The Long Goodbye

Not since Norma Desmond has a Hollywood grand dame been so reluctant to retire. One year has passed since Chasen’s said farewell to its fans. After nearly six decades of sirloins and Sinatras, short ribs and Reagans, that cavernous old meeting place for celebrity meat-eaters just couldn’t satisfy a new generation’s craving for sea bass and endive salad. But what Hollywood legend ever surrendered the spotlight without at least one spirited encore? The restaurant has been booked steadily since it “closed,” continuing to host Hollywood’s hottest parties--from Ronald Reagan’s 85th birthday bash to A&M;/PolyGram’s Grammy night blowout, from Paramount’s Academy Awards celebration to a private soiree for high-powered entertainment lawyers, Also, every Monday through Friday, from 9:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m., people still drop by the side door and buy tubs of Chasen’s world-famous chili, available at $19.50 a quart.

The restaurant will remain available until an agreement is reached between Chasen’s owners and prospective buyers (who reportedly plan to replace the white-brick landmark with a 94,000-square-foot mall).

Betty Goodwin, whose recipe-filled history of Chasen’s is being published this month by Angel City Press, says the restaurant’s refusal to fade is both noble and odd, as is the public’s stubborn insistence on gathering there. “I don’t quite get it,” says Goodwin, who unearthed the top-secret chili recipe while researching her book. “When you have a party there, you have to bring your own caterer, your own stuff. You’re really not at Chasen’s. You are, but you’re not. . . . It’s kind of creepy.” Anyone who wonders why Chasen’s couldn’t keep up with the times need only consider that recent Grammy night affair: Not far from the grand piano where the late George Burns sang his favorite standards, not far from the site of Jimmy Stewart’s bachelor party, record company guests were treated to a performance by “Jazzmun,” the hard-bodied transvestite balladeer. Aside from a few familiar fixtures, Chasen’s no longer exists. Gone is Dave Chasen, the beloved vaudevillian who launched the restaurant in 1936 with $3,500 he borrowed from New Yorker editor Harold Ross. Gone is Tommy Gallagher, the smart-alecky waiter who needled press agents and presidents alike while lording over the front room’s 16 “power tables.” Gone are the bartenders who poured a river of martinis for Dean Martin and invented one in his honor. (The “Flame of Love Martini” uses sherry, not vermouth, and a flambeed orange peel for garnish.) Chasen’s thrived at a time when stars perceived restaurants as stage-extensions, dramatic settings in which they needed to be seen--an antiquated notion of visibility now that satellites rule the heavens. Still, no matter how outdated Chasen’s becomes, glamour-lovers will loiter there until someone knocks it down, and even a wrecking ball won’t scare off the diehards. Just ask Ralph Woodworth. As Chasen’s property manager, Woodworth occupies an eerie perch: His office sits directly above the dining room, where oxblood leather booths and banquettes still gleam like giant rubies, thanks to years of buffing and polishing by the gluteals of Hollywood glitterati.

“If you’re here late at night,” Woodworth whispers, “and it’s really dark--all of a sudden you hear this sound.”

Of course, the sound always turns out to be the ice machine.

But for one brief, nostalgic moment, it’s Dino pounding on the bar for a refill.

Or Bob Hope riding through the front door on a horse--a stunt he actually pulled in 1948.

Or Humphrey Bogart being tossed out the front door after a nasty fistfight with Clark Gable and Broderick Crawford.

“History,” Goodwin declares, “was made at those 16 tables.”

But Woodworth, a realist, has the last word.

“Sentiment doesn’t pay the bills.”