The Green Jacket

One of the great things about the Masters golf tournament taking place in Augusta, Ga., this weekend is that, true to tradition, you can still by a pimento cheese sandwich on the course for $1.50. It’s a tasty treat even if it’s not something you’d normally consider when ordering at your local deli. And as rich in tradition as the Masters is, one of its more storied, but lesser known traditions may not have been so preserved if not for the intervention by the Dusty Meyer.

As most know, the membership roster at Augusta National is not public and is generally not known. Occasionally, word filters out about one member or another but as a group we do quite well keeping our relationship to the club quiet. Many have assumed it is because the National is still considered a “good ol’ boys” club, a place where the supposedly rich and powerful meet to decide the fate of the world, an antiquated throwback that lacks any relevance today. Perhaps, but from personal experience, it’s just that we like our privacy.

Breaking ranks this one time only to reveal one of the favorite stories among the members seems appropriate with the re-emergence of the Dusty Meyer as one of the world’s most popular drinks today. The story has been kept alive by club historian Tanner Watkins, who is 86 years of age but still manages to play a round or two a year, albeit with the aid of a walker. Tanner has been a member of the National for over 40 years and despite his advancing years can still solve even the most challenging Sudoku puzzle. He made his money in iron ore and retired rather young after selling his various mining companies to the British-based Rio Tinto Corporation.

Although it would be difficult to tell the story with the same flair and gusto of Tanner, not to mention with the kind of southern drawl that seems to stretch every word an extra syllable or two, I’ll try to do it justice. To set the backdrop, the Masters tournament dates back to 1934 when Augusta National co-founders Bobby Jones and Clifford Roberts decided to hold an invitational only tournament at their new club in order to test the best golfers of the day, one of whom, of course was the aforementioned Mr. Jones.

Roberts had proposed calling it the Masters Tournament, the intention of which was to crown the winner as a master of the links. Jones, for all his accomplishments, was a humble and gracious man who felt that such a title would be a tad presumptuous, particularly since the U.S. and British Opens had been testing the best players in golf for many, many years. Though he was ever the accommodating southern gentleman, Jones had a knack for getting his way and eventually Roberts agreed to call the inaugural tournament the Augusta National Invitational Tournament.

Not to get off track too much here, but an interesting sidelight to all of this is that the tournament remained the Augusta Invitational until 1939. It seems that in December, 1938, Jones, Roberts and a handful of members had stopped by the club for their usual monthly poker game. Although the stakes were relatively modest given the financial wherewithal of its participants, it was always a highly contested affair. On this particular evening, the men were engaged in a particularly rousing game of 7-card stud, a personal favorite of Jones. Roberts was more a fan of straight poker. In any case, during this particular hand, Roberts was showing ace, king and Jones had a pair of tens up. After several rounds of successively higher bets, all of the other players had dropped out leaving Jones and Roberts to fend for the ever growing pot. Roberts, who was an aggressive gambler when drinking (which was often), was pushing Jones to the brink. Suddenly finding himself short on cash and itching to call Roberts one final time, Jones at first offered his prized putter, the Calamity Jane, as a final bet. Roberts demurred, baiting Jones to either come up with cash for one last raise or drop. Undeterred, Jones then offered to let Roberts rename the tournament permanently as the final bet. This was a bet Roberts couldn’t resist and he took it willingly, calling it with a crisp $100 bill, which Jones accepted as a comparable bet. Jones flipped over another 10 and was certain he had the hand. But Roberts had a pair of Kings in the pocket and, with that, won the hand and the right to rename the tournament. From that night on its been known as the Masters Tournament.

But back to the main story. The early years of the tournament, by whatever name, gave birth to much of the history and tradition that has served as the foundation for the four greatest days in golf each year. While it may seem commonplace today, the Masters was the first tournament to adopt 4 days of 18-hole stroke play. In those days, most tournaments ended on Saturday with a 36-hole final. After the first few years, it was Jones who decided that the winners would enjoy a permanent invitation to the tournament for the remainder of their lives, a practice that was only recently amended by former Club chairman Hootie Johnson to the dismay of some. It was Roberts who started the tradition of awarding the winner a green jacket emblazoned with the club logo. The idea was that during tournament week, all members would wear a green jacket in order to be more easily identifiable. The winner was considered an honorary member of the club and thus given a green jacket as well. The winner also receives a beautiful keepsake trophy as the green jacket is required to remain on the grounds of the club.

