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May 10, 1942 (The American Weekly) BUSTANOBY, PAPA OF CAFE SOCIETY Strange pages from the guest book of New York's most famous restaurateur (better known as 'Bust Anybody'), who originated the women's bar, dance floors, gigolos (including Rudolph Valentino), sidewalk cafes and entertained more notables (including Reggie Vanderbilt's horse) than all the modern night clubs combined. In the two-page article are pictures of his well-know guests, Reggie Vanderbilt (millionaire), Mrs. Leslie Carter (socialite), Lillian Russell (singer), Jimmy Walker (Mayor of New York City), John Jacob Astor (millionaire), Anna Held (singer), "Diamond Jim" Brady, (salesman extraordinaire and big spender), Rudolph Valentino (became a Hollywood film star) and the Dolly Sisters (entertainers). Also pictured was the first lady's bar (they served "tea") that employed the first gigolo (Rudolph Valentino, then unknown). Also pictured was the magnificent Chateau Beaux Arts in Huntington, LI that had a yacht landing and air field. The article said, " . . . but even its wealthiest customers didn't have the cash or the appetites to make it a success." Under the picture of the ladies bar the copy reads, "The ladies bar at Bustanoby's, the first of its kind, attracted idle but gay women who had nothing better to do than dance with the gigolos the proprietor thoughtfully provided--the first of whom was Rudy Valentino." Of course "gay" in those days had a different meaning. Here's a transcription of the copy as it appeared in The American Weekly: Descendant of a long
line of French chefs, Jacques Bustanoby was "born to the purple"
of the restaurant business and he ruled it, in New York, during its golden
age, when dining out was not only an art but almost a This great genius of the culinary art died the other day at the age of 62. He had outlived his era and strangely enough, had probably done more than any other person or thing, even Prohibition, to kill the age of the royal dinner. He had introduced to the dining room two deadly enemies, bound to be as devastating to the fine art of his ancestors, as they would be to the sermon, if introduced into church services. One was the cabaret, which his horrified competitors called, "din with dinner"; the other, perhaps even more fatal to serious eating, the modern custom of jumping up every few minutes to dance, while the food gets cold. Letting in these vandals
destroyed an empire of the kitchen whose foundation had been laid by Benjamin
Franklin, after he had visited France and discovered Memoirs of distinguished European visitors reveal that the American banquet of post-revolutionary days was a fearful ordeal to be avoided whenever possible. But what was then the poorest nation in the world was soon on its way to become the richest, making it worth while for French culinary missionaries to come over and work for the salvation of the benighted American stomach. Martin Sherry, Delmonico and others opened temples of stomach-worship. The American public came to scoff but remained to pay. They were quick and reverent converts, those who could afford it and why not? They were getting their money's worth. For the first time Americans could dine out in the grand European manner. To appreciate its grandeur the guests must pay attention to the new and delicious foods the wines, brandies and cordials, especially adapted to each course, to say nothing of the service and atmosphere created by everyone from the proprietor down to the busboys. The artists in command of these exalted places admitted that it might be all right, in fact a good idea, to have some sort of entertainment to distract the attention of guests in common restaurants from the poor quality food, poorly prepared, consumed with the wrong kind of drinks and poor of their kind. But in the high-class high-cost gourmet sanctuaries, nothing could be worse than to disturb the almost stained glass quiet. Jaques Bustanoby let into his temple both din and dancing and though the twin Samsons pulled the temple down in ruins, Jacques first made fame and fortune from it. One big, successful idea is not enough to prove genius but there were other symptoms in the man, such as the ability to see ability in others and use it. All the money in those top-flight places was made at night; during the day they were as empty and profitless as a school house on a holiday. Since any dollar captured during the daylight hours would be velvet and most men with important money to spend were busy earning it. Jacques and his rivals tried to lure what he called "the leisure sex" by offering tea dances. Husbands