John Hemmer Archive

A Dancer’s Life: Meet Teak Lewis

Teak Lewis portrait, New York, NY, c. late 1930s, early 1940s. Image subject to copyright laws. Courtesy Teak Lewis. Please do not appropriate.

I was born in Barcelona, Spain, just as the Spanish Civil War was breaking out. I was two years old then. I have a brother—well, I had a brother; he passed away recently. Mama wanted to return to the United States, but she couldn’t manage a three-year-old and a two-year-old at the same time. The embassy advised her to bring me first since I was a Spanish citizen. That’s how I ended up crossing the Atlantic with her in 1936, while my brother had to stay behind. It wasn’t until 1945 that he finally made it to the States.

When we arrived, Mama found work out on Long Island as a maid. I only know this from stories and old photographs—too young to remember much. Later, Mama got a job in the city, working as a receptionist in a dentist’s office. While she worked, I stayed with an Italian family, the Pumas. There was Josephine, Giuseppe, and their daughter Josephine. I don’t remember much, but I do have one vivid memory—my birthday, sitting under a piano, hugging their Great Dane for dear life. I’m unsure why that memory stuck.

I grew up in New York City, mostly in Manhattan. We moved constantly to new apartments almost every year: Delancey Street, the Lower East Side, 87th Street, 93rd, you name it.

My mother and stepfather were fabulous ballroom dancers, completely self-taught. They would come home from Latin clubs on weekends with trophies in hand. Still, I had no idea yet that dance would be my future.

The real spark came when I became an usher at the Roxy Theater. Watching the stage shows and films night after night, I started to memorize the dance sequences. There was something about the eccentric choreography of Jack Cole that stuck with me— I found out about a teacher named La Meri, who specialized in what was called “ethnic dance”, and although her classes were too advanced for me at the time, a seed had been planted.

Watch Teak Lewis tell his story in this video oral history interview. Recorded in 2024 at the Actors Fund Home, Englewood, NJ. Courtesy John Hemmer Archive. Please do not appropriate. Copyright 2024.

Portrait, Teak Lewis’ mother, Rosa Julia, Barcelona, Spain, c. 1930s. Image subject to copyright laws. Courtesy Teak Lewis. Please do not appropriate.

I was in my mid-teens then. Around the same time, I discovered Katherine Dunham’s School of Dance on 43rd Street, just off Seventh Avenue. I went down and asked about taking classes but explained that I had no money. We made a deal: I would run the elevator after school to ferry people up to the studio. Once the class began, I could jump in and take it. That’s how my formal dance training started. My mother refused to pay for lessons—she was already paying for my cousin’s—but I didn’t hold it against her. I had started so many things and quit before. Maybe she thought this would be just another phase. But this time was different.

Dance really took hold of me when I was attending George Washington High School. I belonged to the Latin American Club, and when it came time for our talent show, everyone volunteered to sing or read poetry. When it was my turn, I said, “I’ll dance.” I gathered six girls, pulled from memories of the Roxy’s performances, and choreographed a number full of hip movements and lifts. We staged it perfectly—the girls came out first to warm up the audience before I joined in. It worked like magic.

Mrs. Don, the head of the music department, pulled me aside and asked if I would perform with the seniors the next semester. The plan was to do Rhapsody in Blue, which meant I needed ballet training. I enrolled at Ballet Arts at Carnegie Hall and immersed myself in classes. When it turned out we couldn’t get the rights for Rhapsody in Blue, I pivoted—I performed a solo to the Saber Dance instead, creating my own costume with a sun glued to my chest and metallic lamé pants.

On the day of the performance, everything went hilariously wrong. The sun decoration poked me in the chin, and the shoulder pieces twisted and swung wildly around my body. One-by-one, I tore them off mid-performance, and the audience cheered, “Take it off, take it off”, thinking it was all part of the act. That thrill, that connection to an audience—I knew then: this was what I wanted to do.

Life, however, had other plans first. I ended up joining the Air Force in December 1952, just as the Korean War was ongoing. I was lucky enough to be stationed in Europe rather than Korea. After a brief stay in Germany, my unit was reassigned to Nancy, France. I didn’t speak French or German when I arrived, but necessity is a great teacher. I learned quickly, mostly through trial and error—pointing at things, repeating words, absorbing the languages around me.