It was Jones who established the champion’s dinner that takes place on the Tuesday of Masters week that is hosted by the previous year’s winner. The great thing about that dinner is that the menu is set the champ. As many will now recall, it was this tradition that temporarily landed Fuzzy Zoeller in hot water for making what many considered to be racially insensitive remarks about Tiger Woods’ possible culinary choices for the champions dinner following his historic win in 1997. If you recall the interview Zoeller gave at the time, he had a drink in his hand at the time and most presumed he was drunk. The drink, of course, was a Dusty Meyer and although he had had a few following his round, I’ve personally seen Zoeller drink much more and act less drunk. I think it had just been a long day for him, that’s all.

Again, getting back to the main story, the year was 1935 and it was the second Augusta National Invitational. Horton Smith claimed the inaugural trophy with a one-stroke victory over Craig Wood, who also would figure prominently in the events of 1935. Most know that the 1935 event was won by Gene Sarazen in a playoff against Wood, who again would come up short. In fact, Wood continued to come up short until breaking through with a victory in 1941.

Sarazen was one of the finest men to ever tee up a golf ball. The first person to ever win all four major tournaments over a career, Sarazen was thought to have been on the downside of his prime when the 1935 Invitational rolled around. Although Sarazen had won the U.S. and British Opens in 1932 and the PGA Championship in 1933, it had been a few years since he had tasted any real success. In fact, despite his successes just a few years earlier, there had been thought about not inviting him to the Invitational in 1935, particularly by Roberts, the club’s chairman who ran the club and tournament in a very autocratic fashion.

Despite Sarazen’s well deserved reputation as a gentleman, he and Roberts were like oil and water. Sarazan was gregarious. Roberts, as Herbert Warren Wind accurately observed “said no more on any subject than he had to.” Sarazen was from Harrison, New York, Roberts was from Morning Son, Iowa. In short, the two had little in common. Thus, with Sarazen struggling with his game a bit in 1935, Roberts was all too willing to exclude him from the invite list. In fact, when Roberts handed the invitation list for the 1935 event to his long time secretary, Trudy Parker, Sarazen’s name was absent. It was about 2 p.m. and Jones, who had just finished playing, had stopped by the clubhouse to discuss something with Roberts when he passed by Parker’s desk on the second floor, took a look at the list and noticed the Sarazen’s name had been omitted. Thinking it was simply an oversight, he casually penciled it in and the invitation went out. When Sarazen responded by cable to Roberts (Sarazen had been on holiday in Africa) that he would be there, Roberts fumed at what he thought was the utmost in presumptuousness by Sarazen. Wandering over to Parker to show her the cable from Sarazen, Roberts was still seething. Parker, not knowing that the omission of Sarazen’s name was intentional, sheepishly related how Jones had penciled in Sarazen’s name on the invite list after assuming that the omission was a simple mistake. Roberts stormed back to his office, shut the door and didn’t emerge from his office for several hours, which, actually was not all that unusual anyway.

If all of this sounds a bit harsh toward Roberts, it shouldn’t. His demeanor was well known. But that shouldn’t diminish his immense contributions to both Augusta National and the Masters. Indeed, while Jones often got the credit as the tournament host, it was Roberts who really did all the work. It was Roberts’ enormous attention to detail and commitment to quality that made and still makes the Masters the best run event in the world. As Jones’ health began to suffer it was Roberts who provided the steady hand and stewardship to keep the tournament going in the right direction.