may have had slight misgivings about the dancing but tea seemed innocent and suggested harmless hen-parties of women. Of course other drinks were more interesting than tea but even cocktails do not have the desired effect of making a woman toss her money around. Bustanoby knew that the idea must be improved and one or two of his customers showed him how. These ladies brought with them certain young men, without visible means of support, at that time contemptuously termed "lounge lizards." Like women with a past this gentry was supposed to have no future but Jacques thought otherwise and stocked up with a few to see if they would bring business. Their task was to gaze wistfully at some wealthy woman, who looked as if her husband neglected her, and then ask the proprietor for an introduction, just for a dance. These were the pioneers of the great gigolo profession and then, as now, their chief requirement was sex appeal. One of the first Mr. Bustanoby hired at ten dollars per week, was a penniless youth with no recommendation except the fact that he could dance. But the genius of Bustanoby told him that he was good. Was he good? He was the answer
to the lonely woman's prayer. When threatened with
having his place closed on the ground of "immoral tendencies,"
all agreed that Bustanoby needed the best lawyer in New York and were
astonished that he picked a thin young unknown. His justification The thin young man won the case and later became Mayor of New York. He was Jimmy Walker. Jacques devised many sensational attractions, but the most startling that ever occured at any of his places was not contrived by him. One night a hardboiled patrolman who had recently been transferred from the old, tenderloin district and considered himself shock-proof, found this to be a mistake when he approached the Bustanoby place on Columbus Circle. Glancing up at the restaurant's familiar sign, he beheld an extra, added feature, that never was seen, even in his old district. It was a nude woman, clinging to the sign. The cop dashed upstairs to the nearest window but found that his added weight threatened to send sign, woman and all to the sidewalk, on top of innocent bystanders who were collecting rapidly. Drafting the services of several stalwart waiters, he had them lower him by the ankles until he grasped the lady's wrists. Then he yelled, "Haul in!" They hauled, bringing in first the cop and then the nude aerialist. The rescuer demanded to know who she was and what she was doing out there. The lady replied only with tears which ran into hysterics. None of the waiters seemed to recognize her without her clothes on, but the proprietor, who burst into the room at that moment, was able to do so. It was his wife (his first wife) but not his idea, and he proved it by trying to keep the story out of the papers. However, divorce followed. In 1897, when a hungry-looking immigrant, 17 years old, stepped off a French liner at New York City, only one person suspected that he was the future overlord of the city's eating industry. That person was the youth himself, Jacques Bustanoby. His father, one of the best cooks in Pau, France, had taught him cooking since he was ten years old. Four [sic] brothers, also kitchen artists, had arrived before him. The reason was--too many cooks in France. It seemed to be the same way in New York because the first job he could get was window washing. In his spare time the boy hung around the kitchen entrances of French restaurants where at least they understood his language, even if they did not believe his perfectly truthful boasting. At last he won a job at Martin's as a wine taster. There being no great future in wine-tasting, he begged a job as busboy, the humble beast of burden who carried dirty dishes back to the kitchen. But you can't keep a good man down or at least you couldn't in those days. Jacques became a waiter, captain and head waiter in such record-breaking time that he achieved that last rank as the youngest of any in the history of the city's best restaurants. Jacques' room and meals being free, the future stomach magnate had little but his clothes to pay for and thus was able to save almost every penny. So, apparently, had been his brothers, the four [sic] meal musketeers, Pierre, Jean, Andre and Louis [the punctuation makes it sound as though there were five brothers. Pierre Jean was one person. The brothers were Jacques, Pierre, Andre and Louis]. In 1901, the five [sic] brothers pooled their resources to open the Beaux Arts Restaurant in West Fortieth Street, near Sixth Avenue. The best minds in the business prophesied that it was foredoomed to fail because it was too far uptown. The Bustanoby Freres seem to have known that there was strong probability in those ominous forecasts, but Jacques saw a way to offset it. Besides hunger and thirst there are other appetites, for instance, vanity. In those days while stage folk openly courted all the publicity they could get, society big-shots pretended to scorn it. With this in mind,
