My Lunch with Larry David

[Satire/Parody]

Imagine my surprise when I got a phone call from the assistant to Larry David’s publicist, who invited me to lunch with Larry as part of a meet-and-greet to promote some dumb show he’s starring in that no one watches and no one thinks is funny.

I would be there with 10 or 12 others for a junket, code for publicity and puffery to elevate the star and the show.

“You get one question,” the publicist told us, “so make it topical and on point.”

That morning, Larry David’s op-ed, “My Dinner with Adolf” dropped in the New York Times. It didn’t seem like the Larry David I knew. It wasn’t funny, for one thing. What happened to him? The guy who used to joke about the MAGA hat. How did we get all the way to Hitler?

Maybe I never knew the real Larry David. Since I had to have lunch with him, I thought I’d better do some research, stat.

Where does he live? Stories about him appear from the most affluent enclaves — the pre-fire Pacific Palisades, where he put his $8.9 million home with “180-degree mountain view from every room” on sale.

Meanwhile, up in Montecito, where his neighbors are Katy Perry, Meghan and Harry, and Oprah, he sold the French Normandy-style cottage he bought for $5.7 million for a $6.7 million home, turning a tidy profit. He purchased another home in Montecito for $7.6 million, $600,000 over the asking price.

“The primary suite offers a fireplace, dressing room, and an ensuite bathroom with a soaking tub.”

Famously, Larry threw a fit in Martha’s Vineyard when bumping into Alan Dershowitz at the Chilmark General Store: “Can’t we at least talk?” Dersh said, “No, you’re disgusting,” Larry David said.

Dershowitz later recounted, “Here’s a guy who used to come to our house to work out in the gym. He would come to our house for dinner two or three times a summer.”

Perhaps he spends his vacation time with the Obamas, who also live there. The only home-related story that comes up is from 2007, so long ago that Larry David is described as an actor.

I knew I could not ask him about his homes or his wealth. It’s a bit of a sensitive topic, as Chris Wallace found out:

The meeting place was Nate n’ Al’s in Beverly Hills, you know, where a breakfast burrito costs $18, corned beef and eggs cost $24.95, and the cheapest sandwich is $21?

As I enter, I notice a group of sycophant bloggers hovering near Larry David’s table. The publicist waves me over and puts me in line. David barely looks up each time a sycophant sits down to ask their one question. He is focused instead on what the waiters set down in front of him.

“The eggs are too runny. I’m not paying for that.”
”The coffee’s gone cold.”
”The tomato isn’t ripe enough.”

With each send-back, the fellow diners would laugh, Oh, that’s just Larry being Larry. Even still, the publicist stood by, anxious, ever-watchful for unsuspecting cell phones. That’s not the kind of thing you want ending up on TikTok.

Finally, it’s my turn. I slide into the booth and watch Larry David now targeting his barely toasted bread with an annoyed look. His publicist automatically summons the waiter over to spirit it away. Larry does not look up.

Just as the waiter approaches, I take my one shot.

“I just have one question for you, Mr. David.”

“Oh, call me Larry.” He still doesn’t look up to see who is seated across from him, not that it would matter.

“Okay, Larry. I was just wondering, can you give me one example of Trump being like Hitler?”

The restaurant falls completely silent. Not a fork is lifted. Not a breath is taken, not a laugh erupts. The publicist stiffens. All eyes are on Larry David, who slowly lifts his head to see who would dare ask him this.

“What did you say?”

“I mean, you wrote that op-ed in the New York Times comparing Trump to Hitler. But Trump is so pro-Israel and punished Columbia for antisemitism and all—”

The publicist reaches for my arm, “Okay, that’s enough. Let’s—-”

“No,” Larry says. “Let her stay. I’ll answer.”

“Great,” I say. He leans in and fixes me with a hard stare.

“What is so diseased in your brain that you would even ask me that question! What is WRONG with you? You’re a racist, is that it? You’re a transphobe!? You’re disgusting! Trump is worse than Hitler! Is this some stunt?”

Spittle drips from the corners of his mouth as his face reddens—the fringes of his gray hair quiver to the beat of his rage.

I say, calmly, “No, just something that didn’t make sense to me. Has Trump done anything that could compare in any way to Hitler in word or deed?”

“YOU ARE INSANE! You are a member of a cult! Snap out of it! I shouldn’t have to give you any example! If you’re too stupid to know that Trump is worse than Hitler, and Bill Maher is an idiot who was played by a madman, I don’t know what to tell you! There is something wrong with your brain! You’re not educated! You don’t watch the news! It’s not my job to teach you WW2 history!”

A droplet of spit lands on my cheek. I gently pat it with my napkin.

“Look, I’m not the crazy one here. I’m not the problem. You are the problem, just like Bill Maher! You are the parasites! You are the vermin! You are ruining this country, which would be better off without any of you! You should be sent off to concentration camps. You should be deported! We need re-education camps to fix your brains! We need a national divorce! America was never great because of people like YOU!”

Larry pauses. Something makes him suddenly aware that everyone is staring at him, and the room is dead silent.

Someone drops a spoon. It clatters the floor, clattering, clattering, clattering, and finally settling to a stop.

Larry relaxes his rage grimace. He sits back. He wipes his brow, and then laughs—so loud it shakes the table. Then, the publicist laughs, all the sycophants laugh, and everyone in the restaurant laughs. With that, things almost return to normal.

But then, with no one watching him anymore, his smile wilts and he says to the publicist, “Get me the hell out of here, now.”

The publicist shoots me an annoyed look and squires a shaken, disheveled Larry David out of the restaurant, hoping no one got that on their cell phone. The sycophants stare at me with their mouths agape.

I feel a tap on my shoulder, and it’s the waiter holding the check, “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“That’s okay, we’re done,” I say. “Larry David and his publicist asked me to tell you he’s picking up the check. He also picked up the check for everyone in the restaurant for the whole day. You can bill his office, or perhaps he has a credit card on file?”

“Y-y-es he does.”

“And make sure to leave yourself and all of the servers a really great tip.”

The waiter nods skeptically and backs away. Maybe this is his lucky day. But maybe it’s the worst day of his life. He isn’t sure yet.

I pushed myself back from the table and headed for the door. All in all, it wasn’t so bad. I was so glad to have met Larry David. He was the monster I thought he was. Whatever else he used to be, he isn’t that anymore. He is part of the old world, the one with no idea what was happening outside of it.

With that, I disappeared from Nate n’ Al’s and into the waiting traffic of Beverly Hills.