By P. Mona Khanna, M.D., M.P.H., FACP

For years, Walter Cronkite generously donated an annual lunch with him in New York City to the Radio-Television News Directors Foundation. The lunch was offered at an auction that raised money for scholarships and fellowships for young radio and television journalists. In 2002, I put up the winning bid. I was interested in pursuing a career in medical journalism and I thought a broadcasting statesman like Walter Cronkite might be able to put me in touch with the right people.

I recognized the broadcasting legend immediately.  He was ensconced comfortably in a bright high-backed chair in the foyer of New York’s famed "21" restaurant, looking as regal as an Indian Maharajah.  Two waiters and the maitre d’ hovered anxiously around him. 

"Didn’t you used to be Walter Cronkite?" I asked.

He smiled broadly. "Dr. Khanna?  I see you read my book!"

We walked into the dining room and the maitre d’ pulled out a table.  I slipped behind the table. Assuming that Mr. Cronkite was going to sit across from me, I struggled to pull the table back in place, unintentionally engaging into a tug-o-war with the maitre d’ and Mr. Cronkite, who were resisting my efforts.  Finally, I got it. I gave up. Walter slid into the booth beside me.

"So, how are Betsy and Chip, Kathy and Nancy?" I asked.

He looked shocked. "How do you know the names of my kids?"

"I read your book, remember?"

He ordered an iced tea for me.

"How’s your health?" I asked.

"I can’t complain," he said. "Just this ankle. An old tennis injury, I can’t play the sport anymore."

Then he switched gears. “I read your tribute to Danny Pearl. I thought it was very sympathetically written, very well written.” 

I thanked him. “I have a confession to make.  I swam a mile at the Westside YMCA this morning to work up an appetite, but I think I lost it.” 

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I can’t believe I’m sitting next to the great Walter Cronkite!”

He laughed. We ordered lunch from the nervously hovering waiter. I selected the “21” Caesar salad with garlic croutons and shaved Parmesan and the softshell crabs with spinach and potato puree.  He chose the cold Senegalese soup with grilled chicken and granny smith apples and the house-cured smoked salmon with red onions, capers and crème fraiche.

I asked him when he was going sailing next. He said he didn’t sail anymore and that he had given  his boat to charity.

“I donated my last three boats,” he said. “I didn’t want to sell them and have some guy going around saying ‘That son of a bitch Walter Cronkite sold me a lemon!’ ” We both laughed.  It was clearly a line he originated and used often, but so what?  I was surprised how likable this famous guy was…no pretentions, no aura of self-importance.

And now, feeling at ease, my personality took over. The reporter in me was bursting with curiosity. I fired question after question at him. He answered quickly, but with a thoughtful directness. Of the nine presidents he met, Carter was the most intelligent “in terms of sheer brainpower.”  Fairness and accuracy were the most important qualities in news.  He was in Florence at the Italian equivalent of the Emmy awards on September 11, 2001.  The two most defining moments of his life were as a war correspondent in 1944 and when he was hired as a CBS broadcaster.  At the peak of his career, his salary topped out at $1-million with three months of vacation.

He considered broadcasting’s multi-million dollar salaries “ridiculous.”  Despite declining viewership, he thought it was still valid to have goals in broadcasting, but thought that evening news broadcasts were too feature-oriented. He received $100,000 per speaking engagement. Three criteria were necessary for a successful marriage: a sense of humor, a lack of competitiveness, and common interests. Then he and I struck a common chord -- both my father and his father-in-law had Lou Gehrig’s disease. We mused regretfully about the illness that robs one’s soul and physical integrity. I told him my father was now unable to speak, but that he was a big fan, and would Mr. Cronkite write him a short note? I dug out a small notepad from my purse. Each page was emblazoned with a pink and blue slogan “Breastfeeding is Healthy,” but Mr. Cronkite didn’t question it. He wrote “Dear Mr. Khanna, it was a delight having lunch with your beautiful, intelligent, charming daughter.” I folded it carefully, I couldn’t wait to show it to Papa on my next trip to Chicago.

I pointed to a ring on Mr. Cronkite’s right fourth finger. “That’s beautiful, is that your wedding ring?”  It wasn’t. It was a gift from his parents. “There’s a funny story about this ring,” he said. “It needed work so I took it back to Spiegel’s and they fixed it. Afterwards, one of my high school friends said -- ‘Hey, Walter, your parents didn’t get that ring at Spiegel’s; they got it at Sweeney’s!’ Darned if she wasn’t right. But Spiegel’s had already fixed it!”

We chuckled together. Gosh, I really like this guy, I thought.

