My Dinners with Roger

Mahan got into politics while studying at Loyola Marymount in Los Angeles, where he formed a chapter of the Young Americans for Freedom and, according to one of his YAF comrades, burned more Soviet flags than he thought possible. He came to the attention of Lyn Nofziger, who hired him to work for him at Citizens for the Republic, the PAC set up to fund Ronald Reagan’s 1980 presidential run. In 1981 he came to Washington with Reagan.

Mahan became an expert on the budget process and entitlement programs; John Kasich, the chairman of the House Budget Committee when the landmark welfare reform bill passed in 1996, once remarked that while neither he nor Newt Gingrich were indispensable in passing that legislation, without Roger the bill would have died. He played a role in virtually every budget bill over the last 25 years, with his principal goal in each of those negotiations being to slow the growth of government spending.

The Great Gourmand

Mahan applied the same diligence he gave to the fisc to his own life: He drove a modest car, paid off his house, eschewed credit cards, and would wear a suit for decades.

But he did not skimp on dining out or in rewarding good service. Roger was a big tipper before his illness, but after his cancer appeared his tips grew exponentially. What I learned from Roger was not only that that big tips are worth every penny, but that being a big tipper takes more than mere money.

The VIP service Roger received at his regular haunts went far beyond what money could buy. His big tips were just one manifestation of a generosity of spirit and camaraderie evident to everyone who knew him, and were the real reason for his royal treatment.

In our last dinner at the Iguana Lounge in Manhattan to see the famed Vince Giordano Orchestra perform—a monthly ritual for Roger—Vince bought a round for the table, sat with us between sets, and dedicated a song to “his good friend and fellow auteur.” Liza Minelli and Mel Brooks didn’t receive such attention when they were there, a regular at the next table remarked to me.

His other regular Manhattan haunt—and favorite restaurant of all—was Le Veau d’Or, which he frequented not just because of the food but because the place was virtually unchanged since it opened in 1937. Merely telling Catherine the owner that Roger was a friend was enough to produce a prime table, along with a to-go bag to be delivered to Roger.

Roger inevitably developed a strong rapport with the staff at all the places he frequented. He strongly believed in the importance of doing the task assigned to the very best of one’s ability and respected everyone who lived by that credo, which was one reason why he insisted on dining in the finest restaurants: He not only wanted fine food, he also wanted it presented by waiters who viewed their trade as a calling—which was precisely how Roger viewed it—and comported themselves accordingly. Those people, in turn, felt gratified to wait on someone who had an obvious respect for what they did. That was one reason why the list of people to be informed of his passing that he had me compile included so many waiters and maitre d’s.

Roger’s network of friends in the business meant that we dined where he wanted, when he wanted, and without regard to the day or time or existence of any reservation. One night, while we waited in a long line to get a table at the Monocle, the maitre d’ spied Roger and had a busboy fetch a table from upstairs and place it in the dining room for us.

Dressing for the Part

Roger insisted on wearing a suit and tie whenever he dined out. He liked to remind me on those occasions when I showed up in jeans that how we dress for an occasion indicated how important we viewed it. Sharing a meal with friends was more important to him than anything else he did.

A few months ago Roger called and told me to put on a suit and be ready to be picked up in 10 minutes to dine at the Prime Rib, one of the last places in Washington that requires gentlemen to wear a coat and tie.

We walked in without a reservation on a busy Friday night but it was of no import: After he shook hands with the valet, the coat check lady, the maitre d’ and the bartender, we were ushered to his usual table, where a couple happened to already be dining. But no matter—they were expertly relocated and we took our prime seats as the piano player interrupted “Moon River” mid-verse to play Roger’s favorite song, a ditty from Weimar days that the pianist had learned especially for him. It felt like something out of Goodfellas.

A Gift

Early in the new year Roger had a stroke, which he correctly intuited was an indication that the cancer had metastasized into his brain. I managed to get hold of him shortly after he arrived in the emergency room.

He assured me he was fine, that his stay in the hospital would be short, and that he hoped soon to resume his chemotherapy regime. He then excused himself. The doctor had arrived and he needed to speak with him. But Roger set the phone down without hanging up, and I couldn’t help overhearing.

The physician on call asked Roger about his quality of life. Roger answered that since the disease, it had been nothing less than superb, and that he doubted anyone had enjoyed themselves as much over the last few years as he had. He had dined in the finest restaurants, bought himself a few things he had always wanted, and along the way discovered how many caring friends he had. He was sorry it took a fatal disease for him to really live his life but, he told the doctor, it had been a blessing in a way.

I feel fortunate to have shared so many meals with Roger and am thankful that the way he lived his life helped to remind me and his many friends what is truly important—and inspired me to try to become a big tipper too.