Lunch is my favorite sport. No event offers more thrills, spills, challenges and rewards. The "eating" part? That's usually just the intermission. This is the story of a lunch that took place several years ago in New York.

            I was on an assignment for Mr. Maligno that, because of everyone's busy schedules, had inevitably turned into a lunch date. Mr. Maligno had a client whose normal business was ladies' gowns, accessories and so forth–all with double fees. The client had purchased a valuable, ancient Asian bronze piece, and Mr. Maligno had arranged for his friend Sissy Cahan to have her friend John Thompson go over to the client's apartment to authenticate and appraise it. Mr. Thompson was a connoisseur of Asian artifacts who, amongst other things, had greatly assisted the Asia Society with their collection at Park Avenue and 70th Street. I was the middle man.

            At the onset of the lunching hour, the three of us boarded Mr. Thompson's purple Cadillac and set sail on the sunny, bustling streets of upper Manhattan, destined for bronze treasure. Well, we didn't "set sail" so much as "floated." The car clambered from lane to lane almost in reverse, dodging walls of honking cars and traffic clusters at every intersection. Did I mention this was on the same day the newly-freed Nelson Mandela was visiting our fair metropolis? New York City being thrown into a state of (even more) chaos is its own way by showering respect onto an important person, and Mr. Mandela certainly deserved it.

            The purple behemoth eventually lurched to a stop and I emerged with a newfound appreciation for European compact cars. We had arrived at the location of our treasure, which was nestled within one of the top floors of the Upper East Side apartment building that loomed in front of us. As the doorman ushered us in, the cool air and darkly carpeted and marbled interior of the lobby hit our senses, providing a strong contrast to the loud sun and hot concrete outside.

            Poking my head over the elevator operator's deep maroon, ribbon-detailed jacket to peek at the ascending floor button lights, I ran over in my head what I already knew about the apartment we were visiting. It was half a block long and almost a quarter of a block wide, overlooking the reservoir of Central Park. I felt honored showing John and Sissy such a place.

            I knew that another renowned woman had once lived there. She was famous for wrap dresses, marrying a prince, and changing the "zu" in her name to a "von." She was now more famous for a complete rebirth of her personal style, which could be “shared” with anyone with a thick wallet. She married a man of dubious sexuality who flew all over the world for his business. She's now on television and he owns a television network. I was acquainted with a handsome young man with alabaster skin (in a good way) who was rumored to be seeing this then-married network mogul. So he'd ascended into the world of the super rich men’s kept boy club. I remember he once unselfconsciously said in my company, “I never fly commercial any longer. I take the jet like it’s a taxi, never commercial.” I could help myself and asked, "Had you ever thought you be spooning in bed with a man your grandfather's age?” It didn't even faze him. Apartments like this were often filled with society power couples or families that were "arranged" in a sort of way. C’est la vie.

            The elevator stopped and the operator opened the doors to reveal a private floor entrance. The front entrance had double doors and a doorbell. When the front doors bloomed open, we were reunited with the sun, which poured in on our faces and actually appeared to be coming from somewhere in the center of the large room. The light turned out to be an ample bronze piece reflecting light from a set of windows in the rooms beyond us. However, it was not the bronze piece in question. This glimmering creation looked like a giant railroad tie standing on its side and splintered on top. Through squinting eyes I just made out Sissy's face as she quietly commented, "I guess we'll call that 'art modern.'" John nodded, "Yes, oh yes." 

            The place was strangely ethereal, like a cathedral. It seemed bathed in a kind of golden light from the many windows that reflected off the exhibited bronzes scattered around the home, all of different ages and locations (many almost as old as the sun itself). One's gaze around the perimeter was constantly interrupted by light. You could make out a Rousseau here, a Matisse there, a Caravaggio, a Canaletton and magnificent French furniture from the 18th century arranged around the best Imperial Bessarabian carpets. It was as if god-like forces were intervening to alternately veil and exhibit wonders with blasting coruscations. No wonder New York socialite types are always wearing large black sunglasses in the daytime; their possessions could possibly cause blindness! Of course under it all was the unmistakable hum of the powerful air conditioners, which churned to chill this glittering sun cave to a brisk temperature.