Jacques left the cuisine department largely in the eight competent hands
of his four [sic] brothers and devoted himself to the opening No actress, before
or since, has enjoyed such glamour as the one and only Lillian Russell,
who was not only a great beauty, but a dresser, a romantic figure, a smart
woman and a good sport. It was no trouble to induce that star of stars
to be present at any event which promised "Diamond Jim" Brady was the nearest approach to her equal in interest in the male sex and he had certain specially delightful qualities from the restaurateur's point of view. He was very wealthy, spent money like water, usually brought several ladies with him and was the world's champion heavyweight eater and drinker of fine foods and vintage wines. It was said of Jim that if he could be a steady customer, that was all a restaurant needed. Jim, salesman extraordinary of railroad supplies, needed publicity and besides that, was tempted by the promise of some dishes which he had never tasted. Diamond Jim entered with one of the Dolly Sisters on each arm and there were also Maxine Elliot, David Warfield and Leslie Carter. Mrs. Carter was a society woman who had turned into a stage star but even she was of the stage-stagey. What Bustanoby needed was one Simon-pure aristocrat and this he produced in the august person of John Jacob Astor. How he lured that utterly-utter being is not known. Jacques Bustanoby was a genius--that's all. This took the curse off the location. Any place where John Jacob Astor dined was good enough for anyone, even if it had been on the Bowery. The venture was a money-maker from the start but Jacques knew better than to rest on his laurels, lest some rival steal them. He wanted above all things to have well-known blue-bloods continue to frequent the place and, next to Astor, no name was so exalted as Vanderbilt. The late Reginald Vanderbilt though perhaps not the noblest specimen of the clan, nevertheless belonged. He had some desirable points, too, such as being easy to corral, a heavy eater, tippler and tipper. One night Reggie came in all alone and after a succession of rapid drinks began to weep into his food, to Jacques' horror. A dissatisfied guest
of low degree would be bad enough but a weeping Vanderbilt might ruin
him. All five [sic] Bustanobys converged on the sobbing millionaire and
implored him to let them know what was wrong, promising But the trouble was beyond their powers. It was trouble, not of the stomach but of the heart. Reggie had recently been divorced by Kathleen Neilson. Finally he explained his heart would break unless the only one who ever loved him for himself alone would join him here. "Tell me her name and I'll have her here at once," Jacques promised. "Her namsh Nellie," the weeper sobbed. "My coachman knows--ashk him." Jacques ordered the head waiter to have Nellie brought at once, regardless of expense or other consideration. A few minutes later he and all the guests froze at the sight of an apparition. It was Reggie's elaborately-costumed coachman, leading in his master's pet horse, which had driven him there. Her name was Nellie. Guests gasped and
scrambled out of the way and tables were moved to permit Nellie to be
led to her master's table where she was hitched to a hat rack. A busboy
was sent around the corner to a livery stable for a bag of oats, and succlent
carrots were brought from the kitchen. But were the Bohemians, even those with money to spend, desirable in a select and exclusive atmosphere like that? Jacques made the revolutionary decision that they were and, for time, cashed in on it, in a big way. Destiny had pushed him into the fateful decision by other events. It was his custom to nominate an occcasional evening as a "Soiree Artistique," for which he rounded up a good-sized assemblage of stage celebrities whose names would be duly recorded in the papers. This free advertising and the privilege of letting lesser-known guests feast their eyes on them, without extra charge, was all that was asked or desired. On one of these occasions, Anna Held, inspired by champagne and perhaps her press agent, arose from her table and without warning, provocation or accompaniment sang, "I Just Can't make My Eyes Behave." She was at the zenith of her fame and beauty and this was the