Bretton Woods, as I Remember It
A Thanksgiving tribute to breaking bread with family
In honor of Thanksgiving, I wanted to share this special treat with everyone. Jay’s Portfolio will be back in your inboxes next week.
Do Not Disturb: Bankers at Play
by: Barabara Gamarekian
The New York Times
August 19, 1979
It is possible that I attended one Thanksgiving at Jay and Virginia Reid’s home on Blacklock Road in Bethesda, Maryland, but if I did, I do not remember it.
Christmas memories - yes, Thanksgiving memories - no.
By the late 1980s, when I was pre-school aged, Jay and Virginia spent most of the cold months at their second home on Hilton Head Island, in South Carolina.
Usually, my parents, siblings, and I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve with my mom’s family, celebrated Christmas quietly at home, then a day or two later drove down to Hilton Head and spent a week with Jay and Virginia.
I can recall eating on a couple of occasions in the fancy dining room of their home on Rookery Way, but again, it is the palm trees and beaches that dominate in memory.
So, on this Thanksgiving, as I tried to think back about meals I shared with Jay and Virginia, I drew a blank.
And then I remembered Bretton Woods.
When adults in the know hear those words, they think of an economic conference during World War II.
When I hear them, I think of Sunday brunches with the Reids.
For a time, in the late 1980s, Jay and Virginia, and their five kids and their families would all meet around 11:30 on select Sundays at the Bretton Woods Country Club.
To four-year-old me, the club did not feel particularly exclusive. Presumably, our big family was allowed in because of Jay’s alumnus status with the International Monetary Fund.
I can’t say that I probed the entry rules back in the day. I didn’t know there were any.
As time passed, and I learned there was another famous Bretton Woods, I figured the conference was named after the club.
Imagine that, the masters of the universe hashed out the post-war monetary order at the same place where I alternated between pancakes and grilled cheese, depending on the mood of my day.
If only.
Many years passed before I learned about the conference in New Hampshire, and how lucky I was to have had the opportunity to eat in the Maryland club’s dining room.
It wasn’t so much about the club as it was a place that simulated home.
The IMF was Jay’s professional home for 32 years, and my father and his siblings all spent time at the club with Jay as teenagers.
Jay and Virginia had five children, and when you count the spouses and grandchildren, the total, even in the late 1980s, made hosting at anyone’s house a major event.
If not for Bretton Woods, I would have hardly seen the Reids, even though everyone lived within an hour’s drive of Jay and Virginia’s house.
So, as I reflect back on meals shared in years past, I find myself giving thanks for the many brunches we enjoyed on that alleged “island of graciousness and privilege”, even if we were not the most elite of groups.
I am also grateful that New York Times writer Barabara Gamarekian had the good sense to interview Ruben Azocar and quote him at length for her story on the club.
Azocar was Jay’s deputy in the press office for nearly twenty years. He was also Jay’s closest friend at the Fund.
A native of Santiago, Chile, Azocar was, like Jay, a former journalist. He was also the IMF’s press official of choice for dealing with any thorny topic related to South America, of which there were many during his tenure.
His insights bring to life this article about the Bretton Woods that I remember.
