Three years ago, sifting through boxes, I discovered a note that Walter Cronkite had sent me in 2002, thanking me for what had been a couple of very enjoyable lunches at his favorite Italian place and his club. He’d start each with a Maker’s Mark on the rocks, and me a Stoli martini with a twist, followed by pasta at the former, and Dover sole at the latter.
I had been researching a story about how to age gracefully for GQ magazine, and I figured he was the obvious person to interview. He was 86, and other than a bum
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