Memorable anecdotes. Well-written. An extraordinary life.
Don't delay. Get thee to Frederick Forsyth's book of recollections.
After an hour, he glanced at his watch and asked, "Do you eat?"
"Yes, Mr. King, I do."
Without further ado, he rose and lumbered out of the office. I followed. He had a Citroen at the door, with his loyal driver at the wheel, a perk he insisted on or he would resign. He growled "Andre" or something at the driver, who set off and deposited us at a restaurant called Chez Andre, clearly a favorite and regular lunch hole. He was welcomed in and bowed to his regular table.
A new sommelier shimmied up and proposed a bottle of white wine to start with. He raised his specs back to his forehead, stared at the waiter as one contemplating a boll weevil, and growled: "Jeune homme, le vin est rouge" (Young man, wine is red). He was right of course. Wine is red and the other stuff is juice, with or without bubbles.