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Manners were taught when I was boy
George
IT'S a trait I developed in Cyprus perhaps, as a teenager,
when my mother and my stepfather ran a pension, a small hotel
called the Ritz, at 12 Pantheon Street in Nicosia.
Or perhaps it's a tradition that runs in my blood, as old
as the Jewish race, an instinct for hospitality that means
I'd rather sleep on the floor than turn away a guest.
(Sleeping on the floor won't be necessary for me unless the
entire Knesset decides to stop over and spend the night at
my Thameside home. We've just rented the neighbouring property,
a magnificent Regency building called The Red House, from
a hotel in the village, and I now have so many bedrooms that
I could sleep on a different mattress every night for a month
and never leave my grounds)
The simple fact is: I keep virtually an open house these
days. For a long time I have welcomed parties of children
from hospices, hospitals and special schools to play in our
gardens and walk beside the stream with its bed of crystals
and semi-precious stones.
But now my wife says I invite almost everyone I meet to our
home for dinner and, though it isn't a deliberate policy,
I suppose she's right. I've even started bunging in a guided
tour of my house for every buyer who wins the bidding for
a bent spoon at my charity auctions.
Perhaps I should just do as my friend Lord Beaulieu, and
throw the whole place open to the public. We could have some
lions down by the tennis courts, if the parish council grants
us permission to keep dangerous pets.
Looking back on our life in Cyprus, during the late Fifties
and early Sixties, I remember that almost all our guests were
part of the touring theatres which came to the island to entertain
the sensation-seekers who thronged the city at night.
There was a constant stream of dancers, actors, musicians,
singers, acrobats, jugglers and slapstick comedians, and I
thought them all wonderfully glamorous. I was learning to
control my powers at that age, and I must have picked up a
lot of showmanship from these performers.
They taught me that it's not enough to do something amazing
. . . above all, it must be entertaining. At the same time,
I was learning the importance of being part of a supportive
Jewish community, marooned in a warring world of other faiths.
In Israel, all my friends had been Jewish, but now I went
to a Catholic school where I was known by a Christian name:
not Uri, but George.
When a Jewish family needed a bed, my step-father Ladislas
would often provide it for free. And my mother would say to
me: ''Never be afraid to ask, when you are in need. And when
you have what you need, never be afraid to give.''
All of this has been brought to mind because some people
dropped in unexpectedly on Sunday. And I do mean unexpectedly.
They didn't know me, I didn't know them and they had no intention
of paying me a visit.
But they were confused about the riverbanks, and it all flowed
from there. Across the Thames from our home is a very good
restaurant called the French Horn. Their signature dish is
duck, spit-roasted before an open fire and carved at the table
- not a dish that appeals to my vegetarian palette, but I
can appreciate the savour of Old England which it brings.
The restaurant is run by the great Michael Emmanuel, who
trained with Paul Bocuse and completed his education at the
Moulin de Mougins under Roger Verge.
Most guests arrived by car, of course, but there's a helipad
for the flighty. Since last weekend was Ascot weekend, the
helipad was busier than usual.
We first noticed the blue, six-seater 'copter as it hovered
above our carp pool.
''Is that Eric?'' I called out to my wife -one of our oldest
friends is a pilot, but he always calls before landing in
our garden. After all, we might have a visiting party of auction-winners
on the lawn, and the headlines that could make are too horrible
to be contemplated.
''I hope it's not terrorists,'' Hanna called back dryly -
but if this was a mob from al Qaeda, they were terribly well
dressed, as the clambered out of the cockpit. I think they
were still hoping they'd found the French Horn, until they
recognised me.
The leader of the party was a Yorkshire businessman named
Mike, and one of the British equestrian team was with him.
They'd had a marvellous time at the races, watching Mike's
horse - whose name, by lovely serendipity, was Mind.
They wouldn't stay for dinner, but they did join us for drinks
in the conservatory before piling back into the helicopter
for the short hop over the river.
They kept saying how kind we were to give them a warm welcome,
and I suppose it would have been sufficient for us to wave
politely and say, ''You've made a mistake, the restaurant
is that way, enjoy your meal, no trouble at all!''
And perhaps that would have been enough for them. But it
wouldn't have been enough for me. Perhaps it's my upbringing,
or perhaps it's an echo of a tradition that goes back scores
of centuries - but I do like my house to be a friendly place.
Email
him at uri@urigeller.com
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