Speed introduced me to Ngoot Lee, who was a brilliant calligrapher and furniture designer who worked for Bloomingdale’s. He would set up some of their furniture displays and do framed calligraphy on the walls. Ngoot was a great cook himself, but he always knew where the best restaurants in Chinatown were. So Speed asked Ngoot to take us to a Chinese restaurant that he thought was really good. That was the beginning of a nine-year tradition of Tuesday nights in Chinatown. We called ourselves the “Chinese Gourmet Society.”
We had strict eating rules at the Chinese Gourmet Society. You were not allowed to eat two mouthfuls of fish, meat, or chicken without an intermediate mouthful of rice. Otherwise, you would be consuming only the expensive food. The check and tip, and the parking fees, if any, were equally divided among the members. It was compulsory, if you were in New York, not working nights, and in reasonable health, to be present at every Chinese Gourmet Society meeting.
We added to the group. First was Georgie Mandel, a really talented writer whose books included The Wax Boom. He was hit by a German sniper in World War II and had a metal plate in his head, but it never stopped him from being a gifted writer. We also added two other really celebrated writers, Joseph Heller and Mario Puzo. As I got to know Joe and Mario, we would trade many stories, and laughs.
Joe Heller, who wrote Catch-22 and became one of the most influential writers of the twentieth century, was the funniest of the bunch. He always insisted on serving the food.
He would say, “Let me serve; let me be the server.”
They’d bring crab and black bean sauce and rice. He’d fill up his plate and pick the best pieces of crab, the middle sections, and then he’d take the rest of it with the claws and everything and give it to me and say, “Here, now you be the server.”
It always got a laugh.
Mario Puzo (the future author of The Godfather) was by far the best eater. In all of our stomachs is a thing called the vagus nerve, which tells us when we are full and to stop eating. For some reason, Mario was not blessed with a vagus nerve. He could eat until the cows came home, and if one of them was unlucky enough to stumble into his apartment, he’d eat it! Normally, when people leave a Chinese restaurant, they often take with them some cardboard containers of leftovers. Thanks to Mario, we never had any leftovers.
I don’t know if it’s true, but there is a great story about Mario and food. He lived in Bay Shore, Long Island, where he would write deep into the night in his attic office. Often around midnight, hunger pangs would strike. He’d go all the way down to the kitchen and make himself his favorite sandwich, a Dagwood. If you’re familiar with the old comic strip Blondie, her husband, Dagwood, was famous for making a multilayered Dagwood sandwich. It consisted of different luncheon meats, cheeses, tomato, pickles, relish, olives, etc. It was a foot high. It seems that one night, Mario was beginning to climb the stairs to his attic while carrying his beloved Dagwood sandwich when one of his slippers…slipped. He tumbled down the stairs and ended up on the floor of the living room. His leg hurt a lot, so he thought maybe it was broken. The telephone was about six feet away, and with a good crawl he could get there and call a hospital. However, six feet in the other direction lay Mario’s Dagwood sandwich, which had landed remarkably intact…and was staring at him. What to do, what to do? So pain or not, he crawled on his elbows, like an infantryman under fire, over to his beloved sandwich. He ate it with relish and then proceeded to crawl all the way back to the telephone to call the hospital and report his broken leg.
Like I said, I don’t know if it’s true, but it’s a great story.
We were also joined by another friend of Speed’s and mine from Fire Island, Julie Green, who was a diamond merchant. He was incredibly well read and very bright and good company. Julie had read and loved a book called The Little Golden Calf. He then read an earlier book by the same writers, Ilya Ilf and Yevgeni Petrov; it was called The Twelve Chairs. He loved it even more than The Little Golden Calf.
He gave it to me to read and said, “I think this probably could make a good movie.”
So I read it, and I loved it, and he was right—eventually I made it into my second movie.
(More on that later.)
I loved all those dinners. My friends were a source of stability and inspiration and got me through those rough times.
Chapter 8
Kismet—Meeting Anne Bancroft
It’s 1961 and I was working with Charles Strouse (who we all called Buddy) and Lee Adams on a Broadway show called All American. Buddy and Lee had just had a huge hit with Bye Bye Birdie and I was brought on to write the book for their new musical project.
One day when we were in the middle of writing, Buddy said to me: “Mel. Come with me. I have to go to a Perry Como show rehearsal at the Ziegfeld Theatre because I’m going to be playing the piano for Anne Bancroft. We’re rehearsing for a performance she is going to do at the Actors Studio later this week and I have to find the right key for ‘Just You Wait Henry Higgins.’ After I get the key, we’ll go back to work at my place.”
So I tagged along. When we get to the Ziegfeld Theatre they’re doing a dress rehearsal. After a few minutes the guest star, Anne Bancroft, takes the stage.
I’d never seen anything like it. She was wearing a stunning white dress and she was singing in a sultry voice a Gertrude Niesen favorite, “I Wanna Get Married.” She was just incredibly beautiful.
When the song was over, I leapt to my feet, applauded madly, and shouted, “Anne Bancroft! I love you!”
She laughed and shouted back, “Who the hell are you?”
I said, “I’m Mel Brooks! Nobody you’ve ever heard of!”
She said, “Wrong! I’ve got your 2000 Year Old Man record with Carl Reiner. It’s great.”
That was the beginning.
After Buddy got the key for their song he said, “Let’s go back to my place.”
And I said, “Forget it. I think I’m in love.”
I went backstage to see Anne. We started talking, and we never stopped.
I asked her, “What are you doing after this? Let’s go out for coffee.”
She said, “I’m sorry I have an appointment. I have to see my agent Bernie Seligman at the William Morris office.”
I said, “Bernie Seligman? I have to see him too! I promised to get back to him two weeks ago.”
That was the beginning of a string of lies that I never stopped telling, just to be wherever she was.
I said, “Let’s share a cab.”
When we hit the street I whistled for a taxi. She was really impressed with my whistle.
She said, “That’s the best taxi whistle I’ve ever heard.”
True or not, it struck a chord. That was February 5, 1961. A date I’ll never forget.
Every night that week I checked on where she would be. I found out who her friends were, and I called them. For some reason they trusted me and actually told me her whereabouts.
I’d show up at a restaurant she was at or a nightclub or I’d even wangle my way into a big party if she was going to be there. By the end of the week I said to her, “It’s amazing! We’re always showing up at the same places! It’s kismet!”
She laughed and shouted back, “It’s not kismet. You’re stalking me! If you wanna see me why don’t you be brave and ask me for a date?”