While stationed there, I met a fellow airman from California who was theatrically inclined, and we put together a singing and dancing act to “I’ve Got Rhythm.” We toured around Germany, performing on air bases, and even though I eventually lost a talent competition to a tap dancer (I always lost to tap dancers!), it deepened my commitment to the stage.

Portrait, Teak Lewis, New York, NY, c. 1950s. Image subject to copyright laws. Courtesy Teak Lewis. Please do not appropriate.

I stayed in the service until December 1956, rising to Airman First Class. When I returned to the States, the GI Bill funded my dance education. I left behind schools that weren’t a good fit, like one that focused more on acting than movement, and went back to Ballet Arts. I also sought out Peter Gennaro, a teacher I deeply admired.

I spent close to a year training intensely before I started auditioning. Finally, I got my first professional job at the Pittsburgh Civic Light Opera. It was a crash course: five shows in seven weeks, staged in a football stadium, with a platform set up in the middle and dressing rooms under the bleachers. I remember racing to the stage, half-dressed for my entrance in Happy Hunting, pin curls still tucked under my hat from a hasty hairdo. Somehow, it all worked out.

From there my dance life go very busy, very quickly.

I played the Prince in Cinderella. We went to Philadelphia to rehearse, and it was a great group of people in the ensemble. We spent a week rehearsing there, and then we moved out to the tent.

After that, we rehearsed again for Oklahoma! with a new choreographer, Mavis Ray. She hated us at first because none of us were true ballet dancers, and she needed ballet dancers for the dream ballet sequence. But we worked it out, and funnily enough, I ended up working with Mavis again later.

Photograph: Teak Lewis and fellow dancer cast members of a Guber, a Ford and Gross Carousel production, 1960. Image subject to copyright laws. Courtesy Teak Lewis. Please do not appropriate.

Between that time and my next big move, I worked on Redhead and Carousel. After Carousel, I made a decision: if I wasn’t working at least 24 weeks a year, I was going to find something else. I saw an ad in Backstage looking for a boy singer-dancer who could sing, so I auditioned.

Scrapbook detail: Program credits, Teak Lewis on stage, a Guber, Ford & Gross Redhead production, 1960. Image subject to copyright laws. Courtesy Teak Lewis. Please do not appropriate.

They asked if I could leave for California that Friday. I packed my bags in a hurry. Then another call came: the star of the show was driving down from Canada and needed someone to ride with him to San Francisco. They asked if I would go. I said yes, of course.

Scrapbook detail: Production still, Teak Lewis (center) will fellow dancers, Guber, a Ford and Gross Carousel production, 1960. Image subject to copyright laws. Courtesy Teak Lewis. Please do not appropriate.

When I showed up to meet the star. The two girls who also got the job, including a good friend of mine, climbed into the back seat, squeezing in among feathers, tulle, and all kinds of finery. I sat in the front passenger seat. In came the driver — with a Chihuahua perched right between us. His name was John Guilda.

As we drove, Guilda asked about our resumes, and the girls asked to see his photos. He handed them a scrapbook. As they flipped through the glamorous shots of a woman performer, they asked, “But where are you?” He said, “They’re all me.” Silence fell in the car. “No one told you?” he asked. “I’m a female impersonator.”

None of us knew. But I shrugged and said, “A job’s a job.”

The trip was eventful: torrential rains, dangerous fogs that forced me to walk in front of the car to guide him, and a crash in Colorado that left us stranded until the car was towed. Guilda even had to go to court immediately after the accident. But somehow, we made it to San Francisco.

Teak Lewis scrapbook pages showcasing work in the Guber, Ford and Gross Carousel production, and John Guilda’s Bon Jour Paris! show’s publicity images and ad, 1960. Image subject to copyright laws. Courtesy Teak Lewis. Please do not appropriate.

We opened the show after just three days of rehearsal. But after the first week, when it was time to be paid, they handed us $50 to split among the cast. I stepped up and said, “Excuse me, I’m making a hundred dollars a week. The girls are making seventy-five. This isn’t enough.”

