Monday, December 27, 2021. Very cold in New York on this holiday fortnight, just as you would expect at this time of year. We even had a brief blanketing of snow. The city is very quiet. In my neighborhood there is no pedestrian activity in the evening except for the occasional and quick canine activity, but even that has lessened. Many people are still away although at night there is still the view of Christmas trees lighting various and sundry apartment windows to remind of the grand finale of this year’s calendar.
I haven’t strayed far from my door for these past few days although I’m guessing it’s like this all over town. Among the news items yesterday was the announcement of the re-opening of Sardi’s restaurant which has been closed for 648 (!!!!) days is re-opening for business. Any news about Sardi’s is always interesting to me because of my experience working there as a very young man back in the middle ‘60s. Longtime readers are possibly familiar with the famous restaurant. But if not, we are running a Diary about it written almost 16 years ago when the son of its original owner departed this world of ours.
January 8th, 2007 — New York lost one of its legendary restaurateurs last week when Vincent Sardi Jr. passed away at age 91. In his day, and before that, in his father’s day, Sardi’s restaurant on West 44th Street between Broadway and Eighth Avenue was the culinary social mecca for the giants of the American theatre. Producers, directors, choreographers, composers, lyricists, playwrights, actors, actresses, stars all went to Sardi’s — even daily — along with the devotees of Broadway theatre. From its inception (by the original Vincent Sardi Sr.) a century ago, Sardi’s was a haven to actors to see, to be seen, to make their way, to make their day, as well as feed those who were short on work. It was a theatre restaurant with its lunch and dinner hours arranged tightly around the theatre’s schedules.
In the mid-1960s I was living in New York, pursuing a career as an actor (not very prosperously, to be sure). Looking for some part time work, a friend of mine Peter Gina (pronounced Gin-ay), who was the nephew of Vincent Sardi, recommended me to his uncle to work as an assistant to the maître d’ at the dinner hour and the Wednesday and Saturday matinee lunch hours.
I reported for work at 5 and it was over at 8 when the restaurant would virtually empty out with everyone going to the theatre. I was given Ruritanian officer’s red and gold jacket for the occasion. The maître d’ was Jimmy Molinski, known by all the rich and famous and regulars as Jimmy, who had started as a busboy at Sardi’s when he was a kid. By the time I met him he was a very polished complement to his boss, Vincent (“Mr. Sardi”) who was also his contemporary.
My job was to stand at the door as the customers entered and if I didn’t recognize them (stars, VIPs, etc.), I was to ask them if they had a reservation. If they did, I directed them to Jimmy. If they didn’t: upstairs (unless there were open tables downstairs).
The little square entrance area where I stood was the hub of the restaurant. It was where the hatcheck was, where the entrance to the bar was, the staircase and the maître d’s desk which opened to the main dining room.
Soon I got used to the cast of characters who frequented almost daily: agents, press agents, producers. (David Merrick would walk in and out a couple of times, often followed by his two deputies, Jack Schlissel and Allen Delyn). A ruddy faced blond man named Lawrence Shubert Lawrence came and went with his two lieutenants, Bernie Jacobs and Gerry Schoenfeld. Almost all businessmen still wore hats in those days.There were stars in the casts of the local shows who came in for early dinner so as to be in their dressing rooms by 7. And many of the staff of the New York Times which used Sardi’s as its local tavern. This included everyone from the Sulzbergers right down to the boys and girls in the newsroom.
Then there were the theatre legends. There was Don Bevan, the playwright who co-wrote Stalag 17 and for 20 years did the famous caricatured that covered the walls. There was Jack Kirkland, who had but one hit, but a bonanza in Tobacco Road. By the time I got to Sardi’s Mr. Kirkland was a lonely but beloved figure at the bar. Dorothy Fields the lyricist (“I Won’t Dance,” “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love…”) came every Saturday to lunch with Mrs. Martin Beck, wife of the theater owner. Two older ladies (to these eyes) in their minks, with their martinis, their cigarettes, then some Cannelloni au gratin — which I also had at the end of my day’s work.
Dorothy Fields was the only person, man or woman, who ever gave me a tip. As she passed by on her way out the door, she’d discreetly slip me a buck. Hal Prince, sunny and prolific at all times, always arrived in his grey chauffeur-driven Jaguar. Also, the white-on-white and al-pailletted Miss Hope Hampton (of yesteryear even then) arriving for the after theatre opening in her black Rolls. On arrival, she’d exit the Rolls and stand for the waiting photographers, ready for her closeup.
