Poison Penmanship: The Gentle Art of Muckraking (31 page)

THE DOVE STRIKES BACK—A MORALITY PLAY IN FIVE ACTS

NEW YORK /
September 19, 1977

Now I will show myself to have more of the serpent than the dove; that is, more knave than fool.

Christopher Marlowe

Prologue:
Some weeks ago (
New York
magazine, May 30th) I described an unhappy evening at the Sign of the Dove, located at 1110 Third Avenue. To recapitulate for Faithless Readers who do not read, or remember, every golden word we writers inflict upon them: I had invited a woman friend to dine there with me. Seeing the prices on the menu, we ordered frugally, one pre-dinner drink apiece, a half-bottle of Chablis to share, two entrées, one coffee. The food was pretty awful, but the bill was worse: $76.10, including “cover charge” and tax, the two entrées lumped as $50. Not having that much cash on me, I tried to pay by check, refused by waiter. The manager threatened to call police unless I produced cash or credit card; he changed his mind about the police but, holding our coats as hostage, sent us shivering into the cold night air. The next day my friend, who went back bearing cash to ransom our coats, demanded a breakdown of the $76.10 bill. This was eventually produced; except for its total, it bore no relation to our original bill. Entrées were now listed at $18.50 apiece, desserts and extra coffee had been added. My friend made them knock off the unordered, unserved items, reducing the total to $63.72. In short, an unpleasant and debilitating experience.

Now, it seems to me that an honest and appropriate response to my article (and one that could have saved much trouble in that dovecote) might have been a letter from the restaurant to
New York
magazine admitting error and promising to shape up in the future. But that, it seems, is not the way of businesses that are run by their public relations departments. What follows is an account of the Dove’s highly un-colombine counterattack.

Act I. New York
magazine reports a fair deluge of letters to the editor about my article. Most of them say “Good for you!” or words to that effect; a few come to the wounded bird’s defense: “... she has maligned one of the finest restaurants in New York ...” “I was shocked at your recent article about the Sign of the Dove and its lack of credibility....” (Do we already detect the fine hand of P.R. at work here?) Two communications addressed to editor James Brady appear to be of more than passing interest: a postcard signed Patti Fink, Westport, Connecticut, which starts, “I happened to be at The Dove the evening Miss Mitford recalls in her article. Unfortunately she did not mention what a scene she made and was
drunk
”; and a letter signed by Anne Williams of Kew Gardens, New York: “...I would like to tell it as I saw it from the table next door. I feel obliged to say that Miss Mitford was inebriated upon being seated....”

Here the mystery begins, for a sharp-eyed secretary has noticed that these are both postmarked in New York City and bear the same postal meter number: 1147184! Ms. Fink of Westport and Ms. Williams of Kew Gardens sharing a postal meter in Manhattan? How cozy! Do these ladies actually exist? If so, could they be Dove-connected?

Act II
. I send an inquiry to the Postmaster of New York, who replies: “Kindly be advised that the holder of Postage Meter #1147184 is Med-Den, Inc., 1110—3rd Avenue, New York, N.Y.” This is indeed kindly advice, for that is the address of the Dove. Who, then, is Med-Den? The trail now leads to Dr. Santo, a dentist who owns the Sign of the Dove, doing business under the corporate name of Med-Den Enterprises.

Act III
. I discover via telephone Information that Mss. Fink and Williams are indeed corporeal entities. I get Patti Fink on the phone and ask her about the postcard. She sounds totally mystified —she never sent any such card, she has never been to the Sign of the Dove, she hardly knows anyone in New York. “I’m getting a little paranoid,” she says. “I don’t know who could have used my name.” I observe that I am getting a little paranoid myself, and give her my address in case some clue should occur to her later. In a few days, her letter comes giving the name of a childhood friend, Jane Porter, who works at Med-Den—and who has confessed to forging the postcard! “To say that I am annoyed about this whole situation is putting it mildly,” writes Patti.

Act IV
. Forward to Jane Porter. For the first half of our twenty-minute telephone conversation, she is extremely cool. I learn that she works for a public relations agency but is “not at liberty” to tell me which one; that she signed Patti’s name to the postcard because she did not want to get her agency in trouble; that she was at the Dove on the evening in question with a girl friend, sitting about three tables away from me; that she noticed I was “being kind of loud” and that “everyone was looking your way”; that she recognized me from a photo on one of my books; that she had read all my books but couldn’t remember any of their titles. Furthermore she reiterates that the Patti Fink postcard is the only communication she has sent to
New York
magazine. “You’re quite sure that you haven’t written another letter?” I ask sternly. “That’s the only one, Miss Mitford.” “You’re absolutely certain?” “Yes.”

