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WHETHER that happens or not, Mike proceeds on his imperturbable course. As impeccably groomed as ever, he moves about his restaurant with all the ducal dignity his 5 ft. 5 in. frame will allow. His accent, a resonant blend of broad a's, clipped consonants and superbly rounded r's, is the same accent he used for credit in Manhattan speakeasies 20 years ago. He cannot be libeled by caricature. The close-cropped, greying hair, the imperiously immobile face, the thin mustache and the prominent nose that terminates in a kind of bulb are even more of a Romanoff trademark than his coat of arms. His most recent crest (supplanting an elaborate compound that included a sheaf of wheat, a gargoyle and a Martini glass) is a chaste pair of back-to-back R's topped by a regal crown.
The main change in Mike himself is that he may now be classed as a businessman. Aside from occasional weekends with Gloria at the Zanucks' in Palm Springs, he leads a quiet life. His credit is beyond question. He works hard. "I'm tired," he remarked not long ago. "I've been on my imperial feet all day." And, in his imperial fashion, he has learned a great deal about running a restaurant. Recently, when he was told that a waiter captain had been rude on the telephone to an important habitue, Mike announced quietly, "If I ever find a really excellent captain, I'm going to breed the bahstid."