On Sunday, February 29, 1976, I flew back to New York on Trans-World Airlines and checked into the Hotel Excelsior on West 79th Street. In the following years I would hang my hat at the far more pleasant Olcott Hotel on West 72nd Street, which became my “home away from home” in Gotham. The Olcott was an old-fashioned hostelry probably dating back to the 1920s, a little on the “worn” side, but it provided spacious suites with kitchenettes that enabled comfortable living in a part of town removed from the usual tourist crush. Its prices were modest, around $1,000 a week in the 1980’a, Within a few blocks of the hotel were dozens of convenient restaurants, several of them Chinese (the best was one on Columbus Avenue which had framed celebrities decorating its entrance, including one of Mayor Koch), a coffee shop on the corner of Columbus, several luncheonettes, a Greek diner on Amsterdam Avenue and 72nd Street where, sitting in booths you could dip into pea or chicken noodle soups with crackers on the side, roast turkey dinner with mashed potatoes and cranberry jelly, and for dessert apple or blueberry pie and coffee. On the corner, across 72nd Street, oppoiste the Sherman Square subway station was the time-honored Gray’s Papaya stand, famous for its hot dogs (50 cents at that time).Nearby were shops that rented home video (Blockbuster and Tower), a large Barnes & Noble on Mitchel Square at the intersection of Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue, two Loew’s theatres within walking distance and Central Park, a half block away from the hotel, where the Boat House restaurant, with outdoor seating, beckoned. On special occasions, the Tavern on the Green in the park, with its delightful Crystal Room that in later years became a favorite venue to celebrate Christmas Eve.
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I had instructed potential advertisers in Latin America to have their copy in the New York office by March 1st, since the issue was scheduled to be out on March 31st. Previously I had mailed the bulk of the articles that were to run in the issue to New York to be processed. Some contributions had also been submitted by the correspondents in Latin America. I would thus have ample time in New York to put the finishing touches on the issue and see it through the press.
When I arrived at the familiar brownstone on West 46th Street Syd asked me what I would be needing during the time I was preparing the issue in the New York office. I told him a desk to work at, a typewriter and a telephone. He offered to hire a temporary secretary, but I told him that it was unnecessary, since by the time I explained what had to be done, I could do it myself.
Syd then suggested that I could use a room on the top floor, part of which was occupied by the telephone switchboard operators, but otherwise was unused. This room, I later learned, had once been Variety’s founder, Sime Silverman’s, personal den. The story ran that here he had entertained celebrities, ranging from the city’s flamboyant mayor, Jimmy Walker, to a long string of female companions. At one time it was referred to by some of the staff as Chateau de Layem. That was back in the 1920’s.
After climbing up the flights of steep stairs to the top floor, I entered a large room on the left side of which stood the switchboard, staffed by the two operators, Peggy Michitsch and Joan Crowley, who dutifully spent the hours plugging in and pulling out the wires that connected the in- and outgoing telephone calls to those in other parts of the building. This was their “domain” and included a hot pad for making coffee, a refrigerator where some basic food was stored, and a bathroom. There was also a cat that made its home there.
On the right side, upon entering, stood a huge table covered with books and dusty files and next to the windows looking down on 46th Street there was a good-sized desk, a chair and a telephone, which I took possession of and from where I would conduct my business in the coming weeks. An old manual typewriter was brought up to me by the office boy, along with company stationery and the required accessories. Not much light streamed through the window, since the building across the street rose high above the one I was in, and the grime on the window looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the time Sime occupied these quarters. From one floor in the building across the street I could sometimes hear the sound of musical instruments, presumably from some academy. Further down 46th Street was the High School of Performing Arts, of Fame renown.
Having settled in, I descended to the advertising department on what was called the “ground floor” but in fact was located four steps below street level. Two rows of desks occupied by the sales staff stretched to the back of the room from the storefront window on which appeared a large Variety logo in green, underneath which stood a blow-up of the front page of the current issue. Each of the sales staff, among which was one elderly lady, was provided with a dial phone.
I was presently introduced to a portly salesman in his 60s who I was told would follow up advertising leads in the New York Hispanic sector. I handed him a list of companies that I thought might be interested and asked him to start contacting them. He nodded assent.
Further back in the room I then approached the man in charge of coordinating the art work and advertising and who laid out each week’s paper, Abie Torres.
After introducing myself, I asked him, “Could I see what ads have come in so far for the Latin issue?”
Whereupon he checked through some folders and came up with the answer, “There aren’t any.”
No ads for my Latin issue had come in, though I had given March 1st as the deadline! And it was now Monday, March 1st! I remembered all the meetings in offices in Latin America, the luncheons with executives and sales chiefs, the promises, my tallies of how many ads I could count on obtaining that would justify the efforts and the company expense of months of travel.
