Henny Youngman's table, a sentimental spot
NEW YORK (March 7, 1998 2:18 p.m. EST http://www.nando.net) -- For as long as anyone can remember, visitors to the Friars Club couldn't slip into the dining room without being greeted by the King of the One-Liners and one of his ancient, oft-repeated jabs.
"I like your sweater," Henny Youngman would tell a guest. "You never throw anything away."
Diners can walk in unaccosted now. The king's straight-back throne and front-row table sit empty, a mute reminder of Youngman's Feb. 24 death at age 91. On the day of his funeral, a picture of Youngman and a simple vase with red roses marked his usual place.
Nowhere is the legendary comic's absence felt more acutely than at the private Manhattan club, a favorite hangout for many comedians. Youngman was holding court even before maitre d' Frank Capitelli started there in 1960.
"This was like his house," Capitelli said. "He was a fixture, like a family member."
Youngman's front-row table in the oak-paneled room was not some arcane gathering of vaudevillians swapping long-forgotten bits. Usually, he ate with family or friends. Red Buttons or Milton Berle were occasional guests, but Youngman was always the headliner.
At Youngman's funeral, fellow comedian Alan King recalled his own daily ritual in the Friars' dining room.
"For 50 years I would watch Henny come in to lunch and say to the maitre d', 'I want a table near a waiter,"' King remembered. "And every day for 50 years I would say to myself, 'You're not going to laugh.' "And every day for 50 years ... I laughed."
Not even his age and health problems -- Youngman suffered a broken hip two years ago, had twin hearing aids and used a wheelchair -- kept the nonagenarian comedian from his table.
"I remember him walking around like a little old man, barely moving -- shuffling," recalled ex-Friars Club publicist Selma Gore. "But when he sat down and started to perform, he was quite a different man. Much younger."
The vintage gags were resurrected each day when Youngman sat down to his meal of scrambled eggs and bacon (he laughed at cholesterol). The repetition did little to diminish the laughter.
The lunchtime routines featured as much material as his stand-up act -- or more, depending on the speed of his waiter. "Statue!" Youngman would beckon to slow-moving help.
Henny's restaurant recommendations? "You know where the '21 Club' is on 52nd Street? I eat next store at '19."'
How's an old friend doing? "I asked George Burns, 'Do the earthquakes bother you?' He said, 'No, I shake all the time."'
And the sight gags, produced from his pockets. A snapshot of two goats: "My kids." A small bag of Cheerios: "Bagel seeds." A picture of two detergents: "My 'Pride' and 'Joy."'
Youngman was a beloved figure among the club's 1,400 members, as constant a sight as the flag outside or the Sinatra photo on the wall.
"Everybody would stop at his table on the way out or the way in," recalled the club's executive director, Jean-Pierre Talbot. "You had to pay your respects. And if you didn't see him, he yelled: 'Hey, buddy!"'
Capitelli recalled Youngman pulling that move on former Mayor David Dinkins, refusing to back off until Dinkins planted a big kiss on his forehead. "And the mayor did," he remembered.
Near the table are reminders of Youngman's presence: A 1987 LeRoy Neiman portrait of the comedian hangs on the wall. And the white courtesy phone sits right behind Youngman's old chair -- "He loved to get paged," Capitelli recalled with a laugh.
The table, with its prime position at the front of the room, is already eyed by poachers among the club's other regulars. Capitelli, in an homage to the late comic, offered a Youngman-esque answer about the future of the sentimental spot.
"We're going to retire the table," Capitelli smiled, pausing for effect. "But only if it's not busy."