Free As You Wish: Inconceivable Tales from the Making of The Princess Bride by Cary Elwes, Joe Layden Page A

medication he could take to deal with the pain was alcohol. Now, if you think André could eat, you should have seen him drink. It was legendary. Word had it that even before he developed the injury he could drink a hundred beers in one sitting. According to some estimates his average daily consumption of alcohol was a case of beer, three bottles of wine, and a couple of bottles of brandy. But what I witnessed was something quite different. At meal times, besides the incredible amount of food he ate, I noticed that rather than using a regular glass, André drank from a beer pitcher, which looked a lot like a regular glass in his hands anyway. In reality it was forty ounces of alcohol, which he nicknamed “The American”—usually some combinationof hard and soft liquor and whatever else he felt like mixing it with that day. I should point out that not once did I notice any sign of the alcohol affecting him, which made sense given his size. So, kids, don’t try this at home or you’ll most likely end up in the hospital!
    André with our producer, Andy Scheinman
    ANDY SCHEINMAN
    One day he came to work and I said, “How are you doing today, André?” He goes, “Oh, not too good, boss.” I say, “What’s the matter?” He says, “I had a tough night last night.” So I ask him what happened, and he says, “I drank three bottles of cognac and twelve bottles of wine.” And I don’t even know how to respond, so I just repeat the numbers back to him: “Excuse me? Twelve bottles of wine? Three bottles of cognac? My goodness, André! Didn’t you get sick?” He just smiles and says, “No, no . . . I got a little tipsy, though.” Tipsy . . . on fifteen bottles of alcohol. I couldn’t believe it!
    ROBIN WRIGHT
    I remember going to dinner the first time with him and he ordered four or five entrees. I’m not kidding. Three or four appetizers, a couple baskets of bread, and then he’s like, I’m ready for seconds. And then dessert. He was a bottomless pit. I think he went through a case of wine, and he wasn’t even tipsy.
    It turns out that same night after the read-through André decided he would sample some of the finest vintage aperitifs and liqueurs from the cellars of the prestigious hotel and ended up closing the bar. When it came to last call he got up to leave but never made it to the front door, instead passing out cold in the lobby. The night porter was called, who in turn summoned security, who in turn rang engineering. Manpower was apparently needed. Yet, despite their valiant efforts, there was simply no waking or even slightly budging what could only be described as an unconscious 500-pound Gulliver spread out on their very ornate carpet. A meeting was held and the wise decision was made to leave himthere. It was either that or call the police, but somehow I don’t think management wanted the publicity.
    For safety purposes, both to protect him and any passersby, they decided to place a small velvet rope barrier around André, who was by now snoring loudly enough to shake the lobby walls. The hope was that he would wake up on his own soon enough. But it was not to be as soon as they had hoped.
    The housekeepers who arrived the next morning to vacuum had no idea what to do with the massive, sleeping giant blocking their path and were literally terrified to touch him. Then, sometime around 10:00 a.m., André began to stir and eventually awoke to the sounds of vacuum cleaners and the horrified looks of staff and guests alike. He was unfazed by all this. He got to his feet, straightened his clothes and hair a little, and headed straight for the front door—his original objective. A cab was called by the startled doorman but the driver took one look at André and refused to take him. Finally a minivan was sent for and André made it home safely. Needless to say, he is now part of the establishment’s lore.

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“EN GARDE!”
    I was not a particularly noteworthy athlete growing up. Like most other