Despite almost not being invited, the 1935 tournament started well for Sarazen. He carded a four-under 68 and was tied for second with Lloyd Mangrum. Henry Picard opened with a 67. In fact, Picard had it to 9 under after the first two rounds, four strokes ahead of Sarazen and Magrum, his two closest competitors. But Picard faltered on the weekend, shooting 76 and 75 to finish at two under. Sarazen was faltering as well, shooting a one over par 73 on Saturday. Wood, meanwhile started a weekend surge and carded a 68 to take the lead by three strokes over Sarazen.

In that final round, conditions were predictably tougher for the field. Sarazen was one over par entering the difficult par 5 15th hole. Needing an eagle to have any hope of capturing Wood, who himself was struggling, Sarazen faced a daunting 235 yard shot over the pond fronting the 15th green. Sarazan pulled out a 4-wood and hit it pure. Sarazen knew the shot was well struck and had a chance to get close to the hole but was as surprised as anyone when the rather smallish Saturday gathering of patrons erupted as the ball went into the cup for a rare double eagle. That put Sarazen at two under for the round, six under for the tournament. He parred 17 and 18 and waited for Wood to finish. Wood did his part for history by struggling to a one over 73, tying Sarazan at the top of the leaderboard. The two returned the next day for a 36-hole playoff, won by Sarazan, 144-149.

The victory for Sarazen clearly signaled his return to form. Though it would be his last major victory, Sarazan did card wins in the Massachusetts and Long Island Opens later that summer. He was winless in 1936 but won twice more in 1937 and once in 1938, ending one of the greatest careers in professional golf.

Nearly everyone was happy about Sarazen’s victory at Augusta in 1935, but not every one. Roberts was still privately seething over the fact that Sarazen should not even have been at the tournament, despite the historic and legendary shot that led to his victory. As was and still is customary, the champion was toasted in the clubhouse following his victory and the presentation of his green jacket. Although Augusta, Georgia was a “dry” community back then, it hardly stopped the members of Augusta National from establishing their own rules without local interference. Jones led the charge, opening a bottle of Dom Perignon, poured some into the winner’s trophy from which Sarazen was to take the first drink. It was then incumbent upon the champ to pass the trophy around to the assembled members, almost like a Communion chalice, for a celebratory toast and drink.

When the trophy made its way to Roberts, he was well into his seventh Dusty Meyer, a drink Roberts had come to appreciate after hosting Clark Gable a few years earlier at the club. Gable wasn’t much of a golfer but he knew how to have a good time and he and Roberts had become good friends over the years. Trey Henson, another of the club’s original members, had just made his toast to Sarazen and handed the trophy to Roberts. As the members stood in silent amazement, Roberts dumped the remaining champagne into a nearby ice bucket and replaced it with his Dusty Meyer.

Grasping the trophy with both hands, Roberts lifted it up and offered this toast: “to Gene Sarazen, this year’s Invitational champion. He hit a shot that made men roar. The sound, of course, rumbled from shore to shore. He hit it true, he hit it sweet. A beautiful sight for a club pro with such large feet.” A few members chuckled awkwardly at what they thought was a weak effort to make a joke by the usually ultra serious Roberts. Others didn’t know what to think. But Sarazen felt the reference to “club pro” was derogatory and seemed ready to challenge Roberts when Jones stood up, took the trophy, and let out a booming laugh, telling the group “this is why we never let Cliff tell the jokes. He always mangles the punch line.” That brought a smile to the face of Sarazen and Roberts, who seemed to know that he had committed a social faux pas, something he wasn’t used to doing and something the members weren’t used to seeing. What could have been a tense and awkward moment was broken by Jones’ grace.

Jones, still with the trophy in his hand, lifted it high in the air and echoed Roberts’ words. “To Gene,” he said, “and his shot heard ‘round the world.” With that the legend of the famous Sarazan 4-wood shot, which now is referred to everywhere as the “shot heard ‘round the world” was born along with a new tradition. Now, each year, following the presentation of the green jacket to that year’s winner, the members gather in the formal dining room with the new champion. The chairman of the club brings out the 1935 Sarazen trophy and proceeds to fill it, not with champagne but with Roberts’ favorite drink, the Dusty Meyer. It is hoisted high and a toast is offered to both Sarazan, who died in 1999 at the age of 97 and the new Masters champion. While this tradition may not be well known to the general public, it truly is a magical moment for the members and one I look forward to each year.

