through these documents in a logical order and come to some kind of logical conclusion.

The Mayor shot back: Thats fine, you do that. Just dont give it to me that way. Then there was the speechwriting. Mel has confessed to a reading disability dyslexia perhaps. I once wrote for the Mayor: I am appalled with recent developments Mel read, I am applauded ... He shouted at the desk between us: Applauded, are you nuts? Who in his right mind would be in favour of this? Name one person! I explained that appalled means youre mad. Just say what you mean in these speeches. And dont make up any new words, was his sound advice. Another time, I wrote that he was acutely aware of some problem or another. Acute? he asked. This isnt a medical speech. Mr. Mayor, I explained, acute just means youre very aware. No medical terms in any speeches. Im not a doctor! I kept my job and sanity by learning to do a pretty good impression of the Mayor. I would run into his office wild-eyed, saying something like, Mr. Mayor, this new metro transit plan is nuts! Nuts? the Mayor asked. Its the tail wagging the dog, I said. I explained how GO Transit riders from the suburbs could get a free transfer onto the Toronto Transit Commission system. The metaphor grabbed him. Write a press release saying how nuts this is. And why not put a headline on it like Tail Wags Dog or something. Now that it was his idea, I was home free. Once, I wrote a series of letters to other Ontario mayors. One turned out to be dead. Mel scrawled across the letter: This man is ded D.E.D. Do not send unless you are prepared to hand-deliver. I left the mayors office 18 years ago, but occasionally run into my old boss. Usually hell look me in the eye, smile and say, How are you, looking at my name tag, Allan. Last week, I met him in his Yonge and St. Clair neighborhood. I stuck out my hand and asked, Do you remember me this time? The Mayor did, and even though these are his last days in office, it feels good to have finally secured a position in Mel Lastmans famous memory.
98 DONT MAKE
UP

LUNCHE S

WITH

W O LV E S

I couldnt say no to lunch with Ambassador Taylor, even though Id just eaten.. Not a politician, but perhaps Canadas most famous diplomat, Ken Taylor is the hero of the Iranian hostage taking incident. Circumstances made my lunch with Mr. Taylor one of those remarkable New York experiences you just dont forget. Ive had other encounters since, but this one was worth writing up for The National Post. Having a power lunch in New York City is always exhilarating. But I once had two such lunches, back to back, on the same day. And one was with revered diplomat Ken Taylor, hero of the so-called Canadian caper, when he hid American diplomats during the Iranian revolution and smuggled them out of harms way. I asked the Ambassador if hed mind a late lunch about one oclock since I had a morning appointment. He assured me he had no pressing matters that afternoon, so one would be fine. He told me of his favourite bistro uptown near the museum district. The unexpected aspect of my eating adventure started with my late-morning meeting. It was with an advertising agency president on Madison Avenue. I arrived on time, but the president was running late. By about 11:15 his assistant made regular visits to my waiting room to apologize and to offer coffee and the use of an empty office. I was in no rush, so I worked on my notebook computer and watched the clock.

ANY NEW WORDS

LUNCHES

WITH

W O LV E S

99

By about 11:45 the assistant apologized even more profusely, noting that the president was on a multi-continent conference call. However, he had written a note to her asking that she express his personal regrets to me and insisting that I join him for lunch at his favourite restaurant, just to make amends. Out he came, minutes before noon, pumped my hand and told me how he looked forward to my review of the meal I was about to have. After a block or two walk, we were seated, and my host was insisting I try the crisp Chardonnay and the salad with exotic ingredients. He got pretty excited about the special fish entre and the way the chef prepared it We talked, and I caught the odd glimpse of the clock. With my mind on Taylor, I called him on my cell phone from the washroom, about quarter to one. He was already in the bistro uptown, but assured me there was no rush. I said I was just finishing my meeting and expecting to arrive just a few minutes late. In fact, I had to finish a hearty dessert and decaf cappuccino before I could leave. I squeezed my stuffed frame into a cab just after one and called the Ambassador again, indicating I was about to arrive, with traffic being the only unknown. He assured me that all was well and that he would see me when I arrived. About 20 minutes late, I finally entered the bistro to find Taylor distinctive curly grey hair, black-rimmed glassesat the bar sipping a Merlot. I apologized for being late, blaming New York traffic, but was quickly put at ease by one of Canadas most distinguished diplomats. We sat and chatted, but Taylor quickly turned his enthusiasm to a discussion of the chef and the menu at this bistro. He insisted I try the soup, and highly recommended a meat dish in a great French sauce. Since Id just eaten, I was willing to accept any recommendation, because none particularly appealed. The red herring in this story is that at a New York power lunch, you must have social currencybona fides, stories, something to hold up your end. Id done a lot of work with diplomats over the years, but Ambassador Taylor knew them all a lot better, so my bona fides only served to justify my presence, but could not exactly entertain someone with his credentials.

But I did have one small story that intrigued my host. I told him how my business partner, Hal Jones, had been dining in Taylors official residence in Tehran at the exact time that the Americans were hiding in his basement. Hal was Canadian Broadcasting Corporations senior correspondent for many years and was stationed in London at the time. Little did he know he was literally sitting right on top of one of the worlds great news stories, and hadnt a cluea journalists nightmare. However, just hours after the story of the freeing of the American hostages broke, Hal got a tip that Ambassador Taylor might be in Paris. He rushed over from London and knocked on doors. Among the doors that provided no information was the Canadian Embassys. But they were so unconvincing, Hal decided to stake the place outfrom the comfort of a nearby bistro. Hal was the only journalist on this story who knew what Taylor looked like, so he sprang into action when he spotted the curly grey hair and darkrimmed glasses walking down the street Hal did his interview, including a clip for the French network, and rushed to CBCs Paris office. He fired off his story for the major newscasts, but was almost thrown out of the building by a bureaucrat who accused him of trespassing. This makes sense at the CBC, but thats another story. So Hal redeemed himself by getting the hottest story of the year, right after missing the hottest story of the year. Recounting this bought me about 10 minutes of credibility with my gracious host, but we continued to eat. Taylor recommended the Merlot with both courses. He then pointed out the crme caramel was a specialty and that I had to try it. I complied and thoroughly enjoyed my long conversation with a historic Canadian hero that lasted until mid-afternoon. I cabbed it back to my Times Square hotel for a nap before my evening event. That night, as usual on my trips to New York, I took in a playbut this time, no dinner.

100

LUNCHES

WITH

W O LV E S

LUNCHES

WITH

W O LV E S

101