F. Scott Fitzgerald

For many men during the 20s and early 30s, the Ritz was home. F. Scott Fitzgerald was one of them. He and his wife, Zelda, lived by their whims, and the execution of their whims often involved me. I recall one particular occasion, when the Fitzgeralds were supposed to take the boat train to Le Havre to return to the United States. While drinking a farewell bottle of champagne, Mr. Fitzgerald developed a sudden aversion to boat trains and requested a taxi for the trip to Le Havre, which is about four hours north of Paris.

At that time, we always had a couple of cabs that stood outside the Ritz entrance on Rue Cambon, with their flags down to make them the exclusive property of Ritz clients. The driver of one of these taxis, an agreeable old party named Charles, consented to undertake the journey in his rickety Renault, and off they went.

Charles was not seen again for six months. When he finally reappeared in his customary spot, at the Rue Cambon entrance, it was with this story: By the time they reached Le Havre, Fitzgerald had decided that it would be a grand idea for Charles also to drive them from the boat to their home in the country. So, Charles and his taxi were loaded aboard, at nobody knows what cost in bribes and charges, and Charles did, indeed, drive them from the pier, in New York, to the country.

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