Dusty with a D

The continuing spectacle that is Britney Spears’ very public meltdown reminds me of the time Liza Minnelli was forced into a make-shift rehab and the unwitting part played by a pitcher of Dusty Meyers.

It was 1965 and Liza was a mere teenager, just 19. She was appearing on Broadway as Flora in “Flora the Red Menace,” her first star turn. I was in New York and happened to be on Time Square watching the news that the unmanned Gemini 2 was successfully launched when I ran into the choreographer Bob Fosse on his way to the Schubert Theatre.

By that time Fosse already was making a name for himself as a cutting edge choreographer on Broadway after having had his acting film cut short due to premature balding and the lack of roles at the time for hair challenged actors. Fosse was a Type A plus person with unbridled energy for both work and play. Always on the lookout for new and fresh talent, he had the opportunity to catch Liza in Flora and was smitten, despite the vast difference in ages.

As I mentioned, Liza was only 19 at the time but, as the daughter of Judy Garland, was no stranger to the night life even at that age. Liza was unattached at the time as this was several months before she met Peter Allen, who would eventually become the first of her four husbands. Using the ubiquitous air quotes, Fosse told me he was meeting Liza after the show to discuss a potential “project.” I remember thinking, “Fosse is voracious.”

I didn’t give that incident much thought until several weeks later when an item appeared in Variety that Liza was taking a short leave of absence from the show to attend to “personal matters.” The rumor on the street was that she was in the hospital trying to dry out. In those days, long before Betty Ford popularized the modern version of substance abuse rehabilitation, stars often checked into the hospital suffering from “exhaustion” as cover in order to get sober.

After some digging, I learned that Fosse’s meeting that night with Liza was hardly their first. In fact, the two had become fast friends and first-name acquaintances with the bartenders at 21, Elaine’s and the Rainbow Room. Fosse was strictly a Scotch man and Minnelli tended toward Cosmopolitans. Call it good genes or dumb luck, but Liza could handle her liquor as well as Fosse. But this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing because the two were delightful together, Fosse often sitting at the piano in the Rainbow Room playing while Liza delighted the other patrons with one tune after another from her mother’s song book.

But as this relationship began budding it started to take an ever so slight toll on Liza’s ability to perform. Suddenly, small cues were being missed and lines were being botched. But still, the after theatre partying continued unabated. One night, though, the two were at 21 sitting with Fosse’s ex-wife, Gwen Verdon, with whom Fosse was still friendly and the director Alan J. Pakula. The conversation was mostly industry talk and the jokes and good times were in abundance.

Although Liza was sipping her usual Cosmopolitan, she had briefly left her drink unattended while she freshened up in the Ladies Room. Verdon, whose preferences were limited to white wine and white wine, took a sip and was delighted by the results. She finished the drink and was planning to re-order for Liza prior to her return. Unfortunately, Liza returned rather quickly and was disappointed, to put it charitably, that her drink was now empty.

Liza has many great virtues, but patience isn’t one of them. Rather than wait for the bar maid to bring her another Cosmo, she instead snatched the drink Pakula was holding, completely oblivious to what it might be. Of course it was a Dusty Meyer, Pakula’s drink of choice. Without so much as stopping for a breath, Liza downed this rather unique concoction. Intrigued by the taste, she squelched the order for her Cosmo and asked Pakula to order a pitcher of Dusty Meyers for the table.

When the pitcher arrived, Pakula could barely get one down when he saw Liza on her third. The one thing that Pakula knew and Liza didn’t was that though the Dusty Meyer goes down smooth, it can bite back and hard if not taken in moderation. It wasn’t long, then, that Liza became nearly incoherent, which Fosse had never seen before.