            Walking through several hallways, we reached our destination: a bedroom. Greeting us upon entering was a Renoir, hanging on the wall over a television set opposite the bed (this was before the days of home theaters, mind you). On the opposite wall was a Fragonard. The light in this room was as brilliant as it was in the apartment’s other spaces, but less so because of the heavy curtains on the windows. Strolling past a Warhol portrait of the mistress of the house (a young, pretty woman), we witnessed a truly amazing arrangement of objects; fantastic clothes from all over the world laid out; chains of jewels strewn like dew-dropped spider webs, alternated by glittering clusters of reflection catching light on the bed and carpet, which were gem-encrusted rings or bauble broaches. This would be expected of a woman whose husband privately owned a fashion empire whose double-letter logo had been around for longer than most. I felt like one needed to stop and pay attention to each piece separately, but I led my tour straight through like characters traipsing through an enchanted forest scene in a fairy tale.

            We finally arrived to the coveted bronze in question. Mr. Thompson squinted his eyes and looked over the piece, saying after just a few seconds, that he thought it was a "very good piece." With all the grandiosity around us it almost seemed sacrilegious to blurt something like that straight out about a prized object, but that's how experts in their field work.

            After that, we sauntered into the bathroom. Actually, I had casually led us there because rested against one wall was a particular bronze bowl I’d earlier arranged to have displayed, knowing it was a 15th century piece that Mr. Thompson would probably be interested in. How could you not notice a glittering bronze bowl sitting against a field of white marble?  His eyes, of course, zeroed right in on it. I remember him saying something like "Oh, yes... look at that!" He looked sideways at me and said, “That’s not my field. I can’t tell you about it.” Well, that was that!

            With our work done, Sissy and Mr. Thompson chatted a bit more about bronzes and history as we found our way back to the front entrance. On our way out of the apartment we passed a large bronze urn that Mr. Thompson declared a fraud.

            We left the hushed, glistening cavern and entered the dark elevator which was already waiting for us in the foyer. We quietly discussed the enormity of the apartment and the collection within. We hit the lobby and the three of us popped out of the building's front door, hitting street level again. I personally felt it was a job well done.

            I thought I would be parting ways with Sissy and Mr. Thompson, and return to home base but Mr. Thompson invited Sissy and me for a quick bite. Oh yes, after all, this was lunch.

            The traffic was still in a stagnant state of bleeping, wheezing vehicles. Even a taxi seemed pointless. "Why don't we walk?" Mr. Thompson suggested, turning his head as he looked down the avenue, away from his parked, trapped Cadillac. Great idea.

            We strolled from our location on 87th Street and Fifth Avenue, and eventually stopped at a little place on 81st Street between Madison and Fifth that I believe was Mr. Thompson’s cocktail lounge. To be honest, to this day I don't even know exactly where we were at that moment but I do know that since then the Madison Avenue space has served as a variety of other things.

            We entered and, once again, felt the contrast between loud, bright outside and the darker, hushed interior–which in this case was dark shades of forest green and polished wood alternated with cut glass and brass. We were greeted by an incredibly handsome, younger, WASP-y man. He treated Mr. Thompson with stone-faced deference, Sissy with stone-faced respect, and me with stone-faced disinterest. The equalizer was our poison: when we each ordered a gin and tonic, the young man shot us all the same warm smile. We were served a small lunch as we talked about the events of the day.

            The chatter amongst us was soon interrupted by a ringing phone. Mr. Thompson said, "Oh excuse me," as he set it to speaker and said, "Hello?" while looking up into the air. I heard a loud, distinct voice coming over the line. It took me about a microsecond to realize that it was Frank Sinatra! I'd recognize that legendary toupee anywhere. Even over a speaker phone. I kept my cool, but honestly I had that feeling inside my stomach like when you take a fast dip on a roller coaster. We listened as he and Mr. Thompson had a rather bawdy conversation during which several parts of the female anatomy were named using non-medical terms. I glanced over at Sissy, who just looked at me and widened her eyes at each thing they said. I'm sure she was smiling (I couldn't exactly tell, she was sucking on a lime wedge). As soon as Frank realized that Sissy was there too, a friendly rapid-fire "Hello darling, hello darling,” erupted from the phone and they started to chat loudly.

