Taki's Mag

GSTAAD—“Mick Flick Invites you to the Roaring Twenties,” read the black-and-white invitation card. A flapper and a Rudolph Valentino type in white tie and tails flirted in the old-fashioned manner—she dreamlike, fluttering her eyes upward, he looking swarthy and passionate while standing over her. In the background, a roomful of swells tripped the light fantastic.

It is rare for a party to live up to expectations, especially one which people travel long distances to attend. I’ve given a few in my life and none of them has ever truly clicked. Mainly it has to do with preparation. I haven’t got the patience, but Mick is a German Mercedes-Benz heir who’s very thorough.

It was a sublime pleasure walking into the great room of the Palace Hotel, which was decorated into a kind of twenties speakeasy, with nothing to remind me of today’s brutal culture. No oiks, no cheap celebrities, no publicity seekers, no freaks. Everyone was dressed to the nines: the women in flapper dresses, the men in white ties, dinner jackets, and white-striped suits à la Chicago gangsters.

Mick’s ex-wife (and mother of his three children) Maya Schönburg had the brilliant idea to have only tables for two or three or four people, like nightclubs tend to do, and the trick worked. Two great bands played their hearts out, can-can girls danced and ooh-aahd, and 290 of us quick-stepped Gatsby to shame.

One’s guests have always been the main ingredient for a successful party. In this case, half of them were in their twenties, the age of Mick’s children. Alexander Flick is a talented documentary maker while his younger brother Moritz works for the best and only responsible newspaper in Israel—Haaretz. No hedgies they. I sat with old friend Peter Livanos, Donatella Flick, and Kirsty Bertarelli, the young and beautiful English wife of Switzerland’s richest man and past America’s Cup winner. The partying had begun on a tiny alpine hut the day before during lunch. I had a full chalet and something like fourteen people staying, all of them young except for my close buddies Leopold and Debbie Bismarck. With them and the mother of my children we went skiing early Friday but spent most of the afternoon in the sun, downing pure Swiss wine.

By the time we got down I was thoroughly crocked and stayed that way during dinner with more German friends, Heinrich and Milana Fürstenberg. Then it was up to the palace, which was straight out of Grand Hotel, listening to refined German accents with lots of blonde young women running around pursued by the ridiculous likes of me.

After a few hours of troubled sleep, the whole house was up and raring to hit the slopes—a big mistake. After a three-hour liquid lunch at the Eagle Club, I went out and put on some other person’s skis. I went down like a fool, unable to turn as my boots were too small for the bindings. The man whose skis I took was apparently furious because he not only had his initials marked clearly on the skis, they were also the most expensive ever made. I told the sweet club secretary that the irate man should be grateful I put on his skis, since I was once a member of the alpine superpower known as the Greek national ski team. I guess that shut him up.

Then it was time for the big night and all my guests assembled in the large drawing room upstairs. Girls with names such as Sophie Russell, Hum Fleming, and Millie Allsopp giggled in their flapper outfits because I had dressed myself as a waiter instead of a swell. Debbie Bismarck took charge and soon I joined the rest looking like a true Greek gentleman with German blood, whatever that is. Downing terrific wine, I danced away the night, mostly with Kirsty under her hubby’s watchful eye. As always, the fun had to end just as the sun began to hint of its rise.

Finally it was the next day brunch on top of yet another mountain that ended the festivities. “Who is going to pay for dinner?” I yelled at Mick. “You’ve spoiled us!” Oh yes, I almost forgot—the sun never shone more bright, the snow was fast and perfect, the pistes uncrowded, the partiers civilized, well mannered, and good humored. It was the way things should be but never are because of today’s culture of cheap publicity and even cheaper celebrities. Just as we sat down to the main dinner, Mick Flick said a few words. He was in a good mood and it showed, and by good mood I don’t mean a Taki good mood, since Mick does not drink.

He told us the reason for the party was the economic gloom that has descended upon many of us here in Europe and its similarities with the Great Depression of the 1920s. “So I decided to give a party and have my friends enjoy themselves.” I can’t think of a better reason to throw a bash than to tempt fate by tripping the light fantastic—arthritis or no arthritis. Dankeschön, Mick. You look like a noble German Panzer commander—the greatest compliment I can pay—and your party made for a very happy 290 souls.