met him at a booth at the Grand Central Oyster Bar for an 11:30 lunch. Paul ordered four dozen littleneck clams and began scarfing them down. He loved eating clams, talking about clams, exploring every nook and cranny of the vast and fascinating culture of clams. I happen to hate clams. But if Paul Newman loved clams, then I loved clams. In full chameleon mode, I mimed tossing some back and then slurping up the liquor, the liquid residue in the shell—when in fact I was dumping the whole mess beneath the table. An hour later, after a good chat, we shook hands and parted. I raced to the nearest
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