The girls started crying — and if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s tears. I promised them I’d fix it. The next morning, I went straight to the union. They knew the club — Ann’s 440 on Broadway — by heart. After some angry phone calls, they made arrangements to pay us from the nightly door money. For the next few weeks, that’s how we got by.

Guilda was a fantastic performer. He wore foam rubber pads to soften his muscular legs, had incredible wigs, and did a hilarious number with a bra that popped open mid-act — one “boob” shot up while the other dropped down, and the rest of the act was him trying to get them back together. He was talented, funny, and, despite everything, kind.

Three weeks into that gig, I heard that Destry Rides Again was opening nearby. I managed to get a ticket — the mayor’s seat, front row center — and spotted a friend, Bob Howard, in the cast. After the show, he waved me backstage. When he heard about my miserable situation, he told me one of his dancers had just quit. He introduced me to the assistant dance captain, and they told me to come to auditions the next morning.

I showed up early, stretched, and — surprise — I was the only dancer who came. They auditioned me, had me sing for the conductor, and offered me the job on the spot.

I realized then I still had a contract with the nightclub. I figured I’d give them a week’s notice — if they even deserved that. When I went in to resign, they fired me first — for being “uncooperative.” Perfect.

That’s how I got into Desrty Rides Again, working with an amazing cast. It turned out to be one of the best moves of my career. That was in the National Company with John Raitt and Ann Jeffreys.

When the tour closed in San Francisco, we had Gretchen Wyler and Stephen Douglas and we played five cities, and then the tour closed, and we went back to New York City A few weeks later. It was time to audition again for the music fairs. And again, they hired me and we were going to do Pajama Game with Julia Meade, and then we were going to do Gentlemen Prefer Blondes with Jane Morgan. And I was lucky enough that I got to do the Steam Heat number. And one of the other boys, had negotiated for the $15 extra for doing a specialty. I didn’t ask for anything, but Lee Cooper said, if Larry gets $15, then Teak gets $15. And so, I didn’t say a word, but I got my money. And for the next show, I again was picked to be featured, but this time we were foursome two singers and two dancers to sing.

Scrapbook pages, Carousel production with choreography by Gower Champion, c. 1960s. Image subject to copyright laws. Courtesy Teak Lewis. Please do not appropriate.

Now came my lucky break. One of the people that I admired most, As a dancer, it was Gower Champion. Whenever I saw that Gower and Marge Champion were going to dance, I would find them and watch them. And now, Gower Champion was going to take the second company, the first national company of Carnival on the road, and I went to audition for them. I was the fourth person to get there, got warmed up, learned the combination. And Gower had us do the combination four at a time. He would tell us to go stand on the side. Next four, he’d go through the entire group of people that were there, and there were many. Then he’d go back to the beginning again, first four, and this time he’d say, “Oscar, come forward.” That was me.

I stepped forward, expecting to hear “Go home.” Instead, Gower Champion said, “Please stay.” I was one of the few selected to be part of a production, and that moment shaped much of my journey.

At that moment, the stage manager approached me with a request. “Gower wants to know if you can grow a goatee,” he said. I replied without hesitation, “I’ll color it purple if he wants.” Sure enough, I grew both a mustache and goatee as requested. I was ready for whatever came my way.

I was cast in Carnival for a full year, a production that allowed me to refine my craft. But it wasn’t just about dancing; it was about creating a character. Our lead lady had played Kim Macfee in Bye Bye Birdie and was very talented. However, there was one thing that always struck me—she never fully convinced me of being European. It was subtle but important, and I could feel the difference, especially when Anna Maria Alberghetti walked in, embodying the essence of her character with ease.

During my time with Carnival, I began to reconsider who I was, particularly the name I went by. Jonathan Lucas, one of the leads, once remarked that I didn’t look Latin enough for the name “Oscar Torres.” So, I decided to make a change. Oscar Torres was gone, and in its place came Teak Lewis. The inspiration for the name “Teak” came from Morton DaCosta, a famous director known for his work on The Music Man. Teak was his nickname, and I liked the way it sounded. It felt strong, powerful—exactly what I wanted to embody. “Lewis” was a simple choice that added rhythm to the name, and it stuck with me from that moment forward.

Photo-postcard, Eleanor Powell portrait, 1930s, by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (photographer unknown). Wiki source.

