to be on a boat for ten days, on Sam Spiegel’s yacht. Maybe I can do it then.
GROUCHO
You mean (Raising his eyebrows) S. P. Eagle? (Mention of producer Sam Spiegel often elicited this response from Groucho)
Groucho told me about T. S. Eliot requesting a photograph and then sending it back because it didn’t show Groucho smoking a cigar. Groucho sent the cigar-smoking photo, and they became good friends. Winston Churchill’s daughter once gave him some cigars, and Groucho asked her, “What do you know about cigars?”
“I smoke them,” she said. “I smoke them with my father. We used to have competitions to see who could have the longest ash.”
Groucho’s barroom, filled with Marx Brothers memorabilia, was just off the dining room, and was where guests used to congregate in the half hour before meals. After Groucho began abstaining from both alcohol and tobacco, they usually went directly to the dining-room table.
Cook-watching became a popular sport at Groucho’s soirées when Robin Heaney joined the Marx ménage to become, as Groucho described her, “the only cook I ever kissed.” Groucho told me that on seeing Robin in the kitchen, Jack Nicholson had asked him, “Where do you get one of those things?” Tall, slim, young, and blond, she was not scullery typecast, and guests always asked in disbelief, “Is she really your cook?!” Robin was mistress of what Groucho referred to as “la Belle Kitchen.” Sometimes when Groucho was invited out to lunch in a restaurant, he took Robin along with him, introducing her as his cook. This was usually received as a joke.
A college graduate, Robin always wanted to cook, preferably elaborate specialties for large numbers of people, but she found her career hampered by her appearance. Few wives were willing to install her in their kitchens. Groucho rarely went into his kitchen, but he was concerned with what came out, and he assiduously clipped recipes from the Sunday New York Times. Although Groucho didn’t think of himself as a gourmet and “salt-free” is hardly an Escoffier-like admonition, Robin found working for him a challenge—a purely culinary challenge, since he had announced his retirement where girls were concerned. “Now I only look,” he told me.
Robin decorated his kitchen with her presence and his table with repasts like curry sauce and vegetables, cream cheese balls, rolled veal stuffed with dried fruit, broccoli, tomato stuffed with spinach soufflé, mushrooms stuffed with sausage, vegetable-fruit-nut salad, and fresh papaya halves with strawberries and cream for dessert. Frequently, Robin walked around barefoot, and sometimes even served that way. When Groucho went to New York, he brought her along to cook in his Sherry Netherland Hotel suite. Her dress was informal. She wore a T-shirt with a large open mouth across the front of it. As she breathed, the heaving of her bust made it look as if the mouth were laughing.
Before Robin, Groucho had two black cooks. Martha, who was with him for many years, had as a specialty a fruitcake that she baked and aged for Christmas. Another specialty was “Sidney Sheldon Soup,” a meal in itself, consisting of boiled beef and vegetables, and named for a frequent dinner guest. When Martha was cooking for Groucho, a typical meal would have been carrot salad, ground meat and peas with mashed potatoes, and raspberries with a creamy topping.
Before Martha there was Sarah, about whom Groucho told this story:
“Sarah was a very attractive colored woman who never married. One day I said to her, ‘Why didn’t you ever get married? You’re a good-looking dame. You must have had a lot of men after you.’ And she said, ‘I would say, in Dallas I was very well known.’”
He paused after telling this story, as if to enjoy the imagery evoked.
Groucho always ate so slowly that those who ate with him for the first time were often dismayed when they realized that they had finished virtually everything on their plates while Groucho’s plate was still nearly full. To cover their embarrassment at seeming to have ravenously gulped their meals, they nervously nibbled as slowly as possible on whatever crumbs they had left. They accepted with alacrity second helpings, even thirds, not wishing to leave Groucho the lone eater.
Eventually, however, they conceded defeat, laying down their forks and just waiting for Groucho to finish. The whole procedure was often lengthened by Robin’s extra-crunchy salad, which Groucho devoured down to the last nut and seed even though health food per se didn’t interest him. During one of our first dinners together, I finished eating after he did. This wasn’t missed by Groucho, who commented, “She can stay. I may keep her here permanently.”
