I don’t watch too many television shows, but I’m hooked on Mad Men. I grew up in the suburbs of New York City, where my businessman father lived the Mad Men life alongside the other post war executives.
A episode this season featured scenes in a restaurant called The Forum of the Twelve Caesars, The Forum for short. The reference beckoned memory; our family would travel to the city on a Saturday night, and my Mad Man father would take us to fancy Mad Men restaurants. I had dinner at The Forum when I was twelve.
We were warmly welcomed to the restaurant by Maitre d’ Lee Hardy (who later became the Maitre d’ at Windows on the World atop the World Trade Center), my father greeted like the old friend he was. Lee wore a tuxedo, but most who worked at The Forum wore a toga or strange outfit.
Seated at a round table, the five of us were attended by no less than eight, hovering over us like nursemaids. Our attendants were dressed in coats, togas and tunics of various colors indicating their status. The area “captains” wore tuxedos, placing them at the top of the hierarchy. The “waiters” wore purple velvet tunics, and the “busboys,” clearly the “slaves,” wore white togas. Executing tasks appropriate to their station, a busboy was assigned to each of the five of us. Water was poured as soon as it was sipped. Silverware was replaced with every course. The intended effect clearly was to make us feel like royalty; I never heard anyone call out “slave!” but it probably happened. In accordance with Roman patriarchy, the only woman I remember working at The Forum was sequestered in the coat check room.
The restaurant was adorned with massive oil-painted portraits of twelve Caesars, walls covered with opulent flocked wallpaper or mosaics depicting Roman life. At each table setting sat a brass and copper charger plate with the sculpted head of a smiling Caesar in the middle. These were removed when the first course was served. My mother found The Forum foolish and pretentious, but to a twelve-year-old boy like me, it seemed cool.
It was at The Forum that I ate my first frog’s legs, which appeared to me to be terribly exotic, an irresistible offering. They were sautéed in butter and garlic and indeed did taste quite like chicken. The menu at The Forum was huge, and written in ostentatious style intended to impress. I’ve found their old menu online listing items like “Truffle Stuffed Quail, CLEOPATRA with Wrapped MACEDONIAN VINE LEAVES, Baked in Hot Ashes – 9.00.” Almost every dish was finished at tableside, many flambéed before serving. At times the roaring flames seemed to nearly reach the high ceiling.
Along with a charger plate, I discovered a full box of match books from The Forum while packing up my late father’s belongings. On the inside cover is printed this slogan: “Every man who earned his toga deserves to dine at The Forum.” Setting aside the terrible grammar, it’s perfectly clear for whom The Forum of the Twelve Caesars was intended. It was a mad restaurant for Mad Men sitting at the pinnacle of American patriarchy. Though I am embarrassed to imagine it today, at twelve it made me feel like a god.