Everyone came through the doors in those days (late 1960s). Hello Dolly was down the street at the St. James. Cabaret was across the way and Fiddler On the Roofa few doors down. Richard Burton was appearing in Hamlet one block over where every night the entire street was flooded with fans waiting a glimpse of him exiting the stage door with his wife Elizabeth Taylor who showed up every night after the final curtain. One night he and Taylor came over to Sardi’s after the show. The cops had to close off the entire block because of the thousands of people wanting to get a glimpse of the then legendary stars. All of society national and international, such as Doris Duke and Jackie Onassis came for before-theatre dinner, as did the Ford Sisters, Anne and Charlotte along with their mother Anne Ford Johnson — the three of them all aglitter in ’60s haute couture, setting off the center front room like Diamonds as Big As the Ritz. Movie stars, new stars, old stars; June Allyson looking like she’d just walked out of a movie I’d seen her in when I was six.
One night right after the dining room had emptied, Warren Beatty came through the door looking for Barbara Harris (his girlfriend at the time.) An odd question at the time because she was appearing in The Apple Tree across the street at that very moment he entered. He asked me if I’d seen her, as if he were looking for her. I wasn’t quite sure what he meant. He turned around and left. Unbeknownst to me, however, only minutes before, in the middle of the first act, as she was about to perform a musical number, Miss Harris stopped and said to the audience, “I can’t do this,” and walked off the stage, out of the stage door, down 44th Street to Times Square and got on a bus going downtown. (She later resumed her role in the show).
And in the middle of all this was Vincent Sardi always navigating around the room and amidst the crowds in constant gathering at the entrance doors; coming and going, he’d be greeting, hallo-ing, clasping a hand, patting a shoulder, sharing a quick joke, opening up his hearth and home to YOU. It was the red carpet location for opening night shows. When its stars arrived after theatre, the entire restaurant would stand to rise and applaud; it was very exciting. Within the hour or so of the final curtain, the first issues of the New York Times critics review would be brought over to the restaurant.
He was not a tall man, maybe 5’10” if that. Bald with a good Roman head; turned out usually in a charcoal grey bespoke suit (to his maître d’s dark suit); that fit him impeccably. He was solidly built, broad shouldered, looking like you’d think an ex-Marine officer (he was) might look. With this came a world class personality, an ambassador’s finesse with a royal flourish yet warm and effusive. He had a very audible almost booming yet soft voice with a bit of a rasp to it. It’s a vocal quality that always appeals. He lowered it as he leaned in to speak to his guests, almost deferential, but not, as if with a slight bow. And as he moved away there might be a burst of laughter between everyone about the words he left them with. And on to the next …
I’d stand by the door and watch him with his clientele. They were always glad to see him, always charmed. To most he was a celebrity whose name was synonymous with Broadway history. His attention was light and brief, but intensely focused, as if to leave its mark. He was a pro: while talking to them, even if for twenty seconds, he was with them. Then might come the laugh, and then he turned away and moved on to the next hello-hello. Again the same intense focus, brief convivial, in that voice. It was a marvel to behold. There was a precise technique, and conscious of it or not, he knew what he was doing; this was his stage, and all the stars came to it.
Everyone, everything came and went but Vincent Sardi remained. And when he sat down to dine, which was rare, the conversation would often slowly raise in decibels to accommodate his convivial charm. He was a pleasure to be around, and he extended that charm to everyone who came into his realm.
As a manager, the owner, Vincent was decisive and definitely the boss. But he had an executive-in-charge just as he had Jimmy (and Mr. Valentine at supper) at the door. They were the team and he was the leader. He socialized with his clientele, went to their parties, skied and summered among them. The theatre in his lifetime was a powerful social institution even within the confines of Manhattan society. It was very much part of the elite as well as all theatre-goers, and Vincent Sardi was as much a part of it as he wished to be.
As it was in his business, marriages can be difficult. Vincent had three, and four children with his second wife Adele.
I worked there for a little more than a year and decided to leave when Vincent asked me if I’d be interested in going into the restaurant business. He could see how much I enjoyed the scene and was well aware of the clientele. I could see its allure but I could also see how it owns you; it is your wife, your partner, your life. When I left my job at Sardi’s I was replaced however briefly by a young comedian who just a few years later became a household name on the original SNL — Chevy Chase.
The business changed as the theatre changed. The ’70s and early ’80s saw a big drop-off in the Broadway theater-going. Changing tastes and economics. Vincent sold Sardi’s in 1985 to a group of investors to who lost it back to him several years later.
By the 1990s, the theatre had come back to prosperity but the audience had changed. An obvious measure of that is the average theater-goer’s mode of dress. When Vincent Sardi started out in business working for his father, men wore top hats to opening night. When I was working the door with Jimmy in the late 1960s, all opening night after parties were held at Sardi’s, the women wore jewels and long dresses and furs, and men wore black tie. Today they wear anything but. The fashion is whatever you want and nothing much matters. So by the time that he had abdicated his role as the ambassador of Broadway, Broadway had changed too. Vincent Sardi’s passing marks the closure.