Vanity Fare
Is Graydon Carter’s Waverly Inn really as impenetrable as Fort Knox? Yes and no, says Jonathan Kelly. But mostly yes.
Not all of the rumours one hears about the Waverly Inn & Garden are entirely true. The Waverly does have a telephone number, but the phone does not work. The restaurant does have an email reservation line, but the gentleman in charge does not carry a BlackBerry. So how does one gain admission? It’s quite simple, actually. But that’s for another time.
The fun begins each night at 5pm, when the secret reservation line closes and the guest list for the evening is surveyed. First, the local newsmakers, politicians and the police chief; next, the media kingpins, statesmen and behind-the-scenes boulevardiers; actors, novelists, directors; sportsmen, noted comedians and editorialists; then real-estate moguls. Though the evening’s list, drafted every afternoon by proprietor and Vanity Fair editor Graydon Carter, is capped just after teatime, exceptions are made for certain Oscar-winning actresses, warm-hearted tycoons and fashion designers who, like brilliant footballers, are on a first-name basis with the world.
Beneath the shallow ceilings of the main dining room, whose amber glow conveys a subtle air of both mischief and promise, is the Waverly’s inner sanctum, an abode much like Stalin’s Kremlin quarters, where it is always 4am and people are always drinking. The two main horseshoe-shaped banquettes that anchor the room are reserved for the restaurant’s two best customers, Carter himself and Ronald Perelman. If one of these gentlemen is unable to attend the restaurant on a given night, his booth is bequeathed to another guest, often the mayor, or a world-renowned artist, musician or writer.
To one side of the banquettes are five well-appointed round tables, which allow diners to observe each person who crosses the diminutive threshold from the bar to the dining room. In the tradition of the venerable East Side saloon Elaine’s, the middle table in this row is reserved for writers and editors. On a given night you may find it occupied by Jay McInerney, a regular who often insists on bringing wine (an exception the Waverly is pleased to grant him). The table has also served Richard Ford, Orhan Pamuk, Joan Didion and Salman Rushdie.
Another duo of U-shaped booths hides behind a small partition on the opposite side of the centred banquettes. These are the preferred domain not only of studio moguls but also of private-equity kings, commodities barons and pop and hip-hop stars—an excellent place to make a deal or enjoy a Dover sole on a night off from the tour. They are also the chosen province of certain older lotharios desiring a view of those entering and exiting the ladies’ room.
To the slight consternation of executive chef John Delucie, the Waverly Inn is known less for its sumptuous food than for the intrigue taking place behind its closed doors. (Though, according to Whoopi Goldberg, Delucie’s hamburger and truffled french fries are the best in town.) Soon after the restaurant opened for previews a few winters ago, the newspapers reported that a beleaguered actress emptied a glass of water on her ex-husband as he was queuing for the restroom. In another instance a few months earlier, the same gentleman was dumbfounded to arrive one evening and find his usual table occupied by Robert De Niro, who told him he would have to fight him for the table. The challenge was all in good humour, of course, and, no feelings were hurt.
It is in the nature of the Waverly—with its disciplined waiters, punctilious busboys, and matinee-idol maître d’ Emil Varda—to please. So when Julia Roberts asked for artichokes months after they have been taken off the menu, somehow the thistle magically appeared. When Karl Lagerfeld sent an emissary to collect a lunch consisting solely of sautéed carrots, the restaurant happily obliged (without mentioning that it doesn’t serve lunch). When a well-lubricated financier of high repute decided to juggle his knives one evening and split the inseam of his pants in media res, a friendly waiter was pleased to hand him a linen napkin to cover his backside and a new set of cutlery with which to resume his amusement.
A few months earlier, a neighbour was enjoying a late dinner with his beloved when leopard-lean, Jazz Age-cool manager Larry Poston politely asked if he could move the couple to another table in order to make room for Jay-Z and Beyoncé, who had just arrived for an impromptu dinner. The couple happily obliged. “Anything for the Waverly,” the gentleman said. Two minutes later, with the table cleared and reset, the musical duo was enjoying an intimate dinner over a bottle of Pétrus. Demure in their inconspicuous booth, they were unperturbed when the sommelier accidentally broke the cork. The Waverly was only too pleased to offer the displaced couple a romantic dinner on the house.
However, there is a limit to even the most patient maître d’s good disposition. A recent reminder occurred during a late-winter evening when a well-known singer showed up with her guest, an equally famous athlete. After rounds of vodka cocktails and dinners of chicken pot pie, the couple disembarked from their banquette to greet a throng of awaiting paparazzi, already screaming their names. Days later it was discovered that the singer’s publicist had tipped off the shutterbugs, who were negligently waking the neighbours on the already somnolent Bank Street.
Yet the lengths certain people go to for a reservation are often endearing. One Iberian captain of industry was so concerned about securing a table that his solicitous “lifestyle counseller” sent a beseeching note of request. The reservation was taken. But when a similar note arrived from an unctuous estate manager claiming to represent a perennial member of the Forbes 500 list, the Waverly was put off by the bravado. The reservation was not granted. Several months ago, one man pleaded for a reservation in order to propose to his girlfriend that evening. When the night arrived, and the gentleman never descended to one knee, the management of the restaurant grimaced. Was it a case of cold feet? Or simply an excuse to secure a table?
And then there are the rare moments when diners find out at the very last moment they can no longer make their reservation. Certain regulars like Sean “Diddy” Combs have no qualms about dialling the maître d’s private number. But for those who have not been granted one of the top-secret numbers, a last-minute cancellation often incites the fear of excommunication. One publicist of a renowned news broadcaster nearly burst into tears the morning after her client’s Broadway show ran past the appointed time. Recently, the former US ambassador to an Eastern European country sent a remorseful email explaining that he was forced to spend the evening uptown with his family. He had even enlisted the telephone company to try and turn on the Waverly’s phone service. Of course, for his troubles, he was dutifully forgiven.
Certain rumours one hears about the Waverly may or may not be true. Does Fran Lebowitz, who is immortalised on the mural commanding the western wall of the restaurant, only sit beneath her caricature? Did a film executive arrive one night for a secret rendezvous when he was informed by the head waiter that his wife was sitting only a few tables away? Was that really Larry David performing a stand-up routine on the restaurant’s front steps to the delight of guffawing paparazzi? As Emil Varda often says in his inimitable Mittleuropean parlance: “What happens at the Waverly stays at the Waverly, baby.”
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August 15th, 2008 at 11:20 am
Your blog is interesting!
Keep up the good work!