Teak became my identity, and even my family began calling me by the new name. My brother, however, couldn’t quite get the pronunciation right and called me “Tuts” instead.

After Carnival wrapped, Jonathan Lucas called and invited me to perform on The Bell Telephone Hour, a prestigious show that aired twice a month. It was a variety show, blending opera, ballet, pop music, and more. As we spoke on the phone, Johnathan casually asked, “You do tap, don’t you?” I quickly replied, “Oh, yes, absolutely.” I had only taken three tap lessons.

All I could think was that I’m going to be fired before I’m even hired. And something said, just stick it out. Stick it out, stick it out. One episode starred the great Eleanor Powell, a hero of mine. And she was a sweetheart. She didn’t behave like a star at all. She was one of us. And one of the last days at rehearsal, we were rehearsing on sixth Avenue, and I remember somebody comes into the rehearsal hall and tells Jonathan, he’s got a phone call. He says, I got to take this. It’s very important. Before he steps out, he said to us, I want to take one section of steps out, and I want to put in cramp rolls. I didn’t know what a cramp roll was. And as he went to take the call, I asked another dancer, what’s a cramp roll? And they did a cramp roll, and what? It happened so fast I couldn’t see it.

Johnathan returns from his call and says he just got a job in California – the Dean Martin Show. And I said, shit, he’s going to go to Dean Martin with The Golddiggers. So I was never going to have a job. And he tells us to take a break and leaves the room. I’m trying to figure out the step. And Eleanor Powell comes over and says to me, listen to the rhythm. Listen to the rhythm. And she starts vocally. And then she did it with her feet and with the tap shoes. And she goes, “da-da-da da da da, da da da da.” She grabs my hand and starts me doing the step with her, and we vocalize and move together. I’ve heard the rhythm. It makes sense to me now. And I’m doing it. And she picks up the rhythm and she says, you got it. And I said, oh, thank you so much. They came back from lunch, and we go into the number. We get to that one section and we all go into the cramp rolls. And it was great. I’ll never forget it.

Another experience from the Bell Telephone Hour that I’ll never forget is when I was working a lift with a partner, and she just wouldn’t jump. Other boys tried too, and nobody could pick her up. It proved it wasn’t me—it was her. But before we taped the show, they warned me: they were going to cut me out of the lifts. I promised I’d get her up. When the time came, I pressed as low as I could, got her up, and carried her across the floor. She was so excited—too excited. I noticed she was peeing all the way across the stage!

I did four Bell Telephone Hours. I had gained so much from the experience. As I worked with various choreographers on different productions, including Guys and Dolls, I began to find my footing as not just a dancer but a choreographer.

After working on the Carnival, I saw there was a posting. They were going to do a summer production of Carnival, and Wally Seibert was going to choreograph it.

When I arrived at the studio, I could hear the music, and they were playing A Sword, and a Rose and a Cape, and the dancer George Marcy was inside, and he was trying to get it to fit the music, and it wasn’t working out. I raised my hand and said, excuse me, but if you start eight counts earlier in the music, it’ll work. You were in the wrong place. And they did that, and it worked. Afterwards he came up to me and asked if I knew the number. I said, yes. I was in the show on the road, and I watched the number every night. He asked me if I thought I could choreograph it? I said, I could. He said, You’ve got the job. I stipulated that the playbill had to say, “original choreography by Gower Champion restaged by Teak Lewis” since I was using Gower Champion’s original choreography.

After that, a friend of mine needed a replacement for a show in Canada. I figured, why not? It would be my first time working for George Reich. I headed up to Montreal, checked into the Y, and waited at the studio. Finally, dancers trickled in. George met me, barely gave me a glance, and told me where to go. The production was just starting—one of those tits and feathers shows. Muriel Millard was the star. Most of the dancers were Canadian hires, but George had a few favorites.

Photograph, Mary Tyler Moore and Richard Chamberlain with composer Bob Merrill rehearsing for stage musical Holly Golightly, unknown location, 1966. Wiki source.

I did the show, learned it fast, and he asked me back for another. I agreed, but life pulled me back to New York, where I landed a role in a Broadway show Holly GoLightly. Michael Kidd was choreographing, Mary Tyler Moore and Richard Chamberlain were starring. With such a powerhouse team, it had every reason to be a hit.

