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Benjamin De Casseres, Motion Picture, New York, October 1924.

Washington Heights at the 157th Street,

Subway Station entrance, New York City, 1920s

& Benjamin De Casseres, distinguished

reviewer and film critic.

(...) My Screen Sweethearts... And Why,

New Movie, Aug. 1934

„How Charlie came to Washington Heights“

Editorial content. „Adventures Off-Scene

      With Benjamin De Casseres

      Charlie and the Cold Lamb

      Not so long ago – it was late one Sunday afternoon – Mrs.

Ben and I were sitting quietly in our library reading. Like

most writers, we hadn‘t a thing on our minds. Not at telephone

stirred. The cold lamb was in the ice-box. The dinner hour

approached on the wings of the twilight.

      The bell rang – twice, three times – insistently. Mrs.

Ben and I looked at one another in disarrayed dismay. Visitors!

– and only cold lamb in the ice-box! I went to the door,

opened it stealthily, and was about to say, ,No one lives here

by that name,‘ when two figures dodged past me

(the hall was pitch dark) and turned on the electric light.

      They were Charlie Chaplin and his old partner

in a thousand and one mystifications, Tom Geraghty.

      ,Have you got a bite, Boss, for two little boys

from the West who are tired of Ritz cooking and long for

a cold cut with real family atmosphere?‘

      It must have been telepathic – if cold lamb can radio.

Mrs. Ben spread the feed for the two lone, lost

travelers from Hollywood – and our lamb was soon non est.

After a glorious evening in which Charlie and Tom

kept us in an uproar with imitations, stories and Houdini-like

tricks – interspersed with observations on Spinoza

and Shelley from Charlie, and philosophic quips by Tom –

we sent the two lone kids back to the dismal

reaches of the Ritz.

      Old Man Muller is a butcher just around the corner from

our house. He is glum, morose and saturnine. Nothing

ever disturbed the even tenor of his grouch. Mrs. Ben went

marketing the morning after the visit of Charlie and

Tom, and dropped in to see Old Man Muller, who had sold

us the lamb. He was swinging a mighty cleaver

on a huge piece of roast beef and cussing war, taxes and

England under his breath.

      ,Who did you think ate your lamb last night?‘ Mrs.

Ben asked Muller casually.

      ,Dun know – dun know,‘ grumbled old Muller

mournfully, while his five children nibbled at the bologna

in the window.

      ,Charlie Chaplin ate your lamb,‘ said my wife

in ringing tones.

      ,Vass?‘ screamed Muller, dropping his cleaver

while his face lit up for the first time since Hindenburg took Warsaw. ,Vass? Vass? Charlie Chaplin et the lamb!

Kinder! Kinder! listen – Charlie Chaplin et papa‘s lamb!‘

His face looked like the conquest of Paris!

      And for weeks afterward Old Man Muller could be seen

with the kids of the neighborhood gathered about

him narrating the saga of how Charlie came to Washington

Heights to eat his lamb.

      And, incidentally, my wife received choicer cuts than

she had ever had before.“

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