BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS
My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.
If this is your first visit, be sure to start with “1. Let’s do it!”
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At Little Brown, we often took authors to lunch at Locke-Ober’s. The restaurant was a short walk across Boston Common, down Summer Street, and onto Winter Place (which was really an alley).
We enjoyed showing off the unexpected place with its intricately carved mahogany paneling, brass fixtures, huge plate glass mirrors, paintings, and stained glass. It felt and smelled of old Boston, secretly tucked away, with a deep tradition of serving the city’s influential and powerful men. (Women weren’t allowed until 1970. WTF, right?)
Best of all, on Locke-Ober’s second and third floors, were the private dining rooms which accommodated four to ten guests. We often grabbed John F. Kennedy’s favorite room on the third floor where, during his presidential run, he met with Harvard sorts to hash out policy positions. The room was a good conversation starter and just the right size for an author and two or three of us.
For me, the best thing about Locke-Ober’s private dining rooms were the red velvet ropes you’d pull for service. We’d be seated, the waiter would take an initial order (such as drinks) and leave. If you needed another drink or when ready to order your meal, you’d pull that red velvet rope and the waiter quietly showed up. I loved it, and so I was always looking for some reason to pull the rope. “Hey, want another drink?” “How about some milk with that coffee?” “Who’s thinking desert right now?”
My most enjoyable lunch at Locke-Ober’s was with William Shirer, best known for his book, The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. At the time we were publishing his The Nightmare Years, recounting his pre-World War II years as a journalist in Nazi Germany.
Good god, to be sitting there with this guy who was smack in the middle of the rise of Nazi Germany, who knew all the players, and who had me on the edge of my seat as he told of how in December 1940, he smuggled his notes and diaries out of Germany in a trunk’s fake bottom.
Absolutely mesmerizing, he was such a great storyteller and was witness to the greatest story of the 20th century.
William L. Shirer
When war broke out in 1940, Shirer moved forward with the German troops, and reported firsthand on the German Blitzkrieg, then the invasion of Denmark and Norway in April, and the invasion of the Netherlands, Luxembourg, Belgium, and France in May. As the Nazis closed in on Paris, he was there. Now he was here at Locke-Ober’s telling me all about those days in intimate detail. And I asked him if he wanted another drink, so that I could pull on the red velvet rope.
The Nazis increasingly harassed Shirer to report their “official” accounts that he knew were lies. He pushed back. Then he was tipped off that the Gestapo had built an espionage case against him, one which carried the death penalty. He quickly slipped out of Germany with his hidden notes and journals.
By the way, when listening to him from across the table, one didn’t look him in the eyes. You looked him in the eye. His right eye was dead, lost of sight due to a 1932 skiing accident in the Alps.
With Shirer was a quiet and attractive young woman. I think she become his third wife. I kept asking her if she wanted anything so that I could pull the red velvet rope.
David Goehring, Little Brown’s Sales Director, was also there. Who else sat around that table, I don’t recall. But I remember David for sure because either he or Shirer referred to Hermann Göring (also spelled Goering) as David’s “Uncle Hermann.” What an odd thing to stick with me nearly 40 years later.
It was without doubt the most fascinating conversation of my life. Spellbinding. An honor. I do recall looking at my watch for a first time since we had sat down to our noon lunch. It was 4 p.m.
Like I keep saying, I’ve been a lucky guy. This publishing stuff allowed me a life beyond what I ever could have imagined in my dorky high school years.
Speaking of high school, I’m getting itchy for a visit to my hometown of Ligonier (PA). To see my brother and a couple of good friends from high school. After all, my college buddies didn’t turn out to be all that great. But Brad and Keith, I can trust them for sure. I’ll skip the train and drive this time.
I like to get off the Pennsylvania Turnpike at Bedford and take Route 30 over the mountain and into Ligonier. It’s a pretty and calming drive. My childhood vacations most often started on that road, early in the morning, and it reminds me of even more personal blessings—my parents.
It’s only right to mention them today. It’s my dad’s birthday. He’d be 108. Happy birthday to a really, really good guy. I miss you like crazy.
Tomorrow: One more old white guy – James Doyle