I found out about the audition through friends. Michael Kidd’s assistant—Chita Rivera’s husband, Tony Mordente—ran the audition. He asked everyone to do the Charleston. I threw everything into it—eyes, smile, energy—and he pointed at me immediately: “You. You’ve got the job.” Signed my contract right above Sardi’s and started rehearsals at a hotel on Eighth Avenue.

Michael Kidd made a dramatic entrance—he switched on a giant fan, and it sent everyone flying into the walls. Except me. I stood there. He looked at me and said, “You don’t have a partner.” He called over Judy Dunford, and just like that, I was paired up.

Holly Go Lightly turned out to be a mess. Mary Tyler Moore worked harder than anyone, but every fix was aimed at her—haircuts, costume changes—you name it. Criticisms in Boston were the opposite of Philadelphia. On our way there, I overheard someone say the second act hadn’t even been written yet, I knew we were in trouble.

In New York, they cut dancers left and right. We had too many dancers and no real numbers left. A big dance number that used to stop the show was cut. They brought in Larry Kert from West Side Story to boost things, but after three preview performances, the show closed before officially opening. Mary was developing diabetes from the stress—it was a heartbreak.

Afterward, I reconnected with George Reich for a new project at Expo 67 in Montreal, The Garden of Stars. It was an outdoor show on a triangular stage surrounded by “dancing waters” fountains that drowned out our music every time we passed by. George hired tons of dancers—if we had 12 boys, there were at least 18 girls. It was all about beauty and showmanship, featuring the Canadian star Muriel Millard, who was also the producer.

We performed three main numbers, a graceful waltz, an Indian-inspired dance in minimal costumes, and a futuristic silver lamé number. Muriel eventually claimed she lost a fortune, but really, it was money she didn’t make, not money she lost.

Scrapbook page: Program, cast photos, newspaper clippings featuring Muriel Millard in Terre des Femmes at Expo 67, Montreal, Canada, 1967. Image subject to copyright laws. Courtesy Teak Lewis. Please do not appropriate.

The show was later adapted for a theater setting across the street, and eventually toured six cities around Quebec. At the end of the tour, George asked if I wanted to be part of a new production at the Latin Quarter nightclub in New York City. I jumped at it—the Latin Quarter was right on Broadway between 47th and 48th Streets, and I had always dreamed of being back in New York.

Photograph: Center stage boy dancers Robert Rayow (far left) and Teak Lewis (second from left) and others frame showgirl, Terre des Femmes production, the Latin Quarter nightclub, New York, NY, 1968. Courtesy Robert Rayow. Image subject to copyright laws. Please do not appropriate.

Dancing at the Latin Quarter was a huge deal for me. Growing up, it had been one of the top places for a night out—alongside the Copacabana. I had visited once with my family, sitting ringside among the Moorish-style arches and heavy draped decor. The stage had a big circular curtain that opened dramatically at showtime, and some headliners wouldn’t even allow drinks to be served during their acts to avoid distraction. They got the best, The Everly Brothers, The Four Aces, the top-tier performers.

Working there as a dancer was a notch below Broadway, but still a win—and the pay was solid. I made $100 a week, which kept me there almost a year, from just before Thanksgiving to Labor Day the next year.

Photograph: Center stage boy dancers Robert Rayow (left) and Teak Lewis (right) frame showgirl, Terre des Femmes production, the Latin Quarter nightclub, New York, NY, 1968. Courtesy Robert Rayow. Image subject to copyright laws. Please do not appropriate.

Helping George with auditions for the Latin Quarter was an education, too. I learned that for the semi-nude and nude performers, there were very strict guidelines. In New York, even the nudes had to wear pasties—unlike in other places. And when it came to hiring, it didn’t matter your size as much as your stance—everything had to point straight ahead. It was about illusion, more than exposure.

Portrait: Teak Lewis, location unknown, c. 1960s. Image subject to copyright laws. Courtesy Teak Lewis. Please do not appropriate.