            The feeling in my stomach passed and I just sat there soaking it all in, raising my clinking glass with one elbow propped on the bar (my other arm was down by my thigh, which was now practically black and blue from repeatedly pinching myself). Frank just yammered away out of the little speaker box as the three of us sat there–it was almost like the opening scene in an episode of Charlie's Angels! I'll admit that for anyone meeting Mr. Sinatra in person would be a memorable experience. But meeting him over a speaker phone while sitting in a cocktail lounge in uptown Manhattan, I can't exactly put my finger on why, it just seems ten times as memorable.

            As Mr. Thompson said goodbye to Mr. Sinatra, we finished up and then ambled outdoors again. As the sun hit my face again, I looked up the street and realized Campbell's funeral home was just around the corner. As someone who adored Judy Garland (it's where her widely attended funeral services were), and having just met Frank Sinatra the way I did, I felt a slight dizziness. Physically I was of course fine; I was just having a "New York Moment" in the truest sense of the word. Those of you who have lived for a length of time in the city will know what I'm talking about.

            True to its form, just like that, the moment was gone. We continued to stroll south along Fifth Avenue. The traffic had let up a bit, but was still in a state of chaos. Somehow we deduced that Mr. Mandela was apparently en route from the United Nations to Yankee Stadium.

            We headed further down Fifth towards Mr. Thompson’s apartment. I was soon to learn that due south of this particular area was a much more fashionable neighborhood. His  apartment was on Fifth Avenue and stretched above Central Park in the east 70s. He had an entire floor in the same building where Bubbles Rothermere lived. She earned the name "Bubbles" because she liked to drink Dom Perignon pink champagne flat, served over ice. (I had visited her apartment after she passed away, a magnificent place that had a style all its own–a perfect example of Elsie De-Wolf).

            We were greeted at his door by an Asian house boy in full uniform: white starched top, black tuxedo striped pants and patent leather shoes. Standing next to him was a tremendous, and very old golden retriever. The dog gently tugged at the rein the boy was holding him with, and when the boy let go it pranced towards me, stopped at my feet, and licked my hand. We were led into the living room, and I followed, wiping my hand on my handkerchief. As we walked in, the dog proceeded to follow right alongside my legs, and jumped up next to me when I sat down.

            "I can’t imagine why she’s being so friendly with you," Mr. Thompson said as he asked the boy to serve us another round of gin and tonics, "She doesn't really like anyone... at least not since Sunny’s been hospitalized."

            The dog sat next to my lap, and licked and licked. Hearing Sunny’s name, I recalled two sofas I had purchased from the thrift store on 77th Street between 2nd and 3rd Avenues. This thrift store was always overflowing with great finds, and these two pieces of furniture were no exception; they had been dropped off there by Sotheby's. It was only after one had become an ever-shifting repository for all my fine linens, decorative work and good upholstery that I found out they had both belonged to Sunny von Bulow! She now to this day lays in a comatose state in a room at Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital, a freesia bouquet resting at her side. A gin and tonic was placed in my hand as I came to the realization that this dog had obviously sniffed me out.

            Mr. Thompson decided that since I was kind enough to show him Mr. Maligno's client’s apartment, he should return the favor by giving me the grand tour of his own apartment. Goody.

            It felt like the whole day had been a string of events, each trying to chronologically out-do one another. As it was barely past noon, I was anticipating nothing less than an earth-shattering climax by three o'clock.

            Mr. Thompson 's home was–need I say it–an understated palace. Walking through the apartment again created an alternating rhythm of darkness and light. It was much larger than the one we had just visited, filled with exquisite Asian treasures. As we progressed from room to room, we saw one artifact after another, each of its own heritage and descent. It was like Charles Foster Kane's mansion was being used for an episode of The Price Is Right. You couldn't imagine what was going to be behind the next curtain, and you didn't dare guess the price! It was magnificent.

            In one of the hallways were two walls of beautiful oil portraits. I noticed one in particular, a vaguely familiar woman's face. I couldn’t place exactly where I recognized her from, or why.

            Our expedition came to a halt when the phone suddenly rang. Mr. Thompson answered it in one of the studies and began merrily chatting with someone while Sissy and I stood there. He motioned us into the room with his hand as he laughed with the person on the other end. We gathered around the desk right as he hung up the phone and flicked a switch to put it on speaker. Out of the phone came a ringing, honey voice that I somehow recognized. It wasn't until Mr. Thompson called her by name that I realized it was Claudette Colbert!

…part two of Lunch is my Favorite Sport coming next Monday.