I feel I am not getting very far, so I make vague noises about the law of libel; I mention the Postal Inspectors and the dim view they might take of this use of the U.S. mails. I suggest to Jane that somebody has been using her. Does she not in fact work for Med-Den? “Yes, ma’am,” she answers despondently and floods of tears follow. From now on it is plain sailing.

The second half of our discussion unwinds like a movie going in reverse. Jane now tells me (between sobs) that she was
not
at the Dove that evening; that she does public relations work for Dr. Santo at Med-Den; that there were terrible goings-on after my article came out: “Everybody was running around screaming, and everybody was trying to get people to write letters as I guess a form of retaliation, and
New York
magazine wouldn’t print any of them.” Business fell off, she says; the restaurant is no longer open for lunch. “Oh, like your article caused a lot of hoo-ha,” she wails. I realize that I am behaving like a prosecuting attorney, not my favorite role—I long to comfort her, but there is one other thing I must find out. “
Please
stop crying, Jane,” I implore. “Just answer this, and you’ve absolutely got to answer truthfully. Did you write another letter and sign it with the name of Anne Williams?” “Yes.” Oh, dear. I beg Jane to pull herself together, we murmur soft goodbyes, we hang up.

Act V
. James Brady, editor of
New York
, tells me he has been approached by Brenda Johnson of the Johnson & Morton Associates agency, who does public relations for the Sign of the Dove. Ms. Johnson had quite a long chat with Mr. Brady, in the course of which she divulged that my friend and I had been very drunk that evening; that I have a reputation in New York restaurants for getting drunk; that I was once kicked out of the Four Seasons for that reason; that my friend had now repudiated my version of what happened that evening. Curiouser and curiouser!

So, back to the telephone for the Tale of Brenda Johnson, who answers with a sprightly “Oh, hi, Miss Mitford!” But as with Jane, the sprightliness first dims then vanishes and despondency takes over.

Brenda Johnson tells me she has represented the Sign of the Dove for about two months—she works with Dr. Santos a couple of days a week. “He’s a wonderful man with broad interests, travels extensively ...” and she tells me all about his recent trip to Japan, but I want to get back to the article. What about the arithmetic on the bill? Well, “Dr. Santo does one hundred percent realize there was an error on the bill, he’s the first to admit that.” So far so good.

Brenda, who is amazingly long-winded, now rattles off a great deal of other information: there were five bomb scares in the restaurant after my article, hundreds of letters and angry phone calls, “Kooks saying, you know, how dare you do that to people, you are unjust—it went on for days. Now they only get about one a week.”

So, say I, that’s all of interest but what about your conversation with Mr. Brady? Allegations that I was drunk that night, habitually drunk in New York restaurants, kicked out of the Four Seasons for that reason? A torrent of words pours forth. I try to keep my end up, to make some sense out of what she is saying, but it is not easy. Her source, she says, was the Dove’s manager; he’d worked at the Four Seasons years ago and said there had been a
problem
, didn’t say kicked out ... she never did tell Mr. Brady I have a reputation in New York as a drunk; “I’m smart enough as a young businessperson not to ever say that about somebody ...” she never said my friend repudiated the story—oh, dear, now
she’s
crying. Damn, but I must get to the bottom of it, so when she pauses for breath (which is not often) I interject a question. What about the Jane Porter forgeries? She says she doesn’t know anything about them, so I read them out. She is shocked! She’d met Jane at work, up at Med-Den, but had no idea she could ever do such a thing. “I tell you if I even
dreamed
that she would do that I think that I would be so angry that I would bash her head against the wall.”

“Rather a violent reaction,” I observe mildly, “in view of the fact you did exactly the same thing in your conversation with the editor of
New York
magazine.” After that, Brenda seems to run out of steam and shuts up. There is really no more to be said.

Epilogue
. Many of the cast of characters in this brief drama are no longer on stage. The manager has been fired. Jane Porter has been told her services are no longer needed. One puzzler remains: did Dr. Santo put Jane and Brenda up to their act? Both women told me no, he did not; but wishing to check further (after all, neither had been exactly candid when I had spoken with them), I called Dr. Santo to ask him directly. His secretary told me he did not wish to talk to me. It seemed almost a relief, after the verbal barrage from P.R.