I used to get off the train at 50th Street and walk right into the heart of Times Square. The stage entrance for us at the Latin Quarter was right on Broadway, just next to the Dollar Tie Shop. You’d walk up a flight of stairs, then down a long corridor lined with doors. Some of those doors were for the headliner, others for the chorus boys and the girls, so that people couldn’t just wander in by mistake. At the end of the corridor were double doors that led onto the stage. Once you were through those, you were actually in the club. Otherwise, you were just out in the hallways.

I don’t think I was there during the so-called “dangerous” Times Square years. I think I was there during the Golden Age of Broadway. It really was a wonderful time. I always wished I’d gotten into a Broadway show, but things didn’t go that way for me back then.

The original owner of the Latin Quarter, Lou Walters, had sold the building and the rights to a couple. The woman would come around with different choreographers, I think partly to intimidate us. One day, she brought in two people and introduced me to one of them—Bob Fournier. I looked at him and said, “Were you in the Air Force in Topeka, Kansas?” And he said, “Yes.” I told him I’d been stationed there too, for my last six months.

Anyway, Bob called up again about a week later. He was holding auditions for a nightclub show at the El San Juan Hotel in Puerto Rico. I got the job. The show was called the Tropicoro—classic “tits and feathers.” We rehearsed in New York at a studio in Brooklyn, then all flew to Puerto Rico and stayed at the hotel.

Originally, the contract was for one month, with options. But the hotel kept us for four months because the show was such a hit. They only let us go when Sammy Davis Jr. was booked for the New Year’s show. Years later, I went back to Puerto Rico with my friend Dennis. The place was packed, but when I mentioned I’d been part of that show, they snapped their fingers and gave me a table at ringside. That’s how well we were remembered.

When we came back to New York, I didn’t know what was next. They were trying to book the show in Vegas and meet with Lee Guber—he was married to Barbara Walters at one point. We actually ran into him at a movie theater. He came walking up the aisle, saw me, and said, “Hi Oscar,” because that’s what he knew me as. My friends were stunned. They asked, “You know him?” I said, “No, they know me.”

Scrapbook detail: Fiddler program collage from Fiddler on the Roof national tour, 1973. Image subject to copyright laws. Courtesy Teak Lewis. Please do not appropriate.

After that, I joined the bus and truck tour of Fiddler on the Roof. Annie Reinking [Ann Reinking] was in that company—her very first show. She understudied the three daughters, even though she towered over them. I was one of the four bottle dancers. We even had our caricatures done in the newspaper. I also understudied the role of Mordcha the Innkeeper. When we opened in Los Angeles, the new guy hired for the role wasn’t ready, so I went on.

After a year with Fiddler, I quit. I’d had enough. I took my mother to Spain to visit my brother. It was a lovely trip. He took time off and showed her the south of Spain, which she’d never seen. At one point, I took a side trip by myself to Tangier, with the plan to meet my mother back in Paris at the airport. So that’s what we did. But the night before I get to Madrid, saw in the paper an ad for a George Reich show. So I got dressed up and went over there to find George. And so we started talking and he asked what I was doing there. Oh, I told him that I had left a Fiddler and was here with family. He said, you speak Spanish, don’t you? I said, yes. And he knew I spoke French. He asked me if I would consider taking out a show, another company. And I said, yeah, sure, why not. He said, Great. You can go back to New York to audition girls. He liked tall girls, if possible. 

So, I returned to New York. I found two, three girls. One of them, I may say, went into the original Chorus Line and went into it until they went to California and she had an accident. I went back, recommended these three girls. He said, okay, send him telegrams and tickets. In the meantime, we talked about what we were going to do. And of course, we’re doing the same numbers that we were doing at the Latin Quarter. We did add a new number. It was supposed to be a Jean Harlow number. I had six girls, plus my girl lead, a male singer and two boy dancers. And myself. That was the company, of course, I didn’t realize it until much, much later, but my billing the ads read, “Tea Klewis.”

The name of the production finally was Flesh. We toured all over Europe, Portugal, Italy, Germany, Greece, Egypt. And these were all month stays at all of these places. 

Scrapbook page detail: International Tour of Flesh! production ads & luggage tags & tickets. Image subject to copyright laws. Courtesy Teak Lewis. Please do not appropriate.

