Inn Fashion

New York's Hotel Wyndham

Myths are a law unto themselves: they begin imperceptibly, propagate like dandelion seed, and live forever. Once upon a time the intellectual joustings of Dorothy Parker, Ring Lardner, Robert Benchley, and Harold Ross at a certain round table gave mythical status to the Algonquin Hotel. The newest literary and theatrical constellation, which has housed Philip Roth, James Clavell, Walker Percy, Antonia Fraser and Harold Pinter, not to mention Eva and lan and Jeremy and Lena and Hume and Jessica and Sir Alec and Sir Laurence and of late the bold Peter O'Toole, is fourteen blocks north, on Fifty-eighth Street. A haven known as the Wyndham, it is called "our little boardinghouse" by its owners, John and Suzanne Mados.

Having been initiated by courtesy of that great master of ceremonies Milton Goldman, 1 have become addicted. It is not because of the stars, although one is mildly chuffed to see Joan Fontaine taking in her morning paper or to ride on the lift with Larry Hagman, pretending not to recognize him; no, the real hook is the flair and coddling of John and Suzanne, of Greek and French origins, respectively. Suzanne is the epitome of the Colette heroine, being both chic and practical, and she is responsible for the suites, which undoubtedly belong in Colette's stories, with their aura of pink and apricot, Impressionist paintings, and curtains that billow. In his office John has an entire wall covered with little cards containing the names of current guests and arrivees, some cards with a little red flag, or even two, to denote the descent of some star coming in on the red-eye from Los Angeles or the Concorde from London.

I have become addicted to the Wyndham. Its like being at home without having to put the potatoes on.

They bought the hotel twenty-one years ago and have a faithful staff as prescient as themselves. Their theatrical debut took off with Martin Sheen, who told Eva Marie Saint, who told Coral Browne and Vincent Price, who told someone who told John Cassavetes and Gena Rowlands, who told Ben Gazzara, and on and on. So what is its magic? It's like being at home without having to put the potatoes on. One feels safe, relatively undisturbed (the telephone system is, or was, a bit archaic); there is no room service, which makes it impossible to grumble about same; the suites are vast, and there is always the knowledge that Suzanne—who as a young girl in France used to be sent by her mother to feed the Gypsies—will be there with tisanes of champagne or a wee chat. John's favorite film is Zorba the Greek (plus its star, Anthony Quinn), and his hero is Lord Byron, which makes him tolerant of tantrums in his illustrious guests but, as he firmly reminds one, "only up to a point." Star or no star, he decides whom he wants in his house.

I came for a week, but stayed far longer, probably upsetting the symmetry of those little red flags, and the only thing that finally roused me to ring British Airways was the graven memory of my fellow countryman Oscar Wilde, who died in L'Hotel d'Alsace in Paris with his bill unpaid. It is now framed and a literary feature. The Madoses would be far too gallant to frame an unpaid bill, but in their own lovely suite the tables are bursting with photographs and accolades "to the dear Lord and Lady Landlord." The myth is unstoppable.

Edna O'Brien