Ya Gotta Eat

My old boss and lifetime mentor uttered those words, probably 25 years ago, in a hilarious context, and I use them to this day. Here's what happened: Ed lived large. He was the first person in my life who lived really large. First class travel, mansion, 55 foot fishing yacht, airplane, only eating at best restaurants, and never, ever, being a schlepper. He taught me this final lesson in a funny way, too. His wife, an orchid enthusiast, had asked me to run some research for her on the office computer (this was in the olden days, when computers weren't ubiquitous). I did so, and went into Ed's office with the stack of 50 pages or so, and handed them to him. He put up his hands, and said "David, I don't schlep." I asked what he meant -- it was just to carry home some papers. He explained that once you schlepped for anyone, you became a schlepper. He was born poor, raised poor in Brooklyn and then Miami Beach, and hit it very big as a lawyer. He would never schlep again. I gave the papers to Wiggins, his Man Friday, and Wiggins delivered the papers. At the time I thought the whole episode was silly, but the lesson resonated. People will often treat you down to the lowest level you allow them to. I never schlep, either... Back to the eat story. Ed treated us all to extravagant lunches each day. If we were celebrating a court win, or settlement, the lunches also sometimes included wine more expensive than I knew existed. But each day, and this was back in the late 80s, the lunches must have run about $40 per person. Well, the firm went through a relative rough patch, and Christmas was coming. Typically, Ed would take us all to a major lunch, often at Vinton's, or St. Michel, in the Gables. This one year, bookkeeper Dolores said maybe we ought to skip out. She suggested maybe the staff each bring a dish, and we had the holiday party in the office. No -- Paul pointed out that the women worked for us -- it was wrong to now ask them to cook for us, too. How about instead, Paul suggested, we eschew the expensive lunches for a few weeks, and with the savings, take out the staff. We all nodded -- seemed like a good idea. But Ed looked at Paul like he had two heads -- give up the fine lunches? He noted "Ya gotta eat." We laughed, because we knew that to Ed, that meant you had to dine, daily, at Miami's finest restaurants. Years later, if I suggested to Paul maybe we cut back on expenses, he'd look at me and we'd laugh -- saying simultaneously, "But ya gotta eat." Well, today Mike, Jim, Dr. Kenny, Doug, and Wifey and I gathered at Graceland Cemetery, in Miami. Our friend Jeff's dad had died, and was being buried there. Jeff really appreciated our being there to support him. It was an appropriately gray day. His Dad Norty was a fine fellow -- retired dentist and later financial planner. I always liked him -- his quiet strength, and dry, classic Chicago Jewish sense of humor. After the family left, we stood next to the gravesite, and caught up. I asked Mike if he was headed to the office. No -- we were less than 1/4 mile from Uncle Tom's barbecue -- the politically incorrectly named place that's been there since 1948. We all agreed to reconvene there, where we toasted Norton with iced tea. Someone pointed out it was a sad reason to get together for lunch. And then Wifey added, "Ya gotta eat." And indeed you do -- life is too short to waste on less than the best. I thank Ed for that lesson. And to Dr. A, RIP.