Main picture, top: VanityFair.com
I dined with legendary comic Dan Aykroyd and his wife Donna Dixon Aykroyd last night As luck would have it, their friends, legendary Hollywood director John Landis and his wife Deborah Nadoolman Landis were in Melbourne too, so they joined us. What fun. It was legends all round at our table: Mr. Landis of Blues Brothers et. al. directorial fame, Mrs. Landis of the travelling V&A Hollywood Costume Exhibition curatorial fame, Mr. Aykroyd of Blues Brothers, Ghostbusters et. al. comedic fame, and Mrs. Aykroyd with an impressive provenance of acting, business entrepreneurship and membership of the legendary Explorers Club for her academic paper on a 65 million year old paleantological wonder. (Yes.)
Mr. Landis is a comedic phenomenon in his own right, a delightful chap who cracks jokes, tells stories and laughs incessesantly all evening. His voice is a scratchy, sonic boom that makes everybody outside his orbit yell to be heard.
Fifty-odd others, media and wine industry chaps, mostly, are seated in tens at four other tables. That’s an “intimate” dinner in modern market-speak.
Our evening is orchestrated by Sydney based PR consultant Sally Burleigh and her crack, professional SBPR team. This concept, her idea, of an intimate vodka-soaked dinner with the Aykroyds, will be replicated in other cities.
Our raison d’etre, is to become acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Aykroyd’s Crystal Head Vodka. Their version of the stuff is marvellously pure (no glycol, no sugar, nothing nasty), comes in a skull-shaped crystal-esque bottle based on an original by Mr. and Mrs. Aykroyd’s business partner, renowned US artist John Alexander, and tastes like…..not a lot: mountain air, snowy river water, a clean vodkary buzz in a funky bottle. Mrs. Aykroyd says, drink Crystal Head and you’ll not wake with a hangover; “But, you mustn’t drink wine or any other alchohol;” she warns, “Or you’ll get the glycol in those.”
So, there you have it: the ultimate hangover cure; don’t get a hangover.
We dine at South Yarra’s The Botanical, on an especially composed, vodka saturated menu. Cocktails, shots, cocktails, a glass of excellent wine slotted in like a jolt, then yet more cocktails and finally, a dessert accompanied by vodka-soaked fruits.
Delightful. Delicious. De-drunk. Or, nearly. I switch to water barely halfway through first course, so quick and warm is the vodka’s effect. I could also weep for the Botanical chef as plate after plate of excellent food is boomeranged, untouched or underdone, back to the kitchen by our cluster of fussy Americans. A perfectly lovely trio of chilled Crystal Head Vodka in martini glass, with shots of yellow citrus and green herb “cavier”, is particularly wasted I think, though, not on moi.
“Delightful. Delicious. De-drunk…Or, nearly….”
“Delightful. Delicious. De-drunk…Or, nearly….”
Mrs. Aykroyd is a magnificent looking woman; a halo of wild, blonde hair, intensely pretty face, straight-backed, well built. A beauty. She breaks into conversations with practiced politeness; confident, warm, then leaves them as abruptly. Never rudely. She is bright and loud, a strident advocate for the comparative health benefits of Crystal Head vodka and for the quirks of husband “Danny”.
Mr. Aykroyd is a revelation. Carefully introduced to each guest, he holds gazes, notes names and, hours later, can still address each of us correctly. He too, engages warmly, loudly, in several conversations, leaves them abruptly, onto the next, never rudely. Both Aykroyds, it seems, are pretty good at this celebrity/business lark after all these years. By now, they know very well that we know that they know that we know that we’re all part of a process that probably feels like a social slog until they can return to quiet and privacy of their hotel, and later, the real world of their kids and family life.
They stick it out though, cheerful, relentlessly friendly, and appear to get a special kick out of their old friends, the Landis’ being there. Almost three hours and half a dozen courses though, and that’s enough. The Aykroyds make leaving noises, don coats and Mr. Aykroyd makes a particular show of goodbye, addressing the room: “Aaaah, I ahhhh, guess we’ll see you all, aaaah later….” And suddenly, a swarm of people too shy to ask for an autograph or photo until this desperate, closing-window, are milling about him as he – and Mrs. Aykroyd – apparently knew they would. He has a Texta ink pen in his hand; she settles into a series of chats. They understand and I say; “They’re really quite marvellous when you think about it”, to which a jolly cynic nearby counters: “It’s just their job.” (Killjoy.)
Earlier, I asked Mr. Aykroyd to autograph the exotic Botanical menu for my son. I said; “He wants to be a comedian, thinks you’re the funniest guy on the planet.” Which is true. Mr. Aykroyd takes the menu from me and, for several quiet minutes, composes and writes an autograph, very personal, with two suggestions of books Xavier should read about standup comedy, written by his friend Steve Martin.
I am touched by this attention, and thrilled doesn’t cover what Xavier feels when I give it to him. I get the first hug from my cool upcoming comedian I’ve had in a while. Ta, Mr. Aykroyd. You are a legend.
Janice Breen Burns, jbb@voxfrock.com.au
