The Man Who Came to Dinner

It was to be a big, black-tie crush of an affair. The City of New York, a lavish host, had rented the main ballroom of the Waldorf-Astoria for the occasion. Over turtle soup and filet mignon, and through a few innocuous speeches, everyone would ignore the war in Korea for the moment, be friendly and smiling for each other and the photographers. Hence the whole thing, like past U.N. banquets, would be unreal, in a pleasant sort of way, and also somewhat dull.

But that was not the way it turned out at all. As the 1,500 diners comfortably sipped their coffee, New York's Governor Dewey arose to welcome the delegates and promptly aimed a roundhouse punch at the most sensitive of the guests. "It would be folly," said he, "to ignore the harsh fact that while the Soviet Union has ten to 15 million people living as slave labor ... no person anywhere in the world can sleep nights with any sense of security."

White-haired Andrei Vishinsky, who had been gossiping amiably with Elder Statesman Bernard Baruch, froze in his seat. Then, in a move familiar in U.N. circles, but still a shock at social gatherings, he got up and, followed obediently by the Soviets' Jacob Malik, strode with all available hauteur from the room.

Dewey watched the unwelcome guests leave. "I must say I am complimented," said he, "by the withdrawal of those who plot the destruction of the world."

There was applause from many in the ballroom, but some of those at the dignitaries' table assumed that let's-try-not-to-notice attitude taken in the presence of a scuffle in the drawing room. It was calculated rudeness--social and diplomatic at least--and just the kind of thing, in fact, that a Russian might have done.

Obviously Candidate Dewey had not hurt his political standing any by his social behavior. Not only had he expressed his feelings about Commies in the bluntest possible way, he had also shown that he was no man to break bread with a Red and like it. And except for the Reds and their friends, no one could work up much indignation over the governor's manners. Even the professionally proper could only cluck disapprovingly. "What he said was entirely true," said the Times, "but there is a time and place for everything."

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