“You’re not wearing a ring,” he said.

“No, I’ve never been married.”

“What? A good looking gal like you? What’s wrong with men nowadays?  I myself am partial to redheads.”

Lunch was served.

Finally completely relaxed, I was eager to impress him. I told him of my interest in broadcast journalism and asked if he could introduce me to some news managers. He said, affably, that he’d been out of the business for so long he didn’t know who was in charge anymore!

“So, guess who I’m interviewing with tomorrow?” I asked proudly. 

He was raising a spoonful of cold Senegalese soup to his mouth.  He stopped in mid-air.  “Who?”

Beaming, I named a media mogul.

“Oh. Who’s that?” he asked uninterestedly. He went back to his soup.

I felt deflated.  “He’s president and general manager of WNBC.” 

Unconcerned, Mr. Cronkite raised another spoonful.

I racked my brain to hit on familiar territory.  “Well, guess who I met yesterday?”  Now I had him!

“Who?” He feigned interest.

I mentioned a top dog at CBS…CBS…his network.

“Oh. Don’t know him.” Back to the soup.

Rejected again! I frantically sipped my iced tea.  How to impress this legend? AHA…I had it!

“Well…guess who used to own the apartment I’m staying in?”

“Who?” he asked, between spoonfuls.

“Frank Stanton!”  Pay dirt!

Mr. Cronkite turned in astonishment, spoon in mid-air.  “Frank Stanton’s apartment?  You don’t say!  Which one?”

“The one next to the Museum of Modern Art.”

“Well, how about that?!  Frank’s museum apartment!” 

Overjoyed, I dug into a softshell crab.  I heard Mr. Cronkite mumbling to himself…”Frank Stanton’s apartment…” I did it! I impressed Walter Cronkite! 

“You know something?” he asked.

“What?”

“Frank Stanton’s single!  His wife died a few years back. He lives in Boston.”

I did some quick math.  Frank Stanton was named CBS President in 1946 at the age of 38.  That would make him…mid-90’s. 

“But he’s old,” Mr. Cronkite admitted. “He’s even older than me.”

“Put into context, it might work,” I said. “I KNOW you know the ideal measurements of a woman, right…36-24-36…?”

A crafty look came over his face.

“…but do you know what the ideal measurements of a man are?”

“What?” he asked.

“105-95-105.” The most trusted man in America was mystified.

I continued. “105 million dollars, 95 years old, and a temperature of 105-degrees.”

He threw back his head and roared with laughter.

It was time for dessert. I couldn’t decide, so he generously offered to order both the profiteroles and the petit fours.  “Well…only if we share,” I said. He agreed. 

A man at the next table who had been watching us cut in, “Excuse me, but aren’t you Walter Cronkite?”  He and Mr. Cronkite began talking…and talking…and talking.  Finally, I broke in. “I’m sorry, but you’re cutting in on my time.”  William Bryan White, Chief Operating Officer of the Intrepid Museum Foundation, apologized, gave me his card and offered to give me a tour of the museum.

We were finished with lunch.  Mr. Cronkite paid the bill, we walked outside and he asked if I wanted to meet his staff. We walked to Black Rock, slowly. Age had turned his New York Minute into a New York Hour. I asked if I could call on him the next time I visited the city.

“Absolutely!” he said. We took the elevator up.  When the elevator door opened on the 19th floor, he brushed his behind against an office door.  I looked at him quizzically.

"The sensor card is in my back pocket," he explained. “This way I don’t have to take it out.”  Well into his 80’s, Walter Cronkite still had the moves. I laughed. 

The door unlocked and we walked in and faced his staff of three women.

“I’d like you all to meet my new doctor!” he boomed.

And that’s the way it was.

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Walter’s tab: $135.04.

My tab: $2,500.00.

I still think I got the better deal.

Not long afterward, I landed my first television medical reporting job at a start-up CBS affiliate in the Palm Springs area. When I returned to New York City one year later, Mr. Cronkite did take me lunch again. This time he brought his favorite redhead and his wife, Betsy.

I continued to visit Mr. Cronkite in his office during my trips to New York City. I last saw him at the 2007 Princess Grace Awards at Sotheby’s in Manhattan. He was using a cane and leaning on the arm of his companion, Joanna Simon. He brightened when he saw me and we exchanged pleasantries. He was cognitively as sharp as ever, and even invited me to lunch. Unfortunately, it was not meant to be. When I called again, many months later, he was bedridden.

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P. Mona Khanna, M.D., M.P.H., FACP is a practicing physician and the medical editor of www.icyou.com. She worked for Mr. Cronkite’s network, CBS, as a medical reporter.