On November 26, 2016, Keith McNally suffered a stroke—or, as he describes it in his revealing new memoir I Regret Almost Everything (set for release on May 6), “the clock stopped.” I understand that feeling all too well, because I had a stroke myself on October 22, 2022. It upended my life.

Before my stroke, my life wasn’t so different from McNally’s. We were both British expats in New York, mingling with the city’s elite and its glamorous visitors. I was a regular at his legendary restaurants—late-night meals at Lucky Strike, romantic dinners at Minetta Tavern, raucous gatherings with Nell Campbell at The Odeon. (Nell, of course, was the face of McNally’s star-studded ’80s nightclub.) Once, I even shared a wildly entertaining dinner with Stephen Fry at Balthazar. These weren’t just restaurants; they were stages where you could discreetly observe the city’s most intriguing, sometimes infamous, characters.

Then the stroke changed everything. Before, my life revolved around celebrating others. Afterward, I depended on them even for memory. Early in my recovery, I struggled with a simple word-recall test—I could only repeat three out of 40 words. After months in the hospital and rehab, I was finally ready to “face the world” again.

McNally describes his own post-stroke reckoning: “It seemed my entire life in New York was built on deception. I thrived as a maître d’ not through hard work, but by molding myself—Zelig-like—to please whoever walked in.” His recovery may have been harder because of this relentless people-pleasing. “I won guests over with superficial charm or fake self-deprecating humor,” he writes of his daily interactions. That performative humility seems to have started early—his childhood acting career (which he stumbled into rather than pursued) landed him a role in Mr. Dickens of London (1967), arriving on set in a sleek black Bentley while his East End neighbors gaped. Even then, he was crafting a life far removed from his working-class roots.

I, too, lived a double life. In school, I kept my friendships with older, brilliant minds—like Derek Jarman and the founders of the Costume Society of Great Britain—completely hidden. (Though once I got to art school, I shouted their names from the rooftops.)

McNally’s mother was determined to escape the East End. After 15 years of “nonstop letter-writing to the local council,” she secured a “soulless flat in Hackney.” His father, a dockworker and amateur boxer, had no such ambitions—he was content with his lot, though McNally’s book suggests his mother openly scorned him. She encouraged their four children—Peter, Brian, Keith, and Josephine—to do the same. At 72, she finally divorced him.

Despite McNally’s early acting success—roles in The Winslow Boy and Alan Bennett’s Forty Years On, which ran in the West End for over a year before he turned 20—his family never attended a performance or even asked about it. With rehearsals starting at 5 p.m., he spent his free time watching films by masters like Truffaut, Pasolini, and Chabrol. Even as a teenager, he was carving out a world of his own.McNally also had a relationship with the much older Bennett—something he kept hidden from his parents and nearly everyone else. (When his mother heard McNally was appearing in Forty Years On alongside Sir John Gielgud, she exclaimed, “But John Gielgud’s a homosexual!”)

At 24, McNally moved to New York for the first time in 1975. He started as a busboy at Serendipity on East 60th Street and soon explored the Village with a group of waiters. Later, he became an oyster shucker at One Fifth, a stylish Art Deco restaurant on lower Fifth Avenue. “One Fifth opened up a whole new world to me,” he says. He worked his way up to maître d’ and hired Lynn Wagenknecht as a waitress—they fell in love and married. Together with Lynn and his brother Brian, who had also moved to America, they opened The Odeon, a charming bistro in what was then the desolate, risky no-man’s-land of Tribeca. Despite a lukewarm New York Times review and being run by three amateurs with little money, “The Odeon has been packed solid every night for almost half a century,” he writes.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve eaten at The Odeon—it’s cozy, glamorous, perfect for Sunday brunch or a late-night dinner. When Condé Nast moved downtown, it practically became my canteen. The Odeon led to more restaurants, and for 40 years, McNally was the toast of the town. He divorced, remarried, and then, after suffering a stroke in 2016, attempted suicide two years later—38 Ambien and 15 Percocet, swallowed with water. The idea of such desperation horrified me, even knowing what he’d endured. That a stroke could drive someone to such despair was incomprehensible. It made me reflect on those glittering restaurant days and how abruptly they can end. Those moments, though fleeting, were worth savoring.

Behind the Scenes
A photo shows Lynn Wagenknecht receiving a head massage from The Odeon’s maître d’ Stephen Collins, with McNally in the foreground during the restaurant’s early days.

Against McNally’s plans, his son George found him at home in Martha’s Vineyard after the overdose. He was taken to a facility for those at risk of self-harm, including suicide attempts. Recovery was grueling, but eventually, it became bearable. For the first time, he spoke openly with a psychiatrist. He was moved from suicide watch to a more comfortable space, no longer under constant surveillance.

“From the moment I was hospitalized, I was determined to get well—to live. I’d seen so much beauty in my life: breakfasts, lunches, dinners, parties at Balthazar, The Odeon, Pastis, Café Luxembourg. (The hospital, let me tell you, was not one of those magical places.) I had to finish decorating my London house—those colors! That chintz sofa James Mackie was making for me! Later, I had to complete my Sussex coast home (which I’d bought, astonishingly, during my second hospital stay). These small things, trivial as they may seem, were key to my recovery. The frustration of relearning to use my paralyzed arm, then the joy as it slowly came back to life. Seeing friends again—that was ecstasy.”

Today, McNally is a changed man, yet still himself. “Though my speech is shattered and my right side paralyzed, inside I feel the same,” he says.

I don’t feel quite the same. Sure, I’m still obsessed with—I’ve always loved clothes and interiors, but lately I find myself more drawn to the people behind them—the ones who make and create these things. And to the people I’ve brought into my life. It fills me with pure joy that these people are here, creating these small miracles. It’s simply wonderful.