It was 1969, only 20 minutes before taping, and a group of us were rigidly huddled together in the greenroom of the Little Theater (now the Helen Hayes), right next to Sardi's on West Forty-fourth Street in New York. Dean Acheson, former secretary of state under Truman and Most Intimidating Man in Washington, had just thrown the gauntlet down to David Frost, the 30-year-old British TV wunderkind for whose daily 90-minute syndicated talk show I was what was then called a Talent Coordinator. Acheson had agreed to debate Senator Charles Percy, Republican of Illinois, about the merits of the antiballistic missile system under consideration by Congress.

"I had not seen your show when I agreed to appear," Acheson said, the ice in his voice lowering the temperature in the room. He fingered his porcelain moustache and inflated himself to his haughtiest. "I have seen it now. Mr. Frost, it is clear you are not up to this subject." Acheson didn't say which show he'd seen—I hoped not the one in which a world-record holder stuffed 30 or 40 cigars into his mouth, lit them, and puffed on them all at the same time. Frost, dressed in a blue suit, blue shirt, blue tie, blue socks, and, sort of unbelievably, blue suede shoes, took no affront. He almost seemed to sympathize with Acheson.

"That is very insulting, Mr. Acheson," Frost said without vituperation. "Obviously, you have never seen the interviews I've done with Golda Meir or last year's presidential candidates. I assure you, I have command of the subject. You will be treated with the utmost respect, and you will have whatever time it takes to state your views."

Acheson was flabbergasted. "You don't understand. I do not wish to appear on your show," he said.

"That is your choice, of course," Frost said benignly. "It means your side of the issue will go completely undefended for 90 minutes." The most intimidating man in Washington deflated and rethought.

"Very well, but I don't want to be interrupted," he said. "As long as it's dignified, I suppose—"

"You have my word."

Acheson left for makeup.

"Just who does he think he is," Frost said merrily, "the Pope?"

I thought of this confrontation during a recent trip to London, when I took in Frost/Nixon, which played to raves and full houses at both the Donmar Warehouse and the Gielgud Theatre and has opened on Broadway at the Bernard B. Jacobs Theatre.