I again mounted the five flights of stairs to my dusty eyrie and opened my card file which had all my contacts in Latin America. This was in March of 1976 and the facsimile machine, not to mention the desktop word processor, the computer and the Internet, had not come upon the world stage yet. It was still to be several more years before one or two of the reporters on the ground editorial floor started to use newfangled desktop computers and that Variety started to receive editorial copy via fax machines.
Some fifty companies in Latin America had in principle promised to take ads in the issue, ranging from a modest quarter page to the front and the back covers. In addition, space was expected to be taken from companies in Europe and the States.
I seized the receiver of the phone on my table and after flipping through my card file I picked one out. I then told Peggy, one of the telephone operators, that I wanted to put through a call to Brazil. The time for written letters and even for the telex or telegrams was past. A one on one live conversation with by contacts was now imperative.
The first on my list was the Brazilian government film agency Embrafilme in Rio which was handling a film made by one of the country’s major internationally-minded, producers, Luiz Carlos Barreto. When I had been in Rio, after being given something of a runaround, I had managed to meet Barreto and his high-powered English-speaking wife, Lucy, who was amenable to promoting a feature he had recently made, Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands, starring a sexy actress called Sonia Braga, a huge hit in Brazil.
Having given the phone number in Rio to Peggy, i took about twenty minutes before she called over to me that she had the Rio operator on the line, who was saying something in Portuguese. I picked up my phone and in my broken Portuguese told the Rio operator to ring Embrafilme. A short while later the Embrafilme operator got on the line, while I feared that at any moment we might be disconnected. I asked to speak to O Senhor Farias, the head of the company. After a short pause, Farias got on the line. “Yes, I remember you,” he said to me. “Vareeyeté”. I had left the rate card and technical specifications with him. He said his secretary might still have them. I reminded him that he had promised to take an ad for the Latin issue and once again explained what the issue was about, how important it was, that O Senhor Barreto had promised to take an ad for Dona Flor. He asked when the issue would be out and when the ad copy needed to be in New York. Within two weeks, I told him. He did know if he could have the ad ready by then, but he would try to send it with Varig Airlines to me by then. I thanked him, repeated the address in New York to where he had to send the ad. He confirmed that he would send one page, in black and white, for Dona Flor plus a two-page spread for other Embrafilme pictures.. I was in clover.
The process was then repeated hour after hour in the following days. Phone calls to Buenos Aires, Caracas, Lima, Bogotá, Mexico City, San Juan. When the connections got through I could at least communicate with those I called in Spanish, which I was fluent in, “Peter, I have the Argentine operator on the phone,” Joan or Peggy would call and the connection to Mexico was made and I could talk to Amaury Daumas, the head of the OTI (Organización de la Television Iberoamericana) who I had interviewed in his office on the Calle Varsovia, and who had explained that “the OTI, c’est moi” (paraphrasing the famous words uttered by King Louis XIV, L’état, c’est moi — The State is Me) which, when it appeared in my article caused him something of a critical backlash. The dapper Daumas confirmed he would send me a page ad posthaste.
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Across from the Variety office on 46th Street there was a luncheonette that had a steam table with a good assortment of Italo-American-style dishes, meatballs and spaghetti, lasagna, a fine assortment of cold cuts and salads to make sandwiches with, a coffee machine, soft drinks and half a dozen mica tables and chairs where you could munch your meal and be out in 20 minutes.
Nearby on Times Square at 46th street was one of the ubiquitous Howard Johnson’s restaurants, famous for its 28 flavors of ice cream, that had a good salad bar and served hamburgers, sandwiches and cheese cake, though the latter failed to achieve the renown of the famed one at Lindy’s, which by then had shuttered as had the more genteel-minded Shrafft’s with its apron-clad waitresses and whiff of gentility. There were still a few Nedick’s and Chock-Full-O-Nuts lunch counters around in 1976, but they were in sharp decline and would soon yield to the burger chains and fast-food eateries.
Sometimes I would join one of the staffers and opt for a slightly higher-priced lunch at the Gaiety delicatessen on West 47th Street, opposite the Ethel Barrymore Theatre. There some of the muggs could spoon their matzo ball soups and dig into the corned beef sandwiches while sitting in one of the booths or at tables where waiters served them. On one occasion I spotted the popular playwright Neil Simon, an icon of Broadway hit comedies, paying his check at the cash register near the door, opposite the counter where a row of salamis dangled. Doubtless, many others of the show biz crowd around Times Square had luncheon at the Gaiety. In a way it was the successor to such famous turn-of-the-century gastronomical icons as Rector’s and Shanley’s on Times Square. It seems Variety’s founder, Sime Silverman, preferred having his luncheons at the Astor Hotel, a landmark on the Square until it was torn down in 1967.
Alas, most of the New York delicatessens which in my youth were ubiquitous in the city have now passed into oblivion, mere memories in the culinary history of Gotham. But in 1976 in midtown Manhattan there were still the Carnegie, the Stage, Wolf’s on the corner of 57th Street and Seventh Avenue, Kaplan’s on 58th Street off Lexington, where the waiters wore red suspenders, and a half dozen other delicatessens. The last time I checked, the only old time delis left were Katz’s on East Houston Street and Sarge’s on Third Avenue and 37th St. charging what now seem astronomical prices for the standard pastrami on rye plus a “suggested” 20% tip and the city sales tax.