Worried now that perhaps Liza was having an allergic reaction of some sort, Fosse grabbed her by the arm and hurried her out of 21 and into a cab that Sam Crandell, the longtime doorman at 21, had hailed. Soon Fosse and Minnelli were on their way to Bellevue, Foose stroking her cheek and Minnelli singing the first verse of “Over the Rainbow” in what seemed like and endless loop.

Eventually they made it to Bellevue. Fosse, who by this time was carrying Minnelli on his back, pushed his way through the assembled crowd of mugging victims waiting to see a doctor and put Minnelli on an open bed. He quickly shuttered the curtains and demanded immediate medical attention.

Remember, this was 1965 and paparazzi, for all intents and purposes, had not yet been invented. Likewise the cell phone/camera. In fact, none of the waiting patients even recognized the famous duo. By this point, Minnelli had passed out or slipped into unconsciousness, depending on one’s perspective. When Doctor Grimes entered the cubicle he couldn’t quickly resuscitate Minnelli and her eyes were dilated. Sensing perhaps the worst he had her admitted immediately and she was off to a private room on the third floor.

Fortunately, nothing was medically wrong with Liza. She was just incredibly drunk. A blood alcohol test showed her at .19. Fosse had called Hal Prince, the producer of Flora the Red Menace. After arriving and sizing up the situation, Prince decided that this was as good a time as any to put Liza on leave, have her dry out and come back to work reinvigorated.

Apparently, Prince’s strategy worked. After spending two weeks in a private room in Bellevue, Liza was as good as knew. Upon her return not a cue was missed nor a line flubbed. The reviews were glowing. In fact, her return was so triumphant that it eventually led her to her stunning and surprising Tony Award against the heavily favored Inga Swenson in Baker Street.

For her part and although she has had several battles with substance abuse since, Minnelli never went back to the Dusty Meyer, which is too bad. Though she blamed the Dusty Meyer for his downfall that evening, without it she likely would have continued her hard partying ways with the Cosmos she could easily handle. Rather than dry her out, Prince likely would have dumped her from the play that eventually launched her career. Liza and Fosse did remain friends, with Fosse eventually choreographing Liza’s triumphant turn in “Cabaret.” Showing no ill will toward Pakula, Liza let him produce her 1972 television special, “Liza with a Z”, for which both she and Pakula won Emmys.

Although her involvement with the Dusty Meyer was unwitting, in a way you could say that it made her who she is today. So as we continue to witness the circus that is Britney Spears, remember that without Liza there would be no Britney Spears.

That's The Way, Uh Huh

As I travel the world near and far, I’m still astonished at the inability of the modern-day bartender to mix a decent Dusty Meyer. At the Hanoi Hilton, for example, where I recently attended a 3-day symposium on global warming, Kim, the bartender, had no clue, offering up way too much gin to too little vodka. And don’t get me started about the poor choice of coffee.

It reminds me of an incident that happened nearly thirty years ago. I remember reading about it in the International Herald-Tribune while on holiday in Paris. It seems that K.C. of K.C. and the Sunshine Band was playing a sold-out concert in Sun City. If you’ll recall, the mid-‘70s was the height of the disco craze and K.C. and his Sunshine Band were scorching the charts with “Get Down Tonight” and “That’s the Way (I Like It)” among others.

K.C. was one of the first acts to play the newly-constituted Sun City, the posh resort developed by Sol Krezner in what was previously known as Bophuthatswana. Despite the presence of Apartheid elsewhere on the South African continent, Krezner was keen on making Sun City the new Las Vegas by overpaying even marginal artists to perform and thus legitimize the resort. And it worked. Although K.C. and the boys were a few years removed from their biggest hits, they were a huge draw in Sun City and their concert was greatly anticipated.

But what Krezner didn’t realize was that K.C. was one of the more difficult artists of his day. His contract rider was generally several pages long. Among his demands: bed sheets with a thread count of 200 or higher, 22 different pairs of roller skates, 638 flexible straws and three cases of bite-size Clark bars. Of more immediate importance to this story, though, was a demand for an unlimited supply of Brazilian coffee, Beefeaters Gin, Smirnoff Vodka and a private bartender that could mix the most sublime Dusty Meyer.