When I got back to the States, I stumbled into an audition George Reich was holding. He saw me and said, “Oh, you’re back?” I said yes. “You want to work?” “Yes.” “You’re hired.” Just like that. He sent me to Freeport in the Bahamas to replace the lead dancer at the casino there. I was also the company manager, responsible for everything—laundry, transportation, the works. Still only made $100 a week.

After a few months—maybe five—I asked for a raise. I said, “I want $125.” He came back and said the best they could do was $120. I held my ground. $125 or nothing. They wouldn’t budge, so I did something I’d never done before: I walked out. For $2.50 a day, I walked away from the job. I left right after the Saturday night show, got on a plane Sunday morning, and went to Disneyland.

After that, I went to North Carolina to work with my old friend Eddie Green. We’d worked together in Li’l Abner years earlier. Sometimes when I was out of work, he’d hire me to help out at his parents’ art gallery—painting walls, little things, just to keep me going. Now he offered me $300 a week, plus room, to be his assistant. I had to be up at 8 a.m. to vacuum the store and be on call for whatever he needed. I did it all.

I took off my dancing shoes that Saturday night and never put them back on.

While in North Carolina, I worked as an assistant in an art gallery and gift shop—one of the first year-round Christmas stores. It was beautifully curated, everything displayed individually rather than packed away in boxes. When the cook left, I offered to step in temporarily, but it turned into a permanent thing. I started preparing meals every day, doing the shopping, cooking, and eating with them. Eventually, the owner asked me to manage a restaurant he wanted to open nearby. I told him I didn’t know anything about restaurants, but if he was serious, I’d need to go to school.

Scrapbook page detail: Lil’ Abner program cover, 1959. Image subject to copyright laws. Courtesy Teak Lewis. Please do not appropriate.

That’s how I ended up back in New York, enrolling in a two-year course at New York City Community College in Brooklyn. I studied restaurant and hotel management, and cooking was part of the curriculum. I learned how to handle everything—cash registers, closing out hotel books at night, the works. But after two years, I realized I couldn’t go back to the rhythm of North Carolina life—busy in summer and dead in winter.

Thanks to my professors’ recommendation, I landed my first job in food service at American Express. It wasn’t a typical job interview; the head chef invited me to his home, where he taught classes. I helped him out one evening, and that was enough to prove I knew what I was doing. I started out making salads and desserts for the company’s senior executives—not for general employees, but the top-tier vice presidents. Over time, as others left, I was given more responsibility and moved up through the kitchen hierarchy.

After a while, they brought in a new head cook, and I saw that my chances for advancement had hit a ceiling. I left and went to work for a fashion house called Sally G., where I cooked for the staff and executives. Word got around, and other employees from nearby businesses started coming in to eat too. It reached a point where the company’s bank warned them to shut down the kitchen before they started losing money. When they did, I was out of a job.

I dropped by American Express to say hello to the person now in charge of the kitchen, Danielle, who told me they were moving into a new building on Vesey Street. They needed someone to manage four executive dining rooms and asked if I could do it. I said yes. She had me start as a waiter to learn the routines—who wanted what, how they liked things done. One executive, for example, refused to use teaspoons and expected a box of cigars with his coffee. I documented everything, so when we hired more staff, I could train them accordingly. It was important to know who sat where: lower-ranked employees got wall seats, higher-ups got the windows. I had to memorize it all.

Portrait: Teak Lewis, unknown location, c. 1970s. Image subject to copyright laws. Courtesy Teak Lewis. Please do not appropriate.

Eventually, I was given an assistant. She was excellent—did everything I asked and more. But my boss didn’t like her, and when she pressured me to fire her, I refused. I told her, “If you want her gone, you fire her. You’re the boss.” She didn’t. Instead, she kept badgering me, and I finally quit.

I took nine months off and went to the country house Dennis and I had put together. When I came back to the city, I applied for a night manager position at Lincoln Center and got it. The woman who hired me liked that I spoke both English and Spanish. I worked in the dining areas of Avery Fisher Hall—initially in the Allegro and Adagio rooms, which later became Panino and Café Vienna. Café Vienna started as a dessert and coffee spot, then transitioned into a buffet. Panino offered a full menu.

