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Nothing to complain about. In the middle was enthroned a king-size bed that invited you to do more than just sleep. But among colleagues it was said that New York was puritanical. Well, exceptions prove the rule, as I knew. We were dead tired but decided not to go to bed so as not to fall victims to jet lag. It would be a long night. In the evening we were to be fetched by Captain Schulz for dinner, so we spent the waiting time with a stroll through Central Park, had a coffee in the Green House, and observed an amusing scene. We had just occupied the last table in the Green House when Charles Aznavour entered the place followed by a small entourage. A rather heated conversation developed between Aznavour and the waitress who wanted not to give him a table. Aznavour as an international celebrity did not want to accept that, visibly annoyed by her stubbornness. She was a rotund, somewhat elderly American who had identified us as Englishmen, and turned to us seeking help:
“This guy says he’s Charlie Navur or something. Says he’s famous. Do you know who he is?”
We explained to her that he was one of the most famous chanson singers in Europe at that time. No success though.
“Never heard of Charlie Navur,”
She answered resolutely. John insisted, fairly exaggerating as he stretched the bow of a comparison: that Aznavour was something like a European Frank Sinatra.
That he was the favorite singer of his wife and that she would be very disappointed if he reported this - that would definitely threw a bad light on America. The waitress looked at him skeptically but then changed her mind.
She found in the corner a table for three persons, unmistakably ordering some guests to leave the table and to bunch together at another, saying:
“He’s famous, you know. And here in the United States we treat famous foreigners with respect – you understand?”
THAT HOWEVER WAS 1985 - something that would change dramatically in the timeline and only a complete moron would say this nowadays. Aznavour made a fleeting gesture across to our table and said,
“Merci, messieurs.”
“That means thank you, gentlemen,”
I explained to John. He looked at me with a stoic face and said only:
“Piss off, Harry.”
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