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While I continued to make phone calls to potential advertisers in Latin America, I also started to edit the contributions received from our correspondents in Buenos Aires, Santiago, and Mexico and updated the articles and information I had culled during my swing through Latinoland months earlier.
I then turned my attention to a sector of show business that had heretofore remained totally ignored by Variety. It was the rapidly-expanding Hispanic television market, largely headquartered only a few blocks from our New York office. I had never seen the slightest editorial coverage of that sector in any of the pages of the sheet. The Hispanic world lived side by side with the Anglo one but the two never interacted. There were Spanish-language newspapers in New York, and millions of Latinos listened to Spanish-language radio programs and watched television novelas and game shows each day hosted by Latino celebrities. There were Hispanic TV stations in a dozen American cities, including Los Angeles, Dallas, Chicago. And almost none of their activities were reported by the Anglo media.
At that time two major Spanish-language outlets vied for dominance in the United States. I called the heads of both, requesting an interview with their “toppers” to be published in the forthcoming Latin American Entertainment Survey. The largest was the Spanish International Network, or SIN, owned by Mexico’s giant Televisa, which prided itself as being “the Fourth TV Network (after ABC, CBS and NBC) with 17 stations across the country.” In charge of US operations was a dapper Bostonian, René Anselmo, who had worked for Televisa for eight years in Mexico. Anselmo owned Hispanic TV stations in Phoenix and San Francisco. His office in 1976 was on Park Avenue, but later, as SIN expanded, he would move into spectacular offices on West 42nd Street. Upon entering these you found yourself in a huge atrium on one side of which stood a grand piano. Some of the staff quipped that it was known by many as “Anselmo’s Folly” given the cost of the facility and its grandiose pretensions. At that time Anselmo’s keenest interest was setting up PanAmSat, the first private television satellite connection, which he succeeded in launching later that year. Anselmo was amiable, suave, delighted to be interviewed by Variety and promised to take an ad in the Latin issue.
Then there was the picturesque ex-Cuban showman Carlos Barba, VP and General Manager (the “CEO” monicker had not become popular yet!) who ran a Hispanic TV station in New York, WNJU, Channel 47, “The Spanish-Speaking Station with the Bigger Reach and the Lower Rate Card”, his ad would proclaim. Barba had the appearance of a playboy. He met me with a big smile, rattled off his station’s accomplishments and reach. He had been an anchor on a local radio show, knew how to turn on the charm, and fully realized the clout Variety had. On a later occasion, when taking me out for lunch at a Cuban restaurant, when the proprietor joined our table, Carlos pressured him into also taking a full-page ad for his restaurant in an upcoming Latin issue, though non-show biz ads were a rarity in Variety. Needless to say, both Hispanic TV outlets were well reported by me in the forthcoming columns of my issue.
After several days of contacting my clients in Latinoland, I went to check what progress, if any, had been made by the salesman on the ground floor. He informed me that so far the leads had borne no fruit yet. I suspected that he had not made the slightest effort to follow them up. He was content to lay back on his laurels, as he had done in the many years he had been selling ads to the group of television clients that were his “territory” and which included some of the major companies in America. Moreover, I subsequently learned that the sales staff did not work on commission but on a fixed salary basis. Perhaps, Variety being the leading, definitive hard news publication in the country, the thinking was that the ads were to an extent guaranteed, the clients’ commitments ironclad, not requiring any sales pitches and urgings from the sales staff. After all, Variety was often referred to as the “Bible of Show Business” and there was no need to herald its clout in the entertainment sector. Those sitting at the desks on the ground floor, it seemed to me, were not the innovative entrepreneurs found in the overseas bureaus, many of them bi-lingual “hybrids”, who were as adept in filing editorial copy as in coraling advertisers.
Given the salesman’s lethargy, I then proceeded to contact some of the major American television companies such as Worldvision and Viacom myself, setting up a lunch with the latter’s head of Latin American operations.
Little by little the ads started to flow in to 46th Street. A page from Time-Life Television simply saying “Muchas Gracias a nuestros amigos in Central and South Ameica”; from London came a double page for ITC Films saluting Latin American distributors; from Italy, Titanus, Eurolat (distributors of Rizzoli product in the States), MIFED, the yearly Milan film market; five pages for Mexican films from Conacine, the government film sales organization; and three pages advertising films from Spain; five pages from film producers and distributors from Brazil and even several pages of smaller ads from Peru, Colombia, Venezuela, Chile and Honduras and Panama.
Included in my sales pitch was that the issue would receive a bonus distribution at the upcoming MIP-TV (Marché International de Programmes de Communication) television market held in Cannes in April and at the Cannes Film Festival in early May.