greatest of all her song hits. Was it sacrilege or was it success? Jaques Bustanoby held his breath until Anna returned to her table amid such a spontaneous thunder of applause that it began to shatter the stained glass idea in the restaurateur's mind. Also it touched off a whole train of further fireworks. Listening and applauding as vigorously as any one, sat Lillian Russell, reigning queen of the stage. This was a challenge to her sovereignty, and she arose to meet it with her own classic, "My Evening Star." If the diners did not give her a few more decibels of noise than Anna received it was because this was a physical impossiblity. The queen had done it and queens can do no wrong. These two precedents set all the others in motion. Stars whose names are legend in theatredom rose to the occasion. Nora Bayes sang her "Shine on Harvest Moon." The moon belonged to her until Kate Smith took it over the mountain. Miss Bayes had the advantage of being with the composer Jack Norworth, who accompained her on the piano, supposed to be there only for those hen-party tea dances. Blanche Ring was next with "Rings On My Fingers, Bells On My Toes." Dancers and other specialty performers carried on until closing time, at the crack of dawn. Jacques, all this time, watched not the artists but the paying guests; his dual nature torn by conflicting emotions. As a genius of the kitchen he was horrified to see the customers paying as little attention to the perfectly-prepared food as if the place were a "hash house." But at the same time, as a business man, he was thrilled at the way they were eating up this impromptu sort of benefit, a benefit for whom? Perhaps for himself--perhaps not. Did he realize that this meant the death of fine eating, the coming of cafe society and the night club? Possibly, and if so he probably felt that the death was inevitable and he might as well make money from the funeral. He invited Fritzie Scheff to fascinate them the next time with her "Kiss Me Again" and induced Messrs. Shubert and Connors, managers of Sarah Bernhardt, to present the great French actress with a $3,000 loving cup. The late Douglas Fairbanks put on some of his acrobatics and even Bob Fitzsimmons demonstrated his solar plexus punch, a thing supposedly too vulgar and anatomical for the feminine eye. But it did not seem to hurt that eye at all. Business boomed; new faces appeared. Bustanoby's prices were so staggering that he became known as "Bust Anybody." Far from annoying Jacques, this nickname is said to have been invented, or at least spread, by that gentleman himself. In those days it was not the style to pretend to be ashamed of success and one of the obvious measures of it was how much money one had. To dine at Bust Anybody's was prima facie evidence that one was "some pumpkins." There was a difference of opinion as to whether the famous dinner duel between Lillian Russell and Diamond Jim was fought at the Beaux Arts or the Columbus Circle place. It began by Lillian asserting that she was even hungrier than her 250-pound boy-friend, which he said was impossible. Lillian bet him $100 that she could prove it by out-eating him, which seemed as unlikely as out-punching lanky Bob Fitzsimmons. However, the bet was made and Miss Russell retired to the ladies' fainting room. Before returning, she handed a large, heavy package wrapped in paper to Jacques with orders to place it in his safe and not let anyone look at it. He obeyed but he had not been forbidden to ask the woman in charge of the ladies' room, who informed him that it was Lillian's corset. The rules of the contest provided that each contestant was permitted to select alternate courses and each had the right to call for double portions for both. Either one who failed to clean his or her plate lost that round. According to tradition she won by one order of crepes Suzette. Some sordid-minded persons who always want to explain away miracles insist that Jim's gallantry, and fear that his fair adversary would drop dead, caused him to "throw the fight." Lillian did not always dine free. On one occasion, Jacques got up a dinner for 12 at $100 a plate for her, at only three hours notice. Miss Russell not only paid but said it was cheap at the price. Cheap it was, compared with some others he served, such as a little snack in 1912, for the British polo team who wished to celebrate their victory adequately. This knocked his famous contemporaries for a chukker by establishing an all time high of $600 a plate, making the food eaten, worth its weight in gold. Those were the golden days for the stomach. The impromptu floor
show which developed into a regular, paid cabaret, was soon followed by
