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The estate dinner


November 13, 2013

The dinner was on the books for a few weeks before Emily and I got dressed up and walked the few blocks to the fancy restaurant in the West Village where we were to meet Harris. He had been a good friend of Emily’s father, Carl, before he died, and now controlled his estate.

Needless to say, I wanted to make a good impression.

Emily was dressed in a beautiful purple dress and I wore a jacket and tie. We entered the restaurant on time and were shown immediately into an elevator and rode up to the third floor where Harris was already seated at a table with The New York Times out in front of him. He’s in his late 70s and dressed impeccably: pinstripe suit with pocket square and matching cufflinks. He has a full head of slicked-back grey hair.

He stood when we arrived and shook my hand firmly, immediately and smoothly sliding the newspaper onto the chair next to him. I can’t tell you how happy it made me to see him reading the newspaper. (Tip to youngsters: when you are meeting someone you need to impress, read the newspaper that day.)

At first it was a little bit awkward. Harris and Emily caught up and then he asked me about being a film editor. I explained precisely what it is that an editor does and what I was working on. It was all very formal and the waiter couldn’t arrive quickly enough.

“Good evening,” he said.

“We will have a drink before we order,” Harris said very clearly. He commanded service, something that was immediately clear to everyone, especially the waiter. Then the drink happened. Then, after confirming with us, he ordered a four-course dinner with wine pairing. We were in it for the long haul.

My face physically lit up when he finally asked if I had seen the article about the mayoral primary elections going on in the Times that day. I had actually, I replied, making a point of mentioning a detail. He nodded slowly in approval. So far, so good.

One thing that Emily had told me beforehand was that Harris refers to his ex-wives by “W-1, W-2 and W-3” and that he is currently single. That little gem of information was rattling around in my mind when a very tall attractive foreign woman in a red dress was suddenly standing over us.

“Hello,” she said to Harris.

“Hello,” he answered.

“I just had to come over and say goodbye.” Suddenly a bit of confusion on Harris’s face.

Searching for a name, I thought to myself. This must be the hostess at the restaurant, and he must come here a lot. Just call me Sherlock Holmes. Then…

“Can I ask you why you came over here?” a wrench from Harris.