CURTAIN

Note: Some names have been changed to protect those of the guilty who have already suffered enough.

COMMENT
ON
TWO
“
DOVE
”
PIECES

I owe a debt of gratitude to Nora Ephron for getting “Checks and Balances” placed. I doubt I could have done it on my own, for I should never have dreamed that any magazine would want a full-fledged article about these events, and should have felt diffident about suggesting it to an editor.

The morning after the Dove disaster, I was frantically looking for someone who would expose that rotten enterprise. I called up Mimi Sheraton, restaurant critic for
The New York Times
, to ask if she might consider running a letter from me in her column; she was sympathetic, but explained that
Times
policy is to refrain from printing letters pro or con a restaurant unless it has previously been reviewed. Thus far she had not reviewed the Dove. She might in the future, she said; but the future was too far ahead for my liking. I tried calling Betty Furness, consumer affairs radio and TV commentator, and got a recorded announcement: “If you have a complaint, write a letter and your complaint will be investigated ....” As I hung up, I reflected sadly that my shabby treatment at the Sign of the Dove was hardly a matter of vital concern to the average New York consumer, beset with daily iniquities in the prices and quality of children’s shoes, breakfast cereals, garage mechanics’ services. Who cares if two self-indulgent old ladies, admittedly willing to splurge on a good meal, get taken? It was perhaps the least important consumer issue in New York.

Later that day I was sobbing out my tale to Nora Ephron. “Don’t budge,” she said. “Sit right there, I’m calling the editor of
New York
, I bet they’ll love it.” She did, and they did.

So far so good. But I was leaving New York the next day, which meant dashing the piece off in a matter of hours; the editor wanted no more than 750 words, always difficult of achievement. The shape of an article depends on the length, and one has to plan accordingly, as one would in cutting the pattern of a dress for a doll or a grown-up woman. In many ways the finicky work of designing the doll’s dress is more demanding.

I had long since learned that you exceed the required length at your peril, particularly at the low end. If an editor asks for 6,000 words, he may allow considerable leeway, anywhere from 5,500 to 6,750 if that is what it takes to say what needs saying. But as I discovered some years ago when doing occasional reviews for
Life
, 750 words generally means an allowance of no more than twenty words either way. A
Life
review was always sandwiched snugly between two columns of advertisements, which for some reason the editors deemed less expendable than the wit and wisdom of reviewers.

I fiddled around with the Dove piece, trying to devise a 750-word “shape” for it, while the precious hours slipped by. There are few things more frustrating than working against this kind of deadline, when it begins to seem as though nothing will come right—and that perhaps, after all, the story is hardly worth telling. How to convey the bite and drama? Ah! Now I had it—a playlet, five acts and an epilogue, would at once solve the problem of condensing the narrative and obviate the need for transitions, always great space-consumers. Once I had written “Act I,” “Act II,” and so forth, on separate sheets of paper, the story fell into place quite satisfactorily.

My title, “April Fool at the Sign of the Vulture” (our misadventure having occurred on April 1st) was changed by the editor, who thought “Vulture” might be defamatory, to “Checks and Balances at the Sign of the Dove.” Actually this was the better title, a felicitous play on words which got the name of the restaurant right into the headline where it would catch the eye of Dove fanciers and disparagers alike.

After “Checks and Balances” was published, I began to think that, judging by the flood of letters from disgruntled Dove diners forwarded to me by
New York
magazine, maybe I had after all hit on a consumer issue of sorts. Typical was one from a man who was entertaining relatives from out of town: “Even though my wife and I are used to eating in many of the better restaurants in the city, we were quite unprepared for the astronomical bill,” he wrote. He paid up with his credit card, adding 15 percent for the tip. The maître d’ came over and asked loudly before the assembled company, “Do you intend to leave the rest of the tip in cash? It’s customary at the Sign of the Dove to leave 20 percent.” But my favorite letter was from a woman who said she had “often fantasized” writing an article like mine. “Just to add insult to injury,” she wrote, “I pursued the matter further. I called the Sign of the Dove and made a reservation for six persons for dinner. Two hours after making the reservation, I called and insisted on speaking to the manager. When he got to the phone, I told him that I had made the reservation, but that after reading your piece, I wouldn’t dream of subjecting myself or any of my friends to such a place....”