the dance. This also was inspired by exhilarated patrons who would occasionally
jump up, dance a moment and then sit down, But Jacques recognized symptoms of suppressed desire and decided to psychoanalyze his public. One night the Prince of the Palate bobbed up with another outstanding achievement. "Stop the dinner music and play a dance tune," he told the startled orchestra leader. Jacques plucked beauteous Marion Hartman, a famed Ziegfield girl, from a table and whirled across the highly polished floor. One or two other couples followed suit. Each night for a week, Jacques set the dancing example for his patrons. Soon the clippity-clop of hooves and the put-put of horseless carriages marked a rhythmic preview for the crowds that took up the new dining-dancing craze at the Beaux Arts. A blonde of the buxom, corn-fed, Wild-Western type breezed into New York but could get no work until she saw Jacques who immediately put her on his payroll. She was Texas Guinan who lived through the twilight of the great dinner days, adapted herself to the prohibition night club, as the famous "Howdy Sucker" greeter and finally died, of all things, from a drink of water. Joking, even on her deathbed, she said: "The water rusted my iron constitution." The doctors, however, blamed it not to the water, but to the germs of amoebic dysentery in the water. Retribution also began to catch up with the Napoleon of novelty. Jacques, having introduced the tea dance and the first bar for women, blamed them for the divorce from his first wife, Ruth Boyd. "My wife was very young and very innocent; oh yes, very innocent," said Jacques, "but they take her to tea and give her drinks and dance with her and she lose her head. I am ver' busy and can do nuzzing. I forgive her once and they take her to those teas again. It is one shame. Thees Senator Reynolds, his is I suspect the chief villain in the woodpile." By means of these dances and drinks, he charged, Thomas Lennon Reynolds, known as "Senator" Reynolds, had lured her away on a trip to Europe, damaging him to the extent of $250,000, according to Bustanoby's alienation of affection suit. Later he dropped the suit with the mysterious explanation that perhaps Reynolds was not especially to blame. His second marriage, to Elizabeth Miller, also resulted in divorce, due, he alleged to the same (bar) sinister influences. Both ladies, however, said that the trouble was all from Jacques' incorrigible habit of carrying his greeting of lovely lady guests far beyond the bounds of mere cordiality. That he had been far to warm a greeter of these customers and seemed often not know how to speed the parting guest, they said, was shown by his endless troubles with husbands, including fist fights. His third wife, Doris Easton Bustanoby, however, managed to live happily with him to the end. In the flush of his early prosperity, when the automobile was still an unreliable toy and the airplane, a curiosity one paid to look at, he opened the Chateau Beaux Arts, way out at Huntington, Long Island. It was a veritable palace, with a garage and a flying field. Also it was the grand-daddy of the modern "road-nightery" but hopelessly ahead of its time, having everything but customers. The Chateau collapsed with such a resounding financial crash that the still-profitable Beaux Arts, in New York, was swept away with it. Borrowing on the strength of their past renown, Jacques, and his brother Andre, took over a restaurant on 39th Street between Broadway and Sixth Ave. Here they made up for lack of grandeur of furnishing by exclusiveness. Vernon and Irene Castle danced and Sigmund Romberg, the composer, directed the orchestra. As soon as this place began to pay, they expanded into space and gorgeousness at Columbus Circle. The front was a sidewalk cafe, called the Cafe de la Paix. Inside were four floors, four orchestras and 150 employees. On one floor was the famous Domino room all done in black and white. The sidewalk cafe had to be given up but the rest of the establishment did fairly well until Prohibition. In the cold shadow of that coming event, Jacques folded up. After Repeal, he like some others, tried to create a renaissance, in the Cafe des Gourmet, only to give up with the announcement: "There are no more gourmets, only gluttons and guzzlers." To this the carpenter who was nailing up the shutters replied: "Them days is gone forever." Note: Jacques was credited with introducing dancing into the restaurant festivities. However, Elliott Arnold in his book about Romberg ("Deep in My Heart") credits Sigmund Romberg with convincing Andre JB to introduce dancing into the restaurant. |