This caused great consternation for Krezner and his staff. The coffee, gin and vodka were, of course, no problem. But given how new the resort was, there had been precious little time to find and train quality mixologists. The bar staff was completely clueless how to pour anything more than the standard gin martini.

When K.C. arrived at his private chalet (with the rest of the band forced to scramble for quarters in a series of small mobile homes), he was initially pleased to find a bartender present and all the key ingredients for a Dusty Meyer. Rare was the moment in those days when anyone saw K.C. without his trusty Dusty Meyer.

That initial pleasure soon faded into a dark and ugly confrontation when K.C. learned that his bartender was completely unfamiliar with how to mix a Dusty Meyer, let alone a quality Dusty Meyer. With K.C. trying to bridge an insurmountable language gap with the hapless bartender, several hours passed, no Dusty Meyers had been mixed and the demanding K.C. was still highly unsatisfied and began making noise about not going on stage. When Krezner got word he immediately came over to the chalet and tried to calm the situation.

Unfortunately, Krezner’s presence only seemed to aggravate the situation. K.C., feeling the leverage that his celebrity status in Sun City seemed to afford and risking permanent damage to his vocal chords, was literally screaming at the top of his lungs that without a bartender who could mix a Dusty Meyer, the band would not perform. Of course, no one on the staff qualified for that assignment and it looked like Krezner would have to disappoint the thousands of locals who had plunked down their hard earned Kruggerands in order to witness what was sure to be a historic performance.

Fortunately, for Krezner and history, the concert was saved, but by a most unlikely source. As it turns out, a gentleman by the name of Larry DiPalma was staying at the resort, having won the vacation as part of a sales incentive program with his employer, Mutual of Omaha. If the name sounds familiar, it should. DiPalma was the son of Pourin’ Paul DiPalma, the mixologist to the stars at the original Brown Derby and the inventor of the Dusty Meyer. Although DiPalma had consciously decided not to follow in his father’s rather large shoes, he had inherited some of his great skill. DiPalma had heard the commotion, coming from K.C.’s chalet, as had most of the guests. When a frazzled Krenzer exited the chalet, DiPalma stopped him and offered his services.

Of course Krezner was nervous and worried about further inflaming the situation. But with few options left and a historic concert hanging in the balance, he decided to give it a try. He gave DiPalma one of the light tan bartender’s jackets, adorned with gold epaulets, and the ruse was on. Fortunately for Krezner, this was one gambled that worked and worked well. DiPalma entered the chalet and found and extremely agitated and nearly volatile K.C. But DiPalma went right to work and soon K.C. was mollified. In short order, DiPalma had perfectly mixed an entire pitcher full of Dusty Meyers and had poured one for K.C. Despite his many years as a tea totter himself, DiPalma had learned much and remembered most of what his famous father had taught him and K.C. was now pleased.

The epilogue of course, was the K.C. and his Sunshine Band performed as scheduled and to the obvious delight of thousands. It was an amazing performance by all accounts, with Robert Hillburn of the L.A. Times noting in the next day: “I have seen the future of disco, and its name is K.C. and the Sunshine Band.” The concert did what Krezner had hoped and that was to really put Sun City on the map and as a legitimate vacation destination. But more important to fans of the Dusty Meyer, it was once again acknowledgement that the Dusty Meyer isn’t just a drink, it’s a lifestyle—and a lifesaver.

The History of the Dusty Meyer

It was about 15 years ago this month that I first encountered the Dusty Meyer. At that time I was unaware of its rich history and exotic taste. Sure, the Dusty Meyer is now one of the world's most popular mixed drinks and can obtained in most bars and lounges worldwide. But as I learned, when designer beers, wine coolers and courvasier began gaining mainstream acceptance during the late 1970s, the Dusty Meyer, along with other once popular favorites like the Bull Shot and Peach Blow Fizz nearly became extinct. But it took a combination of the popularity of flavored vodkas and gins and richly flavored liqueurs to bring the Dusty Meyer back into vogue in the 1990s. Thankfully, the Dusty Meyer appears to have permanently resurfaced to regain its rightful crown as king of the high balls.

