In the mid-1970s, I found myself working for a lifelong friend making—of all things—candy sculptures, and as an offshoot, candy-house kits. Go ahead and laugh, but by the time this business started, she had already been featured in People magazine for building a seven-foot candy George Washington; a life-size castle in Macy's Santaland in Herald Square; and every Christmas, we worker bees would go and toil in Bloomingdale's windows, constructing house after gooey house. It was nutty—and a blast. Then things got serious.
The family of my candy-business friend owned a large and rambling old hotel, and they bought a beautiful Tudor manor house nearby, putting their daughter in charge of its rebirth as a second hotel. I was invited along for the sometimes bumpy but always interesting ride. Back then, it was an imposing old place, open only in the summer. Its guests were often there to enjoy the famed local music and dance festivals—or often they were the famous people actually appearing at those venues. I had previously worked as a cook at a small inn, so I was assigned to be the chef de cuisine. We served only breakfast, afternoon tea, and totally over-the-top multicourse picnics to take to the concerts. Still, I would get calls down in the kitchen from the guests. "We know you don't serve dinner, but it's our twenty-fifth anniversary, and we would love it if you could just make us a chateaubriand." We were in the LUXURY service industry now, trying to make something of this hotel, so the customer was always right, and the answer was ALWAYS yes. "Of course," I'd say cheerily, and I'd hop in my VW Beatle to run to the market and gather what was needed to whip up a three-course extravaganza.
The whole venture had a seat-of-the-pants feeling, but my friend had vision, know-how, and a lot of stick-to-it-iveness. We were young, and it was fun. She kept at it, but I eventually left, went back to my hometown, got married, and had children, and though she and I remained very close, I moved on to different jobs in a different life.
Years went by—in fact, decades went by!—and occasionally, I'd get a call from Ann, my old friend and boss, to come back and work at the hotel. I'd tell her thanks, but I loved my job—then the calls began to come closer together. So one day more than thirty years later, Ann was on the phone once again. This time, my job was about to end, the kids were grown, and I needed a change. Still, it sounded so crazy to me. "Ann," I said, "what would this job even be?" She paused a minute, and then said, "Oh, Mimi. Sometimes I don't even know if the lampshades are ripped!"
For some reason, I understood that—she was just overwhelmed. And so I packed up and returned to join Ann once again. I became part of the management team of a hotel that is now world-renowned, has more stars and awards than you could count, boasts one of the top wine cellars in the country, is open year-round, of course, and has become one of the go-to hotel destinations in the country.
Obviously, the experience has been decidedly different this time around, but Ann has crafted a jewel, and to join her and be given another chance to make it perfect has been a very unexpected joy. From candy houses to five-star hotels—who would have guessed?
—MIMI