I was often stationed at the podium, managing reservations and walk-ins. For regulars, I made them feel at home. I’d spot them in line and say, “Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so, your table is ready,” and they loved that. They felt comfortable. Joanne Woodward used to come in often. I’d seat her in a corner where no one else would be near her, so she could talk in peace. I didn’t try to make anyone feel important—I wanted them to feel at ease, like they were coming home.

Eventually, I started training staff, mostly women working night shifts. Many of them landed better jobs and came back to thank me. But the stress was mounting. I had been diagnosed with AIDS, and I couldn’t handle the pace any longer. So when I turned 65, I handed in my notice. People asked why I was retiring, and I said simply, “Because I can.”

I danced for 15 years, then worked in food service for a little over 20. Years later, I got into the Actors Fund Home in Englewood, New Jersey. I’ve been here now for over a decade.

I feel pretty good, but I’m living with kidney disease, and I go in for dialysis three times a week—Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. But every single morning when I wake up, I decide that it’s going to be a good day. And I make it a good day. I don’t let anything interfere with that.

Photograph: Visiting dancers Adelle Gordon Cohen (left) & Margo Mayor with Teak Lewis, movie matinee event hosted by Teak Lewis, the Actors Fund Home, Englewood, NJ, 2019. Image subject to copyright law. Courtesy John Hemmer Archive. Please do not appropriate.

When I first arrived here, someone mentioned there wasn’t much to do at night. So I brought out my collection of DVDs—mostly theater-related. I’ve always loved the history of the stage, so I started showing programs that explored where theater came from, who built it, and how it evolved.

A lot of people don’t realize that without the Jewish community, we wouldn’t have what we think of as American musical theater. Among the greats, there were only two major gentile composers: Cole Porter and George M. Cohan—he wrote “You’re a Grand Old Flag,” remember? There’s a statue of him right on 46th Street in New York. The rest? All Jewish. And brilliant.

I usually introduce the films, give a little spiel about what we’re about to see. Some nights I keep it short, especially if the movie is two hours—people start drifting off around the halfway mark to catch Jeopardy or head back to their rooms. But I always end up with a loyal few who stick around. Lately, I’ve been screening musicals from the ’40s and ’50s. They don’t make ’em like that anymore.

And then when I’m by myself, I knit. And once a year, I have a sale and I sell my product. By holiday season I have many scarves and hats ready and people seem to like to buy for family, friends and themselves. I knit all year long. Even when I was dancing, I was knitting between acts.

Thinking back on my dance career, there were two high points that meant the world to me. One was working for Gower Champion—he had such elegance and energy in his movement. The other was dancing with Eleanor Powell. If I’m ever feeling low, I put on that old clip—Fred Astaire and Eleanor Powell dancing to “Begin the Beguine” in Broadway Melody of 1940. Their timing, their counterpoint—it’s exquisite. Watching that lifts me right out of any slump. It reminds me of what I’ve been a part of, and how lucky I was to be in that world.

I don’t have time for depression. Not at this stage. I’m turning 90 in April. And wouldn’t you know, I met someone here whose birthday is the same day—so we’re planning a bash. I have things to celebrate.

Photograph: Teak Lewis and videographer Nicolas Jenkins apply microphone in preparation for oral history interview, the Actors Fund Home, Englewood, NJ, 2024. Image subject to copyright laws. Please do not appropriate.

Of course, it wasn’t always easy. The hardest part of being a professional dancer was getting the job. Some people are natural performers; they can sell it at an audition. I was more of a thinker—I needed to know the step, know where I was supposed to be. Then, once I had it, then I could sell it. That made auditions tough though. But I’ll tell you this—people I worked for always hired me back. Because once I was in, they knew my work. They knew I would show up, learn the choreography, and bring it to life on stage.

Looking back, I wouldn’t trade any of it. I’ve said that if I finish writing a book, it would be called, “With Few Regrets.”

This article and oral history video was created from interviews conducted with Teak Lewis at the Actors Fund Home in two sessions during 2024. Please check out related articles  Teak Lewis Remembers Lawrence Merritt and Supper Club Recipes: Teak Lewis

About the Author

Kirsten

Kirsten Larvick is a documentarian and archivist. She is influenced by interests in mid-century political and cultural history, non-fiction filmmaking and the preservation of personal heritage and cinema art legacies.