A bit of research revealed the history of the Dusty Meyer, which I present here in a more or less abridged form.

The Dusty Meyer traces its roots to 1932 and owes its existence, like French toast and the Monkees, to a happy accident. "Pourin'" Paul DiPalma, as he was known to the regulars at the original Brown Derby on Hollywood and Vine, was the venerable and original mixologist to the stars, a monkier most now associate with Troy "Down the Hatch" Mercedes at Bar Marmont on Sunset Boulevard. It was a warm May evening and most of the movie studios were on hiatus and most of the town's stars were on holiday, some in Palm Springs, others in San Paolo.

But not every one who is anyone left town. On this particular evening, Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy stumbled into the Brown Derby following an afternoon and evening of heavy drinking, precipitated by a harrowing and controversial meeting earlier that day with Sam Goldwyn and Louis B. Mayer, the heads of MGM studios.

Gable and to a lesser extent, Tracy, were disillusioned with their contracts with MGM that they had signed with the studio years earlier. The contracts, standard for the time, bound them perpetually to MGM. As a result, neither could make a movie with either Paramount or Warner Bros. unless Mayer and Goldwyn agreed, which they rarely did for anyone. Gable, one of Hollywood's most notorious gamblers and womanizers, felt he was on the verge of a major career breakthrough and deeply resented the arrangement as it often left him short of cash while requiring him to work nearly non-stop on a string of mostly forgettable tripe. Gable had completed 14 films in two years, including Strange Interlude, No Man of Her Own, Red Dust, and the minor classic, Polly of the Circus. Tracy, himself quite the rogue and rambler, had a similar story, having made 15 movies in just three short years with little to show for it. Gable, now short on funds and itching to make more, believed he was marketable despite the lackluster career to that point.

It was Gable's idea to confront Goldwyn and Mayer and he enlisted his sometimes fishing and drinking buddy, Tracy, for support. The two drove to the palatial offices of Goldwyn and Mayer located on the expansive MGM lot. Their plan was to ask for their release from MGM, by force if necessary, Gable believing that he and Tracy could easily take the middle-aged Mayer and Goldwyn in a fist fight.

But Mayer, long married to the former Margaret Schenberg, had secretly been seeing actress Hedy Lamarr, who had recently broken up with Gable. Lamarr tipped off Mayer about the pending confrontation and he and Goldwyn were ready when the two arrived. Despite the clear air of tension, the meeting started surprisingly well. Mayer, serving Scotch from the fully stocked bar in his office, engaged in light banter with Gable and Tracy, hoping to defuse the situation as he had done countless times with Jean Harlow and Lon Chaney. But with Gable knocking back shot after shot and Tracy doing likewise, the two soon became quite intoxicated. Gable in particular was known as a mean drunk and in short time the meeting turned serious and ugly when Gable insisted that they switch the conversation toward business.

With that Gable raised his fist and demanded that Goldwyn and Mayer immediately release him from his studio contract. Tracy seemed to nod in agreement but otherwise said nothing. Mayer paused, lit one of his famous 8-inch Cuban cigars, and began to laugh uproariously, as if to suggest that Gable couldn't possibly be serious. Goldwyn, too, joined in the laughter and Gable and Tracy became visibly upset. But before either could say a word, Mayer reached into his suit jacket and pulled out and thick envelope that he had been carrying around with him ever since Lamarr had tipped him off about the meeting. Mayer gave the envelope to a startled Gable, who looked inside and saw that it contained, among other things, his studio contract.

"You're going to just give me back my contract" Gable asked. "Sure," said Mayer, "but you may want to first look at everything in the envelope." Gable then pulled out a one-way train ticket, stamped "Cadiz, Ohio," Gable's hometown. "What's this" Gable asked. "Oh, I thought you might be needing that," Mayer said. "Why?" "Well," Mayer explained, "if you won't be needing your contract you might be needing this. I doubt you'll ever work again in this town so you might as well head back home to momma."

