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VI FOREWORD
he will also teach you how to say "hello" in Serbian, Rumanian, and Creek.
And he is certainly my favorite raconteur. Turn him loose in a roomful of Hollywood's loudest and most determined extroverts and in five minutes Adolphe will monopolize the spotlight and get more belly laughs than Donald Duck at a Saturday matinee.
Then, of course, he is my favorite fashion critic. He can tear a lapel apart with the most scathing and contemptuous adjectives I have ever heard. And he can pass a critical eye over your pants in a manner that makes you feel that you have come to dinner wearing baggy overalls.
Lastly, he is far and away my favorite actor-golfer. If he plays a good game, he radiates enthusiasm like the Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce and makes you forget that he is taking your money. If he plays a bad game, his moans echo from the hills of Bel-Air Country Club like the cries of a man in mortal agony. Either way it is an enchanting experience.
When you inquire from most golfers how they played, you must be prepared for dull recapitulations of their misfortunes or triumphs and you soon wish you had never mentioned the subject. With Adolphe it is different. If he has won, his resume of the victory is always a dramatic achievement. If he has lost, his anguish and accusations of "robbery" are designed only to amuse you.
One day I was starting down the first fairway at Bel-Air Country Club and my path crossed Menjou's as he was coming up the eighteenth. He was playing with a foursome consisting of Bob Montgomery, Frank Morgan, and George Murphy. Adolphe looked exceedingly grim and disconsolate.
"How are you doing?" I inquired.
"I'm being murdered!" he shouted indignantly. "A golf course is just a poolroom out of doors. I've been caught by a pack of rascals— a gang of golf-links sharpies. But it'll be a good lesson to me." He nodded sagely and continued, "I've observed these slickers very closely and I intend to remember their faces for the rest of my life. Never again will they trap me into a golf game."