Groucho lived alone until after a serious illness at eighty-three, a round-the-clock shift of nurses joined the cast at Groucho’s. Young and attractive, they often seemed more like starlets cast to play nurses. While bemoaning that he couldn’t make a vice out of necessity, he came to enjoy their companionship and the role he played in their lives. He enjoyed the obvious pride and pleasure they took from the job with Groucho Marx. Donna, one of these young nurses, described her mornings with him:
“Groucho has everything timed out so cute. He gets up in the morning at seven o’clock and takes a shower. Then he gets back into bed and reads his paper until eight-thirty. At eight-thirty he gets his messages, and at nine o’clock he eats breakfast. Then, after breakfast, he gets up and brushes his teeth and shaves, and if he doesn’t have to do anything, he gets back in bed and finishes reading the paper. He has a set time for everything.”
Breakfast for Groucho consisted of freshly squeezed orange juice, soft-boiled eggs, and decaffeinated coffee. This was all prepared by the Guatemalan maid, Ora, who would arrive just before nine o’clock.
Occasionally an early-rising friend would drop by to join him for breakfast. Elliott Gould, who sometimes rose with the sun, might come by when he wasn’t working on a film, but it was strictly for Groucho’s company, since Elliott’s favorite kind of breakfast wasn’t on the menu—an egg salad sandwich with a milk shake.
Elliott told Groucho that he had met Zeppo for the first time at Groucho’s Oscar-warming party.
“He let me get in front of him at the buffet,” Elliott said.
“Zeppo always was very polite, unless he was hungry,” Groucho confirmed.
Lunch was always at one o’clock even when Groucho went out for lunch. He used to go to Hillcrest, his club, for lunch with George Jessel, George Burns, Jack Benny, writer Irving Brecher, or banker Al Hart. The regulars referred to their group as “the Roundtable.” In later years, however, Groucho usually had lunch at home, often with a guest.
Hillcrest Country Club undoubtedly missed Groucho’s daily visits, but on the occasions he did show up for lunch, he usually made up for lost pandemonium. Erin Fleming, his secretary–business manager–companion, and I were with him on one such occasion:
ERIN
What are you going to order, Groucho?
GROUCHO
I would like to have sockeyed salmon.
ERIN
I thought you said popeyed salmon?
GROUCHO
I did. I was cockeyed when I said it. (To waiter) You say there’s no salt in that cockeyed salmon?
WAITER
Yes, Mr. Marx.
GROUCHO
I’ll have that and cold borscht. But no salt. I’d have a breast of turkey, but it sounds so sexual. (Reading) “Sales tax will be added to retail price on all taxable items.” So, remember that, girls. Don’t go overboard. ’Cause I’m not made of money. (To waiter) I still want the borscht and I will have cottage cheese, sour cream, fruit, and buttermilk. And see what the boys in the back room’ll have. (To Erin) Don’t you like borscht?
ERIN
No, and I don’t like buttermilk, either.
GROUCHO
What else can a cow give but her milk?
ERIN
Groucho, do you want apple or strawberry pie for dessert?
GROUCHO
“Apple pie for me. Because I’m an American. Strawberry is for fags.” (He was referring to the line of the comic homosexual in the Marx Brothers’ Fun in Hi Skule vaudeville act who always insisted on strawberry pie)
Sunday brunch at Hillcrest Country Club was a special event for members, an effective antidote for Sunday terminal boredom. The buffet usually included matzo brie, lox, cream cheese and bagels, as well as the conventional items.
After lunch at home, Groucho sometimes adjourned to the living room to crack nuts from a big wooden bowl. But he didn’t use the cradle of the telephone to crack them as he did in Horse Feathers, settling instead for a more conventional nutcracker.
Dinner was de rigueur at seven o’clock, and usually with guests. Even if Groucho went out to a supper after a film premiere or to a late buffet party, he always had his dinner at home at seven o’clock, not gambling on the late fare, especially after salt-free fare became mandatory.
