Hardly anyone used the front door at Marlon Brando's house. That was mainly because the beautiful Japanese front and back door were quite near each other. Anyone used to being there went through the back entrance. You could usually catch Marlon's right-hand, Alice M., to catch up on the news.
One afternoon I arrived, and much to my surprise, the large refrigerator in the kitchen was chained up. Serious chains. I ducked into Alice's office. She lifted her head with an ironic smile. "He's on a diet." Alice was Marlon's Major Domo, and if that fridge was chained, it was because it needed to be.
Minutes later, Alice packed up for the day and left. I heard her car pull out. I was working on a series of stories Marlon and Christian had hired me to write and was organizing my papers when I heard the front doorbell ring. I ran out of the kitchen to answer it when I saw Marlon appear in a beautiful Japanese robe.
"I'll get it," I think he said, but I had already flung the door open. Two guys were standing there with hands full of neatly stapled brown bags.
"Trader Vic's" one of them said with a crooked smile. (A favorite Polynesian restaurant at the Beverly Hilton Hotel.)
Marlon had joined me and was eager to pay for the food and have them leave. The aromas were wafting through the bags. And the look on Marlon's face—priceless.
He quickly fled with the bounty padding his way back to his wing of the house. He didn't dare even offer me a spare rib.