I lived with Zsa Zsa Gabor for years — six weeks at a time. Back when Hungary begat three sisters — Zsa Zsa, Eva, Magda, their mother being Madison Avenue jewelry shopkeeper mama Jolie — Zsa was Earth’s most gorgeous creature. Her hair was a cloud. My husband, comedian Joey Adams, co-starred in Vegas clubs with Zsa Zsa in the big-time, heavy-money era of heavy rollers. Not like today when big rollers stick only in our hair. Then, salaries were big. VIPs, big. Bad boys, big.
Celebrities like Frank Sinatra and Don Rickles, Martin & Lewis, Zsa Zsa and Joey — were huge.
One Las Vegas season Zsa Zsa also stayed busy offstage. She was Doing It with the maitre d’. He made money, was savvy about tips, and had a big palm. What else he had big, who knows . . . whatever . . . it grabbed Zsa.
All of a sudden she’d start blowing Joey’s rehearsed jokes.
Like, Joey: “What if I told you that you had a beautiful body?” Zsa: “Then I would hold it against you.” This was the ’60s. She’s gorgeous. Big laugh. He’d prepped her. Taught her timing. Showed how to deliver the line. It never failed. Until it did.
Seems nightly this maitre d’ was giving her a rose. She’d come out holding it. Instead of punching her line, she’d lose momentum by smelling that stupid rose. Gone was the routine. No laugh. No nothing.
One night she showed up roseless. Said Zsa: “Ve broke opp. He vants now to go out viz me. Be seen togedder. I don’t mind going to bed viz heem — he’s very good — but to be seen viz him in public? A headvaiter?!”
Zsa Zsa was one tough cookie!
I spent years with Zsa Zsa. I used her Hungarian hairdresser. Not in this life nor any other will I meet anyone as smart and tough as the Gabors. When sister Eva, on TV’s “Green Acres” series, married another husband, Eva’s necklace was a cross the size of St. Peter’s. In ’75, I was doing mama Jolie’s as-told-to-me autobio. They were Jewish. How could she wear this cross?
Jolie: “Eva’s new husband doesn’t like Jewish.”
Zsa Zsa: “So in de book you make us Catholics.”
One afternoon she said: “I need lipstick.” She offered no money. I went to buy some. Zsa Zsa (born Sari), her only words? “Vun? Only vun? You only bought me vun?”
Understand, those were befurred, becoiffed, bediamonded, be photographed days with a chauffeured Rolls taking Zsa to Saks, which shut down for her to shop.
She had a kid
I stayed close to her only child, the late Francesca Hilton. A biker type daughter. Later, when Zsa married Frédéric von Anhalt, became bedridden, and her Bel Air mansion became unreachable, Francesca not only sued for visitation but to learn her mother’s medical conditions. I printed all that in 2012.
Her spokesman Ed Lozzi then reported to me. “We won. Now Francesca’s allowed one-hour-a-week visits — alone — without him in the room but with a caregiver, lawyer or officer present and the door shut.” I reported Francesca telling me: “The new rule is my lawyers get bank statements and canceled checks to monitor Mother’s money. It’s all her money. There must be full accounting . . . Now a bond’s required lest there be misappropriation or funding his press conferences and parties at Mother’s house.”
Does her mom recognize her? “Yes. She squeezes my hand. She mouths a few words. I’m now allowed on holidays such as Christmas. She once called me ‘the brat.’ It’s how I announce myself. I say, ‘The brat’s here.’ ”
When I houseguested, my room had orchids, Champagne, caviar. No phone. So savvy. So smart. When a manicurist wanted $40 I only had $30 plus a $100 bill. “Don’t give the $100,” they warned. “She’ll make change then want a tip. Say you only have $30. She’ll take it.” I did as I was told. She took the $30.
I spent years and years living with them. I never knew anyone that sharp. I loved Zsa Zsa Gabor.