Once I was walking from The Mercer in New York - because otherwise I don't walk anywhere - and this woman paparazzo who was following me fell over a fire hydrant and her whole tooth went through her lip. I leant over her, saying, 'Are you all right?' and she was still taking pictures.
Johnny Mercer was my father's best friend and became mine as well.
And Harold Arlen, whom I would call Uncle Harry, and Harry Warren: those were ones who I really became close to.
Sometimes I miss hamburgers, I should say that. I miss the tuna pizzas at Mercer Kitchen.