In my early
forties I used to really try to get off work in time for an earlier train to
allow for a drive up to Lake Geneva for dinner with a small group of
friends. We generally would meet at
either the venerable Shore Club on the Lake for fish fry or Fazio’s downtown
where a former mob captain held court in a elaborate rococo Italian steak and
pasta house. Dinner usually involved catching up on gossip or a discussion of
what we would do later.
If we were
at Shore Club one of the options involved going across the building to the
lounge where a lesbian ( back then a masculine appearing lesbian was tagged a
“bull dyke” or a “butch lezzie,” terms that are politically incorrect now, but
then were always used , even by lesbians
themselves, with affection) presided at a piano bar. This lady had a extensive
and bawdy repertoire masterful in double entendre that grew a substantial gay crowd.
Her last performance every night would end with “God Save The Queens(s)” which
caused a boisterous uproar amongst our group but was clueless to the straights
in the audience.
Another
option was Christopher’s. Chris Brown and his Mom owned a large opulent home
near downtown Lake Geneva. Indulgent Mom
allowed Chris to turn part into a gay watering hole. He only could get a beer license meaning beer
was all that could be sold. So Chris served Miller High Life, “The Champagne of
bottled beer” as it was called. And he
did it in a very attractive setting. His
former parlor he transformed into a period French salon with velvet settees, potted
Areca Palms, and a parquet floor he installed himself, as a replica of the one
at Versailles Palace . Outside there was an expansive deck bar with tables and
beautiful plantings under old maples surrounded by a trellised fence. It was
every so elegant and a sure magnet for the community gay population especially
since he installed Kyle, a “find” from one of his eastern seaboard
excursions. Kyle got a bed to share, a
Jaguar, and the duties of bartender every weekend. He was very personable and
very good looking, making the evenings there fun to watch as Kyle got hit on
and Chris fumed and fussed over his infidelities. A guaranteed “
hoot” we used to say.
hoot” we used to say.
Another of
our regular choices was the Abbey Resort on the lake. It attained popularity as a high-line tryst
hotel for wealthy Chicagoans and the Lake Geneva yachters clan. But they had
one waterside bar where one of our own played piano. Unlike the boisterous
Shore Club lounge, The Abbey bar was quiet and romantic. If we wanted a
“wind-down” evening, we went there. In
the Abbey the gift shop was owned and run by a friend, Roger Morbeck. Roger would often come over to join us after
he closed his store.
On evening
Roger brought along a friend, a fellow heir to one of the many Chicago
potentates of commerce having summer mansions on the lake. Families like
Wrigley of chewing gum fame or Swift of meat packing fortune renown. His name forgotten, I do remember he was a
personable fellow. He had a launch on the lake and invited us to his home
for a nightcap. His parents were away in Germany on some
business so he was left stateside in this humungous home.
Off the pier
into the home what stood out to me was a baronial great room with two stone
fireplaces and a vaulted beamed ceiling. But more so, in this cavernous space
there was a herd of about twenty sheep, so realistic, I was taken aback. I thought they were a whimsical slant in so
traditional a place. I later found they were limited edition 1986 Francois-Xavier Lalanne-designed model
sheep. One of these sheep made in the early 80’s sold recently at Sotheby’s for
$341,000 and a herd of ten auctioned out at Christies’s for $7.5 million
dollars. I never knew I was looking at
such a frivolous fortune.
This is just
an appetizer of the adventures in Lake Geneva.
Next up.
Dana Montana, her downtown restaurant, the
notorius Sugar shack and her hunky gay son.
Then, the
escapades of Robert Quinn, ex fire commissioner of Chicago, and a man with a
penchant for S & M and bondage coupled with elegant dinner parties at his
Wisconsin getaway. Notably an account of my attendance one of his famous “yacht races” in the
swimming pool Oh , and I can't forget the saga of Delavan pal Dewey Long who sued and won his suit to work at Milwaukee's Ambrosia Candy Factory as the first male employee on the line. The story there is about the famous , or , rather,infamous, person who was the second male hired there. That is a chilling story, but you'll just have to wait.
