James Beard's Bow Tie

Or: How to Lose (Semi-)Graciously

Photo courtesy of Ron Marvin, who also had to tie my bow tie for me.

I knew I was going to lose the James Beard award the minute I set foot in Town Hall, which was a shame because I was wearing a piece of Mr. Beard’s clothing.

I knew I’d lose not because I thought I deserved to, but because it was 2013— the year everybody felt sorry for newspapers.

A week or so prior to the awards banquet, I was at my friend John’s apartment, sipping a martini and chatting as he prepared dinner. When the conversation turned to my upcoming Big Night, he put down his chef’s knife, pause for a second as if to acknowledge the light bulb of inspiration glowing above his head, then ran into his bedroom and returned a moment later with a bow tie in each hand— one blue, the other orange with thick pink stripes.

“I’ve had these for years,” he said, “I thought maybe you’d want to wear one of James’s ties to the banquet?” And then he mumbled something quietly—almost to himself— as he noticed a flaw in one of them. “The orange one still has a little gravy stain on it.”

“I want that one!” I replied with what I hoped sounded like enthusiasm and not greed. As soon as he mentioned the stain, I knew it was the tie for me.

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