Salvatore Ferragamo and Mixology
Salvatore Ferragamo was not just a genius craftsman and an enduring icon of style, his versatility extended into the social sphere, where his natural flair for creating unforgettable moments shone brightly. In his autobiography, he offers a vivid glimpse into his lively social life, recalling how, at glittering Hollywood parties in the 1920s, he captivated and entertained guests with his artistry.
His words transport us to an atmosphere of sophisticated conviviality:
“Then, too, I went to parties—occasions I at once enjoyed and detested.I liked the company and the fun, and it was good for business, too. The people who wore my shoes would praise and show my creations. The people who could not show my shoes tucked their feet under the table in embarrassment and came into the salon next day to be fitted. But I hated the drinking and the late hours. I always had work to do the next morning. I learned my lesson at my first party. It was thrown by Barbara La Marr one Saturday night a few months after I had gone to Hollywood and, as far as my hazy recollection goes, was attended by virtually every star in Hollywood—those who could tolerate one another— from Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks downward. It was tremendously exciting. Every one was pleasant and charming and kept thrusting drinks at me. It seemed ungracious not to accept and so, although I have never been more than a light wine drinker, I swigged away with the best. After the fourth drink—I think it was, though I wasn’t keeping an accurate score—I passed out. I woke up at ten o’clock the next morning, still in the house. Hurriedly I rose, taking my hangover with me, and picked my way among the others lying on chairs and floor; some still sleeping the sleep of the just-kept-sober; others unconscious, as I had been. I went home, had a bath and felt so sleepy that I simply had to go to bed again. The next thing I knew it was Monday morning. After that I accepted party invitations warily, until Monty Banks accidentally showed me the way to combine pleasure and sobriety. We were discussing Italian drinks at a party one night when he mentioned grappa. Since I had left Italy as a young boy, I knew the liquor only by name and had no idea what it was made of, but Monty said: “Can you mix one?” “Yes, of course,” I said, trying to give myself airs. “It’s so simple.” “Then go ahead,” he said. I went behind the improvised bar and juggled with a few bottles. Monty tasted the result and thought it good. He yelled to others to come and taste, and when it was all gone I had to make some more. Unfortunately, I had forgotten the proportions, but I put a bold face on it and tried again. Nobody worried about the difference in taste, if there was any difference. That little incident gave me the clue to my future role at parties: I would act as a bar tender. From that date onward I became known as a mixer of splendid drinks, and eventually I was asked to parties more as a barman than as a guest. It suited me, and I did what I could with the limited ingredients. Drink was difficult to get, expensive when you could get it, and usually dreadful. I was forced to improvise, and I remember that I invented two drinks, “Roscata” and a green concoction, which became popular. “Roscata” was an awful mixture: gin (they called it gin though it was practically pure alcohol), angostura bitters, a dash of brandy, and lots of ice. The “Green” was simply mint and rum. “Roscata” was liked because it left a pleasant aroma in the mouth, and the “Green” because it was cool. While the guests were drinking my concoctions, I stood nonchalantly behind the bar with a glass of ginger ale, chosen because it looked like whisky. Once, I remember, Barbara La Marr came up in a great hurry for a drink and, not waiting while I mixed it, took a mouthful of my ginger ale. The unfamiliar taste so startled her that she sprayed it back, demanding to know why I was drinking such horrible stuff at party. The habits of film stars are apparently a source of inexhaustible fascination for most people, and I have been asked a thousand times how I managed to get on with them, the implication being that they are all temperamental, difficult, and often unbearable. I have not found them so, except when there was an excellent excuse: an excuse that would have been good enough to bring an explosion from the least temperamental person. I have been appalled and horrified at the treatment some stars have received from the people who minister to them. I have heard stars insulted by their dressmakers and hairdressers when they have wanted one thing and the dressmakers or hairdressers have wanted them to have another—usually for their own business reasons: to show off a new hair style or reveal a new creation. Stars who were foolish or insufficiently fashion-conscious to the point of allowing themselves to be talked into what they did not want might even have found themselves humiliated on the set when the director, looking at the unsuitable “creation,” stormed: “Where did you get that dress? What the hell have you done to your hair? Get out of here! Get off the set!” It has always seemed wrong to me for those whose job it is to serve people to impress their new ideas upon their customers solely from a desire to establish their own reputation. The world’s stars do not come to my salon to buy my reputation; they come to buy shoes that fit and flatter them. I have always tried to give them what they wanted and, on the occasions when I knew that what they wanted was wrong, have used every wile to persuade them out of it”.
Excerpt from: Salvatore Ferragamo. Shoemaker of Dreams, Electa, 2020, pp. 97-99
