Magazine article The Spectator

High Life: Taki

Magazine article The Spectator

High Life: Taki

Article excerpt

Greece is jasmine, bougainvillea, mimosa, cypress, olive, pine, oregano and sage, rock, sand, wine, fruit and the bluest and cleanest water in the Med. The Peloponnese has the nicest, most welcoming and generous of people, none more than my host and hostess at their private island, literally a paradise on earth. Around 60 staff keep the place ticking along perfectly, and one thing I've learned in this long life of mine among the rich and famous is, you can't fake it with the ones who work for you: if they don't love you, it shows. I've seen it time and again, the long faces of staff among famous Italian carmakers, German industrialists, Texan oil giants. I've even seen it where Greek ship owners are concerned, we Greeks being particularly close with those who work for us. You are what those who work for you think of you. In the private island where I spent the last week, the faces of those who looked out for us told the story. We sure were one big happy family.

I sailed in and the trouble started as if a gun had gone off. A Nero-like feast awaited, fruit, vegetables, homemade pasta, rosé wine to tempt Odysseus to untie himself and take on Circe -- but I spotted the danger quicker than you can say Englishmen. Three of them were descending towards the feast, so I let out a cry reminiscent of the warning at Messolonghi, when treachery led the hated Turks to await the exodus of the encircled Greeks, who died to a man. 'I'm a Greek, a patriot, save some for me.' Gavin Rankin, proprietor of London's finest restaurant, Bellamy's, Dave Ker, a man who unbeknownst to him once won a male beauty contest in the Soviet Union, and the Duke of Marlborough, no comment needed, were about to attack the food and I happened to be hungry. The staff, headed by the major domo whose name is Hercules, is still laughing.

The mother of my children arrived that evening, commenting that I had put on weight and asking to know whether Phoebe had been around. I have convinced her that the fictitional Phoebe is my mistress, a 27-year-old from Kansas, who is beautiful but wild and a drunk. 'She ran off with some arms dealer,' I said, 'then got dropped off at Mykonos after wrecking his boat and dropping all his drugs in the sea.'

'The proper place for her,' was all the MoMC said.

We also played some mind games after we realised that all the guests happened to like each other, and rather a lot in some cases, as for example yours truly and Edla Marlborough. …

Search by... Author
Show... All Results Primary Sources Peer-reviewed

Oops!

An unknown error has occurred. Please click the button below to reload the page. If the problem persists, please try again in a little while.