On my first road trip with the Byrds to New York City, I was introduced to the Gramercy Park Hotel, a legendary rock ‘n’ roll hotel located at 21st Street and Lexington Avenue next to the park. In fact, if you were a guest at the hotel, you had access to a key that opened up the fenced-in plot of greenery in Manhattan. Built on the site of the former home of architect Sanford White, who designed Madison Square Garden, notables such as Humphrey Bogart, Joseph P. Kennedy, and Edmund White once had residences there. Babe Ruth had been a regular patron of the bar. However, by the ’60s, along with the Chelsea Hotel, it became the hotel of choice for traveling musicians in New York. It was cheap, bohemian, and close to the Village, and no one complained if you had a loud, late-night party in your room. Plus, you were always greeted by Pinky, the short day bellman who could get you anything you wanted in the city, from baseball tickets to the finest weed.

On my first stay at the Gramercy, Carlos Bernal, guitar player and roadie, introduced me to not only the fabulous bar, but also to Dial-A-Steak. We had returned to the hotel and parked our yellow Ryder truck on a side street. To discourage any theft, I removed the distributor cap from the engine and we headed to the bar. After a couple of beers, we retired to our shared room for a late-night smoke. Sometime around 3am, after depleting our small stash, Carlos and I noticed we were hungry.

“Ah, Mr. Dawson,” Carlos announced. “It’s time for Dial-A-Steak!”

“What?” was my reply as Carlos grabbed the phone. Within seconds, I heard Carlos place his order.

“Hello, this is Carlos in Room 231 at the Gramercy. Please send us two sirloins, one medium and the other well done, with the works. And please add a half-ounce of sensimilla. Can you have it here in 30 minutes?”

I was astounded, but in about 25 minutes I heard a knock on the door, and there before us was the delivery boy with two insulated bags and a smaller brown bag. We paid in cash, got a receipt, and proceeded to eat a fine meal, followed by a smoker’s night cap. What a welcome to the Big Apple!

In May, 1971, the Byrds headed to Holland for a series of concerts. We made our base at the Skyway Hotel in Rotterdam. Roger McGuinn, newly married to Linda Gilbert, had just completed a long interview with the Dutch music press, and Linda was hungry. The new bride called room service and ordered a five-course feast for all of us. After we devoured our food, everyone remarked about the great meal we had just shared.

“Let’s do it every day we’re here,” said Linda, smiling broadly. And so began a daily ritual for the week we stayed there. By the time we checked out, we were friends with the restaurant staff.

Soon after we settled into the Skyway, Carlos went shopping, returning with a huge block of fresh, black hash that he felt compelled to share with us all. Needless to say, the show that night was vibrant and exciting. The next day, we played two shows in Amsterdam at the legendary Concertgebouw Hall, returning the Rotterdam’s DeDolen Hall the following day for an afternoon show. Jimmi Seiter, our tour manager, had brought a coach over from England and hired two English roadies to drive the truck so that Carlos and I could travel with the band.

Our next gig was in Brussels, Belgium. As we crossed the border from the Netherlands to Belgium, we were stopped by police, who searched our bus. We were all very startled, especially since these cops had automatic guns hanging around their necks. Carlos began to look very nervous—he had stashed the remaining block of hash with some candy on the galley shelf, concealing it in a large chocolate bar package. Luckily for us, the police were looking for illegal immigrants, and we finally convinced them we were just a rock band on our way to play Brussels and they let us go. To celebrate our border crossing, Carlos broke out a pipe as we sped away into the sunset.

At our final show at the Stadsschouwburg Theater in Eindhoven, Holland, the band surprised Carlos and me. The schedule was so tight that there was no time for a dinner break between setting up, the sound check, and the show itself. Now, the theater is located above one of the fanciest restaurants in the town, so Jimmi, much to our surprise, arranged with the promoter to have dinner served to us on stage. So, after we were ready for the show, waiters in formal attire spread out a gleaming white table cloth on a large road case, brought up two wooden chairs, and served us a three course meal. There we were, Carlos and I, shirtless, enjoying Dutch gastronomy on stage. Finishing with coffee and brandy, Carlos fired up an after-dinner spliff.

“Here’s to you, Mr. Dawson,” Carlos toasted, “and many more culinary delights on our European road tour!”

Suddenly, we heard loud applause. We were so engrossed in our meal that we hadn’t noticed the punters entering the hall. Now we heard not only their applause but also loud cheering! Both of us stood up, took our bows, and then wheeled off our dining table and took away the chairs. About five minutes later, the Byrds opened with “Lover of the Bayou.” I guess we were the opening act.

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