Nights on the town - tribute to the New York, New York night club El Morocco - Column

National Review, Dec 13, 1993 by Taki Theodoracopulos

LIKE Count Dracula I love the night, and therefore nightclubs. Back in the good old days when an ex-general was President, I used to come down from prep school and go to El Morocco, on 54th Street between Third and Second Avenues, in the company of some older Greek shipowning friends. After I left university, it was Elmo's every night except Sunday, because the owner, John Perona, was a strict Catholic. Otherwise the place had very little in common with religion in general and the Ten Commandments in particular. Adulterous affairs mostly began on the dance floor, while assignations were arranged in the long narrow hall leading to the gents' and ladies'. People coveted their neighbors' wives, lied like Hell about their finances, and I personally remember at least two cases of Elmo's regulars bearing false witness in a court of law.

The main room at El Morocco was zebra-striped, and the first table on the right as one came in was reserved for the biggest VIP, whoever that happened to be. The second most important table was John Perona's, across the room, and those who were invited to sit there had no tab. Needless to say, in those halcyon days, no ladies were invited to sit with the boys at the owner's table.

It is difficult to describe, especially during today's egalitarian nighttimes--full of zonked-out disco dwellers and pelvis-churning dummies--how truly glamorous the Elmo's crowd was. There were two orchestras, one that played mostly Porter and Gershwin, the other rumbas, sambas, and mambos. On a normal night Aristotle Socrates Onassis would be there, more often than not without his wife, Tina, who would come in later with the then young Reinaldo Herrera. Cee-zee Guest, among the most beautiful women in New York, was a regular, and at times she'd come in dressed in riding breeches and boots straight from the Madison Square Garden horse show. JFK, without Jackie, would come in and go straight to the Champagne Room in the back, where discretion was observed at all times, unlike in the front. The rich South American contingent would head for Elmo's as soon as they landed at Idlewild, as did every Hollywood star who knew how to pick up a fork and knife.

Errol Flynn would either sit at Perona's table or cruise the room. More often than not he was invited by some fool socialite to sit down, and nearly as often Errol would take off with the fool's wife or date. That is where I met him, but never had a chance to develop the friendship. Flynn died in 1957, age fifty, from too much high life. At that time I was going rather steady with the beautiful Linda Christian, the actress once married to Tyrone Power, who had the annoying habit of flirting with other men while in my company. Although Linda was 15 years older, I was madly in love and wished to marry her. She would laugh at me and ask me what we would live on if my father objected. One night I walked into Elmo's and there she was, with my old man. They got along swimmingly. He pulled the same stunt with Joan Collins, too, whom I first met at El Morocco and followed all the way to Hollywood.

El Morocco died when the twist was born, and along with it died society as we knew it. In one of my last visits, the legendary polo playboy Porfirio Rubirosa threw a party to celebrate my wedding. He, too, died prematurely, in a car crash, returning from an all-night party in Paris the very next year, 1965, a party we had left together at 5 A.M.

Needless to say, there were other great nightclubs, some of which equaled Elmo's, such as New Jimmy's, on the Boulevard Montparnasse in Paris, and L'Elephant Blanc, also in the city of light. Both are long gone. This is the bad news. The good is that Annabel's, in London, still remains; in fact it's going better than ever. At 44 Berkeley Square, in Mayfair, it has now entered the language. One hears about the Annabel's of air travel, or the Annabel's of hotels. It has replaced Rolls Royce as a synonym of excellence. Owned by Mark Birley, son of Sir Oswald, the court painter, it resembles a grand country house, its walls covered with priceless paintings. Annabel's has the best staff in the world, and an exclusive membership. Still, it's just a nightclub, the perfect place to dine and dance, or to find adventure. A socialist British rag once wrote the following about my favorite nightclub: "Society is just another name for that melange of aristocrats, pace-setters, and other rich overachievers who are forever exercising their money and power to get a good table at Annabel's."

Well, as always, the socialists got it wrong. Take, for example, the arbitrary way the one and only Mabel chooses the members of the Ladies' dub. These are gentlemen who are allowed to go into Mabel's domain, the Ladies' room, and chat with Mabel or their girlfriends when there's a lull. The founding member was an Irish rugby player by the name of Tom Gallagher. His charm far exceeded his money and his station in life, yet there are hundreds of richer, grander, and more influential men whom Mabel would never allow to enter her portals. I value my membership in the Ladies' far more than those of my other clubs, as do the other five members. One of the pleasures of my life is to enter Annabel's. There are beautiful girls, perfect service, good food and drink, and--most important--no freaks, no grunge, no transvestites, no professional gays. For me, a poor little Greek boy, it's like entering Heaven.