Papa told me that for more than a decade, his father kept a picture of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel under the glass on his desk. On this yellowing photograph, Connie had written "The Greatest of Them All." The story of how Conrad Hilton studied, pursued, purchased, and restored the Waldorf is like Moby-Dick with a soaring limestone monument to art deco instead of a great white whale. You can read about it in Conrad Hilton's memoir Be My Guest. Short version: He saw it. He wanted it. He kept grinding until he made it happen. The Waldorf is forty-seven stories high and occupies an entire midtown block bordered by Park and Lexington Avenues between Forty-ninth and Fiftieth Streets. If you come in by the Park Avenue entrance, you're welcomed by The Spirit of Achievement, a gracefully aggressive art deco sculpture by Nina Sæmundsson. Every time I swing a business deal, get an idea, or score a victory that makes me feel like a boss bitch, I think of her outward-and-upward wings. I love the way she stands on tiptoes, her body long and strong, her face composed and focused. The hotel is a stunning work of art and architecture, home to countless treasures. The 1893 World's Fair Clock has gone to the New-York Historical Society now, but it used to stand in the Waldorf's Peacock Alley, where Mom taught me and Nicky all the etiquette of high tea the way they do it at Kensington Palace. Everywhere I looked, there was a priceless painting or Ming vase. Tucked in a corner on the mezzanine level was Cole Porter's piano. The list of world leaders, royalty, Hollywood stars, and industry magnates who've resided at the Waldorf is longer than the building is tall. Marilyn Monroe lived in suite 2728, the same suite where a diamond smuggler was found murdered forty years later. John F. and Jackie Kennedy spent theirhoneymoon there. My family lived in 30H. Michael Jackson lived in 30A with his kids. Barbra Streisand and Frank Sinatra were also in the building. You couldn't pass through the lobby or get on the elevator without bumping into a foreign dignitary, movie star, or Rolling Stone. The Waldorf is a hub for high-society and upmarket business functions, so there's always fascinating people milling around, interesting conversations going on, and big parties happening. Also, there's a salad named after it, and the salad is weirdly yummy, even though it combines mayonnaise and whipped cream with a handful of other things that seem like they shouldn't go together but do. It's like ADHD in salad form. Here's my recipe for a classic Waldorf salad:
- A couple of tart green apples. I don't know how many. How would I know how big the apples are in your produce aisle? You do you.
- Celery. Go big, because fiber.
- Walnuts or pecans. Or both. Fear not the extra. Toast them a little if you aren't easily distracted. - Red grapes. However many you don't eat while making the salad.
- Sugar. Probably just a little. Salt. Let's say a pinch. Because pinch is fun to say.
- Mayonnaise. It sounds gross, I know! Blop some in there. You'll thank me later.
- Whipped cream. Or Cool Whip. I'm not a purist. I suppose you could substitute Greek yogurt and make the dressing on the side, but why not just embrace it?
Sprinkle with edible glitter or pink sea salt and serve. Voilà! Waldorf salad.
You're welcome. Back to the Waldorf. My family had moved into a sick apartment at the Waldorf while I was in Palm Springs with Gram Cracker, and I was hella jealous. How could I not be? You have to understand, this was not like a hotel room or even a hotel suite. This was a twenty-five-hundred-square-foot condo with Italian marble, art deco architectural details, stunning light fixtures, and city views from every location, including the bathtub. It was a little awkward at first, trying to fit in with the rhythm of the household, which was a lot different from the laid-back California household we had before. Everyone was doing their own thing, and I didn't really have a "thing" right away. Mom had created a beautiful room for me with white linens, a fluffy pink rug, and all the dolls and stuffed animals I loved when I was little. The only problem with it was that I wasn't little anymore. A lot had happened. I was fifteen now. In high school. I had my own ideas aboutwhat I wanted my life and personal space to look like, but I kept this mostly to myself. I didn't want to seem ungrateful, because I was so grateful! SO. DAMN. GRATEFUL. Grateful to be home. Grateful to be loved. Grateful for the family sounds around me. My adorable siblings—I loved them so much. I loved watching cartoons with my little brothers, who bounced all over and climbed on me. I loved running around the hotel with my little sister, who swiped my clothes and tried to boss me around. I loved my parents, who were always busy with interesting things and still made time to scold me about school and etiquette and blah blah blah. I'm not being ironic here. I was happy to be back in the arms of my perfectly imperfect family. I wouldn't have changed a thing about any of them. I was like, "Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Thank you, God!" Believe me, I was fully aware how blessed and fortunate I was. The whole block was alive with activity and excitement 24/7. Sometimes Nicky and I got dressed up and invited ourselves to parties.