Gable, assessing the subtlety of Mayer's message, grew even more enraged and threw what remained of his 9th shot of Scotch in Mayer's face. Gable then climbed on top of Mayer's desk and was about to grab Mayer by the throat. But before he could, he was tackled by Goldwyn and Tracy. By that time, Mayer's secretary, Esther Ralston(who herself would later go on to have a minor role in the B movie classic "Ladies Crave Excitement") had called studio security, which arrived a short time later. In the ensuing melee, Gable ended up with a black eye, Mayer had a gash in his cheek and Tracy pierced his ear drum, although no one is quite sure how. As he was being dragged out of Mayer's office, Gable was heard to yell that he'd rather rot in Cadiz than work for Mayer. Mayer retorted that he'd "rather shit saw dust in a cloth diaper" than see Gable ever work again.

Gable and Tracy left the studio lot and headed straight toward Burbank and a tour of its seedy bar district. Eventually the two found their way back to Hollywood and the Brown Derby around 1 a.m. Barely able to stand at that point, Gable and Tracy were assisted into two bar stools by Howie Montaug, the long-time Brown Derby doorman. At the other end of the bar was DiPalma who was pouring coffee and trying to sober up a drunken Mary Pickford and Helen Hayes. Pickford and Hayes had been in the Brown Derby all evening, celebrating Hayes' recent best actress Academy Award for her portrayal of Madelon in the movie "The Sin of Madelon Claudet."

As Gable and Tracy regained some momentum, DiPalma became concerned. He knew that Sime Silverman, who had just established the Hollywood bureau for Variety Magazine, liked to stop by to capture some of Hollywood's glamour boys in less than flattering circumstances and he wanted to avoid some bad publicity for two of his better customers. He grabbed the pot of coffee that he had brewed for Hayes and Pickford and attempted to pour a glass for both Tracy and Gable. But neither were complying, with Gable reaching for the vodka and Tracy grabbing a bottle of gin. Eventually a compromise was reached and DiPalma mixed the vodka and gin in with the coffee to appease the drunken pair. To DiPalma's surprise, both Gable and Tracy liked the rather strange mix that both intoxicated and sobered and poured some to Pickford and Hayes as well. Gable wondered whether DiPalma had added anything else to the coffee and Tracy joked "sure he did, the saw dust from Mayer's asshole." Gable laughed and started calling the concoction Mayer's Saw Dust and a new drink was born.

Eventually, the Mayer's Saw Dust became one of the more popular drinks among the Hollywood elite that frequented the Brown Derby, particularly those tethered to MGM who saw it as the ultimate inside joke and sweet revenge against the wicked Mayer. Owing, though, to an abject fear of Mayer, who dined at the Derby every Thursday and Sunday at Table 36, DiPalma had added the drink to the bar menu but listed it as "Mayor's" Saw Dust, ostensibly in honor of Los Angeles' three-term Republican mayor, George Cryer. Eventually the locals interposed the words and shortened the title, calling it the Dusty Mayor. No stranger to the new drink, Cryer nonetheless asked DiPalma to take it off the menu because Cryer was coming under heavy criticism during an upcoming re-election campaign by Democratic hopeful John Porter, who used Cryer's association with "spirits" as evidence of the moral decay of the greater Los Angeles area under Cryer's watch. DiPalma relented, but only slightly, renaming it the "Dusty Meyer", as it's been known ever since.

The Dusty Meyer itself has undergone a number of changes and local variations, the most dramatic of which was in 1962 when a drought in Brazil created a coffee bean shortage and forced numerous compromises. Eventually, though, most folks began using the recently introduced Kahlua in place of coffee and the modern Dusty Meyer was born. Not surprisingly, the Dusty Meyer is quite popular in Mexico, where locals often add and/or substitute tequila for any of the other ingredients and refer to it as the "El Dusto Supremo." But whether in Tijuana or Toledo, many a bar patron, when asked what they will have, respond enthusiastically with "make mine a Dusty Meyer."