On being asked, “Are you having Billy Wilder for dinner?” Groucho wore an expression of mock shock. “I’m surprised at you,” he admonished any grammatical offender. “Are we going to eat him?” Groucho always had people to dinner.
GROUCHO
You know about the oysters who were invited for dinner?
I
I believe it was for a picnic. But it’s too sad. I try not to think about it.
GROUCHO
You seem like an Alice in Wonderland person…
I
Of course. So do you.
GROUCHO
I’m gonna tell you something else he [Lewis Carroll] wrote: “He thought he saw an elephant that practiced on a fife. He looked again and found it was a letter from his wife.” That’s good.
A dinner party at Groucho’s, on any given night, might have included Sidney Sheldon, Mae West, Dinah Shore, Mike Nichols (who sometimes brought his baby, Max), George Jessel, Elliott Gould, Jack Lemmon, Walter Matthau, Edgar Bergen, George Burns, George Seaton, Buddy Hackett, Dick Cavett, or Goddard Lieberson. Groucho expected everyone to be on time.
Besides the usual impromptu entertainment by the guests, Groucho sometimes showed a film, such as Animal Crackers, or the Jack Benny parody of You Bet Your Life, or The Mikado, with Groucho as Ko-Ko, the Lord High Executioner.
While I was staying at Groucho’s house, he asked me to call Edgar Bergen and invite him to dinner. I asked if I could invite Charlie Mc-Carthy and Mortimer Snerd, too. Groucho said, “No, maybe he won’t like it. That’s how he makes his living. He might think he has to come over here to work. Tell him we’ll serve him a hock-hock and a roll. That’s a frankfurter. I used to pay three cents for one.”
Parties at Groucho’s house started early enough to end before eleven o’clock, especially when You Bet Your Life was on, because Groucho didn’t want to miss it. If the party lasted longer than expected, just before the program came on, he would announce, “The pâté is over,” and retire to his bedroom, where he watched it with only his closest friends. Groucho played the game along with the contestants, and was pleased when he guessed all of the answers correctly. He would call out “Richard Lovelace” in answer to what seventeenth-century poet wrote, “Stone walls do not a prison make.” He knew or remembered the answer to virtually every question. Enormously fond of You Bet Your Life, he told me, “It was some of the best stuff I ever did. I really had to th
ink. I never worked so hard.”
During the reruns of You Bet Your Life Groucho received a lot of fan mail from viewers. Each day Groucho, with the help of Steve Stoliar, who had organized the CRAC Committee at UCLA that helped bring about the rerelease of Animal Crackers, went through the piles of mail that came in, checking the return addresses for known names. One of these was an Italian lady named Bettina Consolo, who appeared three times on the show. Groucho, very pleased, showed me her card. “She always writes, ‘God Bless You.’ Only that.”
After You Bet Your Life, Groucho often enjoyed his favorite indulgence, one that his mother had also enjoyed: nurse Happy tickled his feet.
At Eric Ross’s men’s clothing store in Beverly Hills, some people from Kansas came up to Groucho to tell him how much they enjoyed watching You Bet Your Life. They had just seen a show with a contestant they said was “so dumb” they couldn’t believe it.
“They’re all dumb,” Groucho told them. “That’s why they’re on the show. Why do you think I’m on the show?”
Groucho usually watched You Bet Your Life from bed in pajamas. During his show he rarely smiled, watched raptly, seriously. A discriminating viewer, he carefully studied TV Guide beforehand to make his selections. Early arrival at the TV set was a must, for he insisted on seeing programs from the beginning to the end. Then the set was switched off. He never just left it on after a program was over.
His attitude toward TV was far from being casual. It was actually closer to the respect many people feel for the legitimate theatre. Groucho sincerely believed that all the entertainment media of the past—theatre, radio, and the movies—were summed up in television, “right in that box.” He appreciated that “being entertaining is hard work.